Chapter 12 Sophie
SOPHIE
By the time class wraps up, my brain feels like it’s been wrung out. I shove my notebook into my bag, ready to bolt for the library, when Beck steps up beside me.
He doesn’t say anything at first, just holds the door open as we spill into the hallway with the crowd. Once we’re clear of the traffic, he glances down at me.
“You still want to try studying together?”
I let out a half-laugh. “Want to? Yes. Can we? That’s the real question.”
He nods, like he already expected that answer. “Practice every afternoon. Film twice a week. Lifts on top of that.”
“And I’ve got cheer, plus volunteering, and homework,” I add, grimacing. “I don’t think our planners would even be on speaking terms.”
We reach the steps outside, sunlight stretching across the quad. Students pour past us, but for a second, it feels like we’re stuck in a weird little bubble where time is bending out of shape.
“So…what’s the plan then?” I ask.
Beck doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulls a folded scrap of paper from his notebook and hands it to me.
I unfold it. Ten digits stare back at me in sharp, blocky handwriting. His number.
“If you want to text me, we can figure it out later,” he says simply.
My stomach does a weird little flip I pretend not to notice. “Old-school, huh? What happened to just putting it in my phone like a normal person?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s half a second from a smile. “Where’s the fun in being normal?”
I tuck the paper carefully into the front pocket of my notebook, more deliberate than I mean to be. “All right then. I’ll text you when I’ve got a window.”
“Sounds good.” He nods once, already shifting his backpack higher on his shoulder. “I gotta get going, or I’ll be late. I’ll see you later.”
We split at the corner, but as I walk, the paper feels heavier than it should in my bag—like some kind of thread tying me back to him.
By the time practice rolls around that afternoon, the sun is high and unforgiving, baking the turf until heat radiates back at us in shimmering waves. Sweat prickles at the back of my neck as we run through the first set of routines, Jordan’s voice sharp as she calls out counts.
“Again from the top!” she shouts, clapping once.
We reset, pom-poms ready, and the music blares through the speakers. My muscles fall into the motions automatically, sharp arms and high jumps, feet hitting their marks. By the third run-through, we’re all gasping for water.
As we collapse onto the sideline for a quick break, Ava leans close, fanning herself with her hand. She smirks, eyes glinting with mischief.
“Sooo…saw you walking out of class with Beck Harrison earlier.”
My brows shoot up. “And?”
“And,” she says, drawing the word out, “you two looked cozy.”
I choke on my water. “We were talking about studying. That’s it.”
Ava grins like she doesn’t believe a word. “Sure. Studying. Get ’em, tiger.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks, and I shake my head, laughing it off. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously observant,” she fires back, winking before hopping up when Jordan calls us back.
I roll my eyes, tugging my ponytail tighter as I stand.
Studying. That’s all it is.
By the time I make it back to my dorm Tuesday afternoon, I can still smell the finger paint and apple juice that occupied my morning.
Days at the foster agency always leave me tired in the best way, but today the kids were wild—Caleb refused to put his crayons down, Mia insisted on three stories at nap time, and Eli followed me around, roaring like a dinosaur until my sides hurt from laughing.
I drop my bag by the door and flop onto the couch, Snickers immediately hopping into my lap like she’s been waiting all day for me to sit still. “Miss me?” I scratch behind her ears, earning a loud purr.
The quiet feels heavy after a morning full of giggles and tiny hands tugging at my shirt. I don’t mind it, though. The quiet means I can think.
I pull my psych book out of my bag, flipping to the assigned chapter. The words blur together after a few pages, my highlighter hovering without purpose. My brain drifts, not to DSM criteria or treatment plans, but to the folded piece of paper sitting in the front pocket of my notebook.
Beck’s number.
I bite my lip, closing the textbook. It’s stupid to overthink it. People swap numbers all the time. But the thought of actually using it makes my pulse pick up.
What would I even say? Hey, want to study sometime? Too blunt. Hey, thanks for helping me not get strangled by my sweatshirt yesterday? Too weird.
Snickers nudges her head under my hand, impatient. I stroke her soft fur while contemplating what I should text him.
The truth is, I don’t know if I want to text him because I need the study help…or because I just want to.
I shake my head, setting the book back on my lap. Focus. Homework first. Then maybe—maybe—I’ll decide if I’m brave enough to press send.
I flip my notebook open, pulling the folded paper free. The numbers stare back at me, bold and blocky in his handwriting. My thumb hovers over my phone for a long beat before I finally type them in.
New contact: Beck Harrison.
Just seeing his name on my screen makes my stomach twist.
I tap the message bar, type fast, then immediately backspace.
Sophie: Hey, thanks again for your help in class. Want to go over notes sometime this week?
Delete. Too formal.
Try again.
Sophie: You still up for studying?
Delete. Too blunt.
I sigh, Snickers pawing at my lap as if to say just get on with it already.
One more try.
Sophie: Hey, it’s Sophie. Figured I’d make this official since you gave me your number.
I stare at it, thumb hovering over send. It’s not bad. It’s not weird. But still, the thought of that little bubble popping up on his screen makes my chest tighten.
What if he thinks I’m being pushy? What if he doesn’t even want to hear from me outside of class?
With a groan, I hold down the backspace key until the words vanish.
The screen goes blank, the cursor blinking at me like it’s laughing. I lock my phone, toss it onto the desk, and bury myself back in my textbook.
Safer this way.
At least for now.
I’m half awake the next morning, clutching my coffee like it’s the only thing keeping me upright, when I feel him fall into step beside me.
Beck.
“Morning,” he says, voice low and even.
“Morning,” I manage, tugging the strap of my bag tighter.
We slip into our usual seats, notebooks out. The professor isn’t here yet, which leaves a few minutes of silence. I busy myself with uncapping a pen, but when I glance up, Beck’s eyes are on me.
“You never texted,” Beck says, his tone so casual it takes me a second to realize he’s talking to me.
My pen stutters across the page. “I—” My cheeks heat instantly. “I meant to. I just…wasn’t sure what to say.”
He tilts his head, studying me like he’s trying to work out an equation. Then he shrugs, easy and unbothered. “Didn’t have to be much. Could’ve just been, ‘Hey, I’ve got twenty minutes free.’”
I blink at him. He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like helping me out would never be an inconvenience.
“I didn’t want to bother you,” I admit, my voice smaller than I mean it to be. “You’ve got football and classes and a life…”
That’s when it happens—he smiles. Not the guarded, polite kind I’ve seen a few times before, but something freer, lighter. It softens his whole face, the corners of his eyes crinkling just a little.
“If I didn’t want you to use it,” he says gently. “I wouldn’t have given it to you.”
My stomach does a ridiculous flip. He says it so simply, so matter-of-fact, like it’s the most obvious truth in the world.
Having someone say what they mean and mean what they say is so foreign to me at this point in my life.
He’s always said exactly what he means and never leaves me guessing.
Unlike my parents, only saying what they think people want to hear and never really making an emotional connection, even with their own children.
Zach trying to tell me one thing while obviously proving every word was a lie with his actions.
Beck is like a breath of fresh air I didn’t really know I needed.
And he has no idea what that smile is doing to me, how it makes the noise of the room fade until it feels like there’s only the two of us sitting here.
I duck my head quickly, flipping to a clean page in my notebook. My pulse is too loud, my thoughts tangled.
“Noted,” I mutter, hoping the professor walks in soon before I combust.
I tell myself to focus on my notebook, but my gaze flicks up anyway—just for a second.
Big mistake.
Beck’s still smiling, that easy curve of his mouth softening his whole face. And there it is—a dimple, barely there, but enough to make something flutter low in my chest.
Up close, I notice more than I should. The faint stubble shadowing his jaw, like he shaved yesterday but not this morning. The way his eyes catch the light from the tall windows—green and sharp, like they miss nothing.
It’s unfair, really. He doesn’t even have to try. He just sits there, calm and self-contained, and the entire world tilts a little without him realizing it.
I snap my eyes back to the page before he can catch me staring, scribbling nonsense in the corner of my notes like that’ll erase the image branded into my brain.
He has a good smile. Too good. And the worst part is, he has no idea the kind of effect it has.
I press my pen harder into the page, willing myself to focus.
His voice cuts through the quiet between us. “What about Sunday evening?”
My head jerks up. “What?”
“For studying,” he clarifies, calm as ever. “We have the away game Saturday, but we’ll be back late that night. I have plans Sunday afternoon, but I can make sure to get back to campus early enough to get an hour or two in.”
Sunday. I run through my mental calendar—a mountain of reading for social work, cheer prep for the week, laundry…. Not exactly empty. But the way he says it, like he’s just offering a solution that helps the both of us, makes it hard to think of reasons to say no.
“Sunday should work,” I say softly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
He nods once, satisfied. “Good. Then it’s settled.”
Just like that, he turns back to his notebook, completely unbothered, like he hasn’t just upended the rhythm of my week.
Meanwhile, my pulse is still hammering.
I duck my head again, scribbling down the date before I can talk myself out of it.