You wake up to seventeen notifications on your phone. Your roommate, Dakota, is already gone, her side of the dorm room neat and sterile as always. You scroll through the messages, most of them from the group chat. Marcus asking if you're coming to the gym. Sloane sending you three different memes in rapid succession. Beckett asking if you survived the night.
You smile despite yourself, typing back a quick response. Survived. See you at class?
His reply comes immediately. Already there. saving you a seat.
You pull on an oversized sweater and black jeans, letting your violet hair fall loose around your shoulders. In the mirror, you look tired. Dark circles under your eyes from staying up too late sketching. But there's something else there too. Something that feels new and unsettled, though you're not quite ready to name it.
Your phone buzzes again.
Beckett: Where are you? Class starts in 5.
You grab your bag and rush out.
The lecture hall is packed by the time you arrive. You spot Beckett in the third row, his broad shoulders making him easy to find even in a crowd. He's leaning back in his seat, waving you over with that casual grin that's become as familiar as your own reflection.
Sloane is already sitting next to him, her vintage band tee catching the fluorescent lights. She grins when she sees you.
"Finally," she says as you slide into the seat Beckett saved. "I was about to send a search party."
"Studio time ran late," you say, settling in. "I lost track of time."
Beckett leans over, lowering his voice. "You're going to burn yourself out before the showcase even happens."
"I'm fine," you say, but he gives you that look. The one that says he doesn't believe you but also isn't going to push it right now.
"We're grabbing lunch after this," Sloane announces, pulling out her notebook. "All of us. Including you, Beckett. No football excuses."
"I have practice at one," Beckett says.
"Then we'll be quick," Sloane replies, not giving him a choice.
You smile, grateful for Sloane's ability to just steamroll everyone into doing what she wants. She's been your best friend since freshman year, and she's somehow managed to adopt Beckett into your duo without either of you really noticing it happening.
The lecture begins, and the professor launches into a discussion about composition and negative space. You take notes halfheartedly, your mind drifting. Your sketchbook sits open on your lap, and you find yourself drawing the same shape over and over. A figure reaching toward something just out of frame.
Beckett glances over at your drawing and smirks but doesn't say anything.
The cafeteria is bustling with the usual lunch chaos. You find a table by the windows, and within minutes, your usual crew has assembled. Marcus and two other football players, Sloane, Beckett, and you. The conversation flows easily, jumping from campus gossip to upcoming exams to the rivalry game that everyone seems to be talking about.
"So the scouts are definitely coming?" you ask Beckett, watching him steal fries off Marcus's plate.
"That's what Coach says," Beckett replies. "No pressure or anything."
"You'll crush it," Marcus says, clapping him on the back. "You always do."
Beckett shrugs, but you catch the tension in his shoulders. The rivalry game is a big deal. It's been a big deal since freshman year. But this year feels different somehow. More weighted with significance.
"What about you?" one of the other players, Tyler, asks, turning to you. "When's your big showcase?"
"Two weeks," you say. "Same time as the game, actually. So I'll have to split my time between watching Beckett play and pretending my art doesn't look like a toddler did it."
"Your art is incredible," Sloane says, kicking you under the table. "Stop doing that self-deprecating thing."
"I'm not self-deprecating. I'm realistic."
Beckett reaches across and taps your arm. "You're brilliant. Accept the compliment."
"Says the guy who's going to get scouted for being brilliant," you counter.
"That's different," he says.
"How?"
"Because I believe in myself about football. You need to start believing in yourself about your art."
The table dissolves into supportive comments, and you feel that familiar warmth of being surrounded by people who care. This is your people. This is your life right now, and it's good. Solid. Safe.
After lunch, Beckett walks with you back toward the art building. His next class is in the opposite direction, but he insists anyway, and you don't argue. The campus is beautiful in the early fall sunlight, leaves just starting to turn gold.
"You're really stressed about the showcase," he says, not as a question.
"I'm not stressed," you say. "I'm just... I want it to be good. I want people to actually feel something when they look at it, you know? Not just think 'oh, pretty colors.'"
"They will," Beckett says with absolute certainty. "You always make people feel things."
You reach the art building, and you pause at the entrance, turning to face him. "You're going to be great at the game too, by the way. In case I didn't make that clear."
He grins. "I know. But it's nice to hear you say it."
"Cocky," you say, but you're smiling.
"Confident," he corrects. "There's a difference."
He bumps his shoulder against yours, a gesture so familiar it barely registers. But then you notice the way his eyes linger on yours for just a beat too long. The way his hand stays near your arm like he's thinking about touching it.
Your breath catches slightly, and he pulls back, clearing his throat.
"See you at dinner?" he asks, his voice casual again.
"Yeah. Seven at the usual place?"
"Perfect," he says. "I'll text the group."
You watch him jog toward the athletic center, his stride confident and easy. For a moment, you feel something twist in your chest. Something you immediately push away. You're being ridiculous. This is Beckett. Your best friend. The guy you've known since you were kids.
Nothing is different.
But as you walk into the art studio, you can't quite convince yourself that's true.
That evening, the usual dinner spot is packed. It's a small Italian place near campus that's been your group's go-to since freshman year. You arrive first, claiming the large table in the corner. Sloane shows up next, already complaining about her chemistry exam. Then Marcus and Tyler. Beckett arrives last, his hair still damp from practice, his hoodie pulled over his head.
He slides into the seat next to you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch.
"Rough practice?" you ask.
"The usual," he says, reaching for the breadbasket. "Coach is pushing hard because of the rivalry game."
"You nervous?" Sloane asks from across the table.
"Should I be?" Beckett replies, but you hear the slight tension in his voice.
"No," you say firmly. "You're going to be amazing."
Marcus raises an eyebrow. "Someone's supportive tonight."
"Shut up," you say, but you're smiling.
The dinner continues, conversations weaving between different topics. Sloane is working on her podcast and needs guests. Tyler's talking about a girl he met at a party last weekend. Marcus is complaining about his organic chemistry class. And you and Beckett fall into your usual rhythm of teasing each other, referencing inside jokes, finishing each other's sentences.
At one point, Beckett steals a piece of your garlic bread, and you pretend to be offended while secretly loving the easy familiarity of it. This is normal. This is what you do. This is what your friendship is built on.
When dinner ends and everyone starts to leave, Beckett walks you back to your dorm. It's what he always does, and it feels as natural as breathing.
"You should get some real sleep tonight," he says as you reach your building. "Not studio sleep. Actual sleep in your actual bed."
"I'll try," you say.
"Don't try. Do it," he says, and then he pulls you into a hug. It's quick and easy, nothing unusual about it. But you're hyperaware of the warmth of his chest against yours, the way his hand rests on your back, the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with laundry detergent.
When he releases you, you step back, suddenly needing the distance.
"Good night, Maren," he says.
"Good night, Beck," you reply.
He watches you go inside, and you turn back to see him still standing there, hands in his pockets, a small smile on his face. He waves, and you wave back before disappearing into the dorm.
In the elevator, you lean against the wall and try to steady your breathing. You're being ridiculous. This is Beckett. Your best friend. Nothing is changing.
Nothing is different.
But as you lie in bed later that night, staring at the ceiling, you can't shake the feeling that something in the universe has shifted slightly. Something small but significant, like a domino that's been tipped but hasn't quite finished falling.
You pick up your phone and open the group chat.
You: good luck at practice tomorrow. not that you need it.
Beckett: thanks. see you at lunch?
You: always.
You set the phone down and close your eyes, wondering when exactly your best friend started making your heart race. Wondering if he's noticed that something has changed.
And wondering, despite yourself, what happens if he has.