Charlie remembers the court first.

Not the color, just the feeling of it biting through thin fabric, itchy and damp, pressing into his palms as he sat on the edge of the basketball court. 

Practice had ended early.

 Someone had “forgotten” their sneakers. 

Someone else had laughed too loud.

“Hey, Charlie,” a voice had called.

Not kind. 

Never kind.

They were standing in a loose half-circle, 

jerseys half-off, sweat cooling into something uncomfortable. 

One of them, Luke, maybe tilted his head like he was inspecting something broken.

“You sick or something?” he asked. “You’ve been acting weird.”

Charlie hadn’t known what to say then. He never did. He felt weird, sure, but sick?

“I’m fine,” he’d mumbled, eyes fixed on the dirt.

Someone snorted. “My brother said you got that… thing.”

“That thing?” another echoed, grinning.

Charlie’s chest tightened. His body had always betrayed him in moments like this—heart racing, hands stiff, like it knew something his mouth couldn’t say yet.

Before the words could pile higher, Justin stepped in.

Literally stepped in,

planting himself between Charlie and the rest of them, shoes scraping the ground. 

He didn’t look angry. 

He looked bored. 

Which somehow made it scarier.

“What thing?” Justin asked. 

“You mean the rumor you made up because you’re bad at defense?”

A few of them laughed. 

The tension shifted, recalibrated.

Luke scoffed. 

“I’m just saying, he’s not normal.”

Justin shrugged. 

“Yeah, and you still can’t run a mile without puking. What’s your point?”

Alex had been there too, 

hovering just behind Justin, arms crossed. 

Silent backup.

Charlie hadn’t moved. 

He’d just stared at Justin’s back, at the way his shoulders squared without effort, 

like this was automatic. 

Like protecting him was as natural as breathing.

“Leave him alone,” Justin added, voice sharper now. 

“Or find someone else to be obsessed with.”

They dispersed eventually. 

Always did. 

Bullies were cowards when confronted with certainty.

Justin turned around then, grinning like nothing happened.

“Jesus,” he said. “You okay, Char?”

Charlie nodded too fast. “Yeah.”

Justin tossed him a water bottle. “People are idiots. Don’t let them get to you.”

Charlie had wanted to say something then. 

Something honest. 

Something that sat heavy in his throat like a swallowed stone.

The truth

Instead, he smiled.

The memory shifts, like it always does.

Different day. 

Different kind of joke.

Justin had burst into Charlie’s room, 

wearing one of his mom’s old wigs, cheap, blonde, uneven.

He struck a pose. “What? I’m a woman now.”

Alex had laughed. 

Charlie had laughed too but softer. 

Something had twisted pleasantly and painfully in his chest.

Justin had ripped the wig off a second later. 

“Relax. It’s just hair.”

Just hair.

Charlie thinks about that now,years later

about how easy it was for Justin to put it on and take it off. 

How no one questioned him. 

How laughter followed him instead of whispers.

Back then, 

Charlie had felt seen in a way 

he didn’t understand yet.

Not because Justin mocked womanhood.

But because, for a split second, 

He showed how fragile the rules were.

How easily they bent, 

if you were allowed.

The memory fractures again, returning to the field.

And sometimes, late at night, Charlie wonders if that version of Justin, 

the one who stepped in without thinking, 

who defended him without asking questions would be 

the same one to accept him.

October’s end arrived with skies the color of bruised fruit. The halls of the school  shimmered with fake cobwebs and the smell of plastic pumpkins. Everyone wore something they weren’t.

Charlie buttoned their jacket carefully in the locker-room mirror. It was navy, almost plain, but the sleeves were slimmer now, the shape a little closer to how they’d always wanted to look. Beneath it, the soft lilac shirt brushed their skin like a secret.

Charlotte caught up with them at the door.

“Cute,” she said, tilting her head. “You changed your hair again?”

Charlie smiled without meeting her eyes. “Just a trim.” 

Just a trim.

It felt like that trim had gone to everyone’s perception instead.

By second period the whispers had started, light at first, then heavier, like snow collecting on branches.

“Did you see Charlie?”

“He’s acting differently.”

“She, he, whatever.”

“Halloween really got to them.”

They pretended not to hear. 

Still, every syllable stuck like cobwebs to skin.

How the people around you judge so, as if you’d become a new person overnight.

Sahara sat silently in the library, his sketchbook wide open.

He couldn’t wrap his head around it.

Did Snow like him?

Did he…

like Snow?

The thought sat wrong in his mouth, like a word he wasn’t allowed to say.

“Like you want to share the world with them, y’know?”

He stared down at the sentence his hands had written without asking permission.

Share the world.

That sounded like something people said in movies.

Something soft.

Something embarrassing.

Romantic?

He scoffed quietly.

Couldn’t be.

His fingers curled around the rosary at his neck, the beads cool and familiar, grounding him.

Just couldn’t.

It was just a friendship, nothing more, nothing-

Less?

Could it even be considered less than what it was?

Snow approached then, the moment breaking before it could deepen. He held another textbook against his chest like an offering.

They stared at each other for too long to “Just be friends.”

“You any good at science?”

Sahara tilted his head. “What kind?”

Snow dropped into the chair beside him. “Biology. Body science.”

Sahara snorted, tapping the corner of his sketchbook where a skeletal hand was half-shaded. “Guess you’re in luck. It’s yours.”

Snow pulled the sketchbook closer, studying it with care. 

A normal person might’ve laughed it off, might’ve called it weird.

Snow didn’t.

“It’s beautiful,” his eyes widened, “How did you figure this out from me?”

Sahara turned to face him fully.

They weren’t strangers.

But friends didn’t fit either.

Friends didn’t sit this close.

Didn’t share notes and food and silence.

Didn’t leave space open like this, unguarded.

Close friends?

No.

That wasn’t it.

They spent every day together. 

Studied. 

Walked home. 

Ate lunch shoulder to shoulder.

If they lived together, 

He stopped.

Lived together.

A cold whisper slid through the back of his mind, old and sharp.

Don’t you remember what happened last time?

“Sahara.”

Snow brushed his cheek, gentle and brief, like he was pulling him back from the edge.

“Stop getting lost in your thoughts,” Snow said lightly. “I’m right here.”

Sahara flinched before he could stop himself, then scoffed to cover it up. He jabbed Snow’s arm with his elbow.

“What are you? Some kind of puppy, clinging for attention?”

Snow recoiled, affronted. “I am not a puppy. I’m a tough guy.”

Sahara looked at him, the pale lashes, the easy grin, the softness he carried without meaning to, and couldn’t take him seriously at all.

A laugh slipped out before he could catch it.

He opened the textbook quickly, as if pages could save him.

The feeling lingered anyway.

Not joy.

Not fear.

Not love.

Something else.

Something that felt like standing too close to a window in winter, cold and warm at the same time.

She had felt like this once.

Not at the end.

At the beginning.

Before things twisted.

Before kindness became something sharp.

Why was he so greedy for something he knew hurt?

The words he’d written before popped in his mind,

“Why do we hold desperate to what hurts us?”

Sahara’s fingers tightened around the rosary again.

His pocket felt heavier than it should have.

The pill bottle pressed against his thigh, a reminder.

Clear your thoughts, 

his father’s voice echoed faintly.

Just take a little more.

Sahara swallowed.

He didn’t change the dosage.

But the question stayed with him long after Snow leaned over his shoulder to point at a diagram, quiet, insistent, and dangerous.

After lunch, the hallway was crowded with costumes, witch hats, masks, and wings. A blur of orange lights blinked from lockers.

Jacob stood near the vending machines, arguing with a teammate about the basketball fundraiser. His voice cut through the noise loud, impatient.

“I’m not helping with this stupid bake sale. It’s not my problem whether Alex or Justin wants to do, I’m the boss of myself,” He slammed his fist on the table,

Alex scoffed, “Does it really hurt your pathetic pride to just sell some cupcakes to little kids? You know we’re really shortstaffed already.”

Jacob ran off as fast as he could, slamming the door open to Room 124.

“Emil!”

The light was shut off.

“So you really did come.”

The lights flicked on.

“Well. Thought you were gonna help out the team, Jacob?” The other boys on the basketball all stood there, surrounding him.

Jacob stared at him, “Help out? I’ve already done enough. I can’t keep doing this anymore. My family needs me. My father needs me.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard he collapsed. Needs cut back on the bottle, don’t you think?” He chuckled, the lot of them laughing as if it was practiced.

“Where’s Emil?” Jacob looked around,

“I sent him…home.” Otis, the tall guard walked forward,

Jacob yanked his collar, a shocked gasp came from the whole crowd but no one moved an inch.

“You’re just a dog. You’re just Henry’s dog, if he tells you jump, you jump, if he tells you give him your brain, you’ll give him your brain huh?! Do you not have your own fucking ambitions?” He sneered through his teeth and then let go,

“I’m done. I quit this sorry-fucking team. Find someone else to fuck with.”

Then slam.

Jacob stormed down the hallway.

He paused.

When he noticed Charlotte and Charlie, something sharpened in his expression.

“What are you wearing?” he demanded.

Charlotte laughed softly. “It’s a skirt, calm down. It’s Halloween.”

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” he said. His gaze flicked toward Charlie. “And you, stop encouraging her.”

Charlie’s throat closed. “I didn’t-”

The tension rippled through the crowd. Phones half-raised, whispers thickening.

“Leave it,” Charlotte said quietly. “Let’s just go.”

Jacob’s face contoured into an even more furious one, “What did you say to me?!”

Her brother’s hand moved, quick, the sound of something striking the locker, a metallic crack that echoed down the hall. Charlotte stumbled back, catching herself against the wall.

Gasps, a dropped phone. 

Then silence.

Snow was the one who stepped forward. He wasn’t in costume, just his usual hoodie and that faint calm he always carried like armor.

“Enough,” he said. His voice didn’t rise, but it filled the space.

He stood between them, a small barrier of warmth against the cold air of humiliation. The brother’s jaw tightened; he looked away first.

Teachers arrived, questions flew, and the crowd dissolved like smoke.

Charlotte’s hands shook as Snow guided her toward the nurse’s office. She didn’t speak. 

Neither did he.

The hallway had already gone quiet by the time the teachers arrived.

Too quiet.

Charlotte’s ears rang as Snow guided her away, his hand hovering at her elbow like he wasn’t sure if touching her would make things worse. She followed anyway, feet numb against the floor.

She didn’t cry.

That almost scared her more.

Inside the nurse’s office, the door shut with a soft click that felt far too gentle for what had just happened.

Snow exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath for longer than she realized.

“Sit,” he said, not commanding, just steady.

Charlotte perched on the edge of the bed, hands clenched in her skirt. The fabric suddenly felt foolish, childish. I knew this would happen, a voice whispered. I should’ve known better.

Snow pulled open the cabinet and retrieved the med kit. His movements were careful, almost clinical but she noticed the way his fingers trembled before he stilled them.

“Are you alright?” he asked again, quieter this time.

Charlotte opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

Snow didn’t push. 

He knelt in front of her instead, bringing himself down to eye level. The fluorescent light washed him pale, softer somehow, but there was something tight behind his eyes, alert, calculating. 

Like he was already thinking three steps ahead.

Teachers.

 Reports.

 Parents.

Her brother.

Snow dabbed antiseptic onto a gauze pad, then paused. “This might sting.”

She nodded.

The cold bite of it snapped something loose. Charlotte inhaled sharply, nails digging into the paper sheet beneath her.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I shouldn’t have worn this. I just,”

Snow’s hand stilled.

“Don’t,” he said, firm now. 

Not angry. 

Certain.

 “Don’t do that.”

She laughed weakly. “Do what?”

“Rewrite what happened so it’s easier to survive.” He met her gaze, unflinching. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Charlotte swallowed. She wasn’t used to someone saying that without qualifiers. 

Without but.

Snow returned to cleaning the mark along her cheek, gentler now. “You lived for yourself for once,” he murmured, more to himself than her. “And he responded.”

The words chilled her.

“You thought he would?" she said.

Snow didn’t answer right away. 

His jaw tightened. “I thought about it.”

She watched him then, really watched. The way he positioned himself closer to the door than to her. The way his shoulders stayed squared, ready. He wasn’t relaxed.

He was bracing.

“Why then-why did you-” She stared,

“Because I don’t fear the consequences,” Snow cut her off quietly. 

“For me.”

Charlotte’s chest tightened. “So what do you do for me? You stepped in anyway.”

He hesitated. 

Just a fraction.

“I don’t like watching people disappear into corners,” he said. “I’ve seen what happens when no one interrupts.”

That was all he offered. 

No story. 

No explanation.

Snow taped the gauze in place, then leaned back on his heels. “You feel dizzy?”

She shook her head. “Just… shaky.”

“That’ll pass.” He stood, then stopped himself from pacing by gripping the counter. “You should probably stay here until the bell.”

She nodded, then looked up at him, words pressing at her throat. “Why are you so kind to me?”

Snow blinked, caught off guard.

“I’m not,” he said automatically. Then, softer, “I mean, I don’t think I am. I’m just… doing what makes sense.”

Charlotte stared at the floor. 

Why couldn’t Sahara be like this? 

The thought surfaced uninvited, sharp with guilt.

She pushed it down immediately.

“That’s not fair,” she whispered. “To him. Or to you.”

Snow tilted his head. “What is?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. Forget it.”

Silence stretched, thick but not uncomfortable.

Finally, she said, “I feel… safe. With you.”