“You—” my mom started, but the doorbell rang, cutting her off. She glanced toward the hallway. “Who could that be so early in the morning?”
“Not sure,” I replied, staring down at the plate of pancakes she’d set in front of me. They smelled good. They looked good. I didn’t want them.
“Well, go see,” she said distractedly, already pouring fresh batter onto the griddle.
I nodded and pushed the plate away, standing up slowly. My body moved on autopilot while my mind stayed behind, tangled in what she’d said. Was she right? Of course she was. As I walked toward the front door, memories surfaced uninvited. Before everything had changed. Before the first time I found Holden on the bathroom floor. I had been younger then—still careful, but braver than I was now. More willing. More open. I had been fearless. Maybe not Cherry-level fearless, but close enough.
I’d had more friends. I went out. I drank. I laughed. I dated. I danced. I kissed. I stayed out past curfew. I lived. Andsomewhere along the way, without realizing it, I had stopped. And then the drugs happened. Instead of fearless, I became fearful. Fearful of alcohol. Fearful of weed. Fearful of fun. Fearful of food. Fearful of life. But I thought that was what was supposed to happen. The natural progression for someone like me. For someone who had seen the consequences up close, who had lived inside the aftermath instead of just hearing stories about it.
With no fun, there was no risk. And with no risk, there was no danger. That was the logic I’d built my life around. But as my thoughts drifted back to last night, to the wind tearing through my hair as I leaned out of the sunroof beside Cherry, to the sound of laughter mixing with music as two boys drove us through dark streets, I felt something unfamiliar stir inside me. It had been a tiny taste of risk. And maybe… maybe I missed risk. Without risk, what was life? Boring, obviously.
Safe, maybe. But were the benefits of boring worth it? I wasn’t sure anymore. I sighed as I reached the front door, not bothering with the peephole before pulling it open. I already had my guesses about who it might be. Kids with wagons full of chocolate bars. Girls selling cookies. Young men holding Bibles and polite smiles. But it wasn’t any of them. It was Austin. I knew something was wrong immediately.
He was wearing the same clothes he’d had on the night before, now wrinkled and careless. Dark shadows sat beneath his eyes, and his hair was a mess in a way I had never seen before—like he’d run his hands through it too many times and never stopped to fix it. He had been pacing the length of my porch, fingers buried in his hair, restless. The moment he saw me, he froze. Then he crossed the distance between us quickly, his handslifting in front of him like he expected me to shut the door in his face.
“Blair,” he said, the word tumbling out fast. And I frowned. Not because he was here. But because he hadn’t called me Yellow.
“Is everything okay?” I asked, my face pinching in confusion.
Austin’s mouth opened slightly, like he was about to answer, but then he stopped himself. He closed it again and shook his head. His eyes kept flicking over my shoulder, like he was expecting Holden to appear again. He was watching me just as closely as I was watching him. Measuring. Waiting. It made my stomach tighten. And the thing was, I had no idea what was happening, which said a lot, because I was usually good at reading people.
“Austin?” I said his name again, easing the door open a little wider. “Good morning?” The words came out sounding more like a question than a greeting.
“I—uh.” His gaze flicked past me, into my house, like he was looking for something. Or someone. I had no idea which. “Is everything okay?”
My confusion deepened as he repeated the exact question I’d just asked him. “What?” I paused, giving him space to explain himself. He didn’t. “Everything’s fine,” I said slowly. “But I’m more concerned about whether you’re okay. And why you’re standing on my porch at eight in the morning looking like you haven’t slept.”
“Right,” Austin nodded, clearing his throat. For the first time since I’d met him, the air between us felt… off. Uneven. Awkward in a way that didn’t belong to either of us. “No,” he said finally, forcing a small smile. “I’m good, Yellow.”
But the way he said it told me he wasn’t, and even through the awkward energy hanging between us, the fact that he’d called me Yellow again was enough to soften the knot in my stomach. Not completely, but enough.
“So…” I shrugged, letting a small laugh slip out. “Why are you here?”
“Oh.” Austin answered a little too quickly. “I was wondering if you’d want to get breakfast. With me.” I blinked. Once. Then again. Something in my chest told me he hadn’t come all this way just to ask me to breakfast, and I paused, trying to understand where that feeling was coming from. “Please?” he added, and for the first time since I’d opened the door, he smiled.
And just like that, it felt harder to say no. “Yeah,” I nodded. “Okay. Just… let me tell my mom.” I stepped back through the still-open doorway, leaning my head into the quiet house. “Mom, I’m going out.”
“Who’s at the door, Blair?” her voice called out, followed immediately by the sound of her footsteps. She appeared in the entryway seconds later.
“Oh,” she said, catching sight of Austin. “It’stheboy.” She lifted her brows at the two of us, and I fought the urge to disappear into the floor.
“Mom,” I muttered, attempting a stern glare that absolutely did not land. She laughed instead.
“Good morning, Jane,” Austin said easily, his confidence snapping back into place like it had never left. “Is it alright if I take your beautiful daughter out to get some food?”
My mom tilted her head, leaning back against the wall as she crossed her arms. “Well, of course it is.”
“Great,” I said quickly, too quickly, already stepping outside. “Goodbye.” I was fully committed to not looking back when Austin spoke again.
“Yellow?”
“Yep?” I pressed my lips together, desperate to escape the knowing look I was certain my mom was giving us.
“Are you forgetting something?” he asked, a low chuckle slipping from his chest.
“What? No.”
“You sure?” His smile turned unmistakably amused as his gaze dropped downward. I followed it. Straight to my feet. The fuzzy pink slippers I was still wearing stared back at me. “I mean, if that’s what you want to wear, Yellow, I’m fine with it,” he continued, and I fought the rising realization of my own stupidity. “They’re cute. Like you.”
