The headlock heir and his napkin wife

Chapter 1: The Headlock I Saw Coming

POV: POPPY CARTER

I knew Jax was going to put Asher in a headlock exactly seven seconds before it happened.

Seventeen years of shared hospital nurseries, sandbox tantrums, and backseat road trip fights had given me a sixth sense for their chaos. We were at the last junior year pep rally of the fall, the Cape Cod Academy gym reeking of burnt popcorn and floor wax, and Asher Hale was currently hanging off the top bleacher rail like he had a death wish, yelling so loud his voice cracked.

"WATCH THIS SLOANE!" he screamed, pumping a fist at the cheer platform. "TWO FULL ROTATIONS! YOU'LL FORGET JAX EVEN EXISTS!"

Next to him, Jaxon "Jax" Reed-six-foot-four, two hundred and fifty pounds of football linebacker chaos, one shared brain cell that only fired for cheese puffs and his secret situationship with Sloane-whooped so loud the freshman next to me dropped her soda. "NAIL IT! AND IF YOU FACEPLANT I'M TAKING A PHOTO FOR THE FAMILY CHRISTMAS CARD!"

I tightened my grip on the pink glitter diary tucked in my uniform skirt pocket, already mentally counting. Seven... six... five...

Asher launched.

He flipped one and a half clean rotations, sneakers catching the golden gym light, and for half a second I thought he might actually pull off the dumb trick he'd practiced face-planting eleven times in his backyard the week before. Then his left shoe caught the rusted bleacher rail.

He went down like a sack of wet concrete.

Landed flat on his back in a mud puddle someone had tracked in by the gym doors, navy basketball hoodie soaked, messy brown hair full of dirt. The entire gym went dead silent.

Then Sloane Marlowe leaned over the cheer platform, popped a piece of gum, and yelled sharp enough to cut glass: "Cool flip, shrimp. Next time land on your face less. Also you have a Cheeto stuck in your eyebrow."

The room exploded.

Asher scrambled up, face turning the color of a stop sign, and tried to play it cool by leaning against a locker. He tripped over a freshman's backpack and nearly took out an entire row of middle schoolers.

Three... two... one.

Jax struck.

He materialized out of the crowd like a chaotic blonde tornado, one massive arm locking tight around Asher's neck, yanking him into a headlock so firm Asher's eyes bulged. He noogied the top of his hair so hard it looked like a bird had nested in it, cackling over the roar of laughter.

"LOVE YOU BRO! ALSO YOU'RE BEING A TOTAL IDIOT! THAT'S THREE EIGHTY-SEVEN!"

Asher flailed, kicking his feet, choking out protests that came out half-gasp half-yell. "LET GO-MY HAIR-MY PERFECT CALC SCORE-"

"PERFECT CALC SCORE MY FOOT," Jax roared, giving him an extra shake. "YOU GOT A HUNDRED? I COPIED YOUR EXACT ANSWERS LAST WEEK AND GOT A D. YOU CHANGED THE LAST THREE TO WRONG ONES DIDN'T YOU YOU SNEAKY GENIUS-"

I was already moving before Jax let him go. I dug the cold lemon Gatorade (extra sugar, his favorite, memorized in fifth grade after he'd gotten heat exhaustion at a playoff game) and the tiny boar-bristle brush I kept in my backpack exclusively for this exact moment out of my bag, and was waiting by the bleachers when Jax finally released him, snickering and tapping a tally into his phone. I knew the note well: OFFICIAL JAX REED HEADLOCK TALLY, every entry logged with a timestamp and reason. This one would be filed under 387: Tried to backflip for Sloane. Landed in mud. Cheeto in eyebrow included. Also hid his genius calc score again.

Asher sputtered, swatting at his hair, face still bright red. "Dude I almost had her! One more try-"

"One more try and you'll break your neck," Sloane said, sauntering over, ponytail swinging. A lanky senior with a varsity jacket and a bouquet of cheap roses stepped in front of her before she could finish, chest puffed out like a peacock.

"Sloane," he said, voice cracking. "I've liked you since freshman year. Will you go to prom with me?"

The whole hallway went quiet. Sloane blinked at him once, then looked him up and down like he was a moldy sandwich she'd found in the back of her fridge.

"I'd rather date the moldy pizza that's been in my locker since last month than you," she said, deadpan. "Also your sneakers look like they fought a lawnmower and lost. Bye."

The senior's face crumpled. He stuffed the roses in a trash can and practically ran down the hall. Jax snickered, slinging an arm over her shoulders-they'd been sneaking around behind the football field for two weeks, a secret only I knew, because Sloane texted me every time Jax tried to hold her hand and squeezed so hard he cut off her circulation.

Asher deflated like a punctured basketball next to me, flopping onto the bleacher so hard the whole row shook. "Does she hate me?" he mumbled into his hands.

"No," I said, which was mostly a lie. Sloane didn't hate him. She just thought he was a walking disaster area who'd been pining after her since eighth grade while the girl who'd loved him since birth sat two feet away fixing his hair every other day. I popped the Gatorade cap and handed it to him, then gently brushed the mud and Cheeto crumbs out of his hair with the brush. "She just has bad taste."

He chugged half the bottle in one go, then grinned at me-that lopsided, too-bright smirk that had been making my heart do backflips since we were seven and he'd pushed a third grader off the swing set for calling my pigtails stupid. "You're the best, Pops. Seriously. What would I do without you?"

Marry you. Have your babies. Press four hundred more tiny white roses into my diary. Run our dads' companies together when we're old.

"Probably fail algebra," I said instead, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "Also get your head stuck in a vending machine again. Also trip over more backpacks."

Before he could argue, the principal tapped the mic on the stage, clearing his throat so loud the speakers crackled. The noise died to a murmur.

"ALRIGHT ALRIGHT SETTLE DOWN!" he yelled. "TIME FOR OUR FIRST HONOR ROLL ANNOUNCEMENT OF THE SEMESTER! YOUR TOP FOUR RANKED JUNIORS-COMBINED GPA HIGHER THAN THE SCHOOL'S ANNUAL BUDGET!"

Everyone murmured, expecting the usual crew: the quiet kids who sat front row, brought extra pencils, never spoke unless called on.

The principal adjusted his glasses. "FOURTH PLACE, 3.98-OUR STARTING LINEBACKER, JAXON REED!"

Silence.

Then Jax screamed so loud the rafters rattled: "NO WAY THAT'S RIGGED. I GOT A D ON MY BIO QUIZ LAST WEEK. WHO DID YOU PAY-"

"NO MISTAKE MR. REED," the principal snort-laughed. "EXTRA CREDIT ON YOUR SCIENCE FAIR PROJECT BUMPED YOU UP. THIRD PLACE, PERFECT 4.0-OUR ART PRODIGY, POPPY CARTER!"

My face warmed as the people around me cheered. I waved small, pressing my diary tighter to my hip. I'd known I'd place, but I still hated the attention.

"SECOND PLACE, 4.02-CHEER CAPTAIN, SLOANE MARLOWE!"

Sloane blew a dramatic kiss to the crowd, flipping her ponytail like she'd just won an Oscar.

"AND FIRST PLACE," the principal paused for effect, grinning, "PERFECT 4.0 ACROSS EVERY AP CLASS, OUR VARSITY BASKETBALL CAPTAIN, THE BOY WHO ALMOST BURNED DOWN THE HOME EC WING LAST WEEK-ASHER HALE!"

The silence lasted three full seconds.

Then the gym screamed so loud the bleachers shook.

Asher just shrugged, like acing every advanced class while acting like he had two brain cells was no big deal. It was his brand: hide the genius, lean into the silly jock act, so no one looked at him like he was just the heir to Hale Industries, not a real kid. Jax stared at him, mouth hanging open, then shoved his shoulder so hard Asher nearly fell off the bleacher.

"WAIT A SECOND," Jax squawked. "YOU HID THIS FROM ME? ALL THOSE TIMES YOU ASKED ME TO HELP YOU 'STUDY' YOU WERE ALREADY ACING EVERYTHING? I OWE YOU TWENTY BUCKS FROM THE BET THAT YOU'D FAIL CHEM-"

"Not my fault you don't pay attention," Asher snickered, unscrewing the Gatorade cap again. I bit my lip to hide a smile. I'd known about his grades for years, of course. I was the only one he let see his report cards, the only one who knew he stayed up till two in the morning reading aerospace textbooks for fun, then slept through first period so everyone thought he was just a lazy athlete.

By the time the bell rang, the whole school was still talking about it. We walked down the hall to our lockers in a pack, Asher still getting clapped on the back by random seniors, Jax still complaining about being scammed out of twenty dollars. When Asher spun his locker dial and yanked the door open, an avalanche spilled out.

Pink envelopes. Perfumed letters. Three chocolate cakes in Tupperware. A giant teddy bear wearing a tiny basketball jersey with his number on it. A fifty-dollar mall gift card.

He stared at the pile for a beat, then kicked a letter across the floor. "What on earth is all this."

Sloane opened her locker, and even more poured out-roses, jewelry, a handwritten poem that started with Your eyes are like the Atlantic. Mine was stuffed too, mostly shy notes from boys too scared to talk to me out loud, and Jax's had a cooler full of protein shakes someone had left with a note that said For the strongest man in school <3.

We counted it all on the hallway floor: seventeen love letters total, three cakes, eight gift cards, two teddy bears, one cooler of protein shakes, and a hand-knit scarf in school colors for Asher.

Asher stared at the mountain of confessions, then slowly turned to Jax, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

"Bet you fifty bucks," he said, "I reject more people than you by Friday. Loser buys a whole month of the good flamin' hot cheese puffs. The big bags. And we print official rejection certificates. Tiered ones. Platinum Friend Zone. Gold 'I'm Already In Love With Someone Else'. Your personal favorite: Sorry You're Shorter Than My Bicep."

Jax slammed his hand on the linoleum so hard a nearby freshman jumped. "DEAL. BUT IF YOU LEAD ANYONE ON I DOCK YOU POINTS. AND I GET TO DESIGN THE CERTIFICATES."

I shook my head, smiling as I tucked a shy sophomore's letter into my diary-I'd write a few lines about Asher's smirk later, like I did every night, and press another tiny white rose between the pages. Sloane snort-laughed, leaning against the lockers.

"You two are actual children," she said. "Also? If either of you rejects that quiet poetry kid from AP Lit-the one with the curly hair and vintage sweaters-I will hide all of your jerseys in the boys' shower drain. Don't test me."

Asher laughed, reaching down to grab a Tupperware of chocolate cake from his pile. His hand brushed a crumpled white envelope tucked under the container, no stamp, no name, just his handwriting scrawled across the front in messy block letters.

He frowned, picking it up, and tore it open.

I leaned over his shoulder to read it, and my blood turned to ice.

Your dad should've sold Hale Industries when he had the chance. You're next.

No signature. No explanation. Just ten cold words that made the noise of the hallway fade to a dull buzz. Asher's jaw tightened for half a second-just a flicker, the only sign he was scared-then he folded the note small, shoved it deep into the pocket of his jeans, and grabbed the cake, grinning like he hadn't just read a death threat.

"Hey Pops," he said, nudging my arm with his elbow, like nothing was wrong. "You're the nice one. Help me practice my rejection lines tonight? I don't wanna make anyone cry. Well, not too much."

I stared at the pocket where he'd hidden the note, my stomach twisting so tight I could barely breathe. I knew that look. The one where he decided he was going to handle something scary alone, no help, no telling anyone, because he thought being the heir meant he had to be the strong one all the time.

I slipped my hand into my skirt pocket, wrapping my fingers around my diary, and forced a small smile.

"Sure," I said. "I'll help."

I had no idea then that the note wasn't just some stupid prank.

It was the first crack in the perfect, silly, chaotic life I'd spent seventeen years loving.

And it was only going to get worse from here.

End of Chapter 1

Chapter 2: The Rejection Olympics & The Note In His Pocket

POV: POPPY CARTER

Word count: 1710

The hallway bell rang three times before anyone moved, the noise of lockers slamming and sneakers squeaking slowly seeping back into my ears after the cold shock of that note. Asher was already shoving the Tupperware of chocolate cake at Jax, his grin so bright and fake I almost believed he'd forgotten the ten words tucked in his jeans pocket.

"Tonight, my place, seven," he said, like his hands weren't shaking just a little when he wiped cake crumbs off his hoodie. "We design the certificates first, then practice lines. Pops, you're in charge of telling us if we're being too mean."

"Too late for that," Sloane snorted, slinging her backpack over one shoulder. She plucked the poem about her "Atlantic eyes" out of her locker pile, ripped it neatly in half, and dropped it in the trash can next to a freshman's math homework. "Also if either of you make that poor poetry kid cry I'm hiding all your game socks in the cafeteria deep fryer. Don't test me."

Jax gasped, clutching his chest like she'd shot him. "You wouldn't dare. My lucky socks are the only reason we won the last playoff game."

"Watch me." She winked, then nodded at me. "Sleepover at my place tomorrow? We're watching that terrible rom-com you love and making fun of all the dumb boy lines."

I nodded, tucking my diary tighter in my bag, my eyes still darting to Asher's pocket every three seconds. He was laughing at something Jax said, shoving him back so hard Jax stumbled into a group of sophomores, but I saw the way his jaw kept tightening, the way he kept patting his pocket like he was scared the note would vanish or multiply or scream out loud for everyone to hear. That was Asher's worst habit-when something scary happened, he stuffed it down so deep even he pretended it wasn't there, put on his loudest himbo act, and decided he'd fix it alone, no help allowed.

I'd learned that when we were twelve and he'd crashed his dad's old golf cart into the Hale mansion rose garden. He'd hidden the dented cart in the boathouse for three days, told everyone it was stolen, and tried to plant new rose bushes at two in the morning wearing his dinosaur pajamas. I'd found him covered in thorns, sniffling because he'd ruined his mom's favorite flowers, and helped him fix it. He'd never told anyone else I'd helped.

I wanted to ask him about the note. Wanted to yank it out of his pocket, read it again, call the police, call his dad, call someone. But I knew if I pushed he'd just laugh it off, call it a stupid prank, and stop telling me things entirely. So I said nothing. Just followed them out to the school parking lot, the late afternoon sun warm on my back, the crinkle of my diary pages against my hip a quiet, steady weight.

The first official round of the Rejection Olympics started at lunch the next day.

Jax had stayed up till one in the morning designing the certificates on Asher's laptop, printing them out on fancy cardstock he'd stolen from his mom's home office. They were color-coded: gold for Platinum Friend Zone, silver for I'm Already In Love With Someone Else, and a truly terrible neon orange for Sorry You're Shorter Than My Bicep. He was currently holding up the orange one to a tiny freshman who'd asked him to the spring dance, his voice booming so loud the whole cafeteria turned to stare.

"NO HARD FEELINGS KID!" he yelled, patting the freshman so hard on the shoulder the boy nearly dropped his tray. "YOU'RE A GREAT GUY! YOU JUST REMIND ME OF MY LITTLE COUSIN AND THAT'S WEIRD! KEEP YOUR HEAD UP! ALSO EAT MORE PROTEIN YOU'LL GROW!"

The freshman took the certificate, red as a tomato, and practically ran back to his table. Asher cackled so hard he snort-laughed chocolate milk out his nose, banging his fist on the table. "That's seven points for me! You only have five so far, Reed! Sucks to suck!"

"Cheater!" Jax squawked, pointing a finger at him. "You got three of those by being too nice! You told that sophomore from math class 'you're amazing I just don't like you like that' and she hugged you! That's not a rejection! That's a friendship proposal! I DOCK YOU TWO POINTS!"

"Rules don't say I can't be nice!" Asher protested, then immediately winced when a lanky junior from the soccer team walked up to our table, holding a tiny stuffed bear and a shaky smile.

"Hey Poppy," the kid said, ignoring the three boys staring at him like he'd grown a second head. "I know we don't talk much but I think you're really cool and I was wondering if-"

My brain short-circuited. This always happened. I was terrible at saying no to people, terrible at watching their faces fall, terrible at anything that wasn't smiling and nodding and accidentally making them think I was saying yes. I opened my mouth, ready to stammer out some nice, soft lie that would somehow make this worse, when Asher's arm suddenly slung easy and heavy around my shoulders, pulling me tight into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Sorry man," he said, his voice lazy and warm, that stupid perfect smirk on his face. "She's already got a standing date to help me not fail chemistry for the next three months. Maybe next time, yeah?"

The kid's face fell. He mumbled an apology, stuffed the bear back in his backpack, and hurried away. I stared up at Asher, my heart hammering so hard I was scared he could feel it through his hoodie, my cheeks burning so hot I was sure I was glowing red. His arm was still around me, warm and solid, and for half a second I let myself pretend-pretend he meant it, pretend I wasn't just the friend he asked to help him practice rejection lines, pretend one day he'd look at me the way he used to look at Sloane.

Then he pulled his arm away, high-fiving Jax like he'd just won a championship. "SEE? That's two more points! I rescued Pops from an awkward confession AND rejected a guy by proxy! That counts DOUBLE JAX YOU CAN'T SAY IT DOESN'T-"

I pressed my hand to my chest under the table, trying to slow my stupid, traitorous heart down, and stared at my half-eaten sandwich. One day, I told myself. One day I'll tell him. Probably. Maybe. When he stops being an idiot.

Sloane kicked me under the table, her eyes glinting like she'd read every single thought in my head. She mouthed IDIOT at me, nodding at Asher's back, and I threw a french fry at her face.

By the time I walked home that afternoon, my backpack was full of shy letters I'd have to write nice rejection notes for later, my throat hurt from laughing at Jax and Asher's certificate drama, and that cold twist in my stomach about the note hadn't gone away. I let myself in the front door, dropped my bag by the stairs, and found my little sister Lila sitting at the kitchen table covered in glitter glue, working on a middle school art project.

She looked up the second the door clicked shut, her thirteen-year-old radar for my bad mood pinging instantly. She put her glue stick down, wiping glitter off her cheek, and raised one eyebrow.

"Okay," she said, like she was a doctor diagnosing a broken arm. "Spill. You've got that 'Asher did something stupid and you're in love with him and also something scary happened' face. Is it the backflip thing again? Did he try to do a skateboard trick off the roof? Did Jax put him in another headlock during math class?"

I dropped into the chair across from her, burying my face in my hands for a full ten seconds before I told her everything. All of it. The backflip faceplant, the headlock, the perfect grades reveal that had shocked the whole school, the Rejection Olympics bet, the way Asher had stepped in to help me with that junior at lunch, and finally-quietly, like saying it out loud would make it real-the note.

When I finished, Lila sat silent for a whole minute. Then she groaned so loud the cat ran out of the room.

"HE IS THE DUMBEST BOY ALIVE," she yelled, throwing her glitter-covered hands in the air. "THE ACTUAL DUMBEST. YOU HAVE BEEN IN LOVE WITH HIM SINCE YOU WERE FIVE AND HE PUSHED THAT KID OFF THE SWING FOR YOU AND HE STILL THINKS YOU JUST BRING HIM GATORADE OUT OF THE GOODNESS OF YOUR HEART? I SWEAR TO GOD I'M GOING TO SHAKE HIM UNTIL HIS BRAIN STARTS WORKING-"

"Lila!" I hissed, kicking her shin under the table. "Lower your voice! Mom's upstairs! And don't you dare say anything to him. Promise me. He'll just get all weird and avoid me and then I'll have to move to another country and change my name."

She huffed, crossing her arms, but nodded. "Fine. I promise. But if he doesn't figure it out before graduation I'm taping all your diary pages to the school gym wall. I'm not watching you waste your whole teenage years pining over a boy who thinks 'subtle' is a type of pasta." She paused, her voice softening, all the sass draining out of it when she saw how tight I was twisting my bracelet around my wrist. "The note though... that's not a prank, Poppy. Not a stupid senior prank. You have to tell someone. Tell Dad. Tell Asher's dad. Make Asher tell someone. He can't fix a death threat by hiding it in his jeans pocket and pretending it's not there."

"I know," I whispered, staring at the tablecloth. "I know. But he won't listen. He never does. He thinks he has to be strong all the time 'cause he's the Hale heir or whatever."

"Then you be strong for both of you," Lila said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. She pushed a half-eaten cookie across the table at me, the one with the pink sprinkles she knew I loved. "Now go write in your diary and mope. I'll clean up the glitter. And for the record? If anyone tries to hurt him or you or any of them? I've got a baseball bat under my bed. Don't tell Mom."

I laughed, wet and wobbly, and picked up the cookie. "I won't."

I locked my bedroom door an hour later, the house quiet except for the hum of the AC and the distant sound of Lila's terrible pop music playing downstairs. I pulled my pink glitter diary out of my backpack, flipped to the next empty page, and took the tiny white rose I'd plucked from our front garden on the walk home out of my pocket. I pressed it carefully between the pages, then picked up my pen, my handwriting small and neat across the lined paper.

Rose #473, I wrote. Today Asher put his arm around me in the cafeteria. My heart almost beat out of my chest. He still doesn't know. Jax made rejection certificates. Sloane kicked me under the table and called me an idiot. She's right.

I paused, the pen hovering over the paper, then wrote the next part slow, like writing it softer would make it less scary.

There was a note in Asher's locker. It said his dad should've sold the company, that he's next. He hid it in his pocket and didn't tell anyone but me. I'm scared. Not just for him. For all of us. It feels like something bad is coming and we're all just laughing about cheese puffs and rejection certificates like nothing's wrong.

I closed the diary, tucking it back in the secret space under my mattress where no one but me ever looked, and was just about to change into pajamas when my phone buzzed once on my nightstand.

It was a text from Asher, sent at 11:47 PM.

hey pops don't tell anyone about the note ok? i'll handle it. also bring extra lemon gatorade tomorrow practice ran late i'm actually dying thx

I stared at the screen for a long time, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I wanted to text him back you don't have to handle it alone. I wanted to text him I'm scared. I wanted to text him a hundred other things I'd never say out loud.

Instead I typed:

ok. goodnight. extra cold in the morning promise.

I hit send, then got up to lock my window like I did every night. I pulled the curtain aside to slide the lock shut-and froze.

Parked two houses down, half-hidden behind a big oak tree, was a big black SUV with dark tinted windows. The engine was off, no lights on, but I could just make out the faint glow of a cigarette being lit through the driver's side glass.

The same SUV, I realized with a cold, creeping dread, that had been parked across the street from the school all afternoon.

I fumbled with the lock, sliding it shut so hard my fingers ached, and stumbled back from the window, my heart hammering so hard I could hear it in my ears. I yanked the curtain closed, leaned my back against the wall, and slid down to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees.

Lila was right. Something bad was coming.

And it was already closer than any of us thought.

End of Chapter 2

Chapter 3: The Cook-Off Bet & The Car That Wouldn't Leave

POV: POPPY CARTER

Word count: 1689

I sat on my bedroom floor for forty-seven minutes after I saw that SUV, knees pulled tight to my chest, too scared to move even when the floor started making my legs go numb. I counted the cracks in the paint on my wall twice, listened to Lila's music cut out and the house go quiet, and only dared peek through the curtain again when a neighbor's dog barked loud enough to make me jump.

The SUV was gone.

I didn't sleep much after that. I tossed and turned till three in the morning, replaying the glow of that cigarette through the tinted glass, the cold words of the note in Asher's locker, the way he'd smiled so fake bright after reading it like nothing was wrong. I climbed out of bed once to write in my diary, my handwriting wobbly in the dim lamp light, pressing another tiny white rose between the pages even though I had nothing nice to write about that night. By the time my alarm went off at six thirty, my eyes felt gritty and heavy, and I'd had three stupid dreams where the black SUV chased us through the school hallways.

Lila was already at the kitchen table eating cereal when I stumbled downstairs, yawning so wide my jaw cracked. She lowered her spoon, raising one eyebrow so high it almost vanished into her bangs.

"Yikes," she said, mouth full of Froot Loops. "You look like you fought a raccoon and lost. Did you stay up all night writing Asher's name in your diary again, or was it the SUV thing?"

"Both," I mumbled, pouring orange juice into a glass and missing half of it. I grabbed the extra cold lemon Gatorade I'd stuffed in the fridge the night before for Asher, tucking it into my backpack next to my diary. "And it was probably nothing. Just a lost delivery driver or something."

Lila snorted so hard milk came out her nose. "Right. A lost delivery driver who parks in the dark across from our house for an hour and smokes like a villain in a bad movie. Sure. Tell yourself that. But if we end up in a true crime podcast because you refused to tell Dad, I'm telling the producers you were the dumb one."

I threw a toast crust at her head and ran for the door before she could lecture me more.

The first thing I saw when I walked through the school front doors was Jax standing on top of a lunch table, waving a neon orange rejection certificate over his head like a trophy, yelling so loud the lockers rattled.

"THAT'S TEN POINTS!" he screamed, as a very red-faced freshman ran away covering his face. "TEN! I'M CATCHING UP HALE YOU CHEATER-"

He cut himself off mid-yell when Asher came up behind him, grabbed the back of his football jersey, and hauled him off the table like he was lifting a misbehaving golden retriever. Jax flailed, kicking his feet, and immediately tried to twist around to put Asher in a headlock. Asher ducked, grinning, and the two of them tumbled into a pile of backpacks by the water fountain, drawing a crowd of cheering sophomores.

I laughed despite my tiredness, digging the Gatorade out of my bag. Asher looked up when he saw me coming, shoving Jax off him and scrambling to his feet, brushing dirt off his jeans. His grin was bright, the same stupid perfect one he always had-but I noticed the way his eyes darted to every loud noise in the hallway, the way he flinched so hard he nearly dropped his books when a kid two lockers down slammed his door shut hard.

"Hey Pops," he said, taking the Gatorade from me like he knew I'd bring it. His fingers brushed mine for half a second, and my stupid heart did that stupid flip it always did. "You're a lifesaver. Practice ran till eight last night, coach made us run laps till I thought I was gonna throw up. You're the best."

Before I could answer, Jax popped up behind him, already tallying something in his phone. "Update! Asher's at twelve points, I'm at eleven. That's it. I'm challenging you to a cook-off duel. Winner gets five extra Rejection Olympics points, loser buys the cheese puffs for two months. The big fancy kind from the gourmet aisle."

Asher opened his mouth to say yes, but the principal's voice cut him off, blaring over the cafeteria speakers so loud everyone winced.

"ATTENTION JUNIORS! ANNUAL CLASS COOK-OFF SIGN-UPS OPEN TODAY AFTER SCHOOL! TEAMS OF TWO! GRAND PRIZE: FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS PER TEAM MEMBER, A FEATURE IN THE CAPE COD LOCAL PAPER, AND EXTRA COLLEGE APP CREDIT FROM THE GUIDANCE DEPARTMENT! NO BURNING DOWN THE HOME EC WING THIS YEAR, HALE. I'M WATCHING YOU."

The whole cafeteria turned to stare at Asher. He turned bright red, sinking a little in his seat. "That was ONE TIME. The fire marshal said it was mostly the stove's fault!"

Sloane snickered from across the table, flipping a page of her math homework like she didn't care. "Please. You turned a box of mac and cheese into a three-alarm fire. The firemen still ask about you at the grocery store."

Asher ignored her, slamming his tray down so hard his chocolate milk sloshed. He turned to me, eyes sparkling, and grabbed both my hands before I could think about it. My brain short-circuited so bad I forgot how to breathe for a second.

"POPPY," he said, way too loud for the quiet table. "WE ARE ENTERING THE COOK-OFF. YOU AND ME. WE ARE GONNA WIN. YOU'RE THE BEST COOK IN THE WHOLE STATE, I'M GREAT AT STIRRING AND OPENING CANS, WE ARE UNSTOPPABLE."

I blinked at him, still trying to process his hands on mine. "Wait-what? Asher, last time you tried to make toast you set off three smoke alarms. You once burned water. We're gonna lose."

"Nonsense!" he said, letting go of my hands to pump a fist in the air. "We have a secret weapon: you. Also I bought a new apron that says 'KISS THE COOK' so the judges will feel bad for us if we mess up. It's foolproof."

Before I could argue more, Jax gasped, pointing at Sloane. "YOU AND ME! WE'RE THEIR RIVALS! WE'RE GONNA MAKE THE BEST MAC AND CHEESE THIS SCHOOL HAS EVER SEEN AND CRUSH THEM! LOSER BUYS CHEESE PUFFS FOR THREE MONTHS!"

Sloane stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "Absolutely not. I'm not letting you near a stove. You'll burn the building down and I'll get detention for it."

Jax pulled a giant family-sized bag of flamin' hot cheese puffs out of his backpack, holding them up like a peace offering. "I brought snacks. For the whole week. All yours if you say yes."

Sloane stared at the bag for three long seconds, then sighed, snatching it out of his hand. "Fine. But if you so much as look at a match wrong I'm hiding all your protein shakes in the girls' bathroom. Don't test me."

The rest of the day passed in a blur of note-taking and more Rejection Olympics chaos. Asher won three more points by being so nice to the girls he rejected they all brought him extra cookies at lunch, and Jax threw such a fit about it the librarian threatened to ban him from the library forever. But every time I looked at Asher, I saw the cracks in his act: the way he kept checking over his shoulder every two minutes, the way he'd go quiet mid-joke and stare at his shoes for a second, the way he kept patting his jeans pocket where he'd hidden the note like he was scared it would burn a hole through the fabric.

I cornered him by his locker after the last bell, when the hallway was almost empty. He was shoving textbooks into his bag, moving faster than he needed to, and didn't look up till I said his name.

"Asher," I said, quiet enough no one else could hear. "About that note. And the car I saw last night. The black SUV. Lila's right. We should tell someone. Your dad, or the principal, or-"

He cut me off, slamming his locker shut so hard the magnets fell off. His smile was tight, fake, the same one he'd used the day he found the note. "It's nothing, Pops. I promise. Just some stupid prank from the St. John's kids. We've had a rivalry with their basketball team forever. They're just being idiots. The SUV was probably just a parent picking up their kid. You're overthinking it."

I didn't believe him. I could see it in his eyes, the same scared tightness he'd had when he crashed the golf cart into the rose bushes when we were twelve, the same look he got when he was trying to be brave so no one would worry about him. But before I could push more, he grabbed my backpack strap, tugging me toward the school doors, his grin going soft and real for half a second.

"C'mon. We're gonna go to my place and practice our cook-off dish. I already told my mom we're making her famous lobster mac and cheese. She left all the ingredients out on the counter. And I bought that vanilla ice cream you like for dessert. Please? We can talk about the stupid note later, I swear. Just... not today."

I wanted to say no. Wanted to yell at him to stop hiding things, to stop trying to fix every scary thing alone. But he was looking at me with those big stupid green eyes, holding the door open for me like he was twelve again and walking me home from elementary school, and I was too weak to say no to him. I never was.

"Fine," I said, sighing like it was the worst thing in the world, even as my chest felt all warm and stupid. "But if you burn the house down I'm telling the fire marshal it was all your idea."

He whooped, grabbing my wrist to tug me down the sidewalk toward his neighborhood. We cut through the big park by the school, the grass still dewy from the morning rain, kids laughing on the playground a few yards away. I was just about to make fun of him for his terrible "KISS THE COOK" apron plan when my blood turned to ice.

Two cars behind us, driving slow, so slow it was obvious they weren't just going home, was the same big black SUV with the tinted windows.

I froze, yanking my wrist out of Asher's hand so hard I stumbled. He stopped immediately, turning to look at me, his smile vanishing when he saw my face. "Pops? What's wrong-"

Then he saw it.

His whole demeanor changed in half a second. The silly himbo act dropped, his shoulders going tight, his jaw clenching so hard I could see the muscle jump in his cheek. He stepped in front of me a little, not enough to be obvious, but enough that I was half hidden behind his shoulder, and started walking faster, his hand brushing mine like he wanted to hold it but was too scared to.

"Don't look back," he said, so quiet I almost didn't hear him. His voice was steady, but I could feel the slight shake in his arm when it brushed mine. "Just keep walking. My house is three blocks away. We'll be fine."

I nodded, my throat too tight to talk, and kept my eyes fixed on the sidewalk cracks in front of me. I heard the SUV crawl past us slow, so slow I could make out the faint outline of a man's silhouette in the driver's seat, and then it was gone, turning down a side street like it had never been there at all.

We didn't say a word the rest of the walk to Asher's house. He unlocked the big white front gate, holding it open for me, and only breathed out a long shaky sigh when the gate clicked shut behind us, locking out the rest of the world. He leaned his back against the fence, closing his eyes for a second, and I saw the sweat beading on his forehead even though it was cool out.

He pulled the crumpled white note out of his jeans pocket, staring at the ten scrawled words like they'd personally offended him. For a second I thought he was gonna rip it up, throw it in the bushes, pretend it didn't exist again. Instead he folded it small, shoving it back in his pocket, and looked at me, his voice small and scared, nothing like the loud boy who yelled about cook-offs an hour earlier.

"Okay," he said, quiet. "You're right. It's not a prank. I saw the same car outside my house Tuesday night. I just... I didn't wanna tell anyone. Dad's already so stressed about the merger, Mom's been having migraines, I didn't wanna make it worse. I thought if I ignored it it'd go away."

He reached out, hesitating for a second before he brushed a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers warm against my cheek. "Can we wait till after the cook-off to tell anyone? Just two more days. I don't want this stupid thing ruining the first thing we've gotten to do together that's just... fun. Please? After we win, we'll tell both our dads together. I promise."

I should've said no. Should've made him march inside and call his dad right then. But he was looking at me like I was the only person in the whole world he trusted, and I'd do almost anything for that look. I nodded, and his face lit up, that stupid lopsided grin coming back, softer this time, real.

"C'mon," he said, pushing the front door open. The smell of garlic and melted butter drifted out from the kitchen, and I saw all the ingredients laid out neat on the counter just like he'd said, even the vanilla ice cream he'd bought me sitting in the freezer door. "I already grated all the cheese. Well... most of it. I ate a handful. Don't tell Mom."

I laughed, following him inside, the fear from the SUV still tight in my chest but quieter now, pushed to the back by the warmth of the kitchen and the sound of Asher rummaging through the drawer for his stupid apron.

I didn't know it then, but two days from now, that same kitchen practice would lead to the biggest fire the Cape Cod Academy home ec wing had ever seen.

And the note in Asher's pocket would stop being just words on paper.

End of Chapter 3