Chapter 18 Sophie
SOPHIE
Thursday mornings always start the same.
The smell of crayons and hand sanitizer greets me the second I step into the foster agency’s playroom, a mix of chaos and comfort I’ve come to love. Plastic bins of toys line the shelves, walls covered in finger-painted masterpieces, and the hum of cartoons drifts from the TV in the corner.
I set my bag on the counter, rolling up the sleeves of my sweatshirt. “Morning, Miss Denise,” I call out to the caseworker already juggling paperwork at her desk.
She waves without looking up. “God bless you for showing up early. They’ve got more energy than I do after two cups of coffee.”
I laugh, then head straight to the play mats where a handful of kids are building towers with oversized blocks.
“Miss Sophie!” Four-year-old Eli barrels toward me, curls bouncing, his tiny sneakers squeaking against the linoleum. He wraps himself around my legs like a koala.
“Hey, buddy.” I crouch down, smoothing a hand over his hair. “You keeping everyone in line today?”
He grins, gap-toothed and proud. “I built the biggest tower!”
“Biggest, huh?” I glance over at the leaning pile of blocks behind him, more miracle than architecture. “Looks like a skyscraper to me.”
He beams, tugging at my hand until I follow him back to the mat. I sit cross-legged, letting him pile block after block into my lap, listening to him chatter about superheroes and snack time.
These mornings are always busy—wrangling toddlers, coaxing shy kids to join in, singing the same nursery rhyme on repeat until it’s permanently etched into my brain. But somewhere between the coloring books and snack breaks, I always feel it. That tug in my chest that reminds me why I’m here.
Why this is what I want to do. Who I want to help when I can.
The door creaks open midmorning, and Caleb shuffles in, Miss Denise’s hand resting gently on his shoulder.
Normally, he’s a bundle of curls and giggles, always showing me his latest crayon masterpiece.
But right now, his little fists are balled tight, his chin tucked down into the collar of his sweatshirt.
“Caleb had his visit this morning,” Miss Denise murmurs to me, low enough the others don’t hear. Her eyes soften. “Might need some extra patience today.”
I nod, heart sinking.
“Hey, bud,” I say carefully, crouching so I’m eye-level with him. “You want to come sit with me?”
His bottom lip wobbles. “I don’t like it there,” he whispers, voice cracking the way only a four-year-old’s can. “She gets mad.”
Oh, sweet boy.
I swallow hard and keep my tone gentle. “That must feel really scary.”
His eyes dart up, wide and wet. “What if I have to go back with her?”
God, I want to wrap him up and promise she won’t. But those aren’t promises I’m allowed to make. What I can do is show him he’s safe here, now.
So, I pat the rug beside me. “How about this—we build the strongest fort ever. One so strong that no one can knock it down. Not even the Hulk.”
A hiccupy laugh slips out of him, the tiniest spark of light breaking through. He sinks down next to me and grabs the blocks with determined little hands.
As we stack walls crooked and high, I feel it again—that pull in my chest.
This is why I’m here.
Because kids like Caleb need someone they can count on, someone who can sit with them when the world feels too big and too scary.
And for the briefest second, I think of Beck. The way he’s supportive without even trying. The way just sitting next to him in class seems to calm me down, even if it’s temporarily.
I shake the thought off and add another block to Caleb’s fortress.
“See?” I grin at him. “Unstoppable.”
He nods, cheeks still damp but smiling now, and for the first time all morning, I breathe easier.
Friday morning, I’m already in my seat when the clock ticks over.
Professor Nelson strides to the front, shuffling papers and adjusting his glasses. Students are still filing in, but one face is missing.
I tap my pen against the edge of my notebook, trying to focus as Professor Nelson clears his throat.
“As promised, today we’ll be assigning partners for your research projects.
Remember, this will account for a significant portion of your grade.
Presentations will be taking place during finals week, so I suggest you get to work immediately. ”
My attention flickers back to the door.
When it finally swings open, relief and worry hit me in the same breath.
Beck slips inside, quiet but noticeable. His hair’s damp like he didn’t finish drying it, his jaw tight, and he looks pale. Really pale. He mutters a quick apology to Professor Nelson before sliding into the seat beside me.
He doesn’t bother with his bag. Just lowers his head onto his folded arms, like even holding it up requires too much effort.
I lean closer, my voice soft. “Hey. You okay?”
He shakes his head, just barely, with his eyes still closed, and my stomach drops.
Professor Nelson is still talking, rattling off expectations about sources and presentation length, but the words blur when I hear him say, “Harrison and Prescott, you’ll be working together.”
My eyes dart to Beck. He doesn’t even lift his head.
Partners.
My pulse skips, torn between the weight of the assignment and the boy beside me who suddenly looks nothing like the linebacker I’m used to seeing.
I lean closer, lowering my voice so it doesn’t carry past our row. “Beck…if you’re feeling that bad, you might have the stomach flu or something. You should go rest.”
His head shifts just enough that I catch the faintest crack of green eyes. “Can’t. Don’t want to miss this.”
I glance at the board where Professor Nelson is still outlining the grading rubric, then back at Beck. “It’s just the intro. I can catch you up—”
He shakes his head once, firm but sluggish. “I’ll be fine.”
The words sound like a habit, like muscle memory more than truth. His jaw clenches, and I can tell it’s costing him something just to sit upright.
“Fine,” I whisper back. “But after class, I’m walking you back to your place.”
That gets the smallest huff of breath from him—something halfway between amusement and resignation. He doesn’t argue, though.
Professor Nelson’s voice booms again, pulling my attention forward. “Each pair will receive their assigned diagnosis at the start of next week. In the meantime, use this weekend to coordinate schedules with your partner.”
I jot down the instructions automatically, but my focus keeps drifting sideways to the boy slumped at my side, pale against the dark sweatshirt he’s wearing.
Beck spends the rest of the class leaning his head against his arm on his desk, looking like he would love the floor to open and swallow him whole.
Professor Nelson finishes up and we head out. Reaching the edge of the quad, I slow, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder. “I’m walking you back.”
Beck stops too, tugging his hood down just enough that I can see the tired set of his eyes. “You’ve got another class, don’t you?”
I hesitate. “Yeah…”
“Then go. Don’t be late because of me.” His tone is solid, but not cold. Just matter-of-fact, like he’s used to carrying his own weight, even when he’s struggling.
I cross my arms, not ready to give in. “You don’t look like you should be left alone.”
That earns me a ghost of a smile, small and soft, aimed straight at me. It makes my stomach flip. “I’ll be fine,” he says, certain. “I just got glutened Wednesday night and still haven’t quite recovered.”
I blink. “Got…what?”
His smile twitches, like he’s not surprised I don’t know. “Glutened. I’m celiac. It means I can’t eat gluten. When I do, it makes me really sick.”
I tilt my head, trying to piece it together. “Like a food allergy?”
“Not exactly.” His eyes hold mine. “It’s an autoimmune disease. My body attacks itself when gluten shows up. So it’s not like hives or anything—it’s more—exhaustion, stomach issues, my immune system going haywire. Always takes me a while to bounce back.”
I study him and the shadows under his eyes, the way his shoulders slope like he’s carrying twice as much weight as usual. And suddenly, the pale skin and the hood over his head make perfect sense.
“Oh,” I breathe, softer than I mean to.
Beck shrugs, like it’s nothing. Like being sick for days is just part of the deal. “So, you see? Nothing you need to worry about. Go to class. I’ll be fine.”
But my feet don’t move. Because even though he’s insisting that he is fine, his eyes tell me more than his words ever will.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Fine. I’ll go to class.”
He lifts a brow like he doesn’t quite believe me.
“But only if you promise me two things.”
That gets the faintest tug at the corner of his mouth. “Conditions, huh? All right. Let’s hear ’em.”
“One—you go straight home. No detours, no pretending you’re fine, and no heading to weights or whatever.”
His lips twitch. “That’s oddly specific.”
I ignore him. “Two—you text me once you’re there. Just so I know you didn’t collapse somewhere between here and your front door.”
For the first time this morning, his smile actually reaches his eyes. It’s small and tired, but warm enough to make my pulse skip. “You drive a hard bargain, Prescott.”
“Promise,” I press, holding his gaze.
He studies me for a long moment, the kind of eye contact that makes the rest of campus blur out. Finally, he nods. “Promise.”
“Good.” I exhale, like I’ve won something, even though he’s the one walking away while I’m left standing here, still worried.
Beck adjusts his hood and gives me a soft nod. “Now go, before you’re late.”
I watch him turn down the path, slower than usual, and only when he’s gone from view do I head toward the building for my next class—my chest tight, mind nowhere near the lecture I’m about to sit through.
I slide into my next class, but my focus is shot. The professor’s voice drones somewhere in the background while I stare at my blank notes page, tapping my pen against the margin.
All I can picture is Beck’s pale face with his hood pulled low, and the promise he made before walking away.
My phone buzzes in my lap, and my heart leaps before I even look.
Beck: made it.
The knot in my chest eases, and I bite back a smile as I type back quickly, thumbs flying.
Good. Thanks for proving me right.
It takes less than a minute for the dots to appear.
Beck: about what?
That you’d listen to me.
There’s a pause, then another reply:
Beck: don’t get used to it.
I press my lips together, trying not to laugh out loud in the middle of class. My professor is sketching something on the board, but I’m too busy staring at my phone screen.
I’ll take my wins where I can get them.
Three dots.
Beck: now that you know I’m fine, pay attention. don’t want you harming that GPA of yours worrying over me.
My cheeks warm as I lock my phone and force myself to focus on the lecture. But the notes on the board blur, and all I can think is—
I like this.
I like that he texted.
And I really, really like that I’m starting to care.