For a moment, I held onto the hope that Bodie St. James was on his way home, and that he'd somehow march straight past us and out the sliding glass doors. Worst case scenario, he'd stop just long enough to wish me good luck.

But when his eyes landed on me, I knew at once that he'd come down expecting to find us here, like this.

Me, helpless.

My best friend, in the fetal position.

I folded my arms over my chest and chewed on one of my cheeks, hoping I looked more like I was done with Hanna's shit than two seconds from tears.

"Hey," Bodie said.

"Hey," I croaked. "She's just—just taking a little break."

Bodie nodded, and I had the sense that he could see right through me.

I stepped back and watched as he crouched beside Hanna.

"Hey, champ," he whispered. "You ready to go home?"

Oh, don't do that, I felt like saying. I'm trying to hate you.

Hanna grunted out what sounded like a reluctant concession. As Bodie stood again, he scooped her up, one hand tucked behind her knees and the other braced on her back. Hanna's arms went immediately around his neck, like a weary princess holding tight to her savior.

I wondered if Bodie was strong enough to carry me like that. It was a stupid thought. I don't know why it came to me.

"Lead the way," Bodie told me.

"I don't have my car," I said. "I could call an Uber, though."

"How far do you live?"

"Four blocks."

"We can walk."

"Are you sure?"

The corners of Bodie's lips twitched like he was charmed that I'd even ask if he, a Division I athlete with biceps wider than my neck, could handle my very small, very floppy-limbed friend.

"I'm sure," he said with a gentle nod of his head.

I chewed on the inside of my cheek for a moment.

"Okay," I finally said. "Um. Let's go."

The four blocks between Andre's place and ours had never felt so long. It didn't help that it was one o'clock in the morning, so there was nobody else walking around and no traffic to speak of. We were submerged in eerie silence, save for our footsteps, our breathing, and Hanna's gentle snores.

Every thirty seconds, I looked over my shoulder to check on Bodie.

He was fine, of course. He didn't even break a sweat.

I don't know why I kept checking.

It wasn't until I tugged my keys out of my pocket and jammed them in the door of our building that the embarrassment hit. Our apartment building was the antithesis of The Palazzo. I wondered if Bodie noticed it all—the wrought iron bars on the first-floor windows, the stained carpets, the creaky doors and lingering stench of rubber that billowed over from the gas station next door. I'd never been ashamed of where Hanna and I lived, but as I led Bodie up the stairs to the second floor, a pernicious little voice in my head whispered that I should be.

"We're on the second floor," I said, wiping my palms on the front of my leggings. "First door on the left."

"Right behind you," he said.

I marched up the stairs, telling myself that Bodie would be too focused on his own feet—and too much a gentleman—to stare at my ass, even if it was in his face.

At the top of the stairs, I unlocked our apartment door and slipped inside, smacking on the lights in the kitchen and cringing at the mess on the counters before I pushed open the bedroom door.

"Her bed's in here, on the right," I directed.

And it was a mess. I gathered what I could—a pair of jeans turned inside out, a bag of Hot Cheetos, an enormous textbook entitled Introduction to Abstract Expressionism—and tossed them onto my desk, knocking over a stack of poorly folded laundry I'd been meaning to put away for the better part of a week.

A pair of my underwear (seamless beige hiphuggers) fluttered to the floor.

I grumbled out a frantic curse and kicked them under my bed.

When I turned back around, Bodie was standing in the doorway.

If he'd seen me punt my underwear, he didn't comment on it. He was reverently silent as he shuffled into the room (sideways, so as not to smack Hanna's head or feet on the doorframe) and deposited her gently on her mattress. The box springs creaked as she sprawled flat on her back. I stepped up to the edge of the bed and tugged her onto her side.

Beside me, Bodie flexed his wrists back and forth.

It was the only outward indication he gave that carrying Hanna four blocks had taken even the smallest measure of physical exertion.

I huffed and tucked my hair behind my ears.

Bodie St. James was in my bedroom. What a wild turn of events.

Andre was the only boy who Hanna and I had ever had over at the apartment, and he'd never seemed to fill the space up quite like Bodie did. It was like standing next to a bonfire—the warmth of him was nice, but, if we were really pressing the metaphor, I felt like just brushing up against him by accident might give me third-degree burns.

I glanced up at him. My eyes traced the hard line of his eyebrows and the slope of his nose. I stopped myself before I got to his mouth, which was lucky, because he chose that moment to turn to me for further direction.

I nodded towards the door wordlessly.

Together, we migrated back out into the kitchen.

Hanna might've been passed out, but her snoring reminded me that I wasn't totally alone with Bodie—and I needed that kind of hands-off chaperoning, so I left the bedroom door propped open behind us.

I didn't trust myself not to say something stupid.

When I turned, Bodie was examining the gallery of Post-It notes taped up to the fridge—little, scribbled messages Hanna and I left for each other when something in the apartment needed fixing or replacing or if one of us need words of encouragement.

This somehow felt more intimate than the underwear on my floor.

"So," I blurted, a bit too loudly.

Bodie spun on his heel, the tips of his ears pink.

I pulled the sleeves of Andre's hoodie down over my hands and shoved them under my armpits.

"Thank you. For carrying her."

"Of course," Bodie said.

A moment of silence followed. Neither of us seemed to know what to say.

"I'm sorry," Bodie finally blurted, reaching one arm across his chest to scratch the opposite shoulder, "for today. After the game. I thought you were mocking me. I didn't realize that you were just being nice until I was in the locker room."

The last thing I'd been expecting was an apology.

"It's okay," I mumbled, instinctively.

"No, it's not," Bodie said, more sure of himself now. "You work with the Daily. I don't know why I expected—" he broke off. Shook his head. "I just—sometimes I hate that you're a journalist. But that's no excuse to act like a dick. I'll get you a new field pass. I can bring it to class on Monday. Or I can give it to Shepherd, if you—if you're more comfortable with that."

For someone whose life I'd inadvertently flipped upside down, Bodie was being remarkably empathetic.

It didn't feel like he hated me.

At least, not the way that whoever'd keyed my car hated me.

But someone he was friends with had done it. Someone he laughed with in the locker room, and went to Chipotle for lunch with, and sat with on flights to out-of-state games had seen me park my car and decided to take the time to carve out four sharp letters across the hood.

Did Bodie know? Had Fogarty bragged about it at the after party?

"I can get the field pass myself," I said. "You can go home. Thanks."

But Bodie lingered. He looked unsettled.

"Are we good?" he asked.

I'd forgotten he was like this—constantly in need of reassurance, in need of words of affirmation. For some reason, it stung. I felt like he was asking if I was a problem he'd solved. A chapter he could close.

"Yeah," I deadpanned. "We're good."

He still didn't look satisfied.

But he nodded and said, "Goodnight, Laurel."

He pulled the door shut behind himself on his way out. It felt final.

I stood in the middle of the kitchen for a moment, absorbing the silence, before the tears came.

_________________

Author's Note: It is Wednesday, my dudes.

Several of you predicted that Bodie would see Laurel's car this chapter and we'd get some drama from that, but I'm holding onto that card for a bit longer. I got plans. On the topic of your predictions: I want to thank you for sharing what you wanted/needed to see happen. My original outline was written so long ago that I started to panic and wonder if the story I was putting on the page actually touched on all the points I planned. It does. Bless up.

Last but not least, a writing update: I'm at the 97k mark. By the end of next week, I'll have completed my drafts of the remaining chapters. Does NOT feel real.

Your friendly author,

Kate