The alarm detonated.
Not rang—detonated.
Kendal jolted upright with a sharp gasp,
heart slamming against her ribs
as if it had been running before she even woke up.
"What—?!"
She fumbled for her phone,
nearly dropping it as the screen lit up.
7:32 AM.
Her eyes widened.
"…No. No no no no—!"
She shot out of bed so fast the blanket
tangled around her legs,
nearly sending her face-first into the floor.
She barely caught herself on the edge of her desk,
the chair screeching back in protest.
"I'm late. I'm late."
Her brain kicked into overdrive.
Bathroom.
Outfit.
Hair—just fix it later.
Bag—where's my bag?!
She moved on instinct, hands flying,
motions sloppy but fast. Toothbrush in her mouth,
one sock on, one sock missing. She yanked open drawers
she'd already opened, cursed under her breath,
then forgot what she was even looking for.
Her pill bottle sat untouched on her nightstand.
(Adderall)
She didn't see it.
Her mind was already three steps ahead, spiraling.
Flyers. I need the flyers.
She bolted back into her room,
grabbed the thick stack from her desk—
—and immediately dropped them.
Paper exploded across the floor like confetti.
"…I'm going to scream."
She crouched down, hands shaking as she scooped them
up in a frantic mess, stuffing them back into a
pile without counting, without checking.
In her rush, one flyer—thicker, more detailed,
colored more carefully than the rest—slipped into the stack.
The special one.
She didn't notice.
She stood, clutching the papers
to her chest, breath uneven.
"Okay. Okay. It's fine. I'm fine."
She wasn't.
She grabbed her bag,
nearly forgot her shoes,
doubled back,
then sprinted out the door.
Downstairs, the house felt too
quiet for how loud her thoughts were.
The front door shut behind her
with a sharp click.
The car was already waiting.
She slid into the back seat,
smoothing her skirt with one hand
while keeping a death grip on the flyers with the other.
The chauffeur glanced at her through the mirror.
"Good morning, Miss Swann. Did you sleep well?"
"Yes," she replied immediately.
Then, a beat later—
"…Actually I'm running late.
Could you please step on it?"
Not sharp.
Not bratty.
Just… anxious.
The chauffeur noticed.
Her posture was tense, eyes unfocused,
leg bouncing slightly despite her trying
to keep still. Less prickles. More worry.
"Of course," he said calmly,
pulling away from the curb without another word.
The city blurred past the window
as the car picked up speed.
Kendal leaned back, exhaling slowly, thoughts still racing.
Did I forget anything?
Her fingers tightened around the stack of flyers.
The school came into view far too quickly.
And with it—
A day she had no idea would change everything.
Meanwhile, Hunter sat in class,
pencil moving almost on autopilot as
the teacher droned on at the front of the room.
Numbers, notes, formulas—none of it really sticking.
Something was missing.
He glanced to the side.
Kendal's seat was empty.
No perfectly straight posture. No immaculate outfit. No sharp presence cutting through the air like a blade.
For a moment, he didn't register it.
Then it hit him.
She's not here.
The class felt… lighter.
The room buzzed more than usual—students whispering freely,
a few laughs slipping past the teacher's attention.
It wasn't as stiff. Not as tense.
A couple people even seemed happier.
And somehow, that made Hunter uncomfortable.
First period was always rigid.
Always tight, like everyone was bracing for impact.
But today?
It felt flat.
Hollow.
Hunter tapped his pencil once against the desk,
eyes drifting back to the empty seat.
Weird…
He tried to focus again,
eyes back on the page, when—
Knock.
Soft. Hesitant.
The door creaked open.
And there she was.
Kendal peeked her head into the classroom,
fingers gripping the edge of the door like
she wasn't sure she was allowed to exist there yet.
Her shoulders were drawn in slightly,
posture still perfect—but restrained,
like she was holding herself together with sheer force of habit.
The prickly tiger had dulled her claws.
To everyone else, it was just Kendal showing up late.
A few students glanced over,
then went back to what they were doing.
But Hunter saw it.
The way her eyes didn't immediately scan the room with confidence. The way she hesitated before stepping fully inside. The faint stiffness in her movements,
like she was bracing for something that never came.
She looked… smaller.
Almost shy.
And for just a split second—
Cute. Like a lost puppy trying not to look lost.
Hunter's pencil paused mid-sentence.
She looks different today.
The thought came uninvited,
settling heavy in his chest.
She walked in, posture snapping back
into place like muscle memory kicking in.
Chin lifted. Shoulders squared.
The Kendal everyone knew reassembling herself piece by piece.
But the cracks were still there.
Only Hunter noticed.
He watched her take her seat,
watched the way she avoided looking around too much,
watched the way her hands lingered on
her desk a little longer than necessary.
His grip on the pencil tightened.
"I hope she's doing okay,"
he murmured under his breath,
more to himself than anyone else.
Then he looked back down at his textbook.
Time slipped by in a way Kendal
didn't notice until it was already gone.
No debates.
No sharp remarks snapping through the air.
No verbal sparring matches
she could win just to feel something.
Just class.
She sat straighter than usual,
pencil moving in neat, controlled strokes.
Her eyes stayed forward. Too forward.
Like she was afraid that if she looked anywhere else,
she'd lose whatever thin thread of composure she was holding onto.
The room felt… lighter.
Students whispered more freely.
Someone laughed without checking
their surroundings first.
Even the air felt less stiff.
People noticed Kendal's silence.
Not enough to care.
Just enough to feel relieved.
When the bell rang, chairs scraped back
in a familiar chorus.
Backpacks were slung over shoulders.
The room emptied quickly, like it always did.
Kendal stood immediately.
Quick.
Proper.
Controlled.
She gathered her things with mechanical precision,
fingers tightening around a
stack of neatly aligned papers.
Flyers.
Hunter noticed them right away.
They were too perfect to ignore.
As she stepped into the aisle,
he found himself watching her longer than necessary.
Is that why she's acting strange?
Honestly… she's been acting strange all week.
The thought barely had time to settle before—
"WATCH OUT!"
Smack.
An eraser slammed into
Hunter's face with a dull thud.
For half a second,
the classroom froze.
Then—
Laughter.
Cut.
"And that's how I got hit
in the face with this eraser."
Hunter held it up between two fingers,
like proof of a crime.
"hahaha!"
Kelvin leaned back against the locker, stopping his laughter,
a new grin already forming.
"Damn, bro. Even thinking
about her fucks you up huh."
Hunter sighed.
"Chill bro, it's just a coincidence."
"Rrrright"
Kelvin's eyes drifted past him.
The grin vanished.
His expression hardened.
"Speak of the devil."
Hunter turned.
Kendal stood there.
For once, she wasn't commanding the space.
She hovered near the edge of it,
posture still perfect—but something in her hesitation felt… off.
She adjusted her grip on the stack of flyers.
Tighter.
"Hey, Kendal," Hunter said, easy, familiar.
"Did you need something?"
That smile—
It landed harder than she expected.
Warm.
Unassuming.
Genuine.
Her chest tightened.
Heat crept up her neck before she could stop it.
She looked away quickly and extended one flyer toward him.
Not just any flyer.
That one.
The one she spent hours perfecting.
Hunter took it, eyes scanning the page.
"…Whoa," he said softly. "Did you make this?"
"…Well, yes," she replied,
cheeks tinting pink despite herself.
"I'm throwing a birthday party at my house."
She shifted her weight.
"These are… welcome invitations.
I'd like it if you came."
A pause.
Then, almost reluctantly—
"Here. You too."
She handed one to Kelvin.
He stared at it like it was cursed.
"…I'd love to," Kelvin said slowly,
"but according to this flyer,
the party's after school—and I've got work."
Her shoulders dipped.
Just a fraction.
"Oh." She nodded quickly.
"Well—that's okay."
Her eyes flicked back to Hunter.
"I… hope to see you there."
"I'll be there," Hunter said immediately.
"Thanks for the invite."
Something sparked.
Not fear.
Not discomfort.
Excitement.
Her spine tingled.
"O-Okay then," she said quickly,
a smile breaking free.
"I'll see you there."
As she walked away, Kelvin leaned closer.
"Something's off."
Hunter didn't answer.
but agreed, she seemed unusually tense.
Kendal moved through the halls afterward,
offering flyers to anyone within reach.
Some declined.
Many mumbled excuses.
Some didn't even look at her.
She barely registered it.
All she could think about was maybe.
A few hours later,
Hunter stared down at his flyer again.
It was different.
More care. More detail. More her.
He smiled before he realized he was doing it.
Walking too distracted to watch where he was going,
he collided with someone.
"Hey—oh shit, sorry Hunter.
Didn't recognize you."
"It's fine," Hunter said.
"I was just reading this."
The guy leaned in. "Wait—no way. You got one too?"
"Yeah."
"Can I see it?"
Hunter handed it over.
A second passed.
Then—
"WHAT THE FUCK?!"
The guy crumbled the flyer and hurled it out the window,
laughter spilling out as it tumbled onto the walkway below.
"You actually wanted that?" he snorted.
"Relax, bro. I was doing you a favor."
Hunter didn't respond.
He just sighed… and walked away.
Kendal walked down the hallway,
walking towards the walkway
when she saw Hunter sprint past her in a blur.
She frowned.
But didn't stop him.
Turning the corner,
her breath caught.
Flyers.
Ripped. Torn. Crumpled.
Some tagged with careless scribbles.
Her steps slowed.
Then stopped.
On the walkway,
something rolled toward her foot.
A balled-up piece of paper,
kicked around by passing shoes.
She picked it up.
Unfolded it.
Her chest tightened.
The special one.
The one she gave Hunter.
She smoothed it carefully,
folded it once, and tucked it into her bag.
"I'm going to keep this one," she murmured.
"I guess he's not coming."
She smiled.
And walked away.
Kendal stepped into the back
seat of the chauffeur's car without looking back.
The door closed with a soft,
final thump.
Leather seats. Faint vanilla scent.
The low hum of an engine already idling—ready
to move on, whether she was or not.
She placed her bag carefully beside her,
fingers brushing against the folded paper
inside before she caught herself and pulled her hand away.
The window slid up.
Outside—
Hunter was still there.
Moving too fast.
Too frantic.
He paced the walkway, eyes scanning the ground,
hands pushing aside loose paper as
if searching for something fragile.
Something specific.
"C'mon… c'mon…"
His heart sank the more he saw.
Flyers everywhere.
Kendal's flyers.
Some crumpled into tight balls,
kicked flat by careless shoes.
Some torn clean in half,
edges jagged like they were ripped with intent.
Others scribbled over—ink bleeding through careful designs,
words crossed out,
replaced with mockery.
One corner of the walkway still
smoldered faintly, ash curling
around the remains of a burned page.
Her work.
Hours of it.
Gone.
Hunter stopped.
He bent down,
picked one up,
smoothed it out
instinctively—then froze.
This one wasn't it.
He checked another.
Then another.
Where is it…?
Where's the one she gave me?
Behind the glass, Kendal sat still.
The car began
But Hunter stayed.
Longer than he should've.
He crouched down on the concrete,
ignoring the looks, the passing shoes,
the murmured "what's he doing?" as he
gathered whatever he could—scraps, corners,
half-burnt edges, ink-smudged pieces
that barely qualified as paper anymore.
Each one felt heavier than it should've been.
Not because it was paper.
Because it wasn't.
It was time. Effort. Care.
And he'd lost it.
By the time he looked up,
the school parking lot was nearly empty.
That's when he heard it.
A familiar, impatient honk.
Hunter sighed.
"…Shit."
He stuffed the ruined pieces into his bag anyway,
like maybe—somehow—they could still matter,
then jogged toward the car before his dad
decided to leave without him out of spite.
Inside the car, the silence sat thick.
Hunter slumped into the passenger seat,
shoulders low, jaw tight.
Roger glanced over once.
Then again.
Then smirked.
"Damn, Hunter,"
Roger said casually,
starting the engine.
"Did you pass gas or something?
Your attitude reeks."
Hunter groaned.
"Not now, Dad.
I'm really not in the mood."
Roger raised an eyebrow.
"Oh? Who pissed in your
cereal this morning?"
"Dad."
"No, seriously,"
Roger shot back immediately.
"Who do I have to beat up? Point 'em out.
I'll warm up my knuckles at the next red light."
Hunter exhaled through his nose.
He stared out the window for
a second longer than necessary… then caved.
"…The girl I like gave me
something special," he muttered.
Roger's grin softened instantly.
"Oh?" he said, slower now.
"Now we're talkin'."
"And some jackass—"
Roger's eyes flicked over, sharp.
"—some guy," Hunter corrected,
"crumbled it up and threw it out the window."
Roger frowned. "Threw what out?"
"The flyer," Hunter said,
turning in his seat now, words spilling.
"She made me a birthday invitation.
Like—made it. By hand.
And I could tell she put
a lot of thought into it."
Roger nodded along at first.
Then Hunter kept going.
"I mean the color choice alone told me a lot,"
Hunter continued, gesturing wildly.
"The hue and saturation were muted but still warm,
so that means she probably worked on it
late at night—like when the lighting
isn't great—but still wanted it to feel inviting.
And the lettering was cursive mixed with bold,
which means she wanted it to feel personal but also confident,
which implies this was probably the
first one she made before realizing
it'd take too long to recreate,
so statistically speaking—"
Roger's eyes glazed over.
Like… fully white.
"…Hunter," Roger said gently,
raising a hand.
"I love you.
But my brain just blue-screened."
Hunter blinked. "…Oh."
Roger chuckled, shaking his head.
"Okay. So. Important flyer.
Girl put her heart into it.
Some idiot trashed it."
"…Yeah."
Roger thought for a moment.
Then smiled.
"Well," he said,
easing the car down the street,
"that flyer did its job."
Hunter frowned. "What?"
"It got you invited,"
Roger said simply.
"And if you show up to her
party—even without the paper—that'll
matter way more than some crumpled art project."
Hunter's shoulders loosened,
just a little.
Roger glanced at him.
"Trust me. If you show up,
she'll understand."
Hunter looked down at his bag.
At the torn pieces inside.
"…You think so?"
Roger smirked.
"Kid, if she spent hours on a flyer for you?"
He paused.
"You showing up might mean
more than you'll ever realize."
And for the first time since the hallway—
Hunter smiled.
Just barely.
Hunter pulled into his driveway not long after.
The moment the car stopped, he bolted.
He was halfway up the stairs before
Roger even finished turning off the engine.
Roger blinked. "…Wow."
He leaned back in his seat, chuckling. "Yep. Kendal's got a lock on him."
Upstairs, Hunter moved like he was on a mission.
Clothes hit the floor. Shoes kicked aside.
Shower.
Hot water. Too hot. Didn't care.
He scrubbed everything—hair, arms,
neck—like he was trying to wash off the week,
not just the sweat. He stood there longer than necessary,
letting the water steady him.
Afterward—
Deodorant. Cologne. Too much? Wipe some off. Hair.
He spent twenty minutes on his hair alone.
Tilt. Adjust. Redo. Start over.
"I don't know what to wear,"
he muttered to his reflection.
Casual—but not lazy. Clean—but not try-hard.
Time slipped.
Minutes turned into chunks. Chunks into hours.
By the time he checked his phone—
2 hours had passed.
He froze.
"…Shit."
One hour and fifteen minutes late.
Hunter grabbed the first outfit that felt right,
threw it on, and rushed downstairs,
heart pounding—not from nerves.
From regret.
He opened the door—
And nearly collided with Kelvin.
Kelvin blinked. Looked him up and down.
"You good?" Kelvin asked.
Hunter exhaled sharply,
running a hand through his hair.
"Yeah. Yeah—sorry. I'm just—"
"In a rush," Kelvin finished,
eyeing him. "Yeah. I can tell."
They stood there for a beat.
Hunter past Kelvin.
Then Looked at Kelvin.
"…I'm going to Kendal's," he said.
Kelvin didn't react right away.
Just nodded slowly.
"So," Kelvin said calmly.
"You really going, you could of lied, but I know
you wouldn't think to do anything like that."
Hunter nodded. "Yeah."
Kelvin shifted his weight,
leaning back slightly.
Not confrontational. Just… grounding.
"Alright," he said. "Let me say my piece."
Hunter met his eyes. "Lay it on me."
Kelvin spoke evenly.
"From my perspective? This whole thing is messy.
Kendal doesn't treat people well.
She talks down. She pushes others away.
And every time you get close,
something goes sideways."
Hunter swallowed. "That's fair."
"And now you're late," Kelvin continued.
"To a party where you might be the only one who shows up.
That puts pressure on you whether you want it or not."
Hunter shook his head.
"I'm not doing it because I feel forced."
Kelvin raised an eyebrow. "Then why?"
Hunter looked down for a moment.
"Because she worked really hard on those flyers.
And even if nobody else comes…
I don't want her to think nobody cared."
Kelvin exhaled quietly.
"…You're a good dude," he admitted.
"But sometimes to your own detriment."
Hunter cracked a small smile.
"So I've been told."
Kelvin continued, softer now.
"And I know you think she's cute.
But man—there are millions of women out there
looking for someone like you.
I don't get why she's your type."
Hunter chuckled. "You're not supposed to."
Kelvin smirked. "Fair."
A pause.
Then—
"We'll agree to disagree," Kelvin said.
Hunter nodded. "Yeah."
"I'm not going," Kelvin added.
"Not out of spite. Just not my scene."
"I didn't expect you to," Hunter replied.
Kelvin stepped aside, giving him room.
"But if anything goes wrong—anything—hit me up."
Hunter smiled. "Will do."
Kelvin gave him a two-finger salute and started walking off.
Hunter watched him for a second.
Than continued walking to Kendal's house.
Meanwhile—
Kendal paced the living room.
Back and forth. Heel to carpet. Carpet to heel.
Her steps traced the same invisible
line between the couch and the coffee table,
like she was afraid that if she stopped moving,
the silence would finally catch up to her.
The decorations were perfect. Streamers aligned. Balloons evenly spaced.
Cake untouched.
Too untouched.
She checked the clock.
Too early to panic,
she told herself.
She checked her phone.
No notifications.
She tried to sit. Failed.
Stood up again.
Someone will come, she thought.
Anyone.
Then—
Knock.
Her heart jumped into her throat.
She spun toward the door so fast
she nearly tripped over the rug.
"Yes—!" she said, yanking it open,
excitement already blooming—
And froze.
A police officer stood on the porch.
Another just behind him.
Uniforms. Serious expressions. Clipboard.
Kendal blinked.
"…Hello?" she said cautiously.
The officer cleared his throat.
"Miss, we received a report that
someone here may be being held against their will."
The words didn't register at first.
"…What?"
"I didn't call," Kendal said quickly,
confusion bleeding into her voice.
"There's no issue, officer.
I—this is my house. It's just a birthday party."
The officer raised an eyebrow. "Birthday party?"
Kendal gestured weakly behind her.
"See?"
Balloons. Streamers. Empty room.
The silence did not help her case.
After a brief, painfully
awkward explanation—and a few exchanged
looks that said kids can be
cruel—the officers apologized,
muttered something about prank calls, and left.
The door closed.
The house felt even bigger now.
She stood there for a moment,
staring at the wood grain,
then slowly turned back toward the living room.
They really went that far…
Before she could sink too deeply into the thought—
Knock.
She flinched, then rushed forward again,
hope stubbornly clawing its way back up.
This time—
A DoorDash driver.
"Uh… order for Tito?" he asked,
holding up a bag. "This isn't you?"
"No," she said softly.
"That's fine."
She closed the door.
Another minute passed.
Knock.
She opened it.
A mailman.
"Package for your father,"
he said cheerfully.
She nodded, accepted it,
and shut the door once more.
The quiet returned.
Heavier than before.
Kendal stood there, package in hand,
then slowly placed it on the table.
Her shoulders sagged.
Without another word,
she turned and went upstairs.
Her room greeted her the same way
it always did—neat, curated, untouched.
She closed the door.
Then slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor,
knees drawn up, forehead resting against them.
She didn't cry.
Not yet.
Just breathed.
Shallow. Uneven.
Trying very hard not to let it spill.
Then—
A soft knock at her bedroom door.
She stiffened.
"…Yeah?" she managed.
The door opened just enough for her father to peek in.
"Sweetheart," he said gently. "You have a guest."
Kendal looked up, confused.
A shadow moved behind him.
And then—
Hunter stepped into view.
Warm smile.
Slightly out of breath.
Eyes soft, like he was afraid
he'd missed something important.
Her breath caught.
For a second, she didn't move.
Then she was on her feet.
She crossed the room in two steps
and wrapped her arms around him,
hugging him tight—too tight,
maybe—but she didn't care.
The warmth hit her all at once.
Hunter blinked, surprised,
then laughed softly and hugged her back.
Her heartbeat slowed.
Just a little.
Her father smiled knowingly and cleared his throat.
"I'll… give you two some space."
He closed the door behind him,
footsteps retreating downstairs.
And for the first time that night—
Kendal wasn't alone.
Kendal still hugged Hunter.
Not the stiff, polite kind.
Not the awkward "thanks for coming" pat.
This was warm. Real.
Her arms stayed around him a second
longer than necessary,
like she was afraid if she let go too fast,
the night might correct itself and take him with it.
Hunter noticed.
He didn't pull away.
Their eyes met.
And for a split second—just a
split second—they both had the same thought.
…Oh.
Kendal cleared her throat first.
"Thank you for coming."
Her voice was softer now.
No edge. No sharpness. Just honest.
"No problem," Hunter replied,
finally easing out of the hug.
The space between them felt…
different than before. Less tense. Less guarded.
She shifted her weight,
suddenly unsure what to do with her hands.
"Do you like games?" Kendal asked,
almost too casually.
Hunter blinked.
"Yeah—but I doubt you'll
like what I like to play."
"You'll be surprised."
She turned, opened a
wide drawer beneath her desk.
Hunter's eyes widened
as the contents came into view.
Controllers.
Headsets.
Game cases stacked neatly.
A high-end console setup
with custom lighting.
And a monitor that cost more
than his entire backpack.
"…No way."
He leaned in.
"You have Immortal Fighting 9?!"
Kendal glanced back at him,
lips curling into a small, proud smile.
"I guess we're playing that one."
She said it cutely,
like it was no big deal.
It was a big deal.
They sat side by side on her bed,
controllers in hand.
The game loaded.
First round.
Hunter expected to win.
He didn't.
Second round.
He adjusted. Played smarter.
Still didn't win.
Third round.
Draw.
They stared at the screen.
"…Okay," Hunter muttered.
"That was luck."
Kendal smirked. "Sure."
They played again.
And again.
Wins traded hands.
Losses piled evenly.
Draws stacked like
silent acknowledgments.
After the fifth draw,
Hunter finally laughed.
"Alright—be honest.
How long have you been playing?"
Kendal shrugged. "A while."
"That's not an answer."
She glanced at him sideways.
"Being rich has its perks."
Hunter raised a brow.
"I have a lot of free time,"
she continued. "Tutors. Clubs.
Stuff I quit halfway through.
Games were… quieter. Easier."
She landed a perfect combo, winning the round.
"Plus," she added,
"I hate losing."
Hunter shook his head, impressed.
"You're actually insane."
"Funny," she said, smiling,
"I was thinking the same thing about you."
They switched games.
Racing.
Strategy.
Party games.
Same outcome every time.
Neck and neck.
By the time the clock ticked 6pm,
Kendal leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
"…Why are you this good?"
Hunter exhaled.
"I lose a lot."
She turned to look at him.
"That's not a flex Hunter."
"It is if you learn from it."
She considered that.
Then laughed.
Not her usual sharp laugh.
This one was lighter.
Almost surprised to exist.
For the first time in a long while,
Kendal wasn't performing.
Wasn't guarding.
Wasn't correcting anyone.
She was just… playing.
And Hunter—sitting there beside her,
matching her every move—felt like someone
she didn't have to explain herself to.
For now—
That was enough.
"Hey, want a tour of the house? I can show you some of my favorite hiding spots."
Kendal said it with a cheeky smile,
one that didn't try too hard—but
lingered just long enough to be noticed.
Hunter blinked once, then grinned back.
"Sure," he said. "Plus,
I was going to beat you this time anyway."
"Sweety," Kendal replied,
leaning just a bit closer,
lowering her voice like it was
a secret meant only for him,
"you had no chance."
They both laughed—soft,
overlapping giggles that filled
the space between them and bounced
off the walls like they belonged there.
The game was paused. Forgotten.
Kendal stood first,
stretching slightly before
offering her hand without thinking.
Hunter took it.
Her hand was smaller than his—warm,
gentle, fitting like it
already knew where it belonged.
He squeezed just a little tighter.
Not possessive.
Not nervous.
Just… confirming.
Kendal felt it immediately.
Her fingers curled in response,
heart skipping in a way she didn't
acknowledge out loud. Her cheeks warmed,
but she didn't pull away. Instead,
she walked slower—subtly—so their
hands stayed connected longer.
They descended the stairs together.
As they passed through the living room,
Kendal's father stood nearby,
phone pressed to his ear.
"No, just make sure all of the staff is
ready for my arrival tomorrow,"
he said sharply into the device.
Hunter instinctively straightened.
Kendal didn't let go.
She tugged him forward gently,
as if to say you're fine,
her thumb brushing his knuckle
in a way that felt unintentional—but wasn't.
They continued the tour.
"This is the basement,"
Kendal said, gesturing loosely.
"Attic. Guest room two.
Guest room three."
She paused briefly at a closed door.
"My dad's office."
Then finally—she pushed
open the back door.
"And this is the backyard."
Hunter stopped.
The space stretched wide,
open and green, framed by tall
hedges and warm lights beginning
to flicker on as dusk settled in.
"…This backyard is huge,"
he said, awe slipping into his voice.
Kendal glanced at him, pleased—not smug.
"I'm glad you like it."
She stood closer now.
Close enough that their shoulders brushed.
"Hunting," she added softly,
correcting herself with a tiny laugh,
"—Hunter, it really means a lot that you showed up."
He looked at her.
Really looked.
"No problem," he said.
There were other things
he wanted to say.
Questions. Compliments.
Confessions he didn't have words for yet.
But none of them came out.
Instead, he stayed.
And that seemed to be enough.
"Okay, you two," her dad's voice echoed from inside,
breaking the moment just slightly, "it's time for dinner.
I hope you're hungry. Kendal made dinner early before you came."
Hunter froze.
She made dinner.
His brain short-circuited.
I get to eat her cooking? She cooks?
Why does that feel… important?
"I can't wait," he blurted out,
excitement leaking straight through his filter.
Kendal turned toward him, surprised—
Then laughed.
Not sharp.
Not guarded.
Just warm.
And for a second longer than necessary,
she didn't let go of his hand.
The dinner table was alive
in a way Kendal wasn't used to.
Laughter bounced between plates and glasses,
weaving through the room like it had always belonged there.
There were sly digs—playful ones—about who button-mashed harder,
who won the last round by luck,
and who absolutely cheated and just didn't
want to admit it. Game talk turned into strategy debates,
which turned into jokes that only made sense
if you'd been there for the whole night.
Every now and then, Kendal's father would lean back in his chair,
fork hovering midair, and give Hunter a look.
"So," he'd say casually,
"how exactly do you know my daughter?"
Kendal would groan.
Hunter would laugh.
And somehow,
the question never felt like an interrogation.
Hunter fit in—almost too easily.
He spoke comfortably,
listened attentively,
and had a way of responding that made people
feel heard without even trying.
Kendal watched it happen in real time,
her chin resting lightly against her knuckles,
eyes soft.
She'd noticed this about him before.
Hunter had a way of connecting with anyone.
Teachers. Strangers. Kids who didn't even like him at first.
Including her.
And that was the part she didn't like thinking about too much.
Because despite everything—despite the house,
the money, the control—no one had ever
really connected with her like that. Not fully.
Not even her father. He loved her,
she knew that, but his attention was often divided,
his presence measured in schedules and promises.
Hunter didn't feel measured.
He felt… present.
That made him dangerous.
And special.
Kendal smiled to herself, enjoying the conversation,
enjoying the sound of her
own laughter mixing with his.
Eventually, she pushed her chair back gently.
"I'm gonna use the restroom,"
she said, brushing her napkin aside.
As she stood, Hunter glanced up instinctively,
offering a small nod—like he was marking the moment,
even if he didn't know why.
She left the room.
And just like that, Hunter was alone with her father.
He expected the shift.
The tension.
The unspoken evaluation.
But it didn't come.
Instead, Kendal's father relaxed back into his chair,
swirling the ice in his glass before setting it down.
The air was calm. Comfortable.
"So, Hunter," Harold said, tone easy,
conversational. "Ever thought about getting into sales?"
Hunter blinked. "Uh… not really.
I want to study psychology."
That earned a raised eyebrow.
"Psychology?" Harold repeated,
surprised—but intrigued.
"Yes, sir," Hunter said, sitting a bit straighter.
"Understanding people. Why they think the way they do.
Why they act the way they act."
Harold smiled at that.
"Sales," he said, tapping the table lightly,
"isn't all that different. It's psychology with consequences.
Understanding people's minds. Motivations.
Learning how to speak in a way that moves them."
He leaned forward slightly.
"You sell yourself every day,"
Harold continued.
"Whether you realize it or not."
Hunter nodded slowly, absorbing it.
"That's why Kendal's attached herself to you,"
Harold added casually, like it was an
observation rather than a revelation.
"You make people feel seen. But as a salesman—or
in life—you also need to recognize when a sale's been made."
He paused.
"So you can understand what it feels like when you lose one."
Hunter didn't fully understand what he meant.
Not yet.
He just nodded, thoughtful,
a quiet weight settling in his
chest that he couldn't quite name.
Down the hall, Kendal paused outside
the restroom for a moment longer than necessary.
She didn't hear the words.
But somehow, she felt them.
And much later—long after this night—Hunter
would remember this conversation and realize
exactly what Harold had been trying to tell him.
By then, it would already be too late.
Kendal re-entered the dining room quietly.
Too quietly.
Her foot hovered just past the threshold,
like her body hadn't decided whether
it was safe to exist in the room again.
Warm light spilled across the floor,
stopping just short of her shoes.
She stayed there—half in shadow,
half in comfort—watching.
The laughter hadn't stopped.
It flowed naturally.
Effortlessly. Plates clinked.
Forks scraped. A joke had just landed,
and it landed well.
She told herself she didn't care.
Her father leaned back in his chair,
relaxed in a way she rarely saw at home,
voice easy, amused.
"And don't get me wrong—I love my daughter.
She's my baby. Always will be."
Kendal's chest loosened before she could stop it.
See?
He means it.
He always does.
Her shoulders dropped just a fraction.
She allowed herself that small relief,
that stupid, hopeful warmth
that always got her in trouble.
Then—
"But," he added lightly,
like he was choosing dessert,
"she is a bit of a spoiled brat."
The word hit before she could brace for it.
Her mind scrambled instantly.
He's joking.
He always jokes like that.
It's fine. It's not—
Hunter laughed.
Not mean.
Not sharp.
Just… easy.
"Yeah," Hunter said, smiling. "I mean… yeah."
Yeah.
Her thoughts slammed into each other.
Why would he say that?
No—why did that sound so natural to him?
He doesn't mean it like that. He can't.
He doesn't know. He doesn't see—
Her fingers curled slowly at her sides,
nails pressing into skin,
grounding herself before her face betrayed her.
Her father chuckled, encouraged by the agreement.
"Right? Acts like the world's out to get her,
but if something goes wrong—boom. Daddy fixes it."
Kendal swallowed.
That's not fair.
You don't see what it's like when you're not here.
You don't hear what they say. You don't feel—
Hunter nodded again, still not looking her way.
"She kind of… brings it on herself sometimes."
Something in her chest cracked—not loudly.
Just enough.
Brings it on herself?
So that's what you think?
After everything today? After all that effort—
After I tried—
Her thoughts tripped over each other,
searching desperately for a defense,
a counterargument, something to cling to.
Maybe he's right.
Maybe I do make it worse.
No—why am I agreeing with them?
Why does this hurt so much—
That was it.
She turned.
Not angrily.
Not dramatically.
Just… done.
Her chair scraped softly as she passed it,
the sound nearly swallowed by the room's warmth.
The back door opened. Closed.
Only then did Hunter notice.
The smile faded. His brow creased. "Uh—"
Her father's eyes followed Kendal's exit,
something shifting behind them.
He sighed quietly, setting his fork down.
"…You should probably go talk to her."
Hunter hesitated,
guilt finally catching up. "I didn't—"
"Go," her father said gently.
And as Hunter stood, the room felt suddenly wrong—
like something important had slipped out with her,
and no one noticed until it was already gone.
The night air was cool,
thick with the smell of cut grass
and distant traffic humming
like a reminder that the world
kept moving—whether she could or not.
Kendal stood near the fence,
arms crossed tight against herself,
fingers digging into her sleeves like
she was trying to hold herself together
through sheer force. Her eyes were fixed
on the dark stretch of yard ahead,
but she wasn't really seeing it.
She felt… exposed.
Like the walls she spent all day
building had been laughed at from the inside.
Hunter stepped out carefully,
the back door clicking shut
behind him too loudly for his liking.
"Kendal?"
She didn't turn.
Her jaw tightened.
"So… uh. That was—"
"Don't," she said.
The word was quiet.
Fragile.
It cracked anyway.
Hunter stopped walking.
Something in her voice told him this
wasn't one of her usual sharp dismissals.
This wasn't the Kendal that
barked orders in hallways or
corrected people for breathing wrong.
This was something else.
"I didn't mean—" he started.
"You agreed," she snapped suddenly,
spinning around. "You laughed."
The way she said it made his chest sink.
"I—" he frowned, scrambling. "It was a joke."
Her laugh came out wrong.
Not amused.
Not playful.
Sharp. Hollow.
"Everything's a joke to you."
"That's not fair," Hunter said,
frustration creeping in despite himself.
"You're always like this. You snap at people,
you push them away, then act shocked when—"
"When what?" she cut in.
"When people hate me?"
The word hate lingered between them.
Hunter exhaled through his nose.
"You don't make it easy."
Her fingers twitched.
Something ugly crawled up her spine.
"You think I don't know that?"
she fired back.
"You think I like being treated like this?"
"You treat me like trash half the time!"
he shot back, the words finally spilling out.
"I try to be nice to you. I try to talk to you.
You shut me down. You embarrass me.
You act like I don't matter."
Her chest tightened so
hard it almost hurt to breathe.
"You don't understand anything,"
she said, voice rising despite herself.
"Do you have any idea what today was like for me?"
"You never tell me!" Hunter snapped.
"You just expect me to read your mind!"
She laughed again—this time bitter, shaky.
"Oh, but you can read me, can't you?"
Hunter stiffened.
"…What?"
"You saw me," she said quietly.
The volume dropped, but the weight doubled.
"At the ice cream shop."
His eyes widened. "…You knew?"
"You saw me cry," she continued,
her voice trembling now,
like she hated herself for
letting it do that.
"And you just walked away."
"I didn't—"
"Why didn't you help me?" she demanded.
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"I'm not obligated to!" he snapped,
instantly regretting how harsh it sounded.
"You wouldn't have done that for me!"
"That's not true!"
"Isn't it?" Hunter shot back,
hurt bleeding through now.
"Would you have come to me? Really?"
She faltered.
Just for a second.
And that second hurt more
than anything else he'd said.
He pressed on, voice quieter but sharper now.
"You don't like me.
You barely tolerate me.
So yeah—my brother told me to leave you alone."
Her breath caught.
"Your brother?" she scoffed weakly.
"So you just listen to him?"
"And what about you?" Hunter fired back.
"You listen to anyone but yourself?"
Her hands shoved into his
chest before she could stop herself.
"Get away from me!"
He stumbled back, shocked.
"Don't touch me," he warned, voice low.
She shoved him again.
Harder.
He pushed her back—stronger than he meant to.
"Kendal—!"
Her heel slipped.
Her body tilted.
Hunter reacted without thinking.
He grabbed her.
They hit the ground together.
Too close.
Too fast.
His hand grabbed something warm, squishy,
in front and from behind,
somewhere it absolutely shouldn't have.
She blushed, surprised,
her feelings, warm, secured, protected, calm.
They froze.
Eyes locked.
Breath tangled.
For 3 seconds, everything went
silent—except the sound of her heart hammering in her ears.
Humiliation burned hotter than anger.
"I HATE YOU!"
She shoved him off, scrambling to
her feet like the ground itself had betrayed her.
"Don't ever touch me again!"
She ran inside.
The door slammed with enough force to shake the glass.
Hunter sat there, stunned, chest heaving.
His hands shook.
Hunter concerned, and feeling
guilty are fighting two different things,
Guilt and the satisfaction of
knowing what a woman's body felt like.
He waited.
Maybe she'd come back.
Maybe she'd yell more.
Maybe she'd say something.
She didn't.
Eventually, he stood.
Lingered.
Then left.
And inside the house, long after the
door stopped echoing, Kendal sat curled
against her bedroom wall,
replaying one word over and over in her head—
Not shouted.
Not screamed.
Just laughed into existence.
Spoiled.
Like it explained everything.
Like it erased everything she tried to be.
And without realizing it,
she learned something that night.
That word wasn't just an insult.
It was a blade.
And it cut deepest when it came from someone she cared about.
But an even more uncomfortable blade stuck her.
Hunter.
She saw him through the window.
Walking away.
She opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
For some reason despite everything
that hurt her the most.
She replayed their argument,
she thinks about what she said to him
and how she didn't truly feel that way.
at that moment,
she started to feel truly lonely.
Her father knocked softly later.
"What happened?"
"I don't want to talk about it," she whispered.
He sighed. Hugged her anyway.
"We're leaving tomorrow," he said. "Try to rest."
"I'll place your birthday cake in the fridge for later."
later Hunter lied on the grass, staring up at the sky.
The clouds drifted slowly, uncaring.
Shapes formed and dissolved above
him—nothing concrete enough to hold onto.
His chest rose and fell, uneven.
Every breath felt like it scraped on the way in.
Everything hurt.
Not just his body.
His hands were still shaking.
He brought one up, flexing his fingers,
then let it fall back against
the grass like it weighed too much.
Why did it happen like that?
He squeezed his eyes shut.
Her voice echoed in his head.
I hate you!
The way she looked at him when she said it—raw,
furious, hurt in a way he hadn't expected—twisted
something in his stomach. He replayed the
moment again and again, like his brain was punishing him.
He shouldn't have laughed.
He shouldn't have said that.
He shouldn't have pushed her.
But then—
His thoughts snagged.
That moment.
The fall.
The split second where time stopped.
Where they were too close,
breathing the same air,
eyes locked like the rest of the world didn't exist.
His jaw tightened.
Why did that part stick?
Why did his chest feel tight for reasons that weren't just regret?
That scared him more than the argument.
He rolled his head to the side,
staring at the grass now,
teeth grinding together.
What kind of person feels anything
like that after something so wrong?
Guilt pooled heavy in his gut.
He didn't want to be that guy.
Didn't want to be someone who hurt
someone else and then… liked any part of it.
Was that normal?
Or was something wrong with him?
His thoughts spiraled, overlapping and
crashing into each other—apologies he'd never get to say,
explanations that wouldn't matter now,
her face when she turned away.
I should've left earlier.
I should've said something different.
I should've…
A shadow passed over him.
He flinched, eyes snapping open.
"Um… are you okay?"
Hunter pushed himself up onto his elbows,
blinking like he'd just woken from a bad dream.
A girl stood there.
Brown eyes. Curious, but not invasive.
Her posture was relaxed, hands clasped loosely
in front of her like she didn't want to scare him off.
A few steps behind her, a man—her dad,
probably—lingered, giving them
space while still watching closely.
Hunter swallowed.
"…Yeah," he said after a second.
His voice came out rougher than he expected.
"I think so."
The words weren't entirely true.
But they were close enough.
She smiled—not wide,
not forced. Just… warm.
"I'm Jessica," she said.
Something about the way she said it—simple,
no expectations attached—made his
shoulders loosen without him realizing.
The tight coil in his chest eased.
Just a little.
Not because everything was suddenly okay.
Not because what happened didn't matter.
But because, for the first time that night,
no one was angry at him.
No one was disappointed.
No one expected him to be anything other
than a guy lying in the grass,
trying to catch his breath.
And in that small, quiet moment—
The pain didn't disappear.
But it stopped crushing him.
Just enough to let him breathe again.
The house felt hollow once everything was boxed.
Kendal stood in the doorway of her room,
looking at the bare walls like they belonged
to someone else now. The posters were gone.
The shelves were empty. Even the floor sounded
different when she stepped on it—lighter. Temporary.
Her suitcase sat upright by the door,
zipped and waiting.
Her father leaned against the frame,
arms crossed loosely, tie already loosened.
"You ready?" he asked.
She nodded. "Yeah."
He studied her for a moment longer than necessary.
The way parents do when they know
something's missing but don't know how to name it.
"…You sure there isn't anything else
you wanna do before we go?" he added.
A pause.
"Anyone you wanna talk to?"
Kendal's fingers tightened around the handle of her suitcase.
Her mind flashed—too fast.
A smile.
A laugh.
A backyard.
A word that still burned.
Spoiled.
She swallowed.
"There is," she said quietly.
Her father's mouth curved, just slightly.
"Then don't miss the sale."
She didn't respond to that.
The car slowed to a stop a
house away from Hunter's.
Kendal stepped out before the chauffeur
could open the door fully, the morning air
sharp against her skin. She adjusted her
bag on her shoulder, heart already beating too fast.
Just say it, she told herself.
Just apologize. Just once.
She took a step.
Then another.
And then—
She saw them.
Hunter stood on the sidewalk,
relaxed in a way she'd never seen him around her.
Kelvin was beside him, talking with his hands,
animated as always. And between them—
A girl.
Brown hair. Soft laugh.
Standing just close enough to matter.
Hunter smiled.
Not polite.
Not forced.
Real.
The same warmth she'd seen through glass before.
Her chest tightened.
That feeling returned—slow, heavy, sinking.
Like standing outside a room you weren't invited into,
hearing happiness you couldn't touch.
Her feet stopped moving.
She could still walk up.
She could still speak.
But her body refused.
Her fingers trembled.
If I go now… I ruin it, she thought.
If I stay… I'll break.
She turned.
Got back into the car.
"Go," she said, voice steady
enough to fool anyone but herself.
The door closed.
The car pulled away.
Hunter laughed at something
Kelvin said—then paused.
It was brief. Almost nothing.
A tug in his chest.
Like when you miss a step
on the stairs but don't fall.
He glanced over his shoulder.
Nothing there.
"…You good?" Kelvin asked.
"Yeah," Hunter replied after a second.
"Just thought I forgot something."
Kelvin shrugged. "Happens."
Jessica tilted her head,
studying him for half a beat
longer than necessary.
Hunter smiled again.
But it didn't quite reach the same place.
The city blurred past the window.
Kendal stared out at it, unmoving,
until her reflection replaced the streets.
Her face looked calm.
Too calm.
Her throat tightened.
Then—
She broke.
Silent at first. Shoulders shaking.
Breath hitching. Tears spilling without permission,
blurring everything until she pressed her sleeve to her eyes,
furious at herself.
"I was replaced"
"I'm going to change," she whispered to no one.
"I won't be like this anymore."
The words felt small.
But real.
Later.
Much later.
Hunter finished speaking.
"…And yeah. That's pretty much what happened."
The room was quiet for a beat.
Kelvin leaned back, hands behind his head.
"Bro… that was deadass an anime."
Kenny nodded. "Like—season one heartbreak type shit."
Hunter snorted softly. "I didn't say it was cool."
"I ain't say it wasn't tragic,"
Kelvin replied. "Just… dramatic as hell."
Kenny glanced at the clock. "Damn. It's late."
Hunter stood, stretching. "Yeah. We should sleep."
The lights dimmed.
The story settled.
And somewhere between memory and regret—
Something unfinished lingered.
In the present, Kendal's room was calm.
Not sterile. Not cold.
Just… intentional.
Warm amber light washed over soft walls,
the glow coming from a single lamp she'd
placed just right—no clutter, no excess.
Everything had a place now. Even the silence felt arranged.
She lay on her back, wrapped in a pink and white robe
that looked less like something worn for comfort
and more like something chosen with care.
One arm rested over her stomach, the other
tucked beneath her head as she stared at
the ceiling, eyes unfocused.
Still.
Punctual.
Composed.
Nothing like before.
Her breathing was slow. Even. Measured.
And yet—
Her thoughts weren't.
Hunter's name drifted in without permission,
settling somewhere in her chest.
Not heavy. Not sharp. Just… there.
Familiar. Persistent.
A small smile touched her lips
before she realized it had formed.
"I finally get to apologize," she murmured to the ceiling,
voice quiet enough that it felt
like a secret she was telling herself first.
A pause.
"I hope you don't hate me, Hunter."
The words didn't tremble.
They didn't rush.
They waited—like she was giving
them space to be heard,
even if no one else was listening.
Her fingers tightened slightly in the fabric of her robe,
then relaxed. Not anxiety. Not fear.
Something gentler. Something patient.
If this were the old Kendal,
the thought would've spiraled.
Turned sharp. Defensive. Loud.
But now—
She let it sit.
She closed her eyes not to escape it,
but to keep it.
Her breathing slowed further,
body easing into the mattress as if she
trusted it to hold her. The smile faded,
but not because it was gone—only
because it didn't need to be worn.
As sleep crept in, one last
thought surfaced. Unspoken. Untitled.
Not what will he say?
Not what if he rejects me?
Just—
Tomorrow.
And for the first time in a
long while, that was enough.
End-
"Wait a minute."
The page stalled.
Jessica popped into existence like she'd
been waiting just off-screen, hands on her hips,
brows furrowed in deep, dramatic offense.
"Where's my backstory?"
A beat.
[Jessica… we're kind of out of space for this chapter]
"No. No, no, no."
She waved her hands like she was erasing the sentence mid-air.
"That's not fair. You did Hunter. Kendal. Kenny.
Some of Roger and Stephany's. And even some of—"
She paused, squinting.
"—Kelvin's."
[Good save on not saying Kelvin after Kenny].
She blinked. Then snorted.
"Haha. Real funny."
She crossed her arms. "I'm not racist."
[I didn't say you were].
"You implied it."
[I absolutely did not].
She stared at the invisible narrator for a long second,
then sighed dramatically and flopped backward
onto nothing, somehow landing anyway.
"Okay but seriously," she said,
looking up. "You really just… skipped me?"
[Look, Jessica. Your time is coming.
Your backstory just isn't as
interesting as the others *right now*].
Her head snapped up.
"Excuse me?"
[You moved because your dad wanted a change of scenery.
You met Hunter. You fell in love. That's… kind of it].
She gasped like she'd been
slapped with a paperback novel.
"That's SUCH a rude way to summarize my life!"
She sat up. "You've been gone for like—what—eight months?
And this chapter took you two months to write.
And you're telling me I get nothing?"
[Hey, it's not easy to write a good story that isn't cliché].
"Oh please," she scoffed.
"Everything is cliché if you explain it like that.
You gave Kendal emotional trauma, generational issues,
symbolism. Kenny got depression and breakdancing."
[That's fair].
"And I get—" she pinched her fingers together, "—vibes."
[Jessica, you don't *need* lore].
She froze.
"…What?"
[Your character is simple. And that's not a bad thing].
She tilted her head, suspicious but listening.
[If every character is complex,
the story collapses under its own weight.
It stops feeling real].
She frowned slightly.
[Some people just have… quieter lives. Ordinary ones.
And your role is to balance the chaos].
She thought about that.
[You're vanilla on purpose. And that's what makes you
special—not just to the audience… but to Hunter].
Her expression softened.
"Oh."
A small smile crept onto her face.
"…So I'm not boring?"
[No]
She nodded slowly, satisfied.
"Okay."
Then, brighter—"I'm okay with being ordinary."
She pointed at the narrator.
"I love you, Hoppy. You may continue."
[She's so cute].
She beamed.
[I love you too, Jessica. Next chapter will focus
on Kendal's development, Stephany and Roger's relationship,
and how it all bleeds into Hunter's life. Stay tuned].
Jessica waved happily as the page turned.
"Take your time!" she called out.
"…But don't forget about me!"
The narration resumed.
And somehow—
the story felt warmer for it.