Page 89 of Scout

Kendrix’s palm slides to the small of my back. Xavier’s hand brushes mine. Once. Then again, staying the second time. Our fingers curl together like it’s instinct.

I don’t pull away.

We move in sync. The three of us form a little world where the only rules are the music and the heat in the air. Every so often, I catch one of them watching me. Not staring. Just... watching. Like they’re memorizing this version of me: loose, laughing, unafraid.

It’s not sexual.

But it’s intimate in a way that hits deeper. There’s something in the way Kendrix mouths the lyrics to a Lady Gaga song with his eyes closed, in the way Xavier lets himself smile with his whole face. In the way I realize I’m not wondering if I’m too much or not enough. I’m justme.

At one point, I throw my head back and laugh—something wild and unfiltered—and Kendrix grabs both our hands and spins us all in a ridiculous circle that earns a cheer from the nearest group of onlookers.

Xavier leans in, lips close to my ear. “You’re beautiful when you’re not bracing for something bad.”

I choke on a breath. Not because I don’t believe him—but because maybe, just maybe, I’m finally starting to.

We dance until our clothes are sticking to us, until my feet ache in a way that feels earned. And when the DJ transitions to something slower and softer, we sway without talking. Just breathing. The three of us, hearts syncing to a new kind of rhythm.

And for a moment, I close my eyes and think—this is what it feels like to be chosen.

31

Xavier

By the timewe get back to Scout’s apartment, we’re high on sugar, booze, and the kind of joy that might evaporate if you breathe too hard.

I haven’t laughed that much in months. Maybe years. My throat is still raw from cheering. My face aches from smiling. And my heart—it’s not hammering the way it used to. It’s quiet. Steady. Like it finally believes this might last.

Scout unlocks the door, one boot already kicked off. “You guys wanna stay for a bit?”

“You sure?” I meet his eyes. He’s flushed, glowing just a little from the alcohol and adrenaline.

He nods. “Yeah. I’m not ready for it to end.”

Neither am I.

Kendrix and I follow him inside, toeing off our shoes and stepping into the little world he’s built. It smells of laundry detergent and citrus and something unmistakably Scout.

He throws on a movie—something old and cheesy that plays like comfort food for the brain—and we all settle onto the couch.At first, there’s this polite kind of space between us, as if we’re still asking permission to share each other’s orbit.

Then Kendrix shifts closer, his arm behind Scout on the couch like it’s second nature. I follow suit, scooting in until our knees brush when Scout leans back.

He ends up in the middle. Of course he does. A missing piece that finally clicks into place.

We sit there, not talking. Not overthinking.

Just existing.

I don’t know how to explain what it feels like—this quiet, this warmth, this sense of rightness. Like we’re finally writing something real.

Halfway through the movie, Scout yawns. Kendrix nudges him with his shoulder, gentle. “Tired?”

“A little,” Scout mumbles, voice gravel-thick. “But not the bad kind.”

“What’s the bad kind?” I ask without thinking.

He shrugs. “The kind that means I’m spiraling. This is the kind that just means I’m… safe.”

God, that word. It punches the air right out of me.