She jerks back suddenly, and I feel the loss of her warmth like a physical ache.
I swallow hard and force myself to keep talking about the game, even though every cell in my body is screaming at me to close that distance again and stop pretending this is just sibling bonding when it’s so clearly, devastatingly something else.
Like the best first date I’ve ever been on.
She picks things up really fast, proving, like she did in English class, that she’s whip smart.
By the fourth quarter, she’s on the edge of her seat. When Westfield lines up for the game-winning field goal, she’s as tense as everyone else. And when the kick sailsthrough the uprights, she’s on her feet screaming with the rest of us.
I grab her hand without thinking.
No counting first. No checking if it’s the right moment. No mental calculation of the appropriateness or the consequences.
Just:hand. Hers. Mine. Together.
We’re running down the bleachers with the whole crowd, swept up in the chaos and celebration. Her hand is warm in mine, and this feels right in a way that nothing else ever has.
My brain isn’t screaming about germs or proper hand-holding protocol or the fact that I’ve just broken approximately seven rules I can think of off the top of my head.
I’m not counting my steps or checking over my shoulder or mentally cataloging exit routes.
I’m just... here. Present. Alive.
With her.
We hit the field, and the confetti canyons going off make it look like it’s snowing. The band plays, cheerleaders flip across the field, and everyone’s hugging and screaming and celebrating like we’ve won something bigger than a normal Friday night high school football game.
Harper’s grinning up at the falling confetti like it’s magic, her face open and unguarded in a way I’ve never seen.
I’m still holding her hand.
We both realize it at the same moment.
Our eyes meet in the chaos, and for a heartbeat—oneperfect, suspended heartbeat—everything else falls away. The noise, the crowd, the celebration.
It’s just her and me and this thing between us that I can’t name and can’t ignore.
Then we drop each other’s hands like we’ve been burned.
But I can’t look away from her. I don’t want to. And I can’t stop cataloging every detail—the way the stadium lights catch in her dark hair, the flush in her cheeks from running and screaming, the way she’s looking at me like I’m someone unexpected. Someone who matters.
“So?” I call over the noise, grinning like an idiot. “Still think it’s just guys chasing a ball around?”
She grins back, and it’s genuine and bright and everything I didn’t know I was hoping for.
“Okay, fine. That was... actually pretty fun.”
Victory surges through me—stupid, disproportionate victory. I did it. I gave her a reason to want to stay, at least for tonight. I gave her something good.
A group of cheerleaders runs past, pom-poms flashing. I pull out my phone to text Mom we’ll be ready to head home soon.
Mom’s going to be so happy that Harper had fun tonight.
Because that’s what this is about. Mom’s happiness. Family bonding. Doing the right thing.
Liar.
The crowd starts to thin out, everyone heading back to the parking lot, and I turn back to Harper to suggest we find our parents.