Page 84 of Scout

I set the phone down, heart tapping too fast in my chest. This is how it starts, I think. Not with a kiss or a promise. With a maybe.

I pick the phone back up.

Me: Fine. But nothing fancy. No tuxedos. No reservations. I want real.

Kendrix: Got it. We’re on it. See you soon.

I stare at the screen for a second too long. Then I type:

Me: Okay. What time will you pick me up?

Kendrix: 8pm sound good?

Me: I can work with that. Come up when you get here.

Juniper raises an eyebrow. “Was that them?”

“Yeah.”

She hops up and starts shoving her things into her sleepover bag like I just gave her a mission. “Good. Later I’m going to Millie’s anyway. Big plans. Manicures, cookie dough, TikTok.”

I watch her zip her bag, trying to ignore the small ache in my chest. “You packed fast.”

“I was halfway packed already,” she says. “Millie invited me earlier. Just didn’t want to leave if you were gonna be Captain Mopey all night.”

I huff out a laugh, but it sticks in my throat.

She pretends she’s not watching me—just grabbing her phone charger and chapstick—but she is. She always is. Juniper’s got this uncanny radar when it comes to me. Reads me like a weather report. Knows the difference between a bad mood and a bad day. Between silence that meansleave me aloneand silence that meansplease sit next to me until it passes.

It’s terrifying, sometimes. Being known like that. But it’s also… grounding.

Because no matter how much I try to hold it together, she sees the frayed edges.

And she stays.

Even if it means packing a sleepover bag with one eye on me.

I’m standingin front of the bathroom mirror, running my fingers through my hair for the third time.

“You’re overthinking it,” Juniper calls from the doorway, arms crossed—my tiny fashion consultant-slash-life coach. “You already look hot. In a soft, emotionally repressed kind of way.”

“Thanks?” I mutter, reaching for my cologne. One spray, maybe two. Nothing overkill. Just enough to smell like I give a shit.

She walks in and snatches the bottle from my hand before I can talk myself into three. “Okay, let’s not scare them off. You’re not going to prom.”

I roll my eyes but let her take it. She sets it down on the counter like she’s staging a product shoot.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I am. Now, shirt check.” She points at my chest. “Solid choice. Classic white tee. Clean. Tight in the arms. You’re welcome, future husbands.”

“They’re not my—” I start, but she holds up a finger.

“Scout. Scout. Scout. Don’t lie to me. Not in that shirt.”

I snort and turn back to the mirror. Jeans. White tee. Boots. Tousled hair that looks just styled enough to pretend I didn’t stress about it for thirty minutes. It’s not fancy, but I don’t want fancy. I want real. Comfortable. Something I won’t feel like peeling off my skin halfway through the night.

The doorbell rings just as I’m reaching for my phone.