Somewhere around 3 a.m., the crowd starts to thin.
I find myself on the back deck, alone except for the sound of water lapping the shore below.
I lean on the railing, feeling the ache in my legs, the bruises blossoming on my hip and ribs, the sunburn I definitely picked up from the stadium lights.
Behind me, a door slides open. I know it’s Darius before I even turn.
He’s in jeans and a black t-shirt, hair still wet from the shower, the tattoo on his forearm sharp against his skin. He doesn’t say anything. Just comes and stands next to me, hands flat on the railing.
We stare at the water for a long time. The moon is a thumbnail. The air is cold, but not cold enough to matter.
He says, “You okay?”
I nod. “Are you?”
He shrugs. “Better than I’ve been in a while.”
Another silence. Then he turns, eyes on me, like he’s waiting for permission to speak.
I give it. “What is it?”
He takes a breath. “This is probably the wrong time. But I need to say it.”
I brace for a joke, or maybe a sappy confession. But he surprises me.
“I’m glad you’re still here,” he says, voice steady. “Not just on the team. Here.”
I feel something in my chest snap, then settle back into place. “Yeah,” I say, voice a little rough. “Me too.”
He stands closer. The only light is the string of bulbs overhead, painting us both in soft yellow. He doesn’t touch me, but the air is different now, charged.
I clear my throat. “Come home with me?”
He doesn’t even hesitate.
“Yeah,” he says.
And just like that, the noise of the world drops away.
For once, it’s just the two of us, and the night, and everything that comes next.
———
Darius
The cab smells like bleach and wet wool, which is how you know it’s legit.
It’s two in the goddamn morning and the city is running on fumes, the streets glossy with rain and every traffic light doubling itself on the slick black glass of asphalt.
We’re crammed in the back seat, thigh to thigh, my jacket still wet from the party, his hair standing up like he’s been electrocuted. Ash keeps sliding down in the seat, knees up against the partition, hands fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie.
I can tell he’s vibrating with the aftershocks of the win, or maybe just the nearness.
The driver doesn’t say shit, just keeps his eyes locked on the road, windshield wipers thrashing in time with the low thump of music from the speakers.
The back seat is too small for us, but I don’t want to be anywhere else.
Ash looks at me, the blue and red of a distant Walgreens sign painting a bruise across his face. “You good?” he whispers.
