FEBRUARY 2024

JANE'S POV
The sun was rude.

Too bright. Too loud. Too... morning.

My face was buried in something soft—pillow, maybe. Or Walker's hoodie. Or both. The air smelled like eucalyptus and laundry detergent. My entire body was tangled in a human pretzel, legs thrown over something solid, arms half under the blanket, one sock missing. I couldn't feel my left foot, and for some reason, my cheek was pressed against someone's ribs.

A deep snore rumbled under my ear.

Definitely Walker.

I should've been embarrassed. Should've shot up the moment my brain reminded me: You fell asleep with your boyfriend in your guest room, in someone else's house, and your dad is downstairs.

But I was too tired. And warm. And comfy.

Everything was fine... until I heard a small, stifled snort from across the room.

Then a camera shutter.

My eyes popped open.

There, standing in the doorway like some delighted demon child, was Leah. Hand over her mouth. Phone out. Taking pictures. Of us.

I blinked. Tried to sit up. Failed miserably, because one of Walker's arms was flopped across my stomach like a security bar.

"Leah?" I croaked.

She was already wheezing, trying not to wake us more but also failing spectacularly.

"Oh my God," she whisper-laughed, eyes wide. "You guys look like a pile of forgotten laundry."

"I can explain—" I started, but Leah was already texting furiously.

I saw her screen light up.
Leah Jeffries: GET UP HERE NOW.
*To: Dior, Charlie

"Don't you dare," I warned, pointing a limp hand at her.

She just grinned and tiptoed backward into the hallway. "Too late."

Two minutes later, I heard footsteps. Whispering. The unmistakable sound of Charlie giggling like an actual child. Then the door creaked open again.

"Whoa," Dior said, walking in and pulling her phone out. "This is art."

Walker, somehow still asleep, shifted onto his back and mumbled something about fries. His hair was everywhere. My pajama shirt had twisted halfway up my ribs, and one of his legs was hanging completely off the side of the bed.

I sat up as much as I could without dying of embarrassment. "You guys. You can't just—"

But right then, as if sensing something was off in the universe, Walker's eyes blinked open.

He squinted, confused. Looked around the room.

Looked at me.

Then his gaze drifted slightly—

—and landed on Leah, Dior, and Charlie, all staring at him like he was a zoo exhibit.

His face went through all five stages of grief in about 1.2 seconds.

Then he did what I'll forever call his Most Dramatic Move Ever.

He screamed—like, full horror movie shriek—and rolled off the bed, landing on the floor with a loud thump and a string of unintelligible noises that might've included "Why is everyone watching me sleep?!"

The room exploded with laughter.

Charlie nearly collapsed against the wall, wheezing. Dior dropped to the floor, cackling. Leah was already uploading a photo to her story with the caption (only on close)
"When you spend the night and forget you're not at home 💀 #CaughtIn4K"

I couldn't help it—I laughed too. My face buried in a pillow, muffling the sound, but I laughed until my stomach hurt.

Walker peeked up from the floor, one eye visible over the edge of the bed. "Are they gone yet?"

"No," I said through a snort.

He groaned and covered his face with a pillow. "This is how I die."

Leah smirked. "Rick says breakfast is ready. Also, he asked me to come wake you guys, so technically? This is all your dad's fault."

I froze. "Wait—my dad sent you?"

"Oh yeah," she said casually. "He's downstairs, sipping coffee and thinking you're still asleep like an innocent little angel."

I buried my face again. "I hate this house."

"No, you don't," Dior said sweetly, poking my foot. "You just hate getting caught being in love."

Charlie sang, "Jaaaaane and Waaalker, sittin' in a tre—"

"Finish that and I'll electrocute your cereal," I warned, laughing despite myself.

Walker pulled himself up off the floor, rubbing his elbow. "I'm never sleeping again. I'll live off energy drinks and shame."

He looked at me and grinned sheepishly. "But... that was kinda worth it, though."

I softened. Yeah. Yeah, it kinda was.

Even with Leah's photos, the horror-movie scream, and the shame of knowing my dad was downstairs, probably suspecting everything.

Still worth it.

Walker leaned in, whispering, "I'd fall off that bed again, just so you'd laugh like that."

And my heart? Yeah. It did the whole cartwheel thing again.

————————————

After the scream heard 'round the house and a solid ten minutes of laughter-induced wheezing, everyone finally left my room to give Walker and me space to get ready.

He stood at the door, still disheveled and adorable, his hair doing whatever it wanted, hoodie rumpled from sleep.

"I'll change and meet you downstairs?" he said softly, rubbing the back of his neck.

I nodded. "Yeah. I need like... five minutes of not being publicly humiliated."

He smiled. "You looked really peaceful, for the record. Until I panicked and faceplanted."

I giggled. "Go. Before Leah prints those pictures on a hoodie."

He winked, then slipped out, barefoot and still kind of dazed. I stood there for a second after the door closed, just smiling like an idiot. Then I finally got moving.

Ten minutes later, I had on fresh jeans, a cozy sweatshirt, and my curls loosely braided over one shoulder. I packed my charger, folded my pajamas, zipped everything into my duffel, and stared at the quiet room.

It didn't feel real that the weekend was ending. It never did.

Downstairs smelled like cinnamon rolls and fresh eggs, and I practically melted at the warmth of it all. Walker was already in the kitchen, dressed and clean-faced, hair slightly damp. He was helping his mom set out orange juice like he lived there. Like he belonged in every house we visited.

I walked straight over to my parents and hugged them both tight.

"Morning," I mumbled into my mom's shoulder.

She kissed my cheek. "Sleep well?"

I shrugged. "Until Leah staged a paparazzi ambush."

My dad just raised an eyebrow and sipped his coffee. Suspiciously silent.

I chose to ignore it.

Walker hugged his mom at the same time, and I caught him whispering something that made her laugh quietly and shake her head. There was something about seeing him with his mom that made my stomach go all warm and soft. Like he wasn't just the boy who made me laugh—he was someone real. Kind. Safe.

We all sat down for breakfast—scrambled eggs, fruit, leftover cookies, and mismatched mugs of coffee or hot chocolate. The mood was slower, sleepier. That bittersweet end-of-weekend energy where everyone's a little quieter, but no one wants to leave yet.

Leah's parents came in with car keys jingling, and suddenly it was time.

Everyone started gathering their bags and coats, the hallway filling with goodbyes and zippers and soft "see you soons."

I turned and hugged Leah, burying my face in her shoulder.

"Don't cry," she warned, squeezing me so hard I thought she might lift me off the ground. "If you cry, I'll cry, and then we'll both look like puffy marshmallows."

"I'm not crying," I said. "I'm leaking emotionally."

She laughed, her voice thick. "Text me when you get home."

"I will."

Then came Dior, who practically tackled me. "You better not change your wallpaper again without me."

I choked on a laugh. "Never. Swear."

She pulled back just enough to look me in the eye. "Love you, drama queen."

"Love you more."

Then Charlie came in with a sideways grin and a half-hug that somehow turned into a full hug anyway. "Don't let Walker steal your blankets next time. I heard everything."

I slapped his arm. "You're a menace."

"I try."

Walker hugged them all too—warm, real hugs. No jokes, no smirks. He and Charlie did their usual handshake thing that took five steps and made no sense. Then everyone slowly trickled out the door toward their cars.

Walker and I hung back for a second.

My parents were already by our car, my mom chatting with his, my dad making sure the bags were loaded. But I stood near the porch, backpack slung over one shoulder, heart already tightening.

Walker turned to me. His duffel was slung over one arm, hoodie strings loose, expression soft and a little sleepy.

He didn't say anything at first. Just pulled me into a hug—tight and full-body, like he was trying to memorize the exact way I fit against him.

I hugged him back, pressing a small kiss to his cheek. "Next weekend's mine," I whispered. "My house. My snacks. My Spotify."

He smiled. "Deal."

"And I'm picking the movie."

"You always do."

We pulled apart just enough to look at each other. I didn't want to say goodbye. Not even for six days. But this was our rhythm—weekends alternating between his house and mine, our own little tradition to make the time in between feel less long.

"I'll text you when we're on the road," he said.

"You better."

He leaned in again, forehead resting lightly against mine. "Bye, Jeans."

"Bye, my dumb bumbler."

He rolled his eyes, grinning. "You really saved that name in your phone."

"Obviously. You earned it."

I walked to my car trying not to look back—but the second I shut the door, my phone buzzed.

My Dumb Bumbler
Miss you already. Can't believe I have to wait six whole days.

Me
It's five and a half if you count today as over.

My Dumb Bumbler
That's true. You're a genius.

Me
Also, don't forget your hoodie is still in my bag.

My Dumb Bumbler
Wore it on purpose. Knew you'd "accidentally" steal it.

I glanced out the window. His car hadn't left yet. He was typing again.

My Dumb Bumbler
Can't wait to see you next weekend, Jeans.

And just like that, the Monday sadness faded into something else—something warm, and happy, and patient.

Only five and a half days to go.

————————————

I smelled school before I saw it.

Coffee, cheap disinfectant, and the faint despair of teenagers trying to survive a Tuesday. The hallways buzzed with sleepy chatter, sneakers squeaking, and someone down the corridor already arguing with a vending machine that ate their dollar.

I walked in clutching a half-empty thermos and wearing Walker's hoodie because (1) it was soft, (2) it still smelled like him, and (3) I refused to return it until next weekend.

Locker 218 was still slightly jammed like always. I kicked it twice with my foot, then gave it the dramatic shoulder slam it required. It popped open with a groan.

"Missed you, too," I muttered.

Then I heard it.

"JANEEEEEE!"

The voice. The gallop. The blur of blonde curls and chaos.

I turned just in time to be nearly tackled into my locker by Emma, her arms wrapping around me like a koala with caffeine dependency.

"Oh my god!" I gasped-laughed. "You scared me!"

She pulled back, her green eyes sparkling like she hadn't seen me in three years instead of three days. "You look like a walking boyfriend hoodie ad."

I smirked. "Jealous?"

"A little. Also—spill. Now. How was Super Bowl Weekend with Mr. Faceplant?"

I burst out laughing. "Did Leah send you the video?"

"She sent everyone the video, babe. Walker's scream is officially my new ringtone."

I shoved her shoulder. "You're the worst."

"And yet," she said, flipping her hair. "You still love me."

I grinned, tugging a book out of my locker. "Okay, fine. Yes. It was amazing. We had the best time. Played tag with a golf cart. Walker slept in my room, totally by accident—"

"'Accident,'" she said, raising one eyebrow.

"Okay, semi-accident," I corrected. "We fell asleep watching memes and woke up to Leah, Dior, and Charlie filming us like it was a crime scene."

She squealed. "That's so cute it's criminal."

"And embarrassing," I groaned. "But also... I don't know. It just felt good. Easy. He even helped me pick a new iPhone wallpaper."

Emma fake-gasped. "That's intimacy."

"Right?"

We stood in silence for a second, smiling like idiots. I realized then how much I missed her over the weekend. Having a boyfriend was great and all, but nothing beat a Tuesday morning with your best friend, catching up in front of a sticky locker.

"Okay," I said, nudging her. "Now your turn. Tell me about Riley."

Emma immediately blushed.

"Oh my god," I said. "You have updates. I knew it. Spill right now or I'll die."

She rolled her eyes but couldn't stop smiling. "We FaceTimed Saturday night. It was supposed to be like, fifteen minutes? Ended up being almost two hours."

I grabbed her arm. "EMMA."

"I know! And it wasn't even awkward. She showed me her dog. I showed her my cactus. We talked about how bad Mr. Delaney is at teaching history. And then..."

"Don't stop," I said dramatically, like I was dying in a soap opera.

"She said she's going to the art show next Friday," Emma said softly. "And she asked if I'd go with her. Just us."

I actually screamed. Not loud. Not dramatic. But definitely audible enough that three freshmen near us jumped and walked faster.

"She asked you out?!"

Emma shrugged, but her cheeks were pink. "I think? I mean, it's not officially a date, but—"

"It is officially a date," I said, pulling her into another hug. "Oh my god. Emma. I am so happy for you."

She held onto me tight. "I've been trying to be chill about it, but inside I'm very much not chill."

"Good," I said, pulling back. "You deserve butterflies. Like, whole colonies of butterflies."

She grinned. "You and Walker one weekend, me and Riley the next—look at us, living the teenage dream."

I leaned against my locker, eyes soft. "I'm just glad we get to go through it all together."

"Same."

The warning bell rang, slicing through our little bubble, but neither of us moved right away.

I nudged her. "Group chat update later?"

"Obviously. I already have outfit panic scheduled for Wednesday."

I laughed as we headed toward class. Despite the sleepy Tuesday mood, something in me felt electric. Like even though the weekend had ended, something else was just beginning—for both of us.

————————————

If there was one thing worse than Tuesdays, it was PE on Tuesdays.

Sweaty gym air, those ridiculous mesh pinnies that smelled like history, and the guaranteed humiliation of running laps before noon. I tightened my shoelaces and adjusted my sweatshirt over my top, and checked if my sweat pants were alright, mentally bracing for whatever dodgeball-inspired nightmare Coach Taylor had planned.

Emma and I walked side by side across the field, our sneakers crunching against the dry grass.

"So, remind me again," Emma said, stretching her arms above her head. "Why are we paying taxes in the future when high school already feels like prison?"

"I ask myself that every day," I muttered, trying to ignore the pounding in my chest—not from exercise, but because I'd just seen her.

Amanda Kelly.

Red curls bouncing like some kind of aggressively cheerful commercial. Neon pink top. Lip gloss that could blind a crow. Laughing a little too loudly, leaning against the fence with that performative confidence she'd perfected over the last two years.

I hadn't missed her. Not even a little.

Not since she tossed our friendship in the trash the second Mike Clarkson started giving her attention.

And Mike—he was here too, off to the side, dribbling a soccer ball half-heartedly near the cones, his usually cocky stance slouched and distracted. Something was... off.

"Whoa," I murmured, slowing my pace.

Emma followed my line of sight, her eyes immediately narrowing. "Oh, right. You haven't heard the full update."

"Update?" I asked, already not wanting to know but also completely unable to stop myself.

Emma stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Mike and Amanda? Not a thing anymore. It all blew up after that lacrosse game last month."

My stomach twisted. That game.

The one where Walker's school had played ours. The one where Walker absolutely destroyed the field with his stupidly good aim and speed. I remembered being so proud, practically rushing to him on the field. Until Mike had stormed over at the end, muttering about how the win was "rigged" and how "that Westview jerk cheated."

And then—

"He called you something," Emma said softly, pulling me out of the memory. "You tried to stop him. And Walker—"

"—punched him," I finished, quietly.

She nodded. "And then they both ended up in the nurse's office with bruises."

I looked at the field again.

Mike was still dribbling, but slower now. His eyes scanned the crowd like he was looking for someone—or avoiding them. Amanda was nowhere near him. She was glued to a different friend group, laughing too loudly about something that didn't seem funny.

"So," I asked cautiously, "Mike and Amanda... he dumped her?"

Emma nodded, arms crossed. "Cold. Said something about needing space. Probably just embarrassed Walker wiped the floor with him. Amanda's been spiraling ever since. She literally asked if her mascara looked 'too tragic' in first period today."

I bit back a laugh. "That's... dramatic, even for her."

"But," Emma added, side-eyeing Amanda, "you're not allowed to feel bad. She was awful. She picked your childhood crush just to get under your skin."

"Yeah," I said under my breath. "And he let her."

And the worst part? For so long, I thought that meant I wasn't good enough. I let Amanda's betrayal and Mike's sudden coldness make me shrink. I carried it around like something was wrong with me.

But now? Standing in the middle of this open field, Emma next to me, Walker as my boyfriend?

I didn't feel small anymore.

Still, the moment I looked up, Mike's eyes met mine.

My stomach dropped.

His gaze held for just a second—confused, maybe regretful. Maybe just tired.

I looked away immediately, forcing my breath steady.

"Class!" Coach Taylor's voice cracked through the field like a fire alarm. "Warm up! Lines! Let's go!"

Emma pulled me gently by the sleeve. "Don't give him that power. He's not worth a single heartbeat of yours anymore."

"I know," I said, swallowing hard.

Because she was right.

I had people who saw me. Really saw me. And loved me without conditions.

Mike could keep his awkward glances. Amanda could keep her pink lip gloss and chaos.

I had my real friends.

And I had Walker.

—————————————

If Coach Taylor had a villain origin story, I was now convinced it began with sprints.

"Last round of races!" she barked across the field like she was leading a boot camp. "Only two left standing. Let's see who wants it more!"

My lungs were on fire, sweat collecting under the collar of my sweatshirt but somehow, my legs were still moving like they had something to prove.

Next to me, Emma was bent over, hands on knees, wheezing out, "You're a freak of nature, Jane. Who let you be fast and poetic?"

"I'm not poetic," I gasped, half-laughing, half-dying.

"You write songs that make people cry. Shut up and go win."

I didn't need convincing. Not because I cared about the mini tournament Coach created to make us feel like our gasping deaths were for a cause—but because I saw Amanda, standing on the other side of the line, flipping her curls and glaring at me like I was a stain on her new sneakers.

Oh, she hated that I was winning.

She really hated that people were noticing.

Amanda Kelly had two talents: controlling people and pretending her entire personality was sponsored by a lip gloss company. Running? Not her thing. But losing to me? Publicly? That wasn't going to fly.

Coach raised her whistle. "Last run! Kelly and Riordan! Ready..."

I dropped into position, eyes on the far cone.

"Set..."

I ignored Amanda's dramatic exhale and the way she re-tied her already-perfect ponytail like it was going to psych me out.

"GO!"

I took off, grass flying beneath my sneakers, hoodie sleeves flapping slightly as I pushed harder and faster. Amanda tried to keep pace, but her form was a mess. I could hear her huffing behind me—agitated, trying too hard, like someone who wanted to win for all the wrong reasons.

I was maybe six feet from the finish cone when I caught the whiff of something off.

Shouts from the other side of the field. Lacrosse boys training. One of them winding up a pass—

Something flew across the field.

Fast. Small. White.

I barely had time to react before a body slammed into mine from the side, knocking the breath straight out of my lungs. The world tilted sideways as I crashed to the grass with a yelp, landing on my back with a sharp thud.

And then—

"Ugh—what the hell—MIKE?!"

Because yes, Mike Clarkson had somehow collided with me, arms awkwardly braced as he landed half on top of me like we were in some kind of slow-motion, bad teen rom-com scene that literally no one asked for.

"Ow," I muttered, blinking up at the clouds.

He was breathing hard, his face about four inches from mine. "I—I didn't mean to. The ball—"

"Get off me," I snapped, shoving his shoulder as I twisted away from under him.

He rolled off, falling onto his back next to me like someone had just unplugged him. I sat up, brushing dirt and grass off my hoodie with shaking hands.

"Are you okay?" he asked, still breathless.

I didn't answer.

Because no, I wasn't okay. My shoulder ached. My side throbbed. My pride had been shattered into about thirty-five pieces in front of the entire PE class. And worst of all—

Amanda was smirking.

She was across the field, very much not running, pretending to act surprised while clearly holding back a victorious little grin.

Emma jogged over first, looking equal parts alarmed and murderous. "What the hell just happened?!"

"A ball was flying toward her," Mike said quickly, sitting up. "I saw it. It was coming fast—I didn't even think. I just ran for it."

Emma looked over toward the lacrosse boys. One of them was arguing with Coach about it already, his stick at his side, looking vaguely confused.

"You tackled her," Emma said, glaring.

Mike winced. "I was trying to help."

"Well, congrats," I muttered, standing up. "You helped give me whiplash and a front-row seat to grass stains."

"I'm sorry, Jane," Mike said softly, standing too.

We locked eyes again, and for a brief second, I thought I saw something real there—like maybe he actually did feel bad.

But then I remembered two years of silence. Of Amanda posting pictures of the two of them just to hurt me. Of how he didn't defend me at the game until Walker did.

"I'm fine," I said, backing away. "Just don't touch me again."

Coach jogged over, clearly trying to figure out whether she should be angry or impressed by the dramatic finale of her makeshift race. She told us to sit down, take water, and get checked out by the nurse if needed.

Emma looped her arm through mine and tugged me toward the benches.

"You're definitely going to need a reward smoothie after school," she muttered.

"And maybe a week of solitude in the woods," I added, wincing as I sat down.

We both turned just enough to glance back.

Amanda was still on the field, but her smug look had dropped. Probably because whatever she tried to pull didn't work the way she'd planned.

Mike stood a few feet away from her—shoulders tense, head low, looking like he knew something was unraveling.

Good.

Let it.

Because I was done playing their games.

And I had better people on my side now.

————————————

The last bell finally rang, releasing a flood of restless students like a dam breaking. I ducked into the locker room to change out of my sweaty PE clothes, swapping the hoodie back on over a fresh tee and my favorite jeans.

Emma was waiting by the exit, backpack slung over one shoulder, already gearing up for her next class.

"See you tomorrow?" she asked, grinning.

"Definitely." I returned the smile. "Good luck with that history project!"

She waved as she rushed off. I felt lighter already—Monday was winding down.

Outside, the winter air nipped at my cheeks as I made my way down the street. I stopped by the little smoothie stand on the corner—the one with the ridiculously fruity flavors and the old jazz playing on repeat. Mango-pineapple was my go-to.

I was scrolling through messages when my phone buzzed and the screen lit up with Walker's face.

"Hey, goof," he said, eyes bright but tired-looking. "What're you up to?"

I smiled wide and hit 'accept.' "Just grabbing a smoothie. You?"

"Math quiz this morning. Think I survived, but it was brutal."

"Sounds rough. But you'll ace it."

Walker grinned sheepishly. "Thanks. What about you? How was PE?"

I laughed softly. "Oh, you know... sprinting, almost getting tackled by Mike Clarkson, that kind of fun."

His expression sharpened. "Wait, what? He tackled you? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just the usual drama." I rolled my eyes. "Amanda's still being Amanda—paid one of the lacrosse boys to throw a ball at me, but Mike ran after it and accidentally ran into me instead."

His expression flickered between murderously angry and horrified. "Jane."

"I'm fine. I promise," I said, softening my tone, "Just grass stains and awkward tension."

Walker's jaw tightened. "That idiot. I swear, if he ever bothers you again—"

"Walker, it's okay." I softened, not wanting to stress him out. "I'm used to it."

Walker exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. "That guy's a walking caution sign."

I grinned, a little amused at how deeply annoyed he looked. "Jealous?"

"Of Mike? No. But if I could've been there, I would've caught you before you hit the grass. In, like, slow motion. With romantic music playing."

I laughed. "Oh my God, stop."

"Still," he said firmly. "I'm glad you told me. I don't like the idea of him pulling crap like that."

I smiled, feeling my cheeks warm. "Thanks, babe. It was just dumb and awkward. But... you calling right now makes it better."

He smiled, eyes crinkling again. "Good. That's kind of my job."

We chatted for a while, the day's noise fading around me as we talked about everything from annoying quizzes to what we'd do this weekend.

"We're talking mid-2000s bangers, Disney Channel classics, and—wait for it—Taylor Swift's Fearless album. Full deluxe." Walker grinned.

I gasped. "You love me."

"I do love you," he said, suddenly, like it was the most casual, obvious truth in the world.

My heart stuttered.

"So," I said, "you better prepare yourself."

"For what?"

"To meet my ginger baby boy cat Milo. He's kind of a diva, but I think you'll get along."

Walker laughed. "I'm ready. But Friday might be a little tricky."

"Why?"

"I've got an interview that day. It's for this podcast called 'Straw Hat Goofy's Movies'. Kinda weird, but fun."

"Sounds perfect for you," I teased.

"Yeah, well, after that, I'm coming straight to your place. Might be a little late, but I'll be there."

"Can't wait," I said, my heart doing a little flip.

"I love you, jeans" Walker smiled.

"I love you too, dumb bumbler" I chuckled taking towards the corner of my street.

We said our goodbyes, promises to text later hanging between us like a warm blanket against the chilly February air.

I took a long sip of my smoothie, feeling a smile stretch across my face.

Tuesdays weren't so bad when you had someone like Walker in your corner.

I MISSED THEM OMG😭😭😭