Sam exhaled, and the motion hurt. He drifted into the secretary's office, followed behind by Nate, and nearly sat down in the front office before catching sight of his family standing uncomfortably in the hallway. He wiped his eyes and whispered, “I'm sorry.”

His mother held his face and sighed.

“You okay, O?”

Olivia nodded. “I-I'm fine. I just...I never thought –”

“Me, too,” Sam muttered, sniffing. “God, I'm sorry.”

“Don't be too hard on yourself, sweetheart,” Mrs. Watson whispered. “While I don't condone how you did it, I appreciate the root of the reason.”

He hugged her tight. “Still, I'm sorry.” Opening one eye, he caught Liam standing against the wall, watching his best friend apprehensively. There was a developing bruise on the bridge of his nose from where Nate accidentally elbowed him. No blood, thank God, but the accident was felt personally by Sam. He pried himself away and rubbed the back of his neck. “This...isn't normally how Family Nights go.”

Liam snorted and stood up. “Damn. I was thinking of enrolling.”

Sam nodded, letting himself be dragged into another hug. “Sorry you got dragged into that, man.”

“Eh, you're fine. Where'd you learn those moves, though?” Liam asked. “Sure as hell didn't learn them from me.”

He laughed. “Shut up, Liam.” Yet as he exhaled, trying to remove as much of the regret and shame from his body, the high from the fight finally faded away. Rage was replaced by regret. Disappointment remained, but now it was cold and numbing.

“Mrs. Watson? Mr. and Mrs. Quinn? May I speak with you both in my office?”

Sam felt his mother touch his back, and then footsteps recede through the receptionist's office and into the principal's office. The door closed.

“Mom's taking us home when she's done in there,” said Olivia, crossing her arms. Her stare was fixed on the windows of the office. Probably on Nate.

He nodded, wiping his face and ignoring the fireworks of pain from pressing his arm over his skin. “You guys can go ahead. I'll hang back to clean up from this. I'll...catch the bus home, or something.”

“You sure?” Liam asked.

He nodded again. “Yeah. It...it's the right thing to do.”

Liam hummed, trading glances with Olivia before accepting with quiet defeat. “Well, if you want a ride home, text me.” He grinned something wild and reckless, but the expression was lost on Sam. “I...have my learner's permit.”

“I'd rather get the bus,” Sam whispered, smirking. “And you forget, I have my license, already.”

“I have a car.”

“Then I’ll drive it, then.”

“You're so rude, you know that?” Liam asked.

Sam laughed and brought Liam in for another hug. “I'm glad you came,” he murmured, pulling away, “but I still wish you dressed better.”

Liam shook his head. “You're right on that. That girl? Marissa whatever? She stared at me like I was covered in worms.”

“She's a theater girl. She looks at everyone like that.”

“Ha ha.” He tried a brave face before leaning forward. “If he tries anything again, let me know? I'll beat him to a pulp for you guys.”

Words felt useless suddenly, and Sam started studying the lines of the linoleum floor. He draped his hand on Olivia's shoulder and gave an apologetic squeeze, which she replied back in earnest with taking his hand in hers. “Thanks, Sam,” she whispered, not meeting his stare.

Sam sighed.

Twenty minutes later, suffering through numerous side-glances and whispers of passerbys (Sam intrinsically knew this would make the school paper's front page), Mrs. Watson left the office looking paler than before, frowning as she met her son's eyes. She deflated and said she tried to defend him, but Sam knew better. Once written in stone, it's hard to amend. “Thanks, though,” he said.

She took in her son carefully, slowly, and smiled. “Text me if you need a ride?”

He nodded.

Mr. and Mrs. Quinn possessed more sour expressions, dragging Nate along while he insisted he could walk. “We'll meet you at the car,” Mrs. Quinn said. “Say your apologies, and then we can go home.” She met Mrs. Watson's stare and frowned. “I am truly sorry, Hannah, for our son's behavior. Had we known –”

Mrs. Watson waved it off. “You know how boys can get,” she said, the statement more an excuse to skirt the topic than anything. She took a step and started strolling down the corridor towards the main entrance, Liam and Olivia in tow.

Mr. and Mrs. Quinn glanced back at Nate expectantly. “We'll be at the car.” And then followed after.

Nate sighed, crossing his arms behind his head. “Didn't think you had that in you, darling. I'm impressed.”

Sam's gaze drifted to him.

“I do agree that this is all stupid, but that's what happens when you try to involve incompetent people. You know?” There was a jitteriness about him underneath Nate's layer of cool, like lemon cutting through vinegar. His easy smile came and went in nervous waves.

Sam Watson never hated someone more than he hated Nathaniel Quinn in his entire life.

“Well, what's done is done,” Nate said, dropping his hands to his sides. His piercing blue eyes met Sam's, waiting for some kind of retort. He continued, “I can't believe that didn't go to you. Apologies, darling.”

The sight was excruciating in a way Sam never thought possible.

“But hear me out. Sloppiness is not a good look for me. I promise, next time, I won't be –”

“Don't ever speak to me again.”

He stopped. His hands had been outstretched in a motion, like sectioning off parts of a schedule, and fell against his sides slowly. Nate's eyes searched Sam's, curious and surprised, before the seconds ticked by, and slowly (agonyzingly slow, considering how smart everyone thought Nate was) realization hit him like a fast-moving truck. His expression narrowed before the corners of his lips turned up. “Ha ha. Very funny, Sam.”

His stomach curdled. “I'm serious, Quinn.” He turned fully to the other, straightening his shoulders and hiding his fists behind his back. “You broke our only rule. You heard what Principal Hanford said. Rules are still rules. There needs to be consequences. Don't ever talk to me, again.”

Nate cocked a brow, and his posture became easy, oozing with condescension. “Just because that old fart said that doesn't mean –”

“You came after my sister after I specifically told you, reminded you, to leave her out of our rivalry. Regardless of whether this was a fluke or not, you're dead to me.”

He rolled his eyes.

Sam bristled.

“No need to be dramatic, darling –”

His fingers numbed, and he realized this – the anger, the frustration, the space spent terrified about what Nate would do and how Sam would get him back – was exhausting. He couldn't spend the rest of his time at Brookfell balancing extracurriculars, his schoolwork, and Nate. He knew what responsibility tasted like, and he would not compromise on it just because someone wasn't listening to him.

But the cut was deeper than that. He messed with something Sam valued above his scholarship, above the accolades and the prestige he strived for. Despite himself, Sam would willingly give up everything if it meant his family could get something better.

His hands itched to be on Nate's collar again. To shove him into the wall opposite the principal's office, but he abstained. Sam's expression melted away into something neither taxing nor easy, and he sighed. “Read my lips, Quinn, because this is the last time I am going to spell it out so nicely for you. Don't ever come near me, my family, or my friends ever again.”

Nate's shoulders rolled forward, his lips parted slightly in partial disgust and confusion. He straightened up, ruffled his hair into its perfectly unkemptness, and rolled his eyes. “You can't be serious.”

Sam turned on his heels. He had cleanup duty to help with.

“It was just a stupid rule!”

Numbness crawled through him. Sam knew if he turned back, if he rose to Nate's bait, if he could call whatever halfhearted apology Nate offered as bait, whatever loop they were stuck in would not break.

Footfalls, and Nate's hand was on Sam's shoulder. He wore annoyance like a glove, but his eyes were wide, wild, frantic.

In some sadistic way, Sam was glad Nate felt something about this.

“I'm sorry, okay?” he spat, throwing his hands down and wiping them on his dusty khakis. “There. Done and dusted. Get off your high horse, Watson.”

Sam wrinkled his nose at the display. He wanted to tack on a “See you around” or something even more dismissive, but he bit the inside of his cheek and turned away. He said he wouldn't speak to Nathaniel Quinn ever again, and vowed to keep that promise, at least to himself.

“Watson!”

He turned a corner, feeling the strange dance of relief and regret in his chest. Sam's breaths shortened, and he stole a moment to recollect himself. He'd dreamed of telling Nate off like this for the last four years, but this didn't feel real. “It will,” he muttered to himself. “Don't let him get under your skin. Suffer the withdrawal-like symptoms, and you'll be fine. You'll have more time for things, less to worry about. Better for your health.”

Sam followed the music into the cafeteria, noting the thinning crowd and the careful way the staff were stacking the empty platters of food. He rolled up his sleeves and started clearing discarded napkins and finger foods away.