Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lance sat at his desk, staring at the angry ‘35/50’ marked at the top right corner of his test bubble sheet in blue ink.

“Red isn’t a very positive color,” his teacher had said at the beginning of the year. The sentiment was nice, sure, but Lance would argue that placing a big blue frowny face next to his near-failing grade was even more patronizing than just writing ‘D-’ in classic horror-movie red and sending him on his way. At least that would’ve had some flair. The blue was just depressing.

He sank a little lower in his chair, hoping the desk would swallow him whole. He could hear the shuffling of test papers around the room, and someone in the back let out a low whistle. “Yo, what was that curve?” another muttered. Lance glanced up at the whiteboard where the class average was proudly displayed in big numbers: ‘87’. And below it, in tiny asterisks that mocked his very existence: after curve .

Shit.

He swallowed hard, eyes darting back to his own paper. If this was after the curve, then without it… oh god. He didn’t even want to know.

“I haven’t gotten around to the FRQs for this class yet,” Mr. Shirogane droned from the front of the room, oblivious to the panic spiraling through at least half his students. “But they should be in by the end of the day today or tomorrow.”

That meant Lance’s disaster wasn’t over yet. If he’d done this badly on multiple choice, then what did that say about his short answers? He didn’t even remember what the question was. Something about motion? Forces? Did he write about rockets or penguins? Maybe he had blacked out and drawn a cartoon instead.

He made the mistake of glancing over at Pidge. She sat two rows down, sharp eyes locked onto the board like she was already five steps ahead into the new unit. Her test sat perfectly aligned in front of her with a silver star drawn neatly in the corner. Lance didn’t even have to look at the number to know she’d aced it. That was just who she was. Pidge probably solved the test backward just for the hell of it.

Lance slumped further. His once crisp test paper crumpling and bending underneath his fingertips that were damp from pure terror.

He couldn’t go home with this. He could already imagine the look on his mom’s face—disappointed but not surprised, which was way worse than yelling. Not to mention the running list of passive-aggressive things she’d say under her breath while wiping down the counters.

“C’s get degrees,” he muttered to himself, trying to summon some sort of comfort. It didn’t help. Because yeah, technically, a C wasn’t failing, but when your family had moved countries and worked two jobs just so you could have a shot at something better, a C felt like a slap in the face. 

The bell rang and snapped him out of his spiral.

Lance gathered his things slowly, dragging his feet until he stood. The test paper drooped from his folder like it was trying to escape, too.

As he headed for the door, he caught up to Pidge. “Hey,” he said casually, or as casually as someone with an academic death sentence could manage. “So, uh… how do you think you did?”

She shot him a look. “Fine.”

“Cool, cool. I mean, that star on your test paper looked pretty official. Gold next time, probably.”

She raised a brow. “Was there something you wanted, Lance?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Well, uh… I was wondering if maybe you could—y’know—help me study? Just for the next unit. Or like, explain the FRQ stuff? In a ‘please don’t let me ruin my life’ kind of way.”

Pidge didn’t even blink. “No.”

“What—wait, seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Why not?!”

She turned on her heel. “Because the last time I helped you, you fell asleep halfway through me explaining kinematic equations and then blamed me when you got a D. I’m not getting dragged into your academic melodrama again.”

“I didn’t blame you—”

“You absolutely did. You told Mr. Shirogane I gave you the wrong formula!”

“That was one time! And also kind of true!”

“Then still no,” Pidge said. “I’ve got robotics club and a life. I’m not spending it reteaching you how to convert newtons to joules.”

Lance scoffed. “That was one time.”

“It was three times. In the same week.”

He groaned and let his head thunk against the desk. Pidge patted his shoulder with all the gentleness of a slamming door. “Good luck, though.”

He thought about Allura—sharp, brilliant Allura, with her perfect braids and color-coded notes and the kind of handwriting that looked like it belonged on a wedding invitation. She sat two rows ahead of him, always raising her hand, always knowing the answer.

She probably wouldn’t even mind helping him. She was nice. She was helpful. She was gorgeous. But that was exactly the problem. He didn’t want to seem helpless . Not in front of someone like her. Not when he’d spent the entire semester fantasizing about being her knight in shining armour, coming to her rescue instead of paying attention to the class.

Lance sighed and slumped against the nearest locker, letting the cool metal press into his back. Maybe if he stared at the ceiling long enough, the answer would just fall into his lap.

It didn’t.

Lance picked at the suspiciously wet and soggy pizza on his tray, his appetite all but vanished. He was becoming increasingly sure that cheese shouldn’t bend like that. 

“So, uh,” Lance said as he dropped his tray onto the lunch table and slumped into his seat with the theatrical grace of someone whose world had just ended, “if anyone needs me after school, I’ll be holding a candlelight vigil for my GPA.”

“Rest in peace,” Hunk said solemnly, raising his juice box.

Pidge didn’t look up from her tablet. “How bad was it?”

Lance let out a long groan and let his forehead fall to the table. “Thirty five. Out of fifty.”

“Yikes,” Hunk muttered.

“That’s not terrible, ” Allura offered as she slid gracefully into the seat next to Hunk. Her tray, as usual, was organized like it had been curated by a nutritionist. “It’s just… slightly below average.”

Lance lifted his head just enough to glare at her. “The class average was an eighty-seven. After the curve. ”

“God,” Pidge said, finally sparing him a glance. “Did you even read the FRQ?”

“I don’t even remember the question. I blacked out somewhere between panicking and regretting all my life choices.”

“You were whispering song lyrics under your breath,” Hunk added helpfully. “I think you were dissociating.”

“Okay, but hear me out,” Lance said around a bite of his sandwich. “What if we just pretend physics doesn’t exist? Like, collectively. As a society.”

Pidge didn’t even look up from her tablet. “Then planes fall out of the sky. And so do your grades.”

Hunk winced sympathetically. “Too soon.”

“I’m just saying,” Lance huffed, slumping in his seat, “maybe gravity doesn’t deserve rights.”

Allura slid into the seat beside him, impeccably dressed as always, even in uniform. Her tray was organized by food group. Lance’s was chaos. “Gravity is not the problem,” she said, tapping her fork against his tray. “It’s your refusal to study.”

“I do study!” Lance defended, straightening in his seat. “It’s just that… none of it makes sense. And every time I try to ask questions, Mr. Shirogane launches into some metaphor about electrons falling in love or whatever.”

“He did compare vector addition to a failed group project once,” Hunk admitted.

“Right?” Lance gestured like that proved everything. “Like I get it—he’s brilliant and all that—but I’m not trying to learn physics in poetry. I need, like, normal-person explanations.”

“I gave you explanations,” Pidge said without looking up.

“You gave me judgment and a sarcastic quiz about Newton’s laws.”

“Same difference.”

Allura frowned, setting her fork down. “Lance, if it’s really getting to you, I could help. I’ve been reviewing with a few other people after school.”

Lance froze.

She said it so casually, like it was no big deal. But the thought of sitting there while Allura—flawless, brilliant, composed Allura—walked him through material he should already know made his stomach twist.

He forced a laugh. “I appreciate it, really. But I got it.”

Pidge snorted. “That’s what you said last time, and you forgot which way is ‘positive x-axis.’”

“In my defense,” Lance said quickly, “that question was worded weirdly. Very… tricky. Very… misleading.”

“It was literally a picture of a ramp,” Pidge deadpanned.

“You’d be surprised how deceiving ramps can be.”

Allura tilted her head. “There’s nothing wrong with needing help, you know. Mr. Shirogane wouldn’t have mentioned the learning center if he didn’t think students could benefit from it.”

Lance stiffened. “Wait—how’d you know he said that?”

“He tells all of us to go there when we need help. Especially before big tests.”

Hunk nodded. “He even offered to walk me there once. It was kinda nice, honestly. Like a weirdly motivational field trip.”

“I’m not going to the learning center,” Lance said, a bit too defensively. “It’s basically an academic purgatory. A sad little room where people go to cry into their textbooks while being tutored by judgmental honor students.”

“I tutored there last semester,” Allura said.

“Exactly.”

Hunk choked on his juice.

Pidge was openly cackling.

Lance groaned and dropped his head again, this time into his mashed potatoes. “Let me die.”

“You’ll die less if you let someone help you,” Allura said gently.

He cleared his throat and looked away. “Nah, I’m good. I’ll figure something out.”

There was a short silence at the table. Hunk gave him a look that said, Bro, c’mon. Allura, to her credit, didn’t push—just nodded and returned to her salad.

Pidge muttered, “You’ll ‘figure something out’ straight into summer school.”

“I heard that.”

“You were supposed to.”

Lance groaned dramatically, dragging his hands down his face. “Why is everyone so mean to me? I’m charming. I’m hot. I’m sexy. I’m nice. I’m suffering.”

“You’re stubborn,” Allura said lightly.

“Stubbornly charming.”

“Debatable.”

They all chuckled, and the tension eased a little. But even as they moved on to other topics—Hunk’s cooking club drama, Pidge’s upcoming robotics competition—Lance couldn’t stop thinking about what Allura had offered.

Help. Without judgment.

And he’d still said no.

Standing near the bulletin board by the dormitory entrance, like some kind of academic final boss, was Mr. Shirogane—Mr. Shiro himself, the living embodiment of intimidating calm and perfect posture. His black polo was crisp, clipboard tucked under one arm, and his cybernetic hand rested casually in his pocket.

Lance considered making a break for it. But he’d already made eye contact, and Shiro didn’t miss things.

“Hey, Mr. Shirogane,” Lance said, trying to sound casual. Chill. Totally unbothered. “Nice… afternoon we’re having. Weather’s uh, very—sky.”

Mr. Shirogane arched a brow, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I assume you got your test back.”

Lance rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Real humbler, that one.”

“Do you know where you went wrong?”

“Besides… existing?”

Shiro huffed a short, quiet laugh. “Lance.”

“I dunno,” Lance muttered. “The multiple choice was brutal. I was second-guessing everything. I think I accidentally convinced myself that gravity doesn't exist halfway through.”

He expected a reprimand, maybe even a sigh of disappointment. Instead, Shiro nodded thoughtfully.

“It’s a tough unit. A lot of students stumble here.”

Lance blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

“Seriously,” Shiro said. “You’re not the only one who struggled. But it’s a good wake-up call. Physics isn’t about memorizing—it’s about seeing the connections. And that takes practice.”

Lance shifted on his feet, guilt gnawing at him. “I just—I didn’t want to ask for help and look like an idiot.”

Shiro’s gaze softened. “Asking for help is what smart students do, Lance. It’s how they stay smart.”

Lance looked down at his sneakers. “I guess I could… I dunno. Rewatch the lesson videos or something.”

Shiro stepped a little closer, still calm but more direct now. “I think you’d benefit from tutoring. Have you been to the learning center yet?”

“I was thinking about it,” Lance lied.

Shiro gave him a look.

“Okay, okay, no,” Lance admitted. “I was gonna go today with Pidge. Maybe. But if it’s gonna be some smug nerd who thinks they’re better than me—”

“It’s not about them,” Shiro said, gently cutting him off. “It’s about you. Your grade. Your goals.”

Lance hesitated. “…Fine.”

“Good.” Shiro clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Give it one session. See how it goes.”

Lance exhaled through his nose, defeated. “Okay. One.”

“Only one if you decide you hate it. Which I doubt.”

He turned to walk away, but called over his shoulder, “Tell Keith I said hi.”

Lance’s stomach sank. “Wait—Keith?”

But Shiro was already halfway down the hall, raising a hand in parting.

Lance stood frozen for a few seconds, then groaned. Loudly. “Unbelievable.”

Lance dragged his feet down the hallway, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, Pidge walking briskly beside him like she hadn’t just spent the last five minutes pretending she didn’t know him. She hadn’t wanted to go with him in the first place—she’d already done the homework and the extra credit—but she finally agreed when he pointed out she owed him for that time he covered for her when she skipped PE.

“It’s just tutoring,” she said as they reached the glass doors of the Learning Center. “You sit. You listen. You pretend to understand. Boom—C becomes a B.”

“You make it sound so easy,” Lance muttered. “You’ve never failed anything in your life.”

“I failed that jump in Hollow Knight, like, twenty times.”

“Not helping.”

The Learning Center smelled like dry-erase markers, anxiety, and whatever sadness lingered in a space where dreams went to die slowly. Rows of mismatched desks were arranged in semi-neat lines, surrounded by bulletin boards plastered with motivational posters that looked like they were printed in 2009. One read “The only way to fail is to quit trying!” with a cartoon pencil flexing a bicep.

Lance was two seconds away from quitting anyway.

“I still don’t get why I had to come with you,” Pidge muttered, leading the way into the room with a backpack that weighed more than she did. “I said no, remember?”

“You’re moral support!” Lance argued, trailing behind her like a kid being dragged into the dentist’s office.

“No, Hunk is moral support. I’m the person who told you to just study harder and then went back to playing Elden Ring.”

Lance rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. She wasn’t wrong.

A girl with chunky earrings and bubblegum-pink glasses sat behind the check-in desk, typing rapidly. She looked up when she saw them.

“Tutoring?” she asked.

“Yes—unfortunately,” Lance muttered.

She handed him a tablet. “Name, subject, time. We’ll see who’s available.”

Pidge nudged him with her elbow. “C’mon. Maybe you’ll get someone cute.”

Lance gave her a look. “I’m trying to avoid humiliation, not add fuel to the fire.”

The girl behind the desk skimmed over the screen after Lance scribbled his name and handed it back. She clicked a few things on her computer and then gave a bright, too-cheerful smile that immediately made Lance suspicious.

The girl glanced at her tablet, scrolling. “You’re in luck. There’s one tutor free right now. Keith Kogane.”

Pidge immediately snorted. Lance’s stomach dropped.

“You know what?” he said, already stepping back. “I think I’m good. Actually. I’m feeling a lot better about centrifugal forces and... whatever. We’ll just call it character development.”

“You’re not seriously bailing,” Pidge said.

“Keith? Keith ? Of all people? I’d rather fail and disappoint my entire bloodline.”

Too late.

From across the room, Keith looked up from where he was doodling on the margin of a physics textbook. His expression shifted the instant he saw Lance—somewhere between bored amusement and inevitable doom.

He stood slowly, leaned back against the table like he had all the time in the world , and called out with zero shame, “Wow. You must be desperate.”

Lance’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious right now?”

Keith smirked. “Didn’t think you’d be caught dead in here. Guess gravity finally humbled you.”

Pidge made a choking noise that was absolutely a laugh.

Lance glared at her. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Oh, I’m thriving,” she said, pushing him forward. “Go on. Tutor-boy awaits.”

He turned back to Keith. “This was a mistake.”

Keith raised a brow. “You haven’t even sat down.”

“I don’t need to,” Lance snapped. “I can already feel the condescension radiating off you.”

Keith opened the textbook with an exaggerated page flip. “And yet I’m the one who passed the last test.”

That did it.

Lance turned on his heel and stormed out the door. “I’m dropping out. I’m becoming a goat farmer in the Andes. Anything’s better than this.”

Pidge, still snickering, called after him, “Tell Shiro you tried!”

The door swung open with a frustrated creak, and Lance practically launched his backpack across the room. It landed in a heap next to his unmade bed, already spilling out a sad trail of crumpled papers and a busted mechanical pencil. He flopped face-first onto his mattress with the kind of drama usually reserved for tragic movie deaths.

“Don’t ask,” came the muffled voice from the pillow.

Hunk, sitting cross-legged on his own bed with a bowl of leftover curry balanced on his knee, blinked. “I wasn’t gonna.”

Lance peeked up just enough to glare. “Liar.”

“Okay, yeah,” Hunk admitted, setting the bowl aside. “I was totally gonna. But only because I got a text from Pidge saying you stormed out of the Learning Center like a soap opera character.”

“Because I was set up ,” Lance groaned, rolling over to stare at the ceiling. “Do you know who the only available tutor was?”

Hunk didn’t even have to guess. “Keith?”

“Keith,” Lance confirmed bitterly. “Mr. Brooding Motorcycle Poster Boy himself.”

“You didn’t stay?”

“I almost did. But then he opened his mouth. And you know what came out?”

Hunk raised a brow. “Words?”

“Smugness, Hunk. Raw, unfiltered smugness. He called me desperate. He said gravity finally humbled me!”

“Yikes,” Hunk winced sympathetically. “That’s...kinda funny though.”

Lance launched a pillow at him. “ Traitor .”

“Sorry, sorry!” Hunk held up his hands in surrender. “But you know, he is kind of good at physics. Maybe he wouldn’t be the worst person to get help from?”

Lance sat up, running a hand through his hair. “I know. That’s the worst part. He probably would’ve helped. He’d probably be annoyingly good at it. And I’d owe him. And then he’d never let me live it down.”

Hunk shrugged. “So you let your pride tank your GPA?”

Lance groaned again. “Yes. God, I’m the worst .”

“You’re not the worst,” Hunk said gently. “You’re just...a little extra.”

“Extra doomed.”

There was a pause before Hunk said, “Well...Mr. Shirogane did say you could go back any time this week.”

“Yeah, well, that was before I embarrassed myself in front of Keith again .”

Hunk tossed the pillow back to him. “Then redeem yourself. Go back tomorrow. And if it’s still Keith? Just grit your teeth and do it. At least you'll have something to complain about afterward.”

Lance narrowed his eyes. “You mean like right now ?”

Hunk grinned. “Exactly.”

Lance stared at the ceiling again, letting the silence settle between them. Outside, the cicadas had started buzzing, and someone down the hall was blasting an off-key version of the Sailor Moon theme on their electric keyboard.

Eventually, Lance sighed. “Do you think goat farming in the Andes is a real option?”

Hunk snorted. “Only if you bring me back cheese.”

Lance was pacing the room with purpose now—half planning, half pleading.

“Come on , Hunk. It’s a Friday night. We’re seventeen. If we don’t sneak out and go to this party, we’ll be legally obligated to turn into eighty-year-olds with back pain and tea collections.”

From his bed, Hunk didn’t even look up from his sketchbook. “I like tea.”

Lance stopped in his tracks. “You would . That’s exactly why we need to go.”

“I already took my pants off, Lance.”

“So put them back on! For the sake of youth! Rebellion! Bad decisions!”

Hunk finally looked up. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being desperate ,” Lance said, flopping onto Hunk’s bed and pulling his best kicked-puppy face. “I bombed a physics test, got roasted by Keith in public, and have been nursing a wounded ego all day. I need this. For morale.”

Hunk arched a brow. “You mean for clout.”

“No, for healing . I am a broken man.”

Hunk snorted. “You’re a drama queen with an above-average tan and a below-average physics grade.”

Lance ignored the burn. “Okay, but—get this— Shay is gonna be there.”

That made Hunk pause.

Lance smirked. “Yeah. Pidge said she heard it from Rolo, who heard it from one of the seniors who lives off-campus. Shay’s going. I know you’ve been doodling her name in the margins of your engineering notes.”

Hunk immediately slammed the sketchbook shut. “I have not .”

“You totally have. Little cogs and hearts and—wait—were those her initials in that gear design?”

“Not the point!” Hunk spluttered, ears pink. “She’s not gonna care if I show up at some loud party where everyone’s spilling cheap soda and pretending they know how to dance.”

Lance leaned in, voice low and coaxing. “She might care if you don’t . You gotta show her you're cool, spontaneous, capable of breaking curfew without having an anxiety attack.”

“I would have an anxiety attack,” Hunk muttered.

“But I’ll be right there with you! To make sure you don’t die! I even snagged the code to the back gate keypad.”

Hunk stared at him. “You hacked the security code?”

“I observed the security code while Pidge was hacking it,” Lance clarified with a shrug. “Come on, dude. You and me. A quick escape. Loud music. Shay in a hoodie and ripped jeans.”

That did it.

Hunk groaned, burying his face in his pillow. “You’re the worst influence ever.”

“I’ll take that as a yes!”

“I didn’t say yes!”

Lance was already halfway to his closet. “Too late! Shay’s gonna be there. Keith’s not. It’s fate.”

Hunk mumbled something unintelligible but started digging around for clothes anyway. “We’re gonna get suspended.”

“Only if we get caught,” Lance said, throwing a hoodie at his friend. “Which we won’t. Because we’re stealthy .”

He struck a ridiculous pose. Hunk sighed, dragging the hoodie over his head.

“This better be worth it.”

“Oh, it will be,” Lance grinned. “By the end of tonight, I’ll either be a legend… or grounded for life.”

It started with a hoodie, a handful of Sour Patch Kids, and a very, very bad idea.

Lance stood just outside the side entrance to their dorm building, pacing beneath the glow of a flickering motion-sensor light. Hunk was crouched behind the hedges, clutching his backpack like it contained state secrets instead of a water bottle and an emergency inhaler.

“This is stupid,” Hunk whispered as Lance typed in the keypad code for the back gate with all the focus of a bomb defusal scene. “Like… stupid stupid . Like, getting-expelled-and-having-to-explain-it-to-my-parents stupid.”

“Shh,” Lance hissed, finishing the final digit. “You’re ruining the vibe.”

“I’m ruining the vibe? We’re literally breaking curfew.”

“‘Bending’ curfew. For culture . And bonding. And the possibly life-altering experience of seeing Shay in low lighting.”

The keypad gave a soft beep. Lance grinned. “Bingo.”

The gate creaked open an inch. Lance looked back at Hunk with a spark in his eye. “You coming, or am I going to have to tell Shay you chickened out?”

Hunk made a face but crawled out from the bushes. “You suck.”

“Only a little.”

They slipped through the gate and darted across the narrow service road, past the dumpsters and between the maintenance sheds. Lance led the way, weaving through the campus outskirts with the confidence of someone who had clearly done this before.

“How many times have you snuck out?” Hunk asked, voice low.

“Define ‘snuck.’”

“ Lance. ”

“I mean, there was the fire drill party last semester. And that one time we all went for 2 a.m. waffles. And then the time Pidge hotwired the staff golf cart—”

“That was you .”

“Semantics.”

“So you know words like that, but not the direction something is going based on its velocity?” Lance only rolled his eyes.

By the time they reached the fence line at the back of the athletic fields, Hunk was already out of breath. He grabbed Lance’s arm. “Wait. How far is this party, anyway?”

Lance checked his phone. “Ten-minute walk. Fifteen if you drag your feet. Twenty if you decide to moral spiral halfway there, which I’m not allowing.”

“Are we sure it’s even happening?”

“I got three Snap stories, two BeReal posts, and one blurry shot of Rolo doing a keg stand. It’s happening.”

They hopped the chain-link fence one at a time—Lance with the ease of someone who’d taken drama as an elective, and Hunk with the grace of a startled moose.

“Okay,” Hunk wheezed, brushing grass off his jeans. “I’ve already committed like five crimes.”

“We’ve committed friendship .”

They finally reached the sidewalk that led toward a neighborhood of off-campus student housing. The bass of muffled music was faint but growing louder with each block.

As they turned the final corner, Lance pointed ahead triumphantly. “Behold, the land of the free. And the questionably supervised.”

The house in question was lit up like a movie set—twinkle lights strung across the porch, people crowded on the lawn, and a group of their classmates playing beer pong on a table decorated with glow-in-the-dark duct tape.

Hunk stopped dead in his tracks.

Lance didn’t.

“C’mon,” Lance said over his shoulder, already halfway up the driveway. “Let’s make some bad decisions.”

Hunk took a breath, wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, and followed.

The front door was already wide open, half-hinged and bobbing like it had seen one too many rowdy nights. The smell of cheap cologne, popcorn, and vaguely fruity alcohol hit them like a wall.

“Wow,” Hunk muttered, surveying the living room packed with people. “It’s like someone let a frat house mate with an arcade.”

“Exactly the ambiance we were promised,” Lance said, grinning as they stepped inside. A beat dropped from the Bluetooth speaker in the corner, followed by a chorus of “Heyyyy!” from a couch where three people were doing shots off a Jenga tower.

Lance tugged Hunk further in by the sleeve.

“Come on, buddy,” he said, nudging his friend with his elbow. “This is our moment. Friday night, no classes tomorrow, people are drunk enough not to notice if we suck at social interaction. Let’s go.”

Hunk hovered near the threshold like he was debating a prison sentence. “Are we sure this is a good idea?”

“She’s in there,” Lance sang, pushing the door open wider.

Hunk groaned. “That’s not helping.”

“Shay. Is. In. There.”

“Lance—”

“You’ve been doodling her name in your physics notes for like three weeks, and the last time you saw her in the dining hall, you dropped your sandwich.”

“I tripped ! That was an unstable chair!”

“And now you get to redeem yourself,” Lance said, giving him a little shove inside.

The living room was packed. Music thumped against the cheap hardwood floors, the overhead lights were off, and the whole place pulsed in warm orange and deep purple LED strips strung haphazardly along the ceiling. Half the soccer team was doing shots out of mini measuring cups on the coffee table.

Lance scanned the crowd with intent, then grabbed Hunk’s sleeve and pulled him toward the kitchen. “C’mon, we’ll start with drinks and recon.”

“Can’t we start with an exit plan?”

“Too late, buddy. We’re in this now.”

The kitchen was somehow louder than the living room. Someone had set up a Bluetooth speaker on the island and was taking requests via a chaotic group chat projected on the fridge. A cooler in the corner was labeled ‘Spiked’ with a Sharpie. Another said ‘Also Spiked. But Pretending Not To Be’ .

Lance handed Hunk a can and clinked his own against it. “To bravery.”

Hunk looked like he was already planning his eulogy. “To public humiliation.”

As if summoned by fate, the back door opened—and in stepped Shay.

Lance saw her first. “Target acquired,” he muttered, elbowing Hunk.

Hunk turned.

There she was: Shay. Her curly hair was pulled up in a high puff, a soft green hoodie tied around her waist over a simple tee and jeans. She looked effortlessly comfortable, like the kind of person who was always exactly where they were supposed to be.

Hunk froze. “I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I really can’t.”

“Bro. We have come too far for you to turn into an anxious baked potato now.”

“But she’s with people! And laughing! And she looks—ugh, she looks radiant . What if I say something dumb?”

“You will say something dumb. That’s kind of your charm.”

“Not helping!”

Lance grabbed his shoulders. “Okay, listen. We’re going to do a pass-by. Casual. Chill. Like we’re just walking to the patio, but you just happen to be the human equivalent of sunshine, and she can’t help but notice. If she makes eye contact, boom, opportunity. If not, we retreat, rehydrate, and try again.”

Hunk stared. “You rehearsed this, didn’t you?”

“In the mirror. Multiple times.”

Hunk groaned but followed Lance as they merged into the kitchen crowd. They were two feet away when Shay turned—and laughed at something one of her friends said. Her eyes passed right over them.

But then—she looked again. At Hunk.

Just a flicker. A pause.

Lance leaned in and whispered, “ Go. ”

And like ripping off a Band-Aid, Hunk stepped forward.

“Hey, Shay—uh, hi. I didn’t know you were gonna be here.”

She smiled, surprised. “Hunk! Hey! Yeah, my roommate dragged me. I didn’t expect this many people, though. It’s kind of wild.”

“Right?” Hunk chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s like a whole different ecosystem in here.”

Lance watched from the side, arms folded, sipping his drink and grinning to himself.

That’s my boy.

Lance watched from across the kitchen, arms folded and proud as hell. Hunk was talking to Shay. Talking talking. She was laughing, even touched his arm at one point. If Lance had a badge for “Best Wingman of the Year,” he’d pin it to his chest right now.

He finished his drink and tossed the can into the overflowing recycling bin by the fridge, brushing invisible dust off his shoulder.

“Still got it.”

Now, time for a little fun of his own.

He made his way to the living room, where two girls from his year—Naomi and Liana—were dancing near the speakers. He recognized them from Chem, maybe even had a group project with one of them last semester. Either way, they looked like they were having a good time, and Lance? Lance was charming. He could work with this.

He slid in with a grin, nodding to the beat. “Ladies. You look like you could use some backup dancers.”

Naomi laughed. “Lance, right?”

“That’s me. Honors Chem survivor. I still have PTSD from our group project.”

“Oh my god, the titration lab!”

“I swear I still smell vinegar every time I walk into a classroom,” he said, flashing a grin. “But honestly, the worst part was that chart. I had nightmares about that Excel spreadsheet.”

Liana giggled. “Weren’t you the one who formatted it all in Comic Sans?”

“Okay, I was going for whimsical,” Lance said, hand on heart. “We were on hour four. I needed joy in my life.”

They laughed again, and Lance was just about to suggest heading to the kitchen for drinks—when a voice cut through the music behind him:

“Wow. Comic Sans. That explains so much.”

Lance stiffened.

He didn’t need to turn around. He already knew who it was.

Keith stood a few feet away, dressed like he hadn't even tried to look party-appropriate—black jeans, black t-shirt, zero effort. His hair was slightly tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed and decided to show up and ruin Lance’s life.

Lance turned slowly. “And yet here you are, still talking to me. Obsessed much?”

Naomi and Liana exchanged a look.

Keith raised an eyebrow. “Oh, sorry. Am I interrupting your world tour of mediocre flirting?”

Lance felt heat rise in his cheeks. “Bold words coming from the guy who communicates exclusively in scowls.”

Keith shrugged, clearly unbothered. “Better than pretending to have a personality.”

Naomi blinked. “Um. We’re gonna go find Kira. She said she’d be near the patio.”

Liana offered Lance a sympathetic smile before following her friend out of the room.

Lance whipped around to Keith, jaw tight. “Seriously?”

“What?” Keith asked, taking a sip from a red cup. “I was just adding to the conversation.”

“You torpedoed it.”

“I saved them the secondhand embarrassment.”

“I was doing fine!”

Keith didn’t say anything. He just smirked and leaned against the wall like he owned the place. Lance hated that smirk. Hated that Keith always looked so effortlessly cool. Hated that he was right.

Lance huffed. “Why are you even here? I thought your idea of a fun Friday night was brooding alone in your room with a sad indie playlist.”

Keith pushed off the wall. “Maybe I came to laugh at you. Worth the trip.”

And with that, he walked off into the crowd like he hadn’t just committed social homicide.

Lance stood there, fuming, then glanced toward the kitchen—Hunk was still talking to Shay, smiling like an idiot.

“Well,” he muttered to himself, “at least someone’s winning tonight.”

The next morning came too fast.

Lance woke up with a groan, the sunlight streaming through the half-open blinds directly into his eyes. His head throbbed like a jackhammer, and his stomach felt like it had been tied in knots. He reached blindly for his phone on the nightstand and squinted at the screen, wincing when he saw the time.

11:30 AM.

He had somehow managed to escape from the party early enough not to get caught by his RA, but the damage was done. The hangover was real, and so were the regrets. His face felt puffy from lack of sleep, his throat dry, and he could still feel the remnants of the cheap vodka they'd been drinking.

The second he shifted, his entire body protested.

"Ughhh," he groaned, flopping back into the pillow. "Why do people do this for fun?"

From the other side of the room, Hunk rolled over in his bed, blanket pulled over his head. "You dragged me there," he mumbled, voice muffled. "And you owe me."

Right. The party. The flashes were coming back to him—warm lights strung up through trees, pulsing music vibrating through the ground, cheap drinks poured from suspicious-looking tubs, Shay laughing at something Hunk said, and—unfortunately—Keith being Keith and humiliating him mid-flirt.

Lance groaned again, burying his face in his hands.

Eventually, he rolled out of bed and shuffled to the sink. His hair looked like it had been electrocuted, and his eyes were bloodshot. After splashing cold water on his face and brushing his teeth with more force than necessary, he felt almost human.

“You hungry?” he asked Hunk, voice raspy.

Hunk peeked out from under the covers. “Only if there’s pancakes. Or bacon. Or Shay.”

Lance snorted. “You’ve got it bad , bro.”

Hunk just grinned, unabashed. “She said she might swing by today. She left early last night, but we’re gonna hang out later.”

Something twisted in Lance’s gut. He ignored it.

“Cool,” he said, pulling on sweatpants and a hoodie. “Let’s go to the dining hall. I need eggs. And maybe... ice. For my soul.”

Lance threw on a pair of faded jeans, a sweatshirt, and his favorite sneakers—anything to feel less like he’d just crawled out of the gutter. He couldn’t dwell on the party. He had other things to focus on. Like—wait, what was he supposed to be doing again? He squinted at his phone.

The campus was unusually quiet. It was a sleepy Saturday morning, and most students were still crashed in their dorms or nursing hangovers just like them. The dining hall was only half-full, the staff moving slowly, as if even they were recovering from something.

Lance and Hunk grabbed trays, loaded up with food, and took their usual corner spot.

“I think I blacked out for like a second when Keith said that thing about your ‘tragic confidence,’” Hunk said, chuckling as he bit into a muffin.

Lance groaned dramatically. “Why would you bring that up again? I’m trying to repress it.”

“To be fair,” Hunk added, “your ‘tragic confidence’ was a little tragic. You kept calling that sophomore girl ‘babe’ even after she said her name twice.”

Lance dropped his head on the table. “I am never drinking again.”

Hunk gave him a skeptical look.

“Okay,” Lance muttered. “Maybe not on a school night. Or like… not around Keith. He’s allergic to joy.”

Just as he said it, the doors swung open—and speak of the devil. Keith strolled in wearing a loose black hoodie and dri-fit knee-length shorts, earbuds in, hair damp like he’d just come from a run. He looked entirely too put together for someone who'd been at the same party.

He didn’t see them, or maybe he did and chose to ignore them, but he headed straight for the coffee station.

Lance watched him like a cat tracking a mouse.

Hunk noticed. “You’re so not over last night.”

“I am over him ,” Lance said, picking at his eggs. “I’m just… studying his weaknesses for future reference.”

“You mean like a Pokémon?”

“Exactly.”

They both cracked up, and, just as Lance was starting to forget his pride had been incinerated the night before, the universe decided he hadn’t been punished enough.

“Morning, losers,” Pidge said, plopping her tray down across from them with zero ceremony. Her hair was pulled into a half-hearted ponytail, glasses slightly askew, hoodie two sizes too big.

Right behind her, Shay walked in with a soft smile and a tray loaded with fruit, toast, and eggs. She greeted them with a little wave before settling in beside Pidge.

“Hi, Hunk,” she said warmly.

Hunk nearly dropped his fork. “H-hey, Shay.”

Pidge rolled her eyes. “Smooth.”

Lance smirked but stayed quiet. He owed Hunk that much.

“How are you guys feeling after last night?” Shay asked, picking at a slice of melon. “I left kind of early. That crowd got a little rowdy.”

“Oh yeah, totally,” Lance said quickly. “You didn’t miss anything good. Just the usual high school drama in disguise.”

Pidge raised an eyebrow. “You mean Keith verbally body-slamming you in front of like twenty people?”

Lance kicked her under the table.

“I thought it was kinda funny,” Shay said with an apologetic smile. “But only because you bounced back so fast.”

Lance clutched his heart. “Shay, please. I’m emotionally delicate.”

“No, you’re not,” Pidge said, snorting into her coffee.

Lance was about to retaliate when his phone buzzed in his hoodie pocket. He pulled it out lazily, assuming it was one of the guys from the party group chat.

But it wasn’t.

Mom.

His heart sank.

With a sick feeling in his stomach, he unlocked the screen and read the text.

Mama: Good morning. Hope your week was productive. I checked your grade portal this morning. Why is your Physics grade a C-? Please explain. Call me tonight.

Lance stared at the message like it might vanish if he willed it hard enough. But nope—it stayed, seared into his screen and now, unfortunately, his brain.

He tried to shove his phone back into his pocket like it had personally betrayed him.

“Uh oh,” Pidge said, chewing on a piece of toast. “The face you’re making looks like you just got drafted.”

“She found out,” Lance mumbled.

“Your mom?”

He nodded.

“Damn,” Hunk said sympathetically. “Crisis level?”

Lance held up three fingers.

“Defcon 3.”

“Yikes,” Shay said softly. “Well… if it helps, I don’t think grades define intelligence.”

“That’s nice,” Lance said, managing a half-smile. “But tell that to my mom. She thinks if you’re not a doctor by twenty-five, you might as well be a criminal.”

Pidge nodded solemnly. “She did make you take algebra during summer break in fifth grade, didn’t she?”

“Yeah. For fun. ”

Shay gave him a sympathetic pat on the arm. “I’m sure she just wants the best for you.”

“Uh-huh,” Lance muttered. “Well, the best for me is someone else’s GPA. Or a legally binding name change.” 

The table fell into a moment of understanding silence—one all too familiar to kids with parents whose expectations could be measured in pressure per square inch.

Hunk clapped him on the back. “You could just call her and say you're working on it.”

“I could ,” Lance said slowly, then pushed his tray away. “Or I could make sure I have something to show her before I do.”

Pidge gave him a skeptical look. “It’s Saturday.”

“Exactly,” he said, standing. “No competition for tutors. I bet the center’s empty.”

Pidge squinted at him. “Are you seriously heading to the student center right now?”

“I’m not heading there,” Lance said dramatically, slinging his hoodie on like a man preparing for war. “I’m being driven there by the crushing weight of generational guilt and maternal intimidation.”

“Sounds like a great reason to study,” Shay said, stifling a laugh.

“See? Shay gets it.”

“Tell Keith I said hi,” Pidge said with a sly grin.

Lance groaned. “If he’s there, I’m leaving. Immediately. No hesitation.”

But even as he said it, he was already halfway to the doors. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, hoodie pulled up over his hair like armor. Outside, the sun was already climbing high, the air warming with the promise of a lazy weekend. But there was no rest for the academically damned.

As he crossed the quad toward the student center, Lance muttered under his breath, “God, please let there be someone normal in there today. Like… literally anyone except—”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Didn’t want to jinx it.

The student center was unusually quiet for a Saturday, its usual hum of group projects and rushed essay edits replaced with the soft whir of the vending machines and the occasional cough echoing through the open space.

Lance stepped inside, letting the door close behind him with a soft click. For a brief, hopeful second, he thought the place was empty.

Then he spotted her.

Allura, sitting upright at a table near the tutoring area, her pristine braids glowing under the overhead lights like some academic angel. Her binder was open, notes color-coded, laptop glowing, posture perfect. Three underclassmen huddled around her like disciples.

Lance’s heart soared. Salvation.

He strode toward her, pulling the most casual smile he could manage onto his face. “Hey, Allura.”

She glanced up from her notes, smiling brightly. “Oh, hi Lance.”

Her tone was kind, but her eyes darted back to her page almost immediately. The student to her left held up a confusing-looking problem set, and Allura leaned in to explain. Lance stood awkwardly behind them for a moment before she spoke again—without looking up.

“If you need help, I can try to squeeze you in… after lunch? I’ve got these guys now and two more signed up at noon.”

Lance wilted.

“Right. No worries. You’re, uh, clearly in high demand.”

Allura looked up again, apologetic this time. “Sorry. I know this class is brutal.”

“Yeah. Totally.” He backed away slowly. “Thanks though.”

He turned around, already mentally preparing to make a dramatic exit. Maybe he’d go back to the dorm and fake-study just enough to tell his mom he’d tried. Or maybe he could claim the center was closed—no tutors available, a national crisis. That’d buy him a day, maybe two.

Then he heard it.

That voice.

“Don’t tell me you’re looking for a tutor again. ”

Lance flinched like he’d been struck. He turned to the side—and there he was.

Keith. Leaning back in his chair at the far end of the tutoring tables, black hair falling into his face, arms crossed like he’d been expecting him.

Lance stared, wide-eyed, like he’d just been confronted by a ghost, or worse—his GPA personified.

Keith arched an eyebrow. “You here to keep pretending you don’t need help, or are you finally ready to stop wasting everyone's time?”

Lance blinked. “Wow. You’ve been practicing that one in the mirror, huh?”

Keith shrugged, not bothering to look away. “Maybe.”

Lance turned to leave—again—but then his phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn’t need to look at the screen. He knew it was his mom.

He groaned, dragging his hand down his face.

“Fine,” he grumbled, turning back toward Keith like a man walking the plank. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Keith grinned, a little too satisfied for Lance’s taste. “Welcome to hell.”

“Thanks,” Lance muttered, flopping down in the chair across from him. “Glad to see Satan’s working weekends.”

Lance slumped into the chair, arms crossed tight over his chest like armor. Keith didn’t say anything at first. He just opened his laptop, pulled a spiral notebook toward him, and reached for a mechanical pencil that had clearly been chewed on at least once.

Lance looked around, half-hoping someone would swoop in and rescue him from this academic purgatory. Allura was still deep in equations, and Pidge was nowhere in sight. It was just him, Keith, and the sound of a vending machine struggling to drop a bag of chips.

“So,” Keith finally said, flipping to a clean page. “Which part of the test made you bomb it? Or was it just… all of it?”

Lance glared at him. “You’ve got the charm of a wet sock, you know that?”

“I’m not here to charm you,” Keith said flatly. “I’m here because someone has to save your ass before you fail out.”

Lance opened his mouth, then paused.

“…Okay, yeah. That’s fair.”

Keith looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time that morning. And something in his posture shifted, just slightly. “You’re not dumb, Lance. You’re just lazy.”

“Excuse me—”

“Relax,” Keith said, holding up a hand. “I’m not insulting you. I’m saying you can do this. You just don’t try. Or maybe you wait too long. Either way, you’ve got a brain in there somewhere.”

Lance stared at him for a beat. “Was that… a compliment?”

Keith tilted his head. “Don’t get used to it.”

Lance huffed a short laugh despite himself. “Okay, fine. Let’s do this.”

Keith nodded, tapping his pencil once on the notebook. “Let’s start with that free-response question. The one with the velocity graph. Walk me through what you wrote.”

Lance groaned. “Ugh, the trauma. Okay, give me a second—”

But Keith was already sketching a graph, quick and precise. “The key was recognizing it was velocity, not position. That’s where most people screwed up. The slope tells you acceleration, the area under the curve tells you displacement—”

“Okay, whoa, slow down.” Lance held up his hands. “You’re doing that thing where you talk like a textbook and my brain just throws up static.”

Keith smirked. “Fine. What’s your level? Baby physics?”

Lance nodded solemnly. “Baby physics.”

Keith flipped the page, started again. “Alright. Imagine you’re driving a car—”

And just like that, the mood shifted.

The tension eased, bit by bit, as Keith found a rhythm and Lance—reluctantly at first—started keeping up. There were still eye rolls, sarcastic comments, and Lance dramatically throwing his head back any time math was mentioned, but by the time they got through two questions, he was leaning in, asking clarifying questions.

“Wait, so negative acceleration isn’t always slowing down?” Lance asked, eyebrows pinched.

“Nope. Depends on the direction of the velocity vector,” Keith said, and then paused, surprised. “That’s… actually a good question.”

Lance blinked. “Wait. Say it again.”

“What?”

“You said I asked a good question. I just want to… soak in this moment.”

Keith rolled his eyes. “You’re unbearable.”

“And yet,” Lance said, grinning, “you’re still here.”

Keith muttered something under his breath, but he didn’t argue.

They kept working, pages flipping, pencils scratching, the low hum of the student center fading into the background. For once, Lance wasn’t obsessing over his GPA or the unread texts from his mom or the spiraling anxiety that came with every grade update.

Instead, he was just... here. In this moment. Head bent over a notebook, Keith’s voice steady beside him as they walked through problems he’d once stared at blankly. It was still frustrating—god, it was frustrating—but it was the kind of frustration that felt productive. Like maybe, just maybe, he was actually getting it.

The numbers started to make a little more sense. The graphs stopped looking like abstract art. And every so often, when he gave a halfway-decent answer, Keith didn’t insult him immediately—which Lance was starting to recognize as progress.

He wasn’t sure if it was Keith’s dry patience or just desperation finally kicking in, but something was clicking. Slowly. Begrudgingly. But still.

And for the first time in weeks, the gnawing panic in his chest dulled to something manageable. Something almost hopeful.

“I take it back,” Keith muttered, squinting at the mistake Lance had just made for the third time in a row. “You’re fucking hopeless.”

Lance groaned, dropping his head to the table. “You were this close to a breakthrough moment, man. This close. I was about to nominate you for Tutor of the Year.”

Keith raised an unimpressed brow. “They’d revoke it once they saw your test scores.”

Lance lifted his head just enough to glare. “You wound me.”

“Not as much as this math wounds me.”

Lance looked up, offended. “I literally just got that question right.”

“Yeah, after I explained it to you three different ways. You nearly subtracted gravity. Subtracted gravity , Lance.”

“It was a creative interpretation!”

Keith blinked. “It was a wrong interpretation.”

Lance tossed his pencil down and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “You know, I don’t think you’re appreciating my unique approach to problem-solving.”

“I don’t think NASA’s looking for ‘unique’ when launching rockets,” Keith deadpanned.

“Well, they should be. Maybe that’s why they don’t have a base on Mars yet.”

Keith stared at him. “You think you could get us to Mars?”

Lance grinned. “Maybe not alone. But with my ingenuity and your… charmless, rigid attention to detail? We’d make a solid team.”

Keith ignored that and pointed at the next problem. “Try this one. If a projectile is launched at an angle of—”

Lance groaned. “Ugh, not this again.”

“—45 degrees with an initial velocity of 20 meters per second—”

“I hate this already.”

“—how far does it travel horizontally before hitting the ground?”

Lance squinted at the page, muttering under his breath. “Okay, I remember this one… sort of.”

“Please don’t guess.”

“I’m not guessing!”

“You always guess.”

“I’m trying , Keith! Not all of us speak physics like it’s our first language!”

“Try harder.”

Lance let out an exaggerated sigh, hunched over the notebook, and scribbled something down. “There. Done. Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

Keith looked at it. “You solved for height.”

“What?”

“You solved for vertical displacement. The question was horizontal distance.”

Lance grabbed the paper back. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m not. You’re just wrong.”

“Unbelievable,” Lance muttered, erasing furiously.

Keith leaned back, exasperated. “It’s like watching someone build IKEA furniture without the instructions, but with more yelling.”

“Well maybe I don’t need the instructions!”

“You do .”

“Okay, fine. Then help me , Sensei Physics. Break it down.”

Keith rolled his eyes, but he reached for Lance’s notebook again. “Alright, listen. You’ve got to break the initial velocity into components—x and y. Use sine and cosine, not whichever one you feel like.”

“I know that now,” Lance grumbled.

“And keep your units straight this time. You almost wrote your final answer in seconds.”

“That was a typo!”

“You wrote it twice .”

Lance gave up arguing and just copied what Keith wrote. “You must be such a hit at parties.”

“I don’t go to parties.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

Keith raised an eyebrow. “Neither do you. Not when you’ve got Saturday morning tutoring.”

Touché.

Lance didn’t respond. He just bent over his notes, quietly muttering, “Can’t believe I’m getting roasted and educated at the same time.”

“Welcome to physics.”

By the time they finally packed up, Lance’s brain felt like microwaved soup—liquefied and just on the edge of boiling over.

Keith stood, brushing eraser shavings off his notes. “Same time tomorrow?”

Lance blinked at him like he’d just spoken in Morse code. “Tomorrow?”

“You think you’re going to magically retain all this overnight?”

“Ever heard of optimism?”

Keith shrugged. “Ever heard of failing?”

Lance groaned but didn’t argue. “Yeah, yeah. Same time tomorrow. But only if you promise not to mock my every mistake like some smug physics gremlin.”

“No promises,” Keith said, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

They went their separate ways at the stairwell, Keith heading off with that unnervingly casual gait while Lance dragged himself down the path toward the dorms, letting the chilly afternoon air knock the leftover static out of his brain.

The quad was quieter now. Golden sunlight filtered through the bare branches overhead, casting spindly shadows on the sidewalk. A couple of upperclassmen passed him, laughing about something that sounded suspiciously like exam scores. Lance tried not to take it personally.

By the time he reached his dorm, he spotted Hunk sitting on the steps out front, sipping from a thermos and tapping away at something on his tablet. His face lit up when he saw Lance.

“Hey! You survived!”

“Barely,” Lance muttered, plopping down beside him with a dramatic sigh. “If my brain were a building, Keith just gutted it and rebuilt it from the foundation up. With zero bedside manner.”

Hunk laughed. “That bad, huh?”

“I’ve never been insulted so efficiently while also learning something. It was like… physics boot camp. But with more sarcasm.”

“Well, did it help?”

Lance tilted his head. “Actually? Yeah. I think I understand vectors now. Or at least I don’t want to cry when I hear the word.”

“Progress!” Hunk held up his thermos in a toast. “Proud of you, man.”

Lance clinked it with his water bottle. “Thanks. Now I just need to survive another session tomorrow and maybe I’ll claw my way back to a B.”

“You mean a B-minus.”

“Let me dream, Hunk.”

They both laughed, shoulders bumping as they leaned back against the steps, watching the sky shift slowly toward pink.

Hunk took another sip from his thermos. “You know… I’m glad you went.”

Lance raised an eyebrow. “To tutoring?”

“Yeah. I know you didn’t want to. Like, at all. But you’re trying. That’s kind of a big deal.”

Lance gave a noncommittal shrug, eyes drifting toward the pink-orange sky. “Didn’t feel like I had much of a choice. You saw that test score.”

“I did,” Hunk said, wincing. “But it’s not the end of the world. One bad test doesn’t define your entire future.”

“Tell that to my mom,” Lance muttered, slumping down a little. “She texted me this morning, by the way. Just a casual ‘How are your grades doing, mijo?’ Like she didn’t already call my tia last night to ask if I’ve been screwing around.”

Hunk chuckled softly. “She’s just worried about you.”

“I know. I do. But it’s like... I’m not even allowed to mess up a little without everyone thinking I’m throwing my life away.”

A quiet passed between them for a second before Hunk gently nudged his arm. “You’re not throwing anything away. You’re just… figuring it out. We all are.”

Lance looked over at him. “That’s surprisingly mature for someone who hid in the laundry room for two hours last semester to avoid a group project.”

“I was protecting my peace.”

“You were hiding from a sophomore with a clipboard.”

“Same thing!”

They both laughed, the sound echoing a little off the brick walls of the dorm building.

After a beat, Hunk added, “Keith’s not that bad, though, right?”

Lance made a face. “I mean… he’s a pain. All intense and broody and thinks he’s smarter than everyone else.”

“But?”

“But… he kind of is smarter than everyone else.” Lance rolled his eyes. “He explained rotational motion using, like, a chair and a bottle cap. Who does that?”

“Someone who wants to help you, maybe?”

Lance huffed, cheeks a little pink from the cold—or the implication. “He didn’t do it out of the kindness of his heart. He’s just... annoying. In a gifted-kid kind of way.”

Hunk grinned. “You gonna survive another session with him tomorrow?”

“I guess I have to,” Lance said, stretching out his legs. “Unless I fake a stomach bug. Or transfer schools. Do we know if the school in Greenland accepts last-minute applications?”

“Come on. You’ve already made progress. And now you get to go into next week not feeling like you’re drowning.”

Lance sighed but nodded. “Yeah. I guess that’s true.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the kind that only comes after a long week and a little emotional whiplash.

Then Hunk said, “Wanna go split one of those Costco-sized cookies from the student center café?”

Lance stood immediately. “You know me so well.”

The sky had gone dark, stars beginning to flicker faintly above the quiet campus. Lance lay sprawled across his twin bed, one arm flung over his eyes, the other holding his phone loosely against his ear. His dorm was dim, lit only by the soft glow of his desk lamp and the warm hum of Hunk's electric kettle across the room.

His mom finally picked up on the fourth ring.

“Hola, mijo,” she said warmly, but with that familiar edge—the one that made him sit up a little straighter without realizing.

“Hey, Mamá.”

“You sound tired. Are you eating enough? You didn’t forget to take your vitamins, right?”

Lance smiled a little. “I’m eating fine, I promise. Hunk made that lentil curry thing again. And yeah, I’m still taking them. Even the stinky one.”

His mom hummed, only half-convinced. “Okay. And how’s school? Any updates on that physics class?”

Lance winced. Of course she went straight for the jugular.

“I... yeah. I had a test,” he said slowly. “Didn’t go great. But I started tutoring. Today, actually.”

There was a pause on the other end. “Tutoring?”

“Yeah. One of the upperclassmen is helping me. He’s kind of a jerk, but he knows his stuff.”

“Mijo, you don’t have to like them, you just have to learn from them,” she said, her voice gentler now. “I’m proud of you for going. I know it’s not easy to ask for help.”

Lance stared at the ceiling, fingers picking at the edge of his blanket. “It’s just... I don’t want you to think I’m messing around. I’m trying. I really am.”

“Oh, Lance.” Her voice softened even more. “I know you are. I’ve always known. You’ve had to work twice as hard for everything, and you keep showing up. That matters more than any grade.”

His chest tightened unexpectedly. “Even if I get a C?”

“Even then.”

Silence sat between them for a moment, but it wasn’t heavy this time.

“I miss you,” he said, voice quieter.

“I miss you too. It’s too quiet without you yelling at your brothers and raiding the fridge.”

“I’m a delight, and you know it.”

She laughed. “A very loud delight.”

They talked a little longer—about his younger siblings, the new neighbors who couldn’t park straight, and the church bake sale his abuela had hijacked again. When they finally said goodnight, Lance felt a little lighter.

He tossed the phone onto his pillow and let out a long breath. No emotional spiral tonight. Just… calm. For once.

Across the room, Hunk glanced over from his laptop. “You okay?”

Lance nodded, flopping back onto his bed dramatically. “I think I’m gonna survive this semester after all.”

“Good,” Hunk said, smirking. “Because you still owe me a Costco cookie.”

Sunday morning arrived too soon, dragging in with the muted light of a cloudy sky and the groggy silence of a campus still recovering from the weekend. Lance groaned into his pillow, half-heartedly swiping at his phone alarm until it went silent.

He lay there for a few seconds longer, considering the merits of going back to sleep versus being a responsible human being. The latter won—barely—thanks to the memory of his mom’s voice the night before and the very real threat of falling behind again.

Hunk was already awake, headphones on and tapping at his laptop with intense focus. The smell of microwaved oatmeal wafted across the room.

“You’re such a functioning adult,” Lance muttered, dragging himself out of bed.

“Somebody has to be,” Hunk said with a small grin, not looking up. “You meeting with Keith again today?”

Lance made a face like he’d just bitten into a lemon. “Yeah. At the student center. Noon.”

He didn’t say he’d texted Keith late last night to ask. Or that Keith had responded with a painfully short: Sure don’t be late

No emoji. No punctuation. Just full-blown emotional desert.

Lance scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “You’d think he’d never heard of customer service. Or like, basic human warmth.”

“He’s helping you pass physics. Not working retail.”

Lance pointed dramatically. “And I respect him slightly less for it.”

By 11:45, he was trudging across the quad, hoodie up and earbuds in, sipping on an aggressively mediocre iced coffee. The student center was mostly empty, except for a few overachievers typing furiously or flipping through color-coded notes.

Keith was already there.

Of course he was.

Same black jacket. Same resting-glare face. Same beat-up sneakers propped on the chair across from him like he owned the place. He barely looked up as Lance approached.

“You’re two minutes early,” Keith said, sounding vaguely suspicious.

“I contain multitudes,” Lance replied, sliding into the seat and pulling out his notebook. “Shall we begin, sensei?”

Keith blinked at him, unimpressed. “Don’t call me that.”

Lance grinned. “You gonna teach me Newton’s Second Law or what?”

Keith flipped open his textbook with a sigh and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “God help me.”

“So,” he said, tapping his pen against the side of his notebook. “What’s Newton’s Second Law?”

Lance stretched, arms behind his head. “Easy. Force equals mass times acceleration. F = ma. ”

Keith looked up from his notes slowly, suspicious. “Okay… And what does that actually mean?”

“It means…” Lance squinted at the ceiling, like the answer might be hovering just above the flickering fluorescent light. “It means… the harder you push something, the faster it goes?”

Keith tilted his head. “Kind of. But not always. It also depends on how heavy the thing is. A bowling ball and a ping pong ball react differently to the same force.”

“I mean, sure. But one is a fun party activity and the other breaks your toe,” Lance said, flipping his pencil through his fingers. “Unless it’s a ping pong ball with a grudge.”

Keith blinked. “What?”

“Nothing,” Lance said quickly. “Keep going.”

Keith sighed and pushed his worksheet across the table. “Try this problem. Just plug into the formula.”

Lance leaned over, reading the question out loud: “‘A 5 kg object is accelerating at 2 m/s². What is the net force acting on the object?’” He paused, chewing on the end of his pencil. “Okay. F = ma. So… 5 times 2… that’s 10.”

Keith raised an eyebrow. “Ten what?”

“Uh…” Lance squinted. “Meters per… kilogram squared?”

Keith dropped his head into his hands with an audible groan.

Lance laughed. “Kidding! Newtons. It’s 10 N.”

Keith lifted his head, looking genuinely surprised. “You actually remembered the units.”

Lance shrugged. “I pay attention. Sometimes. When I’m not spiraling into academic despair.”

Keith passed him another problem. “Do this one.”

They kept at it for a while—Lance making dramatic faces at every new question, Keith giving dry commentary, occasionally scribbling something in the margins to show how to set things up.

Lance still made mistakes—plenty of them—but he was correcting himself more often now. Fewer wild guesses. Less panicking. At one point, he even caught a math error Keith made.

“Ha!” Lance pointed. “You put ‘4.9’ but it should be ‘9.8’ right there. You forgot gravity, Mr. Edgy Tutor Guy.”

Keith stared down at the paper. “...Huh.”

“Admit it. I just saved your ass.”

“You caught a typo.”

“Which could’ve led to disaster, ” Lance said dramatically, leaning back like a king on his throne. “I expect a medal. Or a sticker. Or at the very least, verbal recognition.”

Keith handed him another worksheet. “You get the honor of doing three more problems. How’s that?”

Lance narrowed his eyes. “You’re a tyrant.”

“Keep going, prodigy.”

They kept at it, pencils scratching, papers sliding back and forth between them. And once again, for a moment, Lance wasn’t thinking about report cards, or disappointing phone calls, or that sinking feeling in his stomach. He was learning.

And this time, it wasn’t begrudgingly.

Just… surprisingly tolerable.

The two of them were still in the middle of a particularly annoying free-body diagram when the student center doors swung open and the soft chime above it rang out.

Lance didn’t look up at first—he was too busy arguing that the diagram Keith gave him definitely looked like a squid and not a block on a slope—but then he heard a voice. Clear, warm, and lightly accented.

“Oh, it’s colder than I expected out there.”

Lance’s head snapped up like someone had just hit the ‘on’ switch.

Allura had just walked in, sunlight catching in her long braid as she adjusted her shoulder bag and signed in. She looked elegant even in a basic hoodie and leggings, like someone who’d just casually stepped out of a skincare commercial. Her backpack was slung over one shoulder, and she was already mid-conversation with one of the other students, smiling.

Lance immediately went into DEFCON 1.

Keith didn’t even need to ask. “You okay? You look like you just saw God.”

“I did,” Lance whispered. “And she’s wearing Lululemon.”

Keith rolled his eyes so hard it could’ve counted as a physics demonstration.

Allura started walking in their direction, and Lance immediately straightened up in his seat like he was getting inspected by a drill sergeant. He tried to casually run a hand through his hair, but all he managed was to make it stand up worse than before.

“Play it cool,” he muttered under his breath. “Be normal. Be charming. Be—”

“Are you having a stroke?” Keith asked, barely glancing up.

“She’s here,” Lance whispered.

Keith finally glanced up. “So?”

“So I can’t let her see me like this!”

“Like what? Sweaty and confused?”

Lance glared. “I’m having an intellectual awakening. It’s not cute when you describe it like that.”

Keith snorted, but before he could fire back, Allura was walking toward their table, clearly on her way to the study rooms in the back. She slowed slightly when she saw them.

“Oh! Hey, Lance,” she said, her voice light and friendly. “Didn’t expect to see you here on a Saturday.”

Lance turned toward her so fast he almost knocked over his water bottle. “Allura! Hi! Yeah! Haha, yeah, I just—uh—I come here all the time. I live here, basically. Me and Keith. Keith and I. Just two guys. Studying. Like bros.”

Keith pinched the bridge of his nose like he was in physical pain.

Allura smiled, amused. “Well, that’s great to hear. Are you two working together?”

Keith lifted an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. Lance scrambled to fill the silence.

“Yeah! Keith’s helping me out with some physics stuff. He’s really good at it. Like, annoyingly good. It’s kind of unfair. Like, if there were physics Olympics? He’d win. Gold medal. For gravity.”

Allura laughed lightly, clearly trying not to let on how confused she was by that last part. “Well, good luck. I’m leading a group session for the calc quiz next week, but I’m sure Keith’s got you covered here.”

Keith nodded. “We’re getting there.”

Lance smiled, a little dazed. “Cool. Cool, cool, cool. Good luck with your, uh, math.”

Allura gave him one last smile before walking past, heading to the back study rooms.

The second she was out of earshot, Lance dropped his forehead onto the table with a groan.

Keith raised a brow. “Did you seriously say ‘good luck with your math’?”

“Shut up.”

Lance groaned again, forehead still pressed against the table like he was trying to absorb the wood grain through osmosis. “I’m never going to recover from that.”

Keith flipped his pencil between his fingers. “From what? Saying ‘good luck with your math’? Yeah, that was tragic.”

“You don’t get it,” Lance muttered, voice muffled. “She’s smart. And cool. And beautiful. And did you see her braid today? It had volume, Keith. Volume.”

Keith didn’t even try to hide his smirk. “Uh-huh. Sounds like someone’s a little whipped.”

Lance sat up, indignant. “I am not whipped.”

“You said the words ‘gold medal for gravity.’”

“I was under pressure!”

“You folded like wet paper the moment she made eye contact.”

Lance made a strangled noise and tossed an eraser at Keith, which he dodged effortlessly. “Why are you like this?”

“Because it’s fun,” Keith said, deadpan. “And honestly? You make it too easy.”

Lance sighed and slumped in his chair. “I can’t help it, okay? She’s just… out of my league. She’s, like, top tier. Ivy League energy. Meanwhile, I’m failing physics and live on Cup Noodles.”

Keith snorted. “You’re not failing anymore.”

“Not yet,” Lance grumbled. “I still have time.”

Keith shook his head and shoved Lance’s worksheet toward him. “Come on, lover boy. Focus. If you want to impress your ‘Ivy League energy’ crush, maybe don’t bomb the next quiz.”

Lance picked up his pencil, muttering under his breath. “Can’t believe I’m being bullied into self-improvement.”

“You’re welcome,” Keith said, and pointed to the next problem. “Now, if a force is applied at a 30-degree angle to the horizontal—”

Lance groaned again. “Ugh, physics. Why couldn’t Allura be into interpretive dance or something?”

Keith didn’t miss a beat. “Because you’d still find a way to trip over your own feet.”

“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t trip over them while dancing.”

Keith shook his head, amused despite himself. “You know, for someone who can’t keep his mouth shut, you’re surprisingly entertaining.”

Lance smirked. “Is that your way of saying I’m growing on you?”

“Like a fungus,” Keith replied.

By the time they reached the last problem set, Lance’s notes were a mess of arrows, scribbles, and half-erased formulas. His brain felt like it had been microwaved, and he had graphite smudges along the edge of his palm, but…

“I think I actually get this one,” he muttered, brows furrowed in concentration as he moved his pencil slowly across the paper. “Force equals mass times acceleration. And I have both. So the net force is…”

He finished the equation, hesitated, then turned the paper toward Keith with the sheepish air of someone expecting a guillotine.

Keith glanced at it. His eyebrows lifted slightly.

“That’s right.”

Lance blinked. “Wait—really?”

“Yeah. You finally didn’t forget the sine of the angle.” Keith leaned back, arms crossed. “Miracles do happen.”

A slow, triumphant grin spread across Lance’s face. “Holy crap. I actually learned something. Someone call my mother. She won’t believe this.”

Keith rolled his eyes. “Maybe don’t call her until you pass the next quiz.”

Lance nodded, still giddy. “Okay, fair. Baby steps.”

He leaned back in his chair with a dramatic sigh. “You know, you’re not the worst tutor I’ve had.”

“I’m the only tutor you’ve had.”

“Exactly,” Lance said, finger pointed. “Top of the list. Peak performance.”

Keith shook his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. “Do you ever shut up?”

“Unlikely,” Lance said, already packing up his things. “It’s part of my charm.”

Keith stood as well, slipping his notebook under his arm. “You sure that’s not what makes people want to throw things at you?”

“Oh, definitely both. Equal contributors.” He looked over his shoulder as they exited the student center. “Hey… thanks. For helping me.”

Keith shrugged. “Don’t mention it. Literally. Ever.”

“No promises.”

“Figures.”

They stepped out into the early evening light, the sun casting long shadows on the grass. The breeze had cooled just enough to hint at fall.

Lance shoved his hands in his hoodie pocket and glanced sideways at Keith. “Same time tomorrow?”

Keith gave a noncommittal shrug. “If you’re not too busy trying to flirt with Allura again.”

Lance groaned. “Ugh. Don’t remind me.”

Keith smirked. “You reminded yourself.”

And with that, they parted ways—Lance heading back toward the dorms with a bit more bounce in his step than usual, and Keith, well… still Keith. But maybe a slightly more amused version

Chapter Text

Lance’s confidence had skyrocketed in the days leading up to their next quiz—he’d been showing up to tutoring, actually doing his homework, and even managed to explain a problem to Hunk without second-guessing himself. But all that momentum came crashing to hell down the second he saw the first question on the quiz. By the time he handed it in, the high he'd been riding had deflated into a pit in his stomach. 

Confidence? Obliterated. Again.

The bell rang, and chairs scraped against the floor as students filtered out of the classroom. Lance moved slower than most, stuffing his things into his bag with the dazed, mechanical energy of someone who had just been spiritually body-slammed. He hadn’t even bothered to pretend he aced it. What was the point? That last free-response question might as well have been written in Klingon.

“Lance,” Mr. Shirogane called out just as he reached the door.

Lance turned, his stomach already tightening. “Yeah?”

Shiro was still standing behind his desk, a stack of ungraded papers in front of him and a familiar kind smile on his face. “Got a minute?”

Lance nodded and walked back in, trying not to let his nerves show. The classroom felt different when it was just the two of them—quieter, somehow heavier.

“I just wanted to check in,” Shiro said. “How have things been going with tutoring?”

Lance scratched the back of his neck. “Good, I guess. Keith’s still kind of a jerk, but I think he’s been helping.”

Shiro chuckled. “That sounds about right. Keith has... a unique approach.”

Lance sank into the nearest seat. “Yeah, like making me feel like a complete idiot is somehow motivational.”

“But you’ve been putting in the work,” Shiro said. “I can tell. Your last quiz wasn’t perfect, but it was better. You’re moving in the right direction.”

Lance shrugged. “Doesn’t feel like it. I studied way more for this one than the last, and I still barely made it out with a B.”

Shiro nodded slowly. “Rome wasn’t built in a day, Lance.”

“Yeah, but Rome probably didn’t have a mom who threatened to revoke their phone plan if they didn’t bring their grade up by midterms.”

That got a quiet laugh out of Shiro. “Point taken. But seriously, don’t get discouraged. Keep showing up. Keep asking questions. Keep putting in the time. It’s a marathon, not a sprint.”

Lance exhaled, letting himself slump a little. “I guess.”

“And if Keith ever gives you too much trouble, you come to me, okay?”

“Thanks, Mr. Shirogane.”

Lance stood up and shouldered his bag again. Maybe the grade wasn’t what he’d hoped for, but at least someone believed he wasn’t totally doomed.

Lance left the physics classroom with his confidence barely hanging on by a thread. Sure, it wasn’t a disaster, but it wasn’t the kind of performance that made him want to call his mom and gloat either. He shoved his half-crumpled quiz into his folder, slung his bag over one shoulder, and trudged down the hall toward something— anything —that wouldn’t make him feel like his brain had been put through a blender.

Thankfully, English was next.

Room 204 was in the older wing of the school, where the floors were wooden and creaky and the windows let in a soft, golden light that made the dust motes look like glitter. There were paper cranes hanging from the ceiling, plants lining the windowsills, and a bulletin board labeled Words That Moved Us filled with favorite quotes written on index cards. Ms. Holloway always smelled faintly of peppermint tea and called everyone by their last names like they were characters in a BBC drama.

Lance liked her.

He slid into his usual desk by the window and pulled out his copy of A Tale of Two Cities . The paperback was worn, the spine cracked and flaking, and the margins littered with his notes in blue pen. Some were insightful. Most were dumb jokes.

“Darnay = definitely attractive, but no thoughts behind those eyes,” one margin read. Another simply said, “Sydney Carton needs therapy and a hug.”

Ms. Holloway stood at the front of the class, adjusting her glasses. “Today we’re looking at Chapter Twelve and the theme of redemption—particularly in Sydney Carton’s character arc. I want to hear your thoughts. Who is Carton without his sacrifice?”

Hands began to rise. Allura spoke first—of course she did—with something effortlessly elegant about spiritual absolution and lost potential. Lance half-listened, watching the way her eyes lit up as she spoke, the smooth cadence of her voice. When she finished, he blinked and quickly flipped to his own notes.

He raised his hand.

“I think…” he began, surprising even himself, “Carton’s whole arc is kinda like... he’s trying to prove he’s not a waste of space. He hates himself, but he also wants to be remembered for something more than just being the sad, drunk guy no one takes seriously.”

Ms. Holloway tilted her head, intrigued. “Interesting. So you’re suggesting that Carton’s redemption is less about saving Darnay and more about saving himself?”

“Exactly,” Lance said, warming up. “Like, it’s not selfless just for the sake of it—it’s his only shot at mattering.”

She smiled. “Very well put, McClain.”

Lance didn’t grin—grinning would’ve been obvious—but he did sit a little straighter in his seat. For forty-five minutes, he felt like he wasn’t failing at everything. He tossed ideas around with Allura, made Hunk snort laugh with a whisper about Madame Defarge being the original “revenge baddie,” and managed not to think about FRQs or physics or his GPA at all.

In English, he didn’t feel behind. He felt... clever. Capable. Like someone who belonged.

And for now, that was enough.

The bell rang, and Lance lingered a little longer than usual, carefully slipping his book into his backpack like it was something precious. The praise from Ms. Holloway still echoed in his head— Very well put, McClain. It was the kind of sentence that made you walk a little lighter, shoulders back, chin up.

As he stepped out into the hallway, the world felt a little less oppressive. That was, until he checked his phone.

The school’s grading app had updated.

Quiz: 16/20.

Technically a B. A strong one, even. But it wasn’t the A he’d hoped for—not after hours of begrudging tutoring sessions and Keith’s constant ribbing. The short-lived boost of confidence began to deflate, slowly, like air leaking from a balloon. Still, it was progress. He had to remind himself of that. Rome wasn’t built in a day, as Mr. Shirogane kept reminding him.

He scrolled a bit further down his grade report. Physics sat at a flat 82 now. Teetering. Wobbling. One bad test away from disaster. The next quiz was on Monday. That gave him the weekend. Maybe he could get in one more session with Keith—just to review the stuff he wasn’t totally confident on. Just a quick brush-up.

He shot off a message:

Lance: yo u free after school tmrw? i need a last-minute brain download before monday lol

The response came back faster than expected.

Keith: I don’t work Thursdays.

Keith: Why don’t you just try studying on your own for once

Lance groaned out loud, earning a curious glance from a passing freshman. Of course he didn’t work Thursdays. It was like the universe had sensed Lance’s tiny sliver of hope and decided to swat it out of the sky.

But Lance wasn’t about to let his GPA nosedive because Keith Kogane had some mysterious Thursday plans. So instead of heading to the quad like he usually would for lunch, he veered toward the student center.

Maybe someone else could help him review. Maybe Allura? She was scary smart, and Lance had been trying to casually impress her since orientation. This could be his moment.

And if not…

Lance stared at Keith’s last text like it had personally offended him.

I don’t work Thursdays.
Why don’t you just try studying on your own for once

“Wow,” Lance muttered, already dialing Keith’s number.

It rang once. Twice. Then—click.

“What.”

“That’s how you answer the phone? What are you, a gremlin?”

“You’re interrupting my day off.”

Lance flopped dramatically onto the bench outside the student center, one hand over his heart. “Keith, my academic future is on the line here. I’m spiraling. I’m in a freefall. This is the worst decision you’ve ever made, and you once tried to solve a physics problem with fire .”

“I’m hanging up.”

“No—wait, wait, wait!” Lance sat up quickly. “Just… help me review. Please. I need someone to quiz me or I’ll forget everything and fail and then my mom will ground me from the afterlife.”

A long silence. Lance could practically hear Keith’s eye twitching through the phone.

“I’m not coming to the student center. I’m already home.”

“Fine, I’ll meet you at your dorm. I’ll bring snacks.”

“I don’t live on campus.”

Pause.

“You—what?”

“I live off campus.”

“Wait, like… off off?”

“Yes, McClain, that’s what off campus means. Congratulations.”

Lance sat there, stunned. “Since when? How?!”

“Since junior year. And I have privacy. And better internet. And no RA breathing down my neck. So. Are you coming or not?”

Lance blinked. “I mean, yeah. I guess?”

“I’ll pick you up in twenty. Don’t make me regret this.”

The line went dead.

Lance slowly lowered the phone and whispered to himself, “Keith Kogane is a functioning adult with a lease. What the hell.”

Fifteen minutes later, Lance was loitering outside the student center, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. The early evening air was crisp—cool in that almost-fall kind of way that made you regret not bringing a hoodie. He shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced around, vaguely hoping no one he knew would see him getting picked up for a study session . He wasn’t sure what was worse: tutoring in general, or tutoring with Keith.

The distant rumble of a motorcycle engine cut through his thoughts.

Lance turned his head just as the black bike rolled up to the curb, all sleek angles and matte finish. Keith sat astride it like he’d been born there—dark helmet, black jacket, and that usual look of vague irritation made more dramatic by the tinted visor he pushed up with one gloved hand.

“Get on,” Keith said, as if this was the most normal method of transportation for a peer tutor.

Lance blinked. “You ride a motorcycle ?”

Keith held out a second helmet, completely unfazed. “Obviously.”

“No. Nope. Not happening,” Lance said immediately, taking a step back. “Do I look like I have a death wish?”

Keith tilted his head. “A little.”

“I’ve seen people wipe out on these things! I like my bones intact. And my face. My face is important to me.”

Keith sighed. “It’s ten minutes. I’m not going to peel off at 90 down the highway.”

“That’s what they all say. Then boom. Roadkill.”

“You want to study or not?” Keith asked, already lowering the spare helmet. “Because I can leave.”

Lance hesitated. He did want to study. And Keith was basically his only option at this point. But still—

“You know cars exist, right? With seat belts ?”

Keith deadpanned, “Yeah, and they come with you talking the whole way. Pick your poison.”

Lance groaned. “Fine. But if I die, I’m blaming you in the afterlife.”

“You’d be the most annoying ghost.”

Lance cautiously took the helmet and pulled it on, struggling for a second with the strap. “How do you even breathe in this thing?”

Keith didn’t bother answering. He just revved the engine slightly, clearly impatient.

Lance climbed on with the grace of a baby giraffe, holding the back edge of the seat like it might protect him from gravity.

“Where am I supposed to hold?”

Keith reached back and grabbed Lance’s hands, yanking them around his waist with zero ceremony. “Here.”

Lance stiffened like he’d been electrocuted. “Whoa—uh—okay. This is strictly for survival purposes.”

Keith rolled his eyes. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

The engine roared, and they sped off down the street.

Lance yelled, “I hate this! I hate this so much! ” but Keith didn’t respond, probably on purpose.

The engine’s hum vibrated through his entire body, his arms locked awkwardly around Keith’s torso as the wind whipped at his sleeves. Garrison blurred past in warm, dusty colors—sandy hills and craggy rock formations carved out like ancient sculptures, telephone poles stretching endlessly into the horizon. The sun sat low in the sky, casting long golden streaks across the road and painting everything in that almost-sunset glow.

It was kind of beautiful. In a harsh, sunburnt, “please drink more water” kind of way.

Lance squinted against the wind and rested his helmeted chin lightly on Keith’s shoulder, mostly out of necessity. He didn’t want to fly off the back and become roadkill for a pair of hungry vultures. But being this close? It was... weird.

Not bad. Just weird.

And the weirdest part of all?

Keith didn’t seem out of place in the desert. He fit —like one of those brooding movie characters who showed up in town on a motorcycle, all grit and leather and unresolved trauma. If Lance weren’t so focused on not dying, he might’ve found that kind of cool.

Instead, he just groaned internally. Why did Keith of all people have to be his only option? Why couldn’t Pidge magically gain the patience of a kindergarten teacher? Or Hunk suddenly become a physics prodigy?

He sighed. Rome wasn’t built in a day. And neither, apparently, was passing AP Physics.

The bike slowed as they turned off the main road and into a quieter neighborhood—low-rise stucco buildings the color of sun-bleached clay, the air thick with the smell of hot pavement and something vaguely floral. Lance blinked as the world around him softened into something almost suburban. Cozy, even.

He barely had time to process it before Keith pulled into a small, shaded parking spot in front of a squat, two-story complex.

Keith cut the engine.

Lance stayed frozen for a beat. “...We’re alive?”

Keith looked over his shoulder. “Unfortunately for me.”

Lance peeled his arms away like he’d touched a stove. “Yeah, well—next time, I’m walking.”

Keith tossed him a look as he dismounted. “Next time, you can fail your quiz in peace.”

Lance muttered under his breath, yanking off the helmet and raking a hand through his wind-wrecked hair. His palms were sweaty. Probably from fear. Not because Keith’s waist was surprisingly—firm. Definitely not that.

Nope. Straight as a desert road.

Keith didn’t say much as they walked up the narrow staircase to the second floor, just the occasional grunt of acknowledgment when Lance muttered something about his legs being sore or the heat being illegal. The stucco walls of the building were faded peach, and the stairs creaked like they had stories to tell.

“Didn’t realize living off-campus came with built-in cardio,” Lance grumbled, swiping sweat off his brow.

Keith rolled his eyes and fished his keys out of his jacket pocket. “Try not to cry when you see how clean it is. I vacuum.”

Lance scoffed, already forming a joke about bachelor pads and mold. But whatever smart comment he had locked and loaded dissolved the second Keith pushed open the front door.

There, sprawled on the living room couch like he owned the place, was a guy. Shirtless. Muscled. Smug. The kind of smug that came from knowing he looked good and just got laid. His auburn hair was tousled like a shampoo commercial gone feral, and even from the doorway, Lance could make out the red marks—fingernail scratches down his back, fading hickies on his collarbone and neck.

Keith froze.

The guy turned lazily toward the door, completely unbothered. “Oh. You’re back early.”

Lance blinked. His brain tried to process the sheer intimacy in that one sentence. The guy stretched like a cat, the kind of stretch that screamed I slept here —and maybe not alone. He didn’t even try to cover up.

Keith’s jaw clenched. “James.”

James offered a smug little wave. “Missed me?”

Lance’s stomach did a weird flip, like the floor had dropped an inch under him. He looked between James and Keith, then at the deep red nail marks still fresh on James’s back, then back at Keith again.

Oh.

OH.

There was a beat of silence. Thick, tense, and just awkward enough to make Lance want to evaporate on the spot.

He opened his mouth, scrambling for words— any words—but all that came out was a weak, “Um.”

James cocked an eyebrow, finally seeming to notice him. His eyes swept over Lance like he was appraising something half-interesting at best. “Who's the stray?”

Keith stepped forward without hesitation, planting himself squarely between them. His voice was low and sharp. “Don’t be a jackass, James.”

James didn’t flinch. Just grinned wider, teeth flashing. “Didn’t realize it was Bring-Your-Kid-to-Work day.”

Keith’s jaw twitched, but his tone stayed cool. “He’s my student. We’re studying.”

James blinked, gaze flicking back to Lance with mock surprise. “Seriously?” He laughed under his breath. “You tutoring now? Wow. You’ve really gone domestic.”

Lance wanted to disappear. The walls were closing in, the air felt weirdly hot, and he had so many questions but zero desire to ask them right now.

Keith ignored James entirely and turned to Lance, tone clipped. “You want water?”

“Yes. Please,” Lance said quickly, almost gratefully, seizing the out.

Keith disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Lance alone in the room with James, who gave him a once-over like he was judging an audition he didn’t remember agreeing to.

“So,” James said, lips curling into something that might’ve been a smile if it weren’t so laced with superiority, “you’re in one of Keith’s classes?”

Lance straightened, trying to shake off the lingering weirdness. “Peer tutoring. For physics.”

James nodded, gaze heavy and bored. “Cute.”

Before Lance could even begin to decipher that, Keith returned with two water bottles, tossing one to Lance. James eventually disappeared down the hall, still shirtless, still smug, leaving behind the faint scent of cologne and the tension of a storm that hadn’t quite passed.

Keith returned a moment later with a bottle of water and tossed it to Lance without looking at him. “We’re doing circuits today. Hope you reviewed.”

Lance caught it, barely. “Thanks,” he muttered, unscrewing the cap and taking a long sip. He wasn’t actually thirsty—he just needed a second to collect himself.

They settled at the small kitchen table. Keith had already pulled out a few handouts and was drawing diagrams with a mechanical pencil, explaining something about Ohm’s Law. But Lance barely registered the words.

His mind kept drifting back to the scratches. The hickeys. The way James had called him a “stray” like he wasn’t even a person. Like he didn’t belong here.

Finally, Lance couldn’t take it. He glanced up from the worksheet he wasn’t filling out and asked, “So… who was that guy?”

Keith didn’t look up. “No one.”

Lance raised an eyebrow. “He was shirtless in your living room.”

Keith still didn’t look at him. “Your point?”

“My point is,” Lance said, setting his pencil down, “he clearly wasn’t just a friend.”

That got Keith’s attention. He slowly looked up from the paper, eyes sharp and unreadable. “It’s none of your business.”

Lance felt the words like a slap, even though he wasn’t sure why. “Okay, jeez. Chill.”

Keith’s gaze lingered for a second longer than necessary before he returned to the diagram. “Focus on the current flow. You keep mixing up volts and amps.”

Lance tried to dive back into the material, but his mind kept drifting. The equations and formulas blurred into nothingness as he recalled the image of James and the way Keith had acted—guarded, defensive, even when he didn’t owe Lance an explanation.

They were studying. Or, at least, Keith was studying. Lance was just pretending. He could feel the weight of the silence between them—so thick it might as well have been a physical presence.

Keith was focused on his work, scribbling notes without hesitation, his face a mask of concentration. Meanwhile, Lance could only half-heartedly jot down some notes, distracted by the questions in his head.

He couldn’t help it. “So, uh, you’re not gonna tell me who he is?” he asked, breaking the silence again, but this time his voice was less confrontational, almost curious.

Keith didn’t look up from his paper. “Nope.”

Lance frowned. “Come on, dude, you can’t just leave me hanging like this. He looked like—”

“He’s my ex,” Keith cut in, his voice finally giving something away—a hint of annoyance, maybe even embarrassment.

Lance blinked. That was... not what he was expecting. “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” Keith muttered, finally looking up and meeting Lance’s eyes. “Can we just focus on the work? I don’t have the mental energy to explain the details of my life right now.”

Lance nodded slowly, feeling his face heat up. It wasn’t like he expected Keith to spill his guts, but it felt weird—being this close to someone’s personal life without any kind of warning. He wasn’t sure how to navigate the sudden shift in their dynamic. He wasn’t exactly used to seeing people’s messy sides, especially not someone as put-together as Keith.

“Right. Sorry,” Lance said, avoiding eye contact as he scribbled some more notes, though the words felt like nonsense on the page. His thoughts were stuck on Keith’s ex and what it meant for Keith.

And for him, for some weird reason.

Keith didn’t seem interested in continuing the topic either. He just nodded and kept drawing on his notebook, tapping his pencil to the side of his head like he was deep in thought. For a while, they both stayed quiet, the only sound the occasional scratch of pencil on paper.

Lance wanted to ask more, but something in Keith’s tone told him it was better not to.

The silence between them was like a weight. Lance tried to ignore it by focusing harder on the worksheet. When he had to ask for help, Keith was quick to correct him, but the usual sarcastic edge was missing. This wasn’t how their tutoring sessions had gone before. There was less joking, less lightness.

After a while, Lance had to ask. “You doing okay?” It was a stupid question, but he felt like he needed to fill the silence somehow.

Keith paused, his pencil hovering above the paper. For a long moment, Lance thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then he sighed, a long exhale that sounded like he was carrying something heavy. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Lance frowned. It didn’t sound like he was fine. But then again, what did Lance know about people’s problems? He was still trying to figure out his own. “You sure?”

Keith shrugged, a faint, almost invisible twitch at the corner of his mouth that might’ve been a smile if it had lasted long enough. “It’s not something I want to get into right now.”

Lance felt his stomach churn with the awkwardness. “Right, of course.”

They fell back into silence, but this time Lance could tell the air between them had shifted. He didn’t know if it was because of James, or because of something else entirely. But it felt... different. Less like they were two people studying, and more like they were two people trying not to get caught up in whatever was lingering beneath the surface.

Lance couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to Keith than he’d realized. The guarded way Keith held himself, the way he closed off so quickly—maybe that was just part of the guy. Or maybe it was a defense mechanism, something to protect himself from getting hurt again.

Lance pushed the thought away, deciding he had enough of his own problems to focus on. So, he went back to the worksheet, determined to not let his mind wander too far into things that weren’t his business.

Still, the question lingered. How well did he really know Keith?

After another stretch of silence, Lance gave up on pretending he could still focus on circuits and vectors. He closed the physics notebook and dug around in his bag for his laptop, flipping it open with a quiet sigh.

Keith didn’t say anything at first, just kept working on his own notes—until Lance’s screen came to life and the brightness caught his eye.

Keith glanced up. “Tapping out already?”

“Not tapping out,” Lance muttered. “Strategic retreat. I’ve got an English essay to finish, and I still have, like, zero thoughts about Sydney Carton except that he seriously needed a therapist.”

Keith huffed a laugh but didn’t argue.

As Lance opened his laptop, the screen blinked to life—his grade portal still open from earlier. Keith leaned over before Lance could minimize it.

“Hold on—wait.” Keith narrowed his eyes. “Are those your grades?”

Lance instinctively went to slam the screen shut, but Keith was faster, nudging his hand away. “Chill. I’m just looking.”

Lance scowled but let him see. “It’s not that deep, man.”

Keith tilted his head as he scanned the page. “You have an A in English. A in chem, calc, history—what the hell. Even PE. Who gets an A in PE?”

“I stretch before I run. Sue me.”

Keith ignored that. “So you’re telling me you’re breezing through everything except physics?”

Lance groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t remind me. You sound like my mom.”

Keith arched an eyebrow. “Your mom also thinks you’re a disappointment in motion?”

“Wow. That’s rich coming from the guy who gave me a pop quiz disguised as a tutoring session.”

Keith snorted. “Touché.”

Lance clicked into his essay document, but the damage was done. His confidence had already started to waver under Keith’s scrutiny.

“It’s not that I don’t try,” Lance said, quieter now. “Physics just feels like this wall I keep running into. Like, no matter how much I read or memorize, I can’t see the logic the way you or Pidge do.”

Keith didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he looked at Lance for a beat longer than necessary.

“That doesn’t mean anything!” Lance threw his hands in the air, exasperated. “You only show up to class for the quizzes and exams and you still have an A.”

“A+,” Keith corrected without missing a beat, like it was the most casual thing in the world.

Lance groaned and flopped backward onto the couch, one arm draped dramatically over his eyes. “You’re insufferable. Do you hear yourself?”

“I do,” Keith said dryly. “It’s one of my many talents. Right after solving kinematics problems in under thirty seconds and making people like you suffer through them.”

Lance peeked at him through his fingers. “How are you even real?”

Keith shrugged, reaching for the physics book. “Some say I was engineered in a lab. Others say I’m just the product of years of social isolation and too much caffeine.”

“Yeah, well,” Lance muttered, dragging himself upright again. “Your vibes are very… feral honor student.”

Keith raised an eyebrow. “Thanks?”

“Not a compliment.”

They both smirked.

The tension that had filled the room earlier—thanks to James and the awkward silence that followed—had begun to ebb into something else. Still not quite friendly, but easier. Looser.

Lance looked back down at his essay, then up at Keith again. “Okay, A-plus boy. If I write one more paragraph about how Sydney Carton represents redemption through self-sacrifice, will you help me not flunk our next quiz?”

Keith leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “If you stop calling me ‘A-plus boy,’ maybe.”

“No promises,” Lance said, grinning despite himself. “But fine. Deal.”

Lance tossed his backpack onto his desk chair and collapsed onto his bed with a groan, one arm covering his face.

Hunk, sitting cross-legged on his own bed with his laptop propped on a pillow, glanced over. “Rough session?”

Lance made a sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh. “Define rough. I got roasted for trying to use the wrong formula, he made fun of my handwriting, and then—oh! Right! I walked in on his half-naked ex-boyfriend lounging in his apartment like it was a cologne commercial.”

Hunk blinked. “Wait… what?”

“Keith. He’s gay.”

There was a beat.

Hunk squinted. “You didn’t know?”

Lance sat up. “Wait—you knew ?”

“I thought everyone knew,” Hunk said, looking genuinely confused. “I figured it out back in sophomore year. Him and James were… Not subtle.”

Lance stared at him. “What do you mean not subtle ?”

“They made out behind the physics building during the welcome BBQ.”

Lance’s face twisted in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack,” Hunk said, popping a peanut into his mouth. “Half the dorm saw. They weren’t exactly low-key about it either—James was always hanging off him like he owned him.”

Lance leaned back, processing. “That’s… wow.”

“Yeah,” Hunk nodded. “But I do remember it getting pretty ugly when Shiro went missing last year.”

Lance glanced over. “Ugly how?”

Hunk let out a breath. “Keith kind of shut down. He stopped coming to meals, skipped class a lot. Just went off the grid for a while. And James… he wasn’t exactly patient.”

“What a shocker,” Lance muttered.

“It was like pouring gasoline on a dumpster fire,” Hunk said. “They fought all the time. Loud enough that people started avoiding the second floor of the dorms when both of them were there.”

“Damn.”

“I think it messed with Keith more than he let on,” Hunk said thoughtfully. “When they finally broke up, it was like a switch flipped. Keith went radio silent for a while. No parties, no drama, nothing.”

Lance was quiet for a beat, then asked, “So… is it, like, a thing people still talk about?”

“Not really,” Hunk said, shrugging. “I think everyone kind of agreed to let sleeping dogs lie. Keith’s already a loner, and after the whole James thing, people just left him alone.”

Lance leaned forward, arms braced on his knees. “And no one thought to tell me?”

“Well, I didn’t think you’d care,” Hunk said. “You’re not exactly in the Keith gossip circle.”

“I’m barely in any circle,” Lance muttered.

Hunk snorted. “Fair.”

There was a lull. Lance stared at the ceiling, mind turning over everything he’d learned in the last twenty-four hours. Keith. James. The physics grade. The goddamn motorcycle.

“Why do you think he’s tutoring me?” Lance asked suddenly.

“Because you begged the student center for help?”

“No, I mean—he didn’t have to say yes. Especially not after I stormed out the first time.”

Hunk looked thoughtful. “Honestly? I think Keith’s the kind of guy who doesn’t care what people say they want. He pays more attention to what they do . You showed up, didn’t you?”

Lance groaned and flopped back onto his bed. “God, I hate when you make sense.”

“You’re welcome,” Hunk said cheerfully.

Lance exhaled, eyes tracing the tiny crack in the ceiling paint above him.

“So Keith’s gay,” he murmured.

“Yup.”

“And I’m… not.”

“Nope.”

Another beat of silence.

“…Just making sure.”

Hunk chuckled. “Sure, man.”

It was just another Tuesday morning, and Lance was doing his best not to nod off in Physics. The classroom hummed with idle chatter and the occasional scrape of chairs on tile as students filtered in, some more prepared than others. Lance tapped his pen against his notebook, eyes glazed over as Shiro wrote something on the board about gravitational potential energy.

And then the door opened.

Keith.

Keith, who hadn’t shown up for this class since syllabus week.

Keith, who was now very much present, looking like he’d just rolled out of bed and into his all-black outfit with deliberate indifference. He didn’t glance around, didn’t acknowledge anyone. Just walked to a seat near the back of the lecture hall and dropped into it without a word.

Lance stared.

“Okay, I’m not hallucinating,” he muttered to Hunk, who sat two seats away.

Hunk turned slightly, clocked Keith’s arrival, and raised his eyebrows. “Well. Would you look at that.”

“I thought he only showed up for exams and free food,” Lance whispered. “What the hell is he doing here?”

“Existing?” Hunk offered.

Mr. Shirogane didn’t even flinch at the disruption. “Nice of you to join us, Mr. Kogane,” he said casually, eyes still on the whiteboard. A few students snickered.

Keith didn’t reply. He just pulled out a mechanical pencil and started writing, posture relaxed and eyes focused. Like he hadn’t just ghosted the class for three weeks and sauntered in with the confidence of someone who hadn’t missed a single note.

Lance stared at the back of his head like it had personally offended him.

Mr. Shirogane clapped his hands once, drawing the class’s attention back to the board. “Alright, let’s dive in. Gravitational potential energy. Remember: the formula is U = mgh . That’s mass, times gravity, times height.”

There was a light shuffle of paper and rustling bags as students took notes.

Lance tried to focus. He really did. But his brain kept pinging back to the quiet scribble-scratch of Keith’s pencil a few rows behind him. What gives? Why now? What was so special about today that made him show up?

Lance tried to focus on the lesson, but his eyes kept flicking back to where Keith sat, hood pulled up halfway like he was trying to disappear. It was weird seeing him in this setting—Keith had always seemed too… intense for the casual chaos of an undergrad physics class. Yet here he was, arms crossed, jaw tight, glaring at the lecture notes like they’d personally insulted him.

And maybe, Lance thought with a sudden jolt of realization, he wasn’t just here for the class.

Maybe he was here for him .

He shook the thought off like water. No. No, that was stupid. He was Keith’s student, not his friend . They didn’t hang out. They weren’t close. Keith probably just decided to check in on what the professor was teaching, especially since he was tutoring.

Still, Lance couldn’t help feeling a little smug. He was probably the reason Keith had bothered to show up today.

And okay—maybe that made him sit up a little straighter.Shiro continued. “Let’s say you’re on a rollercoaster. At the top of the track, you’ve got maximum potential energy. As you fall, it converts into kinetic energy. Conservation of energy—one of the most important concepts in this unit.”

Lance’s eyes drifted toward Keith again.

He looked like he understood it all already. Just sitting there, nodding slightly like this was review .

Lance grit his teeth and scribbled U = mgh in increasingly aggressive strokes.

A few more examples and practice problems later, Shiro moved into review mode. “We’ll be covering momentum next week, but for now, make sure you’ve mastered these equations. There’s a quiz on Friday. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

A collective groan rose from the class.

Lance sighed, slumping in his seat. Hunk gave him a sympathetic pat on the arm.

The bell rang.

Lance barely had time to shove his notes into his folder before he was up, dodging backpacks and desk legs as he beelined for the hallway. He wasn’t exactly sure why he needed to talk to Keith, but something about the other boy showing up unannounced after weeks of silence had left his brain buzzing with unresolved questions—and maybe a few feelings he hadn’t named yet.

Most of the students had already filed out, chattering and shoving past each other. Lance lingered near the doorway, foot tapping against the scuffed LVT flooring as he craned his neck to look inside.

Keith hadn’t left yet.

He stood stiffly near the whiteboard, his shoulders hunched, arms crossed like a shield. Mr. Shirogane wa

s still at the front of the room, leaning against the edge of the whiteboard tray with his arms folded. His tone was quiet but firm, the kind of disappointed that hit harder than yelling.

“I can’t keep writing off your absences, Keith,” Shiro said with a sigh. “It’s barely October and you’ve already racked up over thirty no-shows.”

“At least I’m showing up now,” Keith muttered.

Lance blinked. Wait—Keith just called him Shiro? Not Mr. Shirogane ? Since when were they on a first-name basis?

Shiro’s jaw tightened. “This isn’t a game. You can’t just disappear for weeks at a time and expect no one to ask questions.”

Keith scoffed. “You’re one to talk. You disappeared for a year, remember? Without a single message. Without a clue. And I’m just supposed to… what? Pretend like that didn’t screw everything up?”

Lance’s eyebrows shot up. His grip on his folder tightened as he lingered just outside the doorway, partially hidden behind a row of lockers. He wasn’t even trying to eavesdrop anymore—he was riveted .

Inside the classroom, the tension crackled like static. Shiro exhaled, long and heavy, and pinched the bridge of his nose with a tiredness that seemed to reach beyond the day. “I told you why I had to go. You know I didn’t have a choice.”

Keith didn’t answer at first. His jaw clenched. His fingers curled tighter around the edge of his notebook, knuckles whitening. “You think that made it easier?” he said finally, voice quieter, but cutting. “I didn’t have a single person left. I didn’t have you. And then I was stuck here, with James breathing down my neck and everything falling apart, and—and you didn’t even call.”

Shiro’s mouth opened, a protest on his tongue, but Keith beat him to it.

“You left , Shiro.”

“It’s not like you were alone!” Shiro snapped, the calm in his voice finally cracking under pressure. “You were old enough to take some damn responsibility for your actions. You had Mom and Dad—”

“Those aren’t my parents,” Keith said, his voice low and sharp, like a blade unsheathed.

Shiro went still. “Keith—”

“They’re yours,” Keith cut him off, glaring now. “They took me in because you begged them to. I was eight. I didn’t get a say.”

Lance’s brows lifted even higher. Wait. What?

“I know they care,” Keith continued, his voice straining at the edges. “I know they tried. But they’re not mine. They never were. And when you left, Shiro, they didn’t know what to do with me either. No one did.”

A silence fell over the room like a heavy curtain.

“I’m not trying to make excuses,” Shiro finally said, quieter. “But I thought—I hoped—you knew how much you mattered. To all of us.”

Keith didn’t answer. He turned abruptly, his footsteps heavy as he stormed out of the classroom. Lance barely managed to leap back in time to avoid getting shoulder-checked in the hallway.

Keith didn’t even glance at him.

Lance blinked, his heart thudding as he watched the other boy disappear around the corner. Then slowly, he turned his gaze back toward the classroom.

Shiro was still leaning against the desk, rubbing a hand over his face.

Lance quietly backed away from the door.

The cafeteria buzzed with the usual midday chaos—clattering trays, shouted greetings, the hiss of soda machines—but Lance barely registered any of it. He moved on autopilot, sliding his tray down the line and taking whatever food the lunch staff handed him. His thoughts were still stuck back in physics class, in the echo of Keith’s voice:

“Those aren’t my parents.”

He sat down at their usual table, dropping his tray with a little more force than necessary. Pidge looked up from her phone, Hunk paused mid-bite of a grilled cheese, and Allura blinked at him over her fruit cup.

“You okay?” Hunk asked.

“Do I look okay?” Lance stabbed at his mashed potatoes like they were responsible for his emotional instability.

“You look like you got hit by a plot twist,” Pidge said, eyebrows furrowing.

Lance looked around, then leaned forward, dropping his voice. “Keith’s adopted.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then:

“What?!” Allura and Pidge said at the same time.

“No way,” Hunk added, eyes wide. “Since when?”

“Apparently since he was eight,” Lance muttered. “I overheard him and Shiro arguing after class. They’re not just close—they’re brothers. Like, legit. Shiro’s family adopted him.”

“Wait, what? ” Pidge sat up straight. “You’re telling me Keith and Shiro are actual brothers, and none of us knew this entire time?”

“I thought they were just childhood best friends or something,” Allura said, frowning. “That’s… that’s kind of huge.”

“And they were fighting, ” Lance added. “About Shiro leaving last year, about their parents, about James—”

“Ohhh,” Hunk said slowly, connecting the dots. “ That’s why Keith was such a mess last year. When Shiro disappeared, and then he and James imploded…”

“Wait, wait—rewind.” Pidge tapped her tray like a judge with a gavel. “This is real? Like, Shiro’s biological parents took Keith in?”

“Yup,” Lance said. “Keith basically yelled it. Said they’re not really his parents. That they only took him in because Shiro asked them to.”

Everyone at the table fell quiet for a second, digesting the info.

“Well,” Allura said finally, spearing a piece of cantaloupe, “that explains a lot. ”

“You’re telling me,” Lance mumbled, still dazed. “I just thought he was an overachieving loner with resting glare face. Not a whole angst novel with a tragic backstory.”

Hunk looked thoughtful. “You think we should… say something? Like, talk to him?”

“I think if I said anything, he’d throw me off the roof,” Lance said.

Pidge snorted. “Yeah, Keith’s emotional vulnerability setting is permanently locked. ”

They all nodded in agreement, though the mood had clearly shifted.

Lance pushed his food around with his fork, not really hungry anymore. He couldn’t shake the look on Keith’s face—the fury, the hurt, the loneliness under it all. It sat heavy in Lance’s chest like a stone.

“Still,” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else, “it kinda makes sense now.”

The rest of the day felt like a blur. Lance couldn’t shake the conversation he overheard between Shiro and Keith. It wasn’t just the words—they weren’t even meant for him—but the way it lingered in the air. The hurt, the unfinished sentences, the things left unsaid.

Lance settled into the chair at their usual corner of the student center, half-heartedly pulling out his textbooks. Keith was already there, sitting at the table with his arms crossed, looking more tense than usual.

Keith didn’t even glance at Lance when he sat down. He was staring at his own notes, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“So… what’s up?” Lance asked, trying to sound casual as he opened his physics book.

Keith let out a frustrated breath, tapping his pencil against the table. “I can’t focus today. You’re not even trying to understand this stuff, Lance.”

Lance raised an eyebrow. “I’m trying, okay? It’s just—this stuff is stupid. I get that you’re frustrated, but I’m not exactly thrilled to be here either.”

Keith’s fingers clenched around his pencil. “You never are. But you need to start putting in the work. This isn’t gonna fix itself.”

Lance huffed, but said nothing. Keith continued to stare at the book in front of him, his expression tightening with each passing second.

“I don’t get it, Keith,” Lance finally said, his voice softer. “You’re doing all this for me, and you don’t even need to. Why are you putting up with this?”

Keith’s jaw tensed, and his eyes flickered to Lance for a second before he shook his head. “You’re not my responsibility, Lance. But if I don’t push you to do better, no one else will.” He glanced back at his notes, trying to focus again. “So do your part. Please.”

Lance felt the weight of the words, the frustration that Keith was bottling up. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, guilt creeping in.

The silence stretched between them for a few moments, with Keith still staring at the pages like he could will the answers into existence.

Lance didn’t know how to make this better. He never did. But Keith wasn’t going to stop pushing him, even if it made both of them miserable.

Lance tapped his pencil against the table, watching Keith scribble an equation in the margin of his notes. The silence was heavy, almost oppressive, and Lance shifted in his seat.

“So... this part,” Lance said hesitantly, pointing at the practice question, “do I, uh, multiply by the inverse or…?”

Keith didn’t look up. “We’ve gone over this three times.”

“Okay, but I’m just trying to—”

Keith slammed his pencil down. “Then actually try.”

Lance froze. The words weren’t loud, but the edge in Keith’s voice was razor-sharp.

Keith finally looked up, eyes dark and tired. “I’m not going to spoon-feed you answers, Lance. I’m not your babysitter. If you’re just going to sit here and coast while I do everything, then this is a waste of my time.”

Lance’s mouth opened, then closed. He didn’t know what stung more—Keith’s tone or the fact that he wasn’t entirely wrong.

Keith exhaled through his nose and ran a hand through his hair, clearly trying to get a grip on himself. “Sorry,” he muttered. “It’s just… it’s been a long day.”

Lance nodded slowly, trying to figure out how to respond without making it worse. “Yeah. I kinda picked up on that.”

For a second, they just sat there—Keith bristling with quiet frustration, Lance staring down at his notebook.

Then, softer: “Did something happen?”

Keith didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked away, jaw clenched. “Nothing that matters right now.”

Lance almost left it at that. Almost. But the image of Keith and Shiro arguing—Keith’s voice cracking, the look on his face when he said those aren’t my parents —flashed through his mind.

“…You sure?” Lance asked, his voice low.

Keith blinked, caught off guard, and for a moment the mask slipped. But then he looked back down at his notes. “We should get through this chapter.”

“Okay,” Lance said. “Okay, yeah.”

But as Keith launched into the next explanation, Lance couldn’t help but notice how stiff his voice was—how hard he was working to pretend nothing was wrong.

And Lance hated how much he suddenly wanted to fix it.

ϕ🜉ϕ

Friday night settled over the dorms like a heavy blanket—warm, dim, and buzzing with lazy end-of-week energy. Pidge was sprawled upside-down on Lance’s bed, feet against the headboard and hair grazing the floor. Hunk sat cross-legged on the rug, nursing a bag of gummy bears and flipping through a comic book. Lance, half-focused on a game on his phone, was tucked into the beanbag by the window.

The air smelled faintly of microwave popcorn and someone’s terrible cologne from across the hall.

“You know,” Pidge said, tossing a gummy bear into her mouth, “if I fail that history quiz, I’m blaming the heating system. I could feel my soul leaving my body during the short answers.”

“I think that’s just what happens when you read about imperialism,” Hunk said, without looking up.

Lance snorted.

Then his phone buzzed.

Lance glanced down lazily—then did a double take.

New grade posted: AP Physics C - Shirogane

His stomach dropped. “Oh no.”

“What?” Pidge asked, flipping herself right-side-up so fast the bed creaked.

“No way it’s up already,” Hunk added, scooting closer.

Lance’s thumb hovered for a second, then he tapped the notification.

The grade loaded.

His eyes widened. “Wait—”

“What?” Pidge repeated, now fully kneeling.

“A,” Lance said faintly. “I got an A.”

Hunk’s jaw dropped. “No way.”

Pidge reached over and snatched the phone from his hands. “Holy crap, he’s not lying.”

“Dude,” Hunk said, looking at Lance like he’d just pulled Excalibur out of the dorm floor. “Keith’s tutoring actually worked ?”

Lance let out a breathless laugh, like he couldn’t believe it either. “I mean… I actually understood stuff this time. The quiz didn’t feel like reading hieroglyphics.”

Pidge raised an eyebrow. “You’re telling me Keith Kogane managed to explain physics to you ?”

“Hey.” Lance gave her a mock-offended look. “I’m not that hopeless.”

“No,” Pidge said. “But he’s that unapproachable.”

Lance chuckled, then leaned his head back against the beanbag with a strange, quiet smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, well… maybe he’s not always as bad as people think.”

Hunk exchanged a look with Pidge, who mouthed, oh no behind Lance’s back.

Hunk suddenly shot to his feet, startling both Lance and Pidge.

“Nope. We’re not just sitting here. You got an A in Shirogane’s class, dude! We have to celebrate. It’s basically a school miracle.”

Lance blinked up at him. “Celebrate how? The vending machines are already out of the good chips.”

“I dunno—milkshakes? Fries? Something greasy and victorious.” Hunk was already fishing his phone out of his pocket. “You know who we’re inviting?”

“Oh no,” Pidge said, flopping back on the bed. “Hunk—don’t—”

“ Keith! ” Hunk chirped into the phone. “Hey, buddy! What are you doing right now?”

Lance’s eyes widened. “Wait, you’re actually calling him?”

“I am,” Hunk said proudly, turning away so Keith’s grumpy voice was mostly muffled. “Because your tutor deserves credit. And you two need to do something besides passive-aggressively blink at each other across a desk.”

Pidge covered her face with both hands. “This is going to be so awkward.”

“No, no—don’t hang up! Listen!” Hunk gestured wildly as he paced the dorm. “Lance got an A. A freaking A , dude. You helped. Come out with us. We’re going for milkshakes or whatever. You earned a break.”

A long pause. Hunk grimaced.

“Okay, yeah, I know it’s weird. But just—ten minutes. Fries. No one will die.”

Lance shifted in the beanbag, equal parts horrified and intrigued. “Is he coming?”

Hunk looked at him with a sly smile. “He didn’t say no.”

“Oh god,” Pidge muttered.

“C’mon,” Hunk said, clapping his hands. “We’re doing this. Let’s go before he changes his mind.”

The diner was a cozy little hole-in-the-wall with neon lights buzzing in the windows and the scent of frying oil clinging to the walls. It was just a five-minute walk from campus, but far enough to feel like they’d actually left school behind.

They’d claimed a corner booth, Hunk and Pidge squished on one side, Keith and Lance on the other. Lance sat as close to the edge as physically possible, and Keith hadn’t said much beyond a muttered “hey” when they met outside the dorm.

The table was a little quiet, but manageable—filled with the occasional comment about the quiz or complaints about the vending machines back at school. Keith mostly picked at his fries, brooding over his milkshake while Lance tried not to look like he was overthinking every word.

The bell over the door jingled.

“Allura!” Hunk waved as she stepped in.

She spotted them and lit up. “Hey, guys!” she said brightly, sliding into the booth next to Lance without hesitation.

Lance froze.

Then she wrapped her arms around him in a quick, warm hug. “Congratulations on the A! I’m so proud of you!”

Lance’s brain short-circuited for a second. “Oh—I—I mean, thank you. It was mostly, uh—” His voice cracked embarrassingly, and he cleared his throat, ears already pink. “Yeah. Thanks.”

When she finally pulled away and turned to chat with Pidge, Lance sat frozen in place, blinking at the tabletop like it had personally betrayed him.

From beside him, Keith let out a low snort.

Lance turned. “What.”

Keith smirked into his milkshake. “You okay there, Casanova?”

Lance scowled. “Shut up.”

Keith leaned back just a bit, that rare glint of amusement sparking in his eyes. “You looked like your soul left your body.”

“I was surprised , okay?”

“Sure,” Keith said, the grin tugging stubbornly at the corner of his mouth. “Surprised. Not completely feral .”

“Say feral one more time, I dare you.”

“Feral.”

Hunk loudly cleared his throat, shoving a plate of fries toward them. “If you two could flirt a little quieter, that’d be great. Some of us are trying to enjoy our celebratory grease.”

Lance groaned and dropped his head on the table. Keith just shrugged, oddly relaxed for once.

“So,” Lance said, trying to keep his voice light and casual as he stirred the last of his milkshake. Allura was laughing at something Pidge said, her earrings catching the soft yellow light of the diner.

Lance swallowed. “Hey, uh… Allura?”

She turned to him with that radiant, undivided attention that always made his heart skip. “Yeah?”

He leaned in just slightly, resting his elbow on the table. “I was thinking… maybe sometime we could—”

“Hey, baby!”

The voice sliced through the hum of the diner. Lance jerked his head toward the entrance, eyes locking on the guy striding in like he owned the place. Tall, cocky, obnoxiously clean-cut—James.

Lance watched him with a growing frown. Button-down wrinkled just enough to look intentional, sneakers spotless, hair like he paid someone way too much to make it look effortless. He looked like he’d walked out of a magazine ad for overpriced prep schools.

James reached their booth and didn’t even hesitate—just slid right into the spot next to Keith, squeezing him against the wall like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Keith stiffened immediately. Lance could feel it through the tension that suddenly filled the booth like static. His shoulders locked up, and his eyes fixed straight ahead.

“Don’t call me that,” Keith said flatly, not even looking at him.

James threw an arm casually across the back of the booth. “Still so dramatic.”

Keith didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. His body language was loud enough—coiled and cornered, like he was forcing himself to stay still.

James didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did. Maybe that was the point.

“I’m here on a mission,” James said, flashing a grin at the rest of the table like they were all in on some joke. “Keith’s birthday’s coming up. Big number. I’m throwing a party.”

Keith’s voice was cold steel. “No, you’re not.”

James turned to him with exaggerated offense. “C’mon, man. People wanna celebrate you.”

Keith didn’t budge. “I said no.”

There was a long, awkward pause. Hunk and Pidge both glanced between them like they were watching a car crash in slow motion.

James only shrugged, pulling out his phone like that was the end of it. “Well, invite’s out there. You know how to reach me if you change your mind.”

He lingered just long enough to make things weird, then finally stood up and sauntered off, tossing a casual “Later” over his shoulder.

The booth was silent for a long second after he left.

Keith let out a slow breath and muttered, “Asshole.”

Lance glanced at him. Keith was staring at his water glass like he wanted to melt through the vinyl seat and disappear. His shoulders were still tense, his jaw tight. That wasn’t just irritation. That was years of something. Years of someone.

Lance, half-forgotten milkshake in hand, glanced between Allura and Keith, his question entirely lost now in the tension James left behind.

“…That guy sucks,” Pidge muttered.

Keith didn’t say anything. But no one disagreed.

The student center was nearly empty by the time Lance finally found him.

Keith sat alone near the back windows, hunched over a thick textbook, earbuds in and hood half up like he was trying to blend into the shadows. A half-finished coffee sat beside him, long gone cold. Outside, the late October wind rattled the trees, leaves scattering like confetti across the quad.

Lance hesitated just inside the doorway, then took a breath and approached. He held the small paper bag a little tighter.

“Hey,” he said softly, nudging Keith’s arm with two fingers.

Keith blinked, pulled out one earbud, and looked up. “What?”

Lance set the bag down in front of him. “Happy birthday.”

Keith stared at it like it might explode. “How did you—?”

“You told Hunk your birthday was the 28th when he tried to drag you out to karaoke night last week… Plus, I remember James talking about throwing you a party at the diner the other day.”

A beat passed.

Keith’s fingers curled slightly around the edge of the paper bag, crinkling it. He didn’t look up at first. His bangs fell in front of his eyes, shielding whatever expression might’ve given him away.

“Oh,” he said finally. Flat. Quiet.

“Sorry it’s kind of tragic-looking,” Lance added quickly. “The dining hall bakery was closed, and this was literally all I could grab from the corner store. It was between this and a protein bar.”

Lance shifted his weight, suddenly unsure if he’d overstepped. “I—I know you probably didn’t want anything big. Or maybe anything at all. But I thought…” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly hot under the collar of his hoodie. “I dunno. I figured someone should say it.”

Keith didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the cupcake, shoulders shifting slightly.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, well,” Lance scratched the back of his neck. “Maybe I wanted to.”

Keith looked at him then—really looked—and for a second, his usual guard wavered. The hardness in his eyes softened just a little, replaced with something quieter. Something that almost looked like gratitude.

“I haven’t really celebrated it in a while,” he admitted, thumb brushing over the top of the plastic container. “Not since… before I moved in with Shiro’s family.”

Lance’s chest ached a little at that. “Well,” he said, trying to keep it light, “first time for everything, right?”

Keith huffed a breath—barely a laugh, but not not one. “Guess so.”

“Don’t worry,” Lance added, tapping the table once with his knuckles as he stood. “No singing. Just the cupcake. And if you do end up going to the party tonight… you’ll at least have had something that didn’t involve James shouting at strangers.”

Keith snorted. “God. You make it sound so tempting.”

Lance grinned. “Just don’t forget who gave you the real gift.”

Silence again. Not tense. Just still.

Then, slowly, Keith reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a lighter. He flicked it once, brought the small flame to the candle on the cupcake. It sputtered, then held.

The flame danced quietly between them.

Lance blinked. “You carry a lighter?”

Keith shrugged. “Sometimes.”

A beat.

“Well,” Lance said, watching the candle. “Aren’t you gonna make a wish?”

Keith looked at the flame, then at Lance. His eyes softened, almost imperceptibly.

“I think I already got it.”

Then he blew it out.

Later that evening, the quiet hum of a shared playlist played from Hunk’s laptop, muffled slightly by the thrum of the dorm's old heater kicking on. Lance was sprawled across his bed, tossing a stress ball at the ceiling and catching it one-handed, over and over. Hunk sat cross-legged at his desk with a bowl of kettle corn, and Pidge was leaned back in Hunk’s chair, boots kicked up on the windowsill, tapping at something on her tablet.

Outside, the sky had deepened into a bruised indigo. The night had that pre-party electricity in the air—Lance could feel it buzzing in the walls, even if they weren’t going anywhere.

“So,” Pidge said without looking up, “you gonna tell us how the birthday cupcake drop-off went?”

“It was nothing,” Lance said quickly, too quickly. The stress ball bounced a little too hard off his palm.

“Uh-huh,” Hunk said, chewing. “That’s why you’ve had dreamy sitcom face all afternoon.”

“I do not—”

Pidge’s phone rang, cutting him off. She glanced at the screen, blinked, then raised an eyebrow. “It’s Keith.”

Lance sat up instantly, stress ball forgotten. “What?”

“Put it on speaker,” Hunk said, already reaching over.

Pidge rolled her eyes but accepted the request and answered. “Hey.”

“I’m going to kill James,” Keith said flatly.

“Wow,” Pidge said. “That’s how we’re starting this call?”

In the background, muffled music thudded—something bass-heavy and trying too hard to be cool.

“Hey,” Keith said flatly. “I’m at that stupid party James wouldn’t shut up about.”

Lance, sprawled on the floor, perked up immediately. Hunk paused mid-sip of his soda.

“Oh no,” Pidge said, already grinning. “How bad is it?”

Keith sighed like the weight of humanity rested squarely on his shoulders. “There’s a guy throwing glow sticks off the balcony. Someone put a fog machine in the living room. And I think a ferret just ran into the bathroom.”

“A ferret?”

“I didn’t ask questions. I’ve been here fifteen minutes and I already want to set the place on fire.”

Lance stifled a laugh behind his hand. Hunk mouthed ‘Is he okay?’

Pidge put the phone on speaker. “So… why are you calling us and not just ditching?”

“Because James dragged me here,” Keith muttered. “Physically. He picked me up. I didn’t even get to bring my own ride. And now he’s off somewhere doing keg stands and calling everyone ‘bro.’ I’m stranded.”

Lance sat up straighter. “Wait, so you need a ride?”

“No. I need rescue ,” Keith deadpanned. “Come get me before someone challenges me to a dance battle. I think it’s headed that way.”

Hunk was already slipping on his shoes. “Alright, alright. We’re coming. Just… try not to punch anyone ‘til we get there.”

Keith muttered something that might’ve been a thanks—or a threat—before hanging up.

Pidge grabbed her hoodie. “Operation Save Emo Birthday Boy is a go.”

Lance stood too, a small smile tugging at his lips. For someone who claimed to hate attention, Keith really knew how to make an exit.

The second they stepped into the house, Lance felt the heat and sound hit him like a wave—sweaty bodies, flashing LED lights, the pounding bass of a remix that didn’t seem legally allowed to be that loud. Hunk was already scanning the crowd for Keith, while Pidge muttered something about “potential biohazards” near the drink table.

Lance followed a step behind, his head on a swivel. He didn’t exactly like parties like this, but there was something about the chaos that always intrigued him—until his eyes landed on Allura.

She was standing near the kitchen doorway, laughing at something. And next to her— too close, way too close—was Lotor. His platinum hair was pushed back like he’d spent an hour in front of a mirror pretending he hadn’t, and he leaned in with a smirk that made Lance’s stomach turn.

Allura touched Lotor’s arm lightly, and Lance felt a flicker of heat rush to his ears. His chest tightened. He couldn’t hear what they were saying over the music, but he didn’t need to. The way Allura tilted her head back to laugh, the way Lotor looked at her like she was the only person in the room—it was enough.

Lance stood frozen for a second too long, his expression slipping. His jaw clenched.

“Dude,” Pidge called, nudging his shoulder. “You good?”

He blinked. “Yeah. Totally.” He forced a smile, but it came out flat. “Just… hot in here.”

“Uh-huh,” Pidge said, side-eyeing him like she could see right through it.

Hunk waved them over from across the living room. “Found him. Back porch.”

But Lance didn’t move.

“I’ll catch up,” he said, turning on his heel before either of them could stop him. He beelined for the kitchen, keeping his eyes off the couple still chatting by the door. His heart thudded in his chest, and he could feel the burn of something behind his eyes—frustration, jealousy, he wasn’t sure.

He didn’t care that Lotor was attractive in a villain-in-a-teen-drama kind of way. He didn’t care that Allura could flirt with whoever she wanted. Except, apparently, he did . Because watching it felt like someone had taken the wind out of his lungs.

Lance reached the makeshift bar by the sink, rummaging through the cooler until he pulled out something cold and vaguely alcoholic. He popped the cap on the edge of the counter and took a long drink, ignoring the taste.

He wasn’t exactly a lightweight, but he wasn’t looking to get drunk. He just needed to dull the edge of whatever this was clawing at his chest.

Lance made his way through the crowd, the music pounding in his ears, his body buzzing with the effects of the alcohol he’d downed. He was just a little tipsy—not enough to be totally gone, but enough to feel like he was floating in some weird in-between state. He couldn’t focus on anything but the way Allura and Lotor were standing together, laughing and clearly enjoying each other’s company. The sight of them hit him like a punch to the gut. He hated it. He hated how effortlessly they seemed to click.

He needed a drink. He needed to drown out the tension in his chest.

The bar was only a few feet away, but it felt like a lifetime before he got there. He gripped the edge of the counter, trying to steady himself, his fingers tight around the cool wood. His head was starting to spin, but not in the fun way. In the way that made everything feel off-center. He could feel his heart rate picking up, the familiar irritation bubbling to the surface, mixing with a touch of jealousy that made him want to punch something.

God, why was he like this?

He could hear the sounds of the party around him—laughter, shouting, the thumping beat of the music. But it was all too much. His gaze flickered toward the crowd again, landing on Allura and Lotor, and he could feel the jealousy twist in his gut.

“You’re looking a little off there, lover boy,” Lance’s head shot up. He stiffened at the sound of Keith’s voice cutting through the noise, like a calm in the middle of a storm. He turned slightly, blinking at Keith as he approached, his own words caught somewhere between his brain and his mouth.

Lance sometimes wondered if Keith owned anything that wasn’t dark and depressing. This time, however, he wasn’t in a hoodie. Keith Kogane was in a tight, black compression shirt and a deep red leather jacket that was cropped just above his waist. Those god forsaken black jeans hung right off his pelvic bones and were low enough for his underwear band to peak through.

Lance’s head was spinning. “Uh—” was all he could manage out at first. “Hunk and Pidge were looking for you. We were, uh, here to rescue you.”

Keith’s eyebrows shot up. “Yeah they found me, then Hunk found Shay and Pidge started yelling at some guys in the corner about how poorly the lights were programmed.”

Lance blinked, still slightly disoriented. “Sounds about right.”

Keith gave him a once-over. “Are you drunk?”

Lance scoffed, adjusting the plastic cup in his hand like it somehow made him seem more put together. “Define drunk.”

Keith tilted his head. “Slightly flushed, unfocused, lingering a little too long when you look at Allura—yeah, I’m gonna go with slightly.”

Lance grimaced. “Okay, maybe a tiny bit. It’s your fault, you know. Throwing a party on a Friday night.”

“It’s not my party,” Keith muttered, glancing over his shoulder. “James hijacked my birthday.”

Lance followed his gaze, catching sight of James holding court near the beer pong table, a red cup in each hand and a cocky grin plastered on his face. His stomach twisted again, though this time it wasn’t about Allura.

“You hate this kind of thing, huh?” Lance asked, more gently.

Keith’s eyes flicked back to him. “Yeah. I didn’t even want to come.”

“So… why’d you?”

Keith shrugged, like it was obvious. “Didn’t have much of a choice.”

Lance took a sip of whatever sugary mess was in his cup, watching Keith with a strange tightness in his chest. “Well. For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here.”

That earned him a look—something unreadable, lingering just a beat too long.

“…Thanks,” Keith said, voice quieter now.

The music pulsed louder for a moment, but it felt like there was a little bubble between them—something suspended and oddly intimate in the middle of the chaos.

Lance suddenly wished he wasn’t tipsy. Because if he was sober, maybe he’d actually understand what was happening here.

Lance glanced down at his cup, swirling the last inch of punch at the bottom like it held answers. “You know,” he started, voice softer, “I brought you something earlier. Cupcake. With a candle and everything.”

Keith’s lips tugged upward—barely, but it was there. “Yeah. I remember.”

“I thought you’d blow it out and, I don’t know… make a wish or something. Like normal people.”

Keith huffed a dry laugh. “You think I’m normal?”

Lance looked at him then, really looked—eyes catching on the soft edges of Keith’s smirk, the way the red leather glinted under the string lights overhead, the stubborn curl of hair that refused to stay down. “No,” he said, almost without thinking. “But… I like that about you.”

Keith froze for half a second. Something unreadable passed across his face, quick but sharp. Then he glanced away, brushing a hand through his hair. “You’re drunk.”

“Not that drunk,” Lance said. And he wasn’t. Not when it came to this —to Keith. “You always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Deflect when someone says something nice to you.”

Keith didn’t answer at first. His gaze dropped to the floor, then shifted back toward the crowd, like he was stalling. “Maybe,” he said finally. “I don’t always know how to handle it.”

Lance stepped a little closer, close enough to smell the faint hint of his cologne—clean, woodsy, something grounding in the middle of all the noise. “Well… get used to it. Because I’ve got a lot of nice things to say.”

That caught Keith off guard. His eyes flicked back to Lance’s, a little wide, a little unsure. He looked like he wanted to say something, but then—

“Yo! Kogane!” someone yelled from across the room. James, of course. Waving a shot glass in the air like a challenge. “Birthday boy, come take your damn shot!”

Keith sighed like someone had just shoved a knife between his ribs. “I should go.”

Lance hated how quickly the moment dissolved. “Do you want to?”

“No.”

“Then don’t,” Lance said, voice low but steady, cutting through the chaos around them like a lifeline.

Keith hesitated. For a second, Lance saw it—the conflict flickering in his eyes, the way his fingers twitched at his side like he wanted to stay. The noise of the party swelled around them, laughter and shouting bleeding into the space they’d carved out, threatening to drown it all.

Then James’s voice broke through again, loud and obnoxious. “Kogane! Let’s go, birthday boy! Don’t make me come get you!”

Keith’s jaw clenched. Lance could practically feel the way it grated on him, the tension thrumming through his shoulders. But still, Keith gave one last irritated sigh, eyes briefly meeting Lance’s—an apology, maybe, or something close to it—and muttered, “See you later.”

Lance didn’t respond fast enough before Keith turned, weaving through the crowd with that same determined gait he always had, like he was heading straight into battle. And maybe he was. James’s group let out a cheer the moment he got close, surrounding him with loud, drunken energy.

Lance watched as James uncapped some bottle of mystery booze—definitely not the good kind—and sloppily poured it into a shot glass. His frat-bound posse banged their fists on the sticky table like a war drum, chanting Keith’s name over and over again like it was some kind of initiation ritual.

“Keith! Keith! Keith!”

The sound grated at Lance’s ears.

Keith looked cornered.

And Lance hated it.

Keith took the shot.

His head tipped back, throat working as he downed whatever awful thing James had poured for him. The crowd erupted, banging the table louder, whooping like they’d just witnessed something legendary.

Lance’s stomach twisted.

Keith wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grimacing at the taste, and started to pull away—probably to make a break for the door, or at least somewhere quieter—but James was faster.

He grabbed Keith by the collar and yanked him in.

The kiss was messy. Sloppy. Keith froze at first, caught off guard, his hands stiff at his sides. But James didn’t care. He was all teeth and alcohol and performative arrogance, like he was doing it for the audience rather than Keith himself.

And then— then —James opened his eyes mid-kiss.

And locked eyes with Lance.

It was deliberate. A slow, smug flick of his gaze across the room, right past the people in between, zeroing in on Lance like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he knew Lance was watching and wanted him to see.

Lance’s fists clenched at his sides.

He couldn’t hear the music anymore. Just the sound of blood rushing through his ears, fast and hot.

Because James wasn’t just kissing Keith.

He was staking a claim.

And Lance didn’t know whether he wanted to punch something, or pull Keith away himself.

Maybe both.

Chapter Text

Lance’s brain felt like it was trying to escape his skull. Every heartbeat echoed like a bass drum in his head, and the thin light leaking in through the blinds felt like a personal attack. He groaned, shifting slightly—then regretted it immediately as his stomach rolled in protest.

He was face-down on his bed, limbs sprawled out like a crime scene outline. His clothes from the night before were still on, his jeans awkwardly twisted around his waist, and one sock was halfway off his foot, clinging to his heel like it had fought hard to stay on but ultimately gave up.

His mouth tasted like stale alcohol and regret.

He squinted at the ceiling, unsure if the pounding was coming from his head or someone knocking on the dorm wall. Everything felt hazy and out of sync. There were fragmented memories—Allura’s laugh, Lotor’s hand brushing her shoulder, Keith’s voice, Keith’s eyes, Keith’s... everything—and then static.

“Ugh,” he muttered into his pillow. “I’m never drinking again.”

He wasn’t even sure how many drinks he’d had. Enough to blur the edges of the night. Enough to forget exactly when Keith walked away—but not enough to forget the way James’ eyes locked onto his across the room, daring him, taunting him, as he pulled Keith into that sloppy, possessive kiss. Lance had tried to convince himself the bitter taste in his mouth was just the cheap tequila, not jealousy curdling in his gut.

A groan from the opposite bed made Lance lift his head. Hunk was already awake, sitting cross-legged with a bottle of Gatorade in one hand and his phone in the other. He looked far too alive for someone who’d been at the same party.

“Morning, party animal,” Hunk said with a raised brow. “You crashed hard. I had to practically carry you back.”

Lance winced and flopped onto his side, still face-smooshed into the pillow. “Please don’t remind me.”

“You started stumbling around the living room and trying to high-five a ficus,” Hunk added helpfully. “Shay said you kept calling it ‘Commander Leaf.’”

Lance groaned louder. “Oh my god.”

Hunk chuckled, then his smile faded a little. “You okay, though?”

“Not really,” Lance admitted after a beat. “Do you… know what happened after I left?”

Hunk hesitated. “Yeah. Kinda. Pidge and I left not long after. You were already out of it, so I called a ride. But Keith…”

Lance sat up, his hangover forgotten. “What about Keith?”

“He told us all to go,” Hunk said, frowning. “Said he was staying with James. Apparently, James was too drunk to even stand.”

Lance’s stomach dropped. “He stayed ?”

Hunk nodded slowly. “Yeah. Wouldn’t let us argue with him either. Pidge was pissed. I think she called him a ‘loyalty martyr with a savior complex.’”

Lance’s throat felt tight. Keith had stayed behind. With James . After that .

And Lance had left. Let him walk away.

Lance didn’t even think.

One second he was sitting on the edge of his bed, stomach churning with tequila and guilt, and the next he was on his feet, grabbing the hoodie slung over his desk chair.

“Lance?” Hunk called, confused. “Where are you—”

But Lance was already out the door.

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His mind was locked onto one image—Keith, exhausted and cornered at that party, with James draped over him like a warning sign Lance had ignored. He hadn’t stopped Keith. He’d let him walk away. And now all he could hear was Hunk’s voice repeating James was too drunk to even stand .

The brisk morning air hit his face as he jogged across campus, hoodie barely zipped and his sockless heel rubbing uncomfortably against the back of his shoe. He didn’t care.

Keith’s apartment was off-campus, tucked behind a row of older complexes near the edge of town. Lance had only been there once, months ago when Pidge dragged them all over to help Keith move his couch. He nearly tripped up the front steps before knocking, maybe a little too hard.

Nothing.

He knocked again, sharper this time. “Keith?”

Still no answer.

He was just about to knock a third time when the door suddenly swung open.

James.

He stood in the doorway with wet hair still dripping onto his shoulders, a toothbrush lazily sticking out of the corner of his mouth, and nothing but a towel slung precariously low around his hips. His chest was bare, dotted with fading hickeys and water droplets that clung to his skin like proof. The bathroom light spilled out behind him, casting him in a glow that made Lance feel like he’d just stepped onto a stage he wasn’t invited to.

Lance’s eyes darted away on instinct, flinching slightly at the sight. He hated the way James always looked like he belonged in the center of a room—like he knew exactly how much space he took up and wielded it like a weapon.

James leaned one arm against the splintered doorframe, languid and amused, but his gaze stayed locked on Lance with a deliberate kind of sharpness.

“Keith, baby!” he called over his shoulder, not bothering to actually turn around. The toothbrush wobbled slightly between his teeth as he spoke, but the message came through crystal clear. “Your little stray is here.”

The words hit Lance like a slap.

Stray.

The kind of word someone used for something lost. Something that didn’t belong. Something that followed after people like a shadow hoping for scraps.

James didn’t smile, but his eyes crinkled at the edges—satisfied. Territorial. Like a dog pissing on a tree.

Lance’s fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into the fabric of his sleeves. His jaw tightened, but he forced a level voice. “I came to check on Keith.”

“Clearly,” James said around the toothbrush, his tone clipped and vaguely mocking. “He’s fine. Better than fine, actually.”

Lance wanted to lunge, to shove him back into the doorframe and wipe that look off his face—but instead, he stood his ground and stared back.

Because James had said one thing, but meant another.

He’s mine. Back off.

Lance’s pulse thudded painfully in his throat. He didn’t know what Keith had said to James after the party. Didn’t know how much of what happened was real and how much was performative.

But he did know one thing: Keith wasn’t James’ anything.

And Lance wasn’t about to be dismissed like some background extra.

Lance didn’t move. Neither did James.

The hallway suddenly felt too narrow, too still, like the entire building was holding its breath.

James removed the toothbrush from his mouth with exaggerated slowness and tapped it against the doorframe. “You planning to just stand there breathing all heavy, or did you actually want something?”

Lance forced a shrug, trying not to let the tightness in his chest show. “Just wanted to make sure Keith was okay. You know, since you were too drunk to stand last night.”

That hit its mark. James’s jaw twitched ever so slightly.

“Oh, that’s cute,” James said with a dry laugh, flicking the toothbrush casually into the apartment without even looking. “You check in on all your classmates like this, or just the ones you’ve got a crush on?”

Lance’s heart stuttered in his chest, but he didn’t let it show. He raised his hands in mock surrender, voice steady. “Woah, man. Chill. I’m just checking in on a friend.”

James leaned a little further into the doorway, water still dripping from his hair, his smile sharpening at the edges. “Right. A ‘friend’ you showed up for first thing in the morning. Real convincing.”

“I didn’t realize looking out for someone made me obsessed,” Lance said, coolly. “But maybe that’s just how you operate.”

James gave a low chuckle, slow and deliberate. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, man. Keith? He’s mine.”

The words landed heavy between them. A quiet, possessive claim.

Lance’s jaw tightened, but he stayed planted. Didn’t flinch. “If that’s true, you sure spend a lot of time trying to convince people.”

James’ smirk dropped. Just a flicker, a beat. But Lance saw it.

The air between them bristled.

Then—footsteps.

A door creaked open deeper in the apartment, followed by a sleepy, gravel-soft voice. “James? Who was at the—”

Keith appeared, hair messy and sticking up in odd directions, eyes half-lidded with sleep. He was wearing nothing but a pair of low-hanging black sleep shorts, his bare chest marred by faint pillow lines and the light flush of someone recently woken. His eyes darted between them. James in a towel, Lance on the doorstep. The tension so thick it practically screamed.

“Lance?” Keith asked, voice flat with surprise.

James didn’t turn. He kept his gaze glued to Lance’s face as he called out, casual and cold, “Told you. Your little stray came sniffing around.”

Keith blinked, clearly still shaking off sleep. “Oh.”

The word hung awkwardly in the air, and for a second, none of them spoke. Lance didn’t know where to look. At Keith’s face? At the bruises blooming along his collarbone? Anywhere but James’ smirk?

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” Lance finally said, forcing his tone to be casual, though his fingers curled slightly at his sides. “You were pretty out of it after the shots last night.”

Keith scratched the back of his head, seemingly unaware of—or maybe just uninterested in—the tension crackling between the two guys in front of him. “Yeah… thanks.”

James slung an arm around Keith’s waist then, fingers splayed wide across his stomach, a gesture so blatantly possessive it made Lance’s stomach twist.

“He’s fine,” James said, giving Keith a slow glance before turning his sharp gaze back to Lance. “Better than fine, actually. You can go now.”

Lance opened his mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to lie and say he was already leaving—but Keith beat him to it.

“James, knock it off,” Keith said, his voice low but firm. He stepped out from behind him, brushing James’s arm off his waist without ceremony. “Don’t be a dick.”

James looked mildly offended, but didn’t stop leaning on the doorframe. “I’m just saying, if the guy’s here to play knight in shining armor, he’s late to the role. You were puking in the bathroom and I was the one holding your hair back.”

Keith shot him a look that said drop it , then turned to Lance. He crossed his arms loosely, but there was a tension in his jaw Lance hadn’t seen earlier.

“Thanks for coming by,” Keith said, his tone more sincere now. “But I’m fine.”

Lance could hear the unsaid you can go tucked between those words, but the way Keith avoided looking at him directly made it hard to leave.

“Are you sure?” Lance asked, voice quieter now, meant just for Keith. “You told everyone to go home last night. That’s not like you.”

Keith’s jaw ticked. “Yeah. I was just… tired.”

James snorted behind him, clearly amused by the act.

“Right. Tired,” Lance echoed. “Not like, emotionally wrecked or anything.”

Keith finally looked him in the eye then, and for a split second, something flickered there—guilt? Gratitude? It was gone too fast to be sure.

“Lance,” he said softly. “I’ve got it handled.”

Lance hesitated, standing on the threshold of the apartment and whatever this whole mess was. Then, quietly, with a nod, he stepped back.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll see you in class.”

And as he turned, he felt James’s eyes on his back—smug, victorious, like he’d won something. The door shut with a dull thud behind him, and Lance stood in the stale hallway air for a second longer than necessary, staring at the peeling paint on the apartment number. His chest felt tight—like he’d run all this way, but he hadn’t even made it up the stairs.

He took the steps two at a time on the way down, each footfall echoing a little louder than the last.

The morning had thinned into mid-morning haze by the time he hit the sidewalk. His hoodie was too warm for the sun, but he didn’t bother peeling it off. The walk back to his dorm was almost twenty minutes—just long enough to stew in everything he didn’t get to say.

It wasn’t just James kissing Keith. That sucked, yeah—but it was more than that. It was the way James looked at him. Like Lance was a gnat buzzing around a porchlight he had no business going near. Like he already knew Lance’s feelings before Lance could admit them to himself.

Your little stray is here.

The words stuck like gum in the back of his throat.

James wasn’t just possessive. He was performative. He wanted Lance to see him with Keith, like it proved something. Like Keith was a trophy he’d already won. And Lance hated how much it worked—how it made his stomach turn, how it made the heat crawl up the back of his neck.

But the worst part?

Keith didn’t stop him.

By the time Lance reached his building, the soles of his sneakers were scuffed with dirt and his hoodie clung to his back with sweat. He punched in the door code with a little more force than necessary, barely glancing at the people lounging in the common room as he passed through.

The door to his dorm creaked open, and he let it swing shut behind him as he dropped face-first into his bed without bothering to take off his shoes.

Silence. It felt deafening after the morning he'd just had.

He rolled onto his back, eyes drifting to the ceiling tiles. There was a crack above his bed shaped like a lightning bolt—he’d stared at it so many times it felt more familiar than half his classes. He should have stayed in bed. He should have let it go.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

With a groan, he fished it out, thumb hovering over the screen for a second before unlocking it.

Keith: Hey. Sorry about earlier. You okay?

Lance blinked at the message, the words swimming in and out of focus.

He didn’t know how to answer that. Was he okay? Physically, sure. But his chest still felt tight, and James’ smug grin kept flashing behind his eyelids every time he closed them.

Lance stared at the message for a long time. Then he typed something. Deleted it. Tried again. Deleted it again.

Eventually, he set the phone facedown on his chest and let his eyes drift shut.

The stillness didn’t last long.

About twenty minutes later, the front door swung open with the familiar beeping of the keypad  and mismatched footsteps.

“—and I’m just saying,” Pidge’s voice rang down the hall, “if your omelet had actually been better than mine, the dining hall lady wouldn’t have winked at me. ”

“She winked because you tipped her in spare RAM sticks again,” Hunk replied, amused. “You’re building her a new POS system and you know it.”

Their voices grew louder as they approached, and Lance considered pretending to be asleep.

Too late.

The door swung open just as Lance was sinking lower into his desk chair, hoodie still clinging to him like a shield. The dull ache in his chest hadn’t gone away, but the shock had dulled into something colder, heavier.

“Lance?” Hunk’s voice was loud in the quiet room. He froze in the doorway, a to-go coffee in each hand, Pidge trailing behind him with a half-eaten muffin.

“You’re… back?” Hunk blinked. “Dude, where did you run off to? You bolted this morning like the building was on fire.”

Pidge raised an eyebrow and kicked the door shut behind her. “You didn’t even put on real shoes.”

Lance didn’t turn around right away. He swallowed, eyes fixed on the edge of his desk.

“I went to check on Keith.”

That got their attention.

“Wait, what?” Hunk set the coffees down. “This morning?”

“You barely said a word, man. Just grabbed your hoodie and peaced out.”

Lance nodded slowly. “Yeah. I don’t know. I woke up and just… needed to see him. After what you said. That he stayed behind with James.”

“And?” Pidge prompted, arms crossed.

Lance exhaled. “James answered the door in a towel. Called me Keith’s stray. Made it real clear I wasn’t welcome. And then Keith came out in just sleep shorts, like it was no big deal.”

There was a beat of silence before Hunk spoke, carefully: “That’s why you looked like someone ran over your dog when we walked in.”

Lance gave a humorless chuckle. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

Pidge plopped down on the bed, picking at her muffin. “So… what now?”

Lance didn’t answer. He didn’t know.

Monday came with a grey sky and a forecast that matched Lance’s mood.
He trudged across campus under a hoodie too thin for the wind, earbuds in but no music playing. His phone buzzed twice in his pocket — sharp, insistent — and even without looking, he knew who it was.

He didn’t check until he got to his first lecture.

Keith 8:03 AM: Hey, are we still good for tutoring today? Usual time?

Keith 8:17 AM: If you’re too busy, it’s fine. Just let me know.

Lance locked the screen and slid the phone face-down on his desk.

He told himself he didn’t owe Keith anything. That showing up at his apartment had been a lapse in judgment, a moment of weakness — not an invitation for more of whatever that twisted situation with James was.

The image of Keith, half-asleep and shirtless, still lingered. So did the way he hadn’t said a word when James called Lance a “stray.”

Lance kept his eyes on the whiteboard, pretending the equations made sense, pretending he wasn’t trying to pretend.

Lance kept his eyes on the whiteboard, pretending the equations made sense, pretending he wasn’t trying to pretend.

The rest of the lecture passed in a blur. His professor’s voice may as well have been underwater. He took notes out of habit — disjointed fragments he’d barely remember later — and when the bell rang, he was the first one out the door.

His day trudged on like that.

History. Biology. A group project meeting where he barely spoke. He gave excuses about being tired, about not feeling well, but the truth sat like a stone in his stomach.

Every time he reached for his phone, he stopped himself. Keith’s unread messages hovered at the top of his screen like they were waiting for something — an answer, maybe. A version of Lance that wasn’t bitter and confused and tired of being second place to someone like James.

By the time his last class ended, Lance had the dull kind of headache that came from dehydration and overthinking. The sky was still gray. His hoodie felt thinner than ever.

He thought about going straight back to the dorms. Instead, he wandered aimlessly around campus for a while, hands buried deep in his pockets, hoping the cold air would knock something loose in his head — an explanation, a decision, a way to stop caring.

But nothing came.

Lance was just about ready to throw in the towel and call it a day when a hand clamped down on his shoulder. He spun around, half-expecting to see Hunk, maybe out of breath and whining about snack runs or dragging him back to bed to sulk.

It wasn’t Hunk.

It was Keith — very out of breath, his cheeks flushed pink from either the cold or the sprint.

It was Keith — very out of breath, his cheeks flushed pink from either the cold or the sprint.

“I’ve—been looking for you,” he said, exhaling hard, hands on his knees for a second before straightening up. His eyes scanned Lance’s face, searching. “Are you… coming to tutoring today?”

Lance blinked. For a moment, he just stared at Keith, uncertain if he wanted to laugh, scoff, or say something cruel just to claw back a sense of control.

“Didn’t realize we were still doing that,” he said instead, voice low and flat.

Keith’s brows pulled together in confusion. “Of course we are. You want an A, don’t you?”

Lance let out a dry, humorless laugh. It tasted bitter on his tongue. “Yeah, man. I just don’t know how much an A is worth if I’m being referred to as your stray .”

Keith flinched, visibly, like the words had slapped him. His mouth opened, then closed again, at a loss.

“That’s what he called me, you know,” Lance went on, quieter now but no less sharp. “Just stood there, half-naked, like I wasn’t even worth shutting the door on. Like I was some… pathetic little thing sniffing around for scraps.”

Keith’s jaw clenched. “That wasn’t—James was being a dick. He says stuff like that to get under people’s skin.”

“Yeah, well, mission accomplished,” Lance muttered, stepping back. “Look, I get it. He’s your—whatever. I shouldn’t have come.”

Keith stepped forward like he wanted to say something— do something—but Lance shook his head before he could try.

“Don’t worry about it,” Lance said, his voice stiff, already starting to turn away. “I’ve got the studying thing under control.”

Keith hesitated. “Lance—”

“Seriously,” he cut in, not looking back. “You’ve got other things to worry about. Like making sure your boyfriend doesn’t keep calling people strays.”

He shoved his hands back into his pockets and walked off, boots crunching against the gravel as the wind picked up again. Keith didn’t follow.

Lance didn’t look back.

By the time Lance got back to the dorms, the sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the sidewalks. The halls were quieter now—most people still at class or killing time elsewhere. He slipped into the room without a word, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

It felt colder in here. Or maybe that was just him.

He dropped his bag by the foot of his bed and sat down, letting out a long breath. For a moment, he just stared at the blank wall across from him, jaw tense, thoughts noisy. But eventually, he dragged his laptop onto his lap and cracked open his notes.

If he couldn't quiet his head, he could at least control the grades. The rest—Keith, James, everything—could wait.

With a forced focus, he began typing.

Surprisingly, once he started, it wasn’t that hard to stay in it.

He powered through the chemistry worksheet first—balanced equations, electron configurations, the kind of stuff that usually made his eyes glaze over. But now? It felt almost soothing. Predictable. Clean. No weird tension, no bruised pride, no towel-wearing guys calling him a stray.

Just numbers. Rules. Things that made sense.

After that came calc. Then a rough draft for his lit class essay. The hours slipped by unnoticed, daylight fading into the soft amber hue of early evening. The hum of his desk lamp was the only sound in the room, and for once, Lance didn’t mind the silence.

He was too busy proving to himself that he didn’t need Keith’s help.

Didn’t need Keith at all.

The quiet hum of focus had settled over Lance like a heavy blanket. Page after page, line after line—he was in the zone, and staying there felt like the only thing keeping the rest of his brain from spiraling. The moment with Keith still hovered somewhere in the back of his mind, like a shadow trailing too close behind, but every problem he solved, every paragraph he finished, pushed it a little farther away.

By the time his phone buzzed, he’d nearly forgotten he even had one.

He blinked at the screen.

Allura 👑: hey... did you already finish our Hamlet essay?

He wiped at his face, realized his cheeks felt tight from how long he'd been frowning.

Lance: yup. just turned it in like 10 mins ago

Allura 👑: ofc you did 🙄 showoff. how long is yours?

Lance: like... 7000 words? Ish?

Allura 👑: YOU’RE JOKING

Lance: i wish

There was a pause. Then:

Allura 👑: i haven’t even started. lance. i am BEGGING you.

Lance: allura altea? doing something last minute? never thought i’d see the day

Allura 👑: don’t make me throw myself out the window. Please.

Lance stared at the blinking cursor in his calc doc for a second, then sighed and pushed back from his desk.

Lance: you in your room?

Allura 👑: yes ily get here fast

He grabbed his laptop, a half-eaten granola bar from earlier, and a hoodie that didn’t smell like shame. As he stepped into the hallway, the air felt colder than it had earlier—sharper, clearer. He tucked his hands into his sleeves and started walking.

Helping Allura with an essay was, admittedly, a much easier emotional minefield than whatever the hell was going on with Keith.

And at the very least, she wouldn’t call him a stray.

Lance knocked twice, then let himself in—Allura never locked her door unless she was out or mad. She was sprawled out across her bed, a blanket wrapped around her legs and her laptop glowing in her lap. Her hair was twisted up in a messy bun, and her glasses were slipping slightly down her nose.

“God,” she groaned dramatically. “My savior. My knight in overpriced sneakers.”

Lance smirked as he stepped inside. “You know, I never get tired of hearing that.”

Allura rolled her eyes and patted the empty space beside her. “Sit. Save me from literary despair.”

He dropped onto the bed beside her, shoulder brushing hers as he opened his laptop. “Have you written anything?”

“I wrote ‘Hamlet is sad.’ That’s it. That’s the tweet.”

Lance laughed. “Wow. Real groundbreaking analysis. I’m sure Professor Iverson will cry tears of joy.”

She nudged his arm, lips quirking up. “Shut up and help me.”

They worked in tandem for a while—Lance throwing out ideas, Allura typing furiously while occasionally stealing glances at him over her screen. Their thighs touched, warm under the blanket, and she didn’t pull away. At one point, her fingers brushed his while reaching for her highlighter, and neither of them said anything about it.

Eventually, when the first draft was mostly done and Allura had collapsed onto her back with a groan, Lance leaned back on his elbows and tilted his head toward her.

“So…” he started, casual but curious. “You and Lotor.”

Allura cracked an eye open. “What about us?”

“You two were looking pretty cozy at the party last week. Just wondering if that’s, like, a thing now. Or if I should start sharpening my daggers.”

She laughed. “Are you jealous?”

“Only if you say yes.”

Allura looked at him for a beat, then smiled—slow and knowing. “He’s… complicated. We went to the same primary school back in London. Just catching up, I guess.”

Lance raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Mmhm,” she hummed, her voice light but teasing. “Though he did try to mansplain Shakespeare to me after his third drink, so... that ship might’ve sunk before it left the harbor.”

Lance chuckled, leaning a little closer, propping himself up on one elbow. “Well, if the bar is ‘don’t be a condescending ass,’ I think I’ve got a fighting chance.”

She tilted her head at him, mock-considering. “You might. You’d still have to explain your tragic taste in hoodies, though.”

He placed a hand over his heart. “Wow. Cut deep, Princess.”

Allura grinned, her fingers lightly brushing his arm as she sat up. “Don’t take it too hard. I only tease the ones I like.”

The room fell into a brief, charged silence—comfortable, but buzzing. Lance swallowed, eyes flicking down to her mouth before catching himself and looking away with a laugh.

“So,” he said, a little too brightly. “Hamlet.”

She raised an eyebrow, amused. “Right. Hamlet.”

But the tension hung between them like a held breath.

They did eventually return to the essay—though not without a few more detours into playful banter and stolen glances. Allura had a surprising knack for pulling quotes out of nowhere, and Lance found himself genuinely impressed as she pieced together a strong thesis.

By the time they finished, the sun was already slipping behind the buildings outside her dorm window.

“Food?” she asked, stretching her arms above her head. “I’m starving.”

Lance grinned. “You read my mind.”

They made their way to the dining hall, the walk easy and full of casual conversation. Allura complained about one of her philosophy TAs who “used words like epistemological to sound smarter than he is,” while Lance ranted about how no amount of tutoring could make Hamlet less of a whiny man-child.

The food hall was bustling when they got there, the scent of pizza, stir-fry, and coffee mixing into something vaguely edible. They filled their trays and found a table near the back, where the noise was manageable. It felt... comfortable. Normal. Like something Lance hadn’t realized he missed until he had it again.

But then the doors opened, and the shift was instant.

Keith walked in, flanked by James and a couple of their usual hangers-on. James was talking loudly about something—probably himself—while Keith trailed beside him, eyes scanning the room almost instinctively.

Lance’s shoulders tensed, and Allura followed his gaze.

Keith noticed them first.

His eyes flicked from Lance to Allura, then back again. He didn’t say anything, just held Lance’s stare for a beat too long.

Then James noticed too.

“Well, look who’s studying Shakespeare and making it a date night,” James said with a smirk, his voice carrying far too easily over the noise. He nudged Keith’s shoulder. “Didn’t know your stray had other options.”

Keith didn’t respond. His face gave nothing away.

Lance forced a smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Crazy, right? Turns out I’m not as stray as people think.”

James gave a dry chuckle but didn’t press further. He said something to Keith, who still hadn’t moved, then disappeared deeper into the hall.

Keith lingered a second longer. Allura offered him a blinding smile.

“Hi, Keith. I didn’t see you today at the Student Center. Day off?”

Keith blinked, like he hadn’t expected her to address him directly. His gaze briefly flicked from Allura’s bright smile to Lance’s carefully neutral expression.

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice rough around the edges. “Wasn’t feeling it.”

Allura tilted her head, still smiling. “Fair enough. Everyone needs a break sometimes.” She tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “Well, hope you’re feeling better now.”

Keith nodded once. “Yeah. Thanks.”

It wasn’t much, but the way his eyes lingered on Lance said the rest. Like he was waiting for something—anything. But Lance didn’t give it to him. He just picked up his fork again and focused on his plate like it held the secrets of the universe.

Keith’s jaw tightened. Whatever flicker of vulnerability had passed across his face vanished. Without another word, he turned and walked after James, shoulders a little stiffer than before.

Allura watched him go, then turned back to Lance with an arched brow. “Well. That wasn’t awkward at all.”

Lance exhaled a dry laugh. “You’re telling me.”

Lance could feel Allura’s eyes on him as he dug into his food, but instead of letting it distract him, he leaned back in his chair with a casual grin. His tone was light, flirtatious, the kind he used when he wanted to feel in control.

“You know, I can’t help but think,” he said, glancing at her as he took a bite, “that I’m doing way better on this essay since you came over. Must be the company.”

Allura raised an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “Oh, really? I thought you were the one helping me with the essay.”

“I can’t help it. You bring out my best work,” he replied, his voice low and smooth.

She laughed, but there was a teasing glint in her eyes as she took a bite of her salad. “You sure know how to flatter a girl. I bet you say that to all your classmates.”

Lance smirked, pretending to be insulted. “Nah, just the ones who can appreciate good company.” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make it sound more private. “Speaking of which, I haven’t seen you out at the Student Center as much lately. Missing all the fun?”

Allura’s eyes flickered for a second before she answered, keeping the flirtatious tone alive. “Busy with assignments. You know how it is. But maybe we should go grab coffee sometime—take a break from all the work. What do you think?”

Lance felt a thrill at the offer, the way it seemed so casual, yet full of possibility. “I think that sounds perfect,” he said smoothly. “I’ll even let you pick the place.”

Her eyes sparkled, and she gave him a knowing smile. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Just then, James and Keith wandered past their table, looking for a place to sit. James paused, glancing around, then nodded to an empty table nearby. Keith, walking slightly ahead, didn’t acknowledge them, but Lance noticed his movements—tighter, more rigid than usual. He couldn’t help but glance over to him for a moment.

But when James shot a sideways glance at their table, Lance quickly focused back on Allura, pretending like he hadn’t noticed the tension.

“So, how about that coffee? When are you free?” Lance asked, leaning in just a little closer.

Allura smiled again, leaning toward him, and Lance could feel the energy shift between them. It was subtle, but it was there—like they were both savoring the moment, the unspoken promise of something more, even if it was just the fleeting nature of this conversation.

Meanwhile, James and Keith settled at their table not far away, but Lance ignored them. He didn’t want to give James or Keith the satisfaction of seeing him squirm. Instead, he focused on the way Allura’s smile lingered just a bit longer than usual, enjoying the playful chemistry between them.

Keith was there—sitting with James, looking a little distant and a little cold—but Lance refused to let himself care. Instead, he turned his full attention back to Allura.

The conversation between Lance and Allura flowed effortlessly as they finished their meals, the playful banter keeping things light. Allura’s smile never wavered, and Lance felt that familiar rush of confidence every time she looked at him like that. After they finished eating, they gathered their things and walked together toward her dorm, the cool evening air brushing against their skin.

“You know, I’m really glad we did this,” Allura said, her voice soft but genuine. “I needed the distraction. And I can always use a good study buddy.”

Lance chuckled, his hands buried in his hoodie pockets. “Well, lucky for you, I’m a pro at making essays bearable.” He shot her a grin. “Any time you need a break, just let me know. I’m pretty good at offering a change of pace.”

She laughed, the sound light and easy. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

They reached the entrance of her dorm, and Allura paused, turning to face him. “Thanks for walking me back, Lance,” she said, her eyes bright. “I’ll see you around?”

“Definitely,” Lance replied with a wink. “I’ll make sure to save you a seat in class. We wouldn’t want you getting lonely without me around.”

Allura gave him a teasing smile before she stepped backward toward the door. “See you, Lance.”

“Take care, Allura,” he called, watching her disappear inside with a smile.

Lance lingered for a moment, enjoying the rush of the interaction, before turning and heading toward his own dorm. He wasn’t sure why, but the whole walk back to his place felt different, like something was just off.

As he approached the dorm, the usual hustle and bustle of students outside the building felt strangely distant. The sharp sound of his footsteps echoed in the quiet evening, but just before he reached the door, he spotted a familiar figure standing by the entrance, leaning casually against the brick wall.

Lance stopped in his tracks, his heart skipping a beat.

Keith.

He was standing with his motorcycle helmet in his hands, his eyes locked on Lance as if he had been waiting for him. His usual scruffy hair was tousled, his usual attitude absent, replaced with something harder to place—something that made Lance's chest tighten for a moment.

Lance stood frozen for a beat longer than he meant to, but he finally pushed through the surprise and broke the silence. “What’s up?” he asked, his tone neutral but a little wary.

Keith didn’t immediately respond, just kept his gaze steady, like he was trying to read Lance. Finally, he took a slow breath and answered, “Just waiting for you.” He didn’t explain why, but Lance felt it. There was something unresolved there between them—something left hanging in the air after the awkwardness earlier.

Lance blinked, then shifted his weight. “Well, here I am,” he said, forcing a casual nonchalance into his voice. “What, you wanna talk or something?”

Keith nodded slightly, opened his mouth like he had something to say—but then closed it again, his brows knitting together in frustration. His grip on the helmet tightened.

Lance narrowed his eyes. “Well?” he pressed, tapping his foot. “It’s getting late, and some of us actually go to class, y’know.” He turned, already stepping toward the door.

“Wait!” Keith blurted, panic cracking through his usual composure. “I do wanna talk. But not—but not here.”

Lance paused. The urgency in Keith’s voice tugged at something in him, against his better judgment. He turned back, arms crossed. “Then where?”

Keith looked at him for a long beat, then held out the helmet. “Get on.”

Lance stared at it. “Seriously?”

Keith nodded. “Just—trust me.”

Lance hesitated, his eyes darting from Keith’s face to the gleaming black motorcycle parked at the curb. The last time he’d been on the back of that bike, it had been late and loud and reckless. This felt different. Slower. Heavy.

With a muttered curse under his breath, Lance took the helmet from Keith’s hands and jammed it over his head. “You’re lucky I’m a sucker for dramatic midnight rides,” he said, voice muffled by the visor.

Keith gave the smallest smirk and turned to mount the bike. Lance climbed on behind him, arms awkwardly hovering for a second before settling around Keith’s waist.

The engine roared to life, and they pulled away from the dorm, the city lights blurring behind them. Neither of them spoke, the silence filled instead by the hum of the bike and the wind whipping past their faces. Lance stared at the back of Keith’s neck, trying not to think about how warm he felt, how familiar.

They rode farther than Lance expected—out past the edge of the city where the buildings thinned out and the carefully planted trees lining the sidewalks gave way to dry brush and tangled mesquite. The streetlights faded one by one behind them, swallowed by the creeping dark, until only the moon lit their path, casting a silver sheen over the asphalt.

The air whipping through Lance’s hoodie was finally cool—no longer the scorching, suffocating heat of the November Arizona sun. He hunched forward slightly, gloved hands tight around Keith’s waist, the bike’s engine thrumming beneath them like a steady heartbeat.

After a while, he turned his head just enough to glance back over his shoulder. The city was a distant glow now, and the orange clay of the desert floor kicked up behind them in fine plumes of dust, catching in the moonlight like embers.

Then, without warning, Keith veered off the main road onto a gravel path. The tires crunched loudly beneath them, the sound jarring after so much smooth highway. The path wound upward, climbing a low hill.

At the crest, the trees grew sparse and brittle, their branches like skeletal fingers clawing at the sky. Nestled between them stood a weathered two-story house, grayish-white paint flaking off the siding in long strips. Its windows were dark and sunken, like tired eyes watching them approach.

Despite its rough exterior, there was something oddly serene about the place—untouched by time, quiet in a way nothing in Lance’s life had felt for weeks.

Keith cut the engine, and the bike sputtered to silence. The sudden stillness was almost disorienting. No traffic. No music. No chatter. Just the wind moving softly through the dry grass.

Lance slowly pulled off the helmet, shaking out his hair and exhaling. “What is this place?” he asked, voice low.

Keith swung off the bike, dust clinging to the legs of his jeans. “My old house,” he said, glancing up at it with something like nostalgia—or maybe dread. “The one I lived in with my parents… before Shiro’s family adopted me.”

Lance blinked, caught off guard. He looked back at the house, then at Keith, whose expression had gone guarded.

“Wow,” Lance murmured. “Didn’t think you were the type to take someone on a haunted house field trip for emotional bonding.”

Keith huffed a quiet laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, well. Figured you’d earned a little honesty.”

Lance adjusted the helmet under his arm, feeling suddenly too loud in the stillness around them. “Why here? Why now?”

Keith looked up at the cracked roofline, then back at Lance. “Because I didn’t want to talk where anyone else could listen. And this... this is the only place I’ve ever gone when I needed to figure my shit out.”

Lance looked back at the house again. The kind of silence it offered wasn’t just quiet—it was heavy. Real.

He didn’t say anything else.

The porch creaked beneath their steps, each board groaning underfoot like it hadn’t held weight in years. Keith paused at the door, fishing a rusted key from the pocket of his jeans. Lance raised an eyebrow.

“You still have the key?” he asked, surprised.

Keith gave a small shrug as he unlocked the door. “Could never bring myself to get rid of it.”

The door swung open with a low, reluctant groan, revealing a wave of stale, dusty air. Lance wrinkled his nose slightly but stepped inside anyway, curiosity outweighing discomfort.

The interior was dim, shadows draped across the floor from half-drawn curtains. Dust danced in the shafts of moonlight that filtered through the windows. The furniture had clearly been left untouched for years—a sagging couch under a white sheet, a coffee table with a crack down the center, and a bookcase with several books tilted, some fallen completely.

Lance walked deeper into the living room, his eyes slowly adjusting. There was a worn photo frame sitting on the mantelpiece above a bricked-up fireplace. He picked it up gently, brushing his thumb across the glass.

It was a younger Keith, maybe six or seven, perched on the shoulders of a man with wild black hair and tired eyes. Both were smiling, laughing—frozen in a moment of uncomplicated joy. Beside them stood a woman with delicate features and long hair tucked behind one ear, her hand resting lightly on Keith’s back.

“Your parents?” Lance asked softly.

Keith nodded, his gaze fixed somewhere far away. “Yeah. That was before my mom left. Before my dad—before my dad died.” His voice tightened slightly, but he didn’t look away.

His voice hitched slightly, like the words tasted bitter on the way out, but he didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch. Just stood there, arms loose at his sides, holding still in the kind of silence that carried weight.

Lance looked back at the photo in his hands, then to Keith. “I didn’t know,” he said. His voice was quiet, respectful. “About any of that.”

“Most people don’t,” Keith replied. “I don’t talk about it. There’s no point.”

Lance set the frame gently back onto the mantle. “It’s not pointless.”

Keith let out a short, humorless breath. “It feels like it is. What good does it do now?”

Lance didn’t answer at first. He walked slowly across the room, running his fingers along the edge of the old couch beneath the sheet. “Maybe none,” he admitted. “But I think stuff like this—memories, grief, people you used to be—it stays with you whether you talk about it or not.”

Keith gave a noncommittal sound, stepping further into the room and tugging down one of the sheets to reveal a small side table lined with more framed photos—some of him as a toddler in a Halloween costume, others of him holding a toy sword with a missing front tooth. A few had Shiro in them, noticeably older, his arm slung casually around Keith’s shoulder like they’d been brothers forever.

Lance wandered toward the kitchen while Keith lingered. The counters were still littered with old mail, faded sticky notes curling at the corners. A small corkboard hung near the fridge, pinned with schedules and one last grocery list in smudged ink: Milk. Bread. Keith’s field trip money.

It felt like someone had pressed pause on a life mid-sentence.

“This place…” Lance trailed off, coming back into the living room, his voice reverent. “It’s like a memory that never got the chance to fade.”

Keith stood near the window now, arms crossed loosely, staring out at the moonlit hilltop. “Yeah,” he said, quiet. “I used to think if I just stayed away long enough, it’d feel less like it belonged to me.”

“And does it?”

Keith hesitated. “Not really. But it’s still the last place I remember feeling... anchored. Before everything went sideways.”

Lance sat on the arm of the couch, the air between them thick with things unsaid. He wasn’t sure what Keith brought him here to say—but it was clear this wasn’t just about a tutoring session. It was something heavier. Something that had been building.

“You could’ve brought anyone here,” Lance said. “Why me?”

Keith looked over at him for the first time since they stepped inside, his expression unreadable.

“Because you’re the only one I care about being honest with.”

Keith’s words hung in the air like the final note of a song, quiet and trembling with weight.

And for once, Lance didn’t have a snarky response.

He opened his mouth—maybe to joke, maybe to deflect—but nothing came. Just silence. He looked over at Keith and saw it: the sincerity, raw and unguarded, laid bare in the soft slump of his shoulders and the way his fingers fidgeted with the edge of his jacket.

“When I met James,” Keith began, his voice low, almost fragile, “I was… not in a good space.”

Lance stayed still, eyes on Keith, giving him room.

“Shiro had just gone missing. One day he was there—my only real anchor—and then he wasn’t.” Keith stared at the floor, like he could still see that moment echoing across the years. “And I didn’t know who I was without him. I didn’t know how to be anything but angry or reckless. James was… easy.”

Lance frowned, not interrupting.

Keith exhaled through his nose. “He made decisions for me. Told me what I liked. Who I should be. And I let him. Because it meant I didn’t have to think. Or feel.”

Lance kept his eyes on Keith, studying the way his hands were curled loosely into fists at his sides, the tension in his jaw.

“I didn’t know how to exist without someone telling me how. I thought if I could just be who he wanted, then maybe I’d feel normal. Maybe I’d stop feeling like this… broken thing.”

He paused, the silence stretching between them. The wind outside the old house whispered through the cracks in the windows, filling the space where Keith’s voice left off.

“And then you came along.”

Lance’s brows lifted slightly, a little caught off guard.

Keith huffed a breath, not looking at him. “Freshman orientation. You wouldn’t shut up. You were everywhere—loud, confident, asking questions no one else dared to. And you were good. At everything.”

Lance blinked. “You were annoyed?”

“I was furious,” Keith said flatly. “You made everything a competition without even realizing it. And worse, you pushed me to be better. I hated that. I wasn’t ready for it.”

Lance chuckled softly, more out of surprise than amusement.

Keith’s eyes flicked to his. “But… I needed it. You made me want to keep up. Not for James. Not for anyone. Just… because I didn’t want to fall behind you.”

Lance swallowed, the weight of the moment settling in his chest.

Keith looked away again, toward the dusty corners of the living room. “I’m sorry for what James said. The ‘stray’ thing. That wasn’t okay. And I should’ve said something sooner.”

Lance shrugged, but the shrug didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Wasn’t your job to fix it.”

“I know,” Keith said, quieter now. “But I still should’ve had your back.”

He hesitated again, then added, “Thank you. For being my friend. Even when I didn’t make it easy.”

Lance looked at him for a long moment, the vulnerability in Keith’s voice still echoing.

“…You’re welcome,” he said finally, voice soft. “Just don’t make me regret it.”

A faint smirk tugged at Keith’s lips. “No promises.”

They stood in silence for a moment, not quite friends, not quite anything more—but something solid was being built between them. Something honest.

Outside, the wind picked up, and the old house creaked like it was remembering, too.

They didn’t move for a while.

The quiet inside the old house wrapped around them like a blanket—frayed at the edges but warm all the same. Lance let himself sink onto the tattered couch, brushing dust off the cushion before sitting. Keith joined him after a moment, careful to leave a small space between them, hands clasped between his knees.

The silence felt less charged now, more like a truce.

“So…” Keith said after a moment, staring at the floorboards. “You and Allura, huh?”

Lance glanced over at him. “What about us?”

Keith shrugged, still not looking at him. “Dinner. Laughing. Studying. Walking her home.”

Lance raised an eyebrow. “Were you watching me?”

“No,” Keith said quickly, then corrected, “I mean—not on purpose. You two just… looked close.”

Lance leaned back, resting his head against the wall behind the couch. “She needed help with an essay.”

Keith finally glanced at him, sideways. “And that turned into dinner?”

Lance smirked. “What, are you jealous?”

Keith rolled his eyes, but his cheeks tinted pink. “I’m just asking.”

Lance didn’t answer right away. He closed his eyes, let the quiet settle again.

“I mean… You weren’t makin fun of me all those times for nothing. She’s gorgeous, and kind, and so intelligent.” A faint smile graced his features. “You know, she invited me to a kinda-sorta-date.”

Keith’s shoulders stiffened slightly, but he didn’t say anything right away. His fingers twitched where they rested on his knee, and his gaze flicked toward the dusty floor again.

“A kinda-sorta-date?” he echoed, voice carefully neutral.

Lance’s face immediately brightened, a grin tugging at his lips. “Yeah,” he said, unable to hide the excitement in his voice. “She actually asked me to get coffee sometime. Just the two of us.”

Keith looked away, jaw working.

“She said it’s just to take a break from assignments or whatever, but I mean…” Lance let out a soft laugh. “It felt like more than that, you know? I think she might actually be into me.”

Keith didn’t respond right away, but his fingers curled a little tighter around the edge of the old wooden porch.

“She’s kind of amazing,” Lance continued, oblivious to—or maybe avoiding—Keith’s silence. “I mean, she’s Allura . I didn’t think I even had a shot.”

“She’d be lucky to have you,” Keith said after a pause, his voice quieter than before.

Lance looked over, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice.

“You mean that?” he asked.

Keith nodded, eyes fixed on the distance. “Yeah. I do.”

The moonlight streamed faintly through the broken blinds, cutting soft patterns across the floor. Somewhere outside, a coyote howled, distant and lonely. Lance glanced at Keith again, his expression unreadable in the dim light, and wondered how many nights he’d spent inside this place carrying memories alone.

“Hey,” he said, voice gentler now. “Thanks for bringing me here.”

Keith’s gaze flicked up, surprised. “Yeah?”

Lance nodded. “It’s… weirdly peaceful. Like it’s frozen in time.”

Keith gave a soft hum of agreement. “It kind of is.”

Another pause, not heavy this time—just full.

Eventually, Keith stood and stretched. “We should head back before someone thinks I kidnapped you.”

Lance snorted. “Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t just jump off mid-ride.”

Keith grinned. “You’d never survive the landing.”

They left the house together, side by side, stepping out into the desert night like it wasn’t quite ready to let them go. The wind picked up as soon as they were on the bike, the cool air rushing around them as the familiar rumble of the engine vibrated through their bodies. The ride back to campus felt different somehow—more subdued, but not in a bad way. Lance hadn’t realized how much he needed the quiet until they were outside that house, breathing in the cool desert air, the stars above so bright against the dark canvas of the sky.

Keith took a smooth turn down the gravel road, the bike gliding over it with practiced ease. Lance wrapped his arms around Keith’s waist, settling into the rhythm of the ride. There was something oddly comforting about it, like they were cocooned in their own little world, distant from everything else.

For a while, Lance didn’t speak. He let the noise of the engine and the soft hum of the desert wind fill the space between them. But his mind wasn’t as quiet as the ride. It kept replaying Keith’s words— She’d be lucky to have you —and he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that it meant more than Keith was letting on.

“Hey, Keith,” Lance said after a few minutes, his voice cutting through the silence.

Keith didn’t respond immediately, but Lance could tell he was listening. He felt Keith’s back shift slightly, as if he was bracing for whatever question was coming.

“Do you ever think about… I don’t know, what’s next ?” Lance asked, unsure why the question was even on his mind. “After college. After everything.”

Keith’s body stiffened slightly, but Lance didn’t let the awkward pause drag on too long.

“I mean, I guess,” Keith said after a beat. “I’m still figuring that part out. Maybe that's why I hate being stuck in one place for too long. Always feel like I’m missing something.”

Lance didn’t have an immediate response, but the thought lingered in his mind. Maybe that was why Keith had seemed so restless all these months—always chasing something just out of reach.

“Do you think you’ll stay around after graduation?” Lance asked. The words felt heavy even as he said them, but there was something comforting in knowing that they could talk about the future like this.

Keith didn’t answer right away. It was another one of those moments when Lance could feel Keith’s attention shift inward, like he was suddenly far away. But when Keith finally spoke, his tone was light, almost teasing.

“Maybe. Guess it depends on what’s here when the time comes.” He paused. “You planning to stick around, or are you bailing out for something bigger?”

Lance snorted. “Honestly? I’ll probably end up somewhere I didn’t plan on, like usual. I don’t even know if I want to stay in one place for too long.”

Keith’s laugh was quiet but genuine, the sound vibrating between them. For a second, the world felt lighter, less complicated.

They coasted through the open roads, the city lights slowly reappearing on the horizon as the ride took them back into the rhythm of everyday life. The further they went, the more Lance realized how much he'd enjoyed the moment of peace. No drama. No distractions. Just the ride, the road, and the unexpected connection with Keith.

When they finally pulled back into campus, the lights flickering on the horizon seemed almost jarring. They had left the city’s hustle behind, and now it was all too real again.

Keith slowed the bike, coming to a stop in front of Lance’s dorm. The engine hummed to a stop, and the soft sounds of the night filled the space once more.

“Here we are,” Keith said, flicking the kickstand into place.

Lance glanced around, still a little lost in the feeling of the ride. “Yeah, guess this is where I get off.”

Keith took off his helmet, running a hand through his messy hair. “Thanks for coming out with me. It was good to just… get away for a bit.”

Lance met his gaze, a soft smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Anytime. You know where to find me if you ever need a distraction from your crazy life.”

Keith chuckled, shaking his head. “I think I’ll be fine. But I’ll keep that in mind.”

They lingered for a moment longer, standing there in the quiet of the campus, the weight of their conversation still hanging in the air between them. Lance wasn’t sure where things would go from here. The tension from earlier still lingered, but the connection between them felt different now, like something had shifted just enough to make things feel more comfortable, less complicated.

“Catch you later, Lance,” Keith said, his tone lighter now.

“Later, Keith,” Lance replied, a bit more softly than he intended.

He turned and walked toward the dorm, the cool night air still lingering on his skin as he disappeared into the building. Keith stayed where he was for a moment longer, watching him go, before he mounted the bike again, revving the engine as he drove off into the night.

Lance stood by the door for a while after he went inside, his mind spinning with the night’s events. Maybe he didn’t have all the answers yet, but for the first time in a long while, he felt like things were finally starting to make sense.

Still, when Lance finally climbed into bed, sleep didn’t come easily.

He couldn’t blame it on Hunk’s snoring—his roommate was out cold, a faint wheeze rising and falling rhythmically from the other side of the room, soft and familiar like white noise. No, this was something else.

Lance lay flat on his back, eyes open in the dark, staring at the slow, hypnotic spin of the ceiling fan above him. The shadows it cast danced along the walls, almost like they were moving to the beat of his thoughts—disjointed, looping, impossible to quiet.

The desert wind.
The eerie stillness of that old house.
Keith’s voice when he talked about his parents.
The way his eyes softened, just for a moment, when he said She’d be lucky to have you.

It gnawed at him, all of it. Not just the sadness or the weight behind Keith’s words—but how real it all felt. Vulnerable. Honest. Like something fragile Keith had cracked open and let Lance see for a breathless second.

He exhaled through his nose, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to push the thoughts away.

But his mind kept drifting further—further back.

Lance remembered when Shiro had gone missing their sophomore year. It had been chaos. The entire campus buzzed with confusion and rumor, grief and disbelief. Professors broke routine, students whispered in corridors. The faculty sent out stiff, overly formal emails that said everything and nothing.

The news outlets had eaten it up.
“Mission Gone Wrong: Pilot Lost at Sea.”

Lance had devoured every article back then, rereading them as if new answers would magically appear between the lines. The reports had painted Shiro’s test flight as high-risk and experimental, the kind of mission only someone with his record could qualify for. Then came the failure—sudden and catastrophic. The scrambled recovery attempts. The wreckage found drifting miles from the projected coordinates.

But no body. No confirmation. Just phrases that stuck like glass splinters in his chest:
No remains recovered.
Classified mission parameters.
Presumed dead.

He remembered the look on Adam’s face—Shiro’s fiancé. How he moved through campus like a ghost, eyes blank, shoulders permanently hunched like he was carrying the weight of an entire life that had vanished overnight.

Even Lance, who hadn’t known Shiro personally, couldn’t sleep for days. The man had been everything to him—an inspiration, a legend, the reason he applied to the Garrison in the first place. Losing him had felt like losing a part of what made this place matter.

So what had it done to Keith?

Lance couldn't even begin to fathom it.

He rolled onto his side and buried his face in the pillow, trying to smother the ache in his chest. But it didn’t help. He felt hot and restless, his brain running laps it couldn’t finish.

Eventually, with a resigned groan, he grabbed his phone off the nightstand. The blue light stung his eyes, but he didn’t stop. He knew it was a bad idea—an invasion of privacy, a betrayal of the trust Keith had so rarely given. Still, his fingers moved on their own, trembling just slightly.

He hesitated at the search bar, biting his lip.

He didn’t know Keith’s parents’ names. Didn’t know what he was even looking for exactly. Just… something. Some sliver of understanding. Some reason behind all the walls Keith had built.

Pidge had always been the better internet sleuth out of the two of them. She could find anyone, dig up old forum posts, deleted files, encrypted leaks if she wanted to. Lance wasn’t quite that savvy, but he figured he didn’t need to be. Not tonight. Not with what Keith had already given him.

So he typed in Kogane Garrison and hit search.

It was the first result.

“Firefighter Lost in House Fire”

Lance’s breath caught in his throat.

The headline was stark against the pale glow of his screen, dated nearly a decade ago. He hesitated for a beat, thumb hovering over the link, heart thudding loud in the quiet room.

He clicked.

The article loaded slowly, as if even the internet knew this was something sacred.

“Local firefighter Texas Kogane, 38, was pronounced dead at the scene after a late-night fire consumed the family home on the outskirts of Tucson. Neighbors report seeing smoke around 2 a.m., but by the time emergency services arrived, the structure had already suffered significant damage…”

Lance’s eyes skipped ahead, trying to find something—anything—beneath the clinical, detached tone of the report.

“Kogane is survived by his 8-year-old son, Keith. The boy escaped with minor injuries. His mother, a South Korean citizen, had reportedly left the country months prior. The cause of the fire remains under investigation, though foul play is not suspected.”

He stopped reading.

Lance stared at the screen, the words swimming slightly as his chest grew tight.

Eight years old.

Keith had been eight .

And it had happened in that house . The house Lance had stood in hours ago. With its cracked windows and peeling walls. The one that still held the photos, the furniture, the ghosts.

He remembered the way Keith’s voice had wavered when he talked about his dad. The way he kept his back straight, his face blank. Like he’d told the story so many times it didn’t even belong to him anymore. Like it was just something that had happened to someone —not him.

Lance set the phone down beside him, staring up at the ceiling again, vision blurry.

The silence in the room felt heavier now, pressing into his chest.

He didn’t know why Keith had brought him there. Maybe not even Keith knew. But Lance was glad he did. Because now… now he could see it. Not just the facts. Not just the tragedy. But the shape of it—what it had carved into Keith.

And somewhere deep in his chest, that ache twisted into something else. Something closer to resolve.

He wanted to understand him. For real.

And maybe… maybe Keith had started to let him.

ϕ🜉ϕ

A week passed, but the memory of that night clung to Lance like desert dust—quiet, ever-present, impossible to shake. He didn’t bring it up again. Neither did Keith. Whatever had passed between them at the old house seemed to settle into the unspoken space between their usual jabs and glances, softened now by something warmer. More careful.

Classes picked up again. Midterms loomed. Lance buried himself in readings and late-night ramen, trying to push the rest of the world back into orbit. Keith kept to himself, as usual, though their tutoring sessions grew less combative. Sometimes, they even laughed.

But today wasn’t about Keith. Today was about Allura .

Lance checked his reflection in his phone screen as he stood outside the small cafe she’d picked—some indie spot tucked away between a bookstore and a vintage record shop just off campus. His hoodie was clean, his curls mostly behaved, and he’d spent a frankly embarrassing amount of time debating whether or not to wear cologne.

The door chimed softly as he stepped inside.

Allura was already there, sitting by the window with a textbook cracked open beside her and a lavender drink in hand. She looked up the moment he entered, her lips curving into a smile that made his stomach flip.

“You’re early,” she teased, tilting her head as he approached.

“I’m just that eager to be wowed by your coffee order,” Lance said smoothly, sliding into the seat across from her. “What’s that? Purple and mysterious?”

“It’s taro,” she said, lifting the drink in a small toast. “And it’s delicious, thank you very much.”

“Guess I’ll have to trust your refined taste,” he replied, grinning. “You did, after all, agree to spend your morning with me.”

She laughed, eyes sparkling. “A questionable decision, in hindsight.”

“Ouch.”

Their banter was easy. Familiar. But this time there was something more to it—a crackle of intent beneath the words, like they were circling something they hadn’t quite named yet.

They ordered drinks and pastries—Allura insisting on paying for the matcha croissant they split—and settled into a low murmur of conversation about classes, professors, and the absolutely chaotic group project Allura was stuck in.

“I’m starting to think the only way we’ll finish is if I fake my death,” she said, resting her chin in her palm.

“Dramatic,” Lance said. “I like it.”

“Oh please. You’d give a whole eulogy just to upstage me.”

“You say that like I haven’t already written a draft.”

Allura laughed again, the sound warm and rich. Lance felt it bloom in his chest.

As they packed up, lingering outside the café under the late afternoon sun, Allura looked over at him. “This was nice,” she said.

“Yeah,” Lance said, not hiding the smile that tugged at his lips. “It really was.”

She glanced up at him through thick lashes. “So… coffee again sometime?”

Lance’s grin widened. “Absolutely. I’ll even let you talk me into another purple drink.”

Allura laughed, shaking her head, and lightly bumped her shoulder against his. “Careful, Lance. You’re starting to grow on me.”

“Starting?” he asked with mock offense. “Wow. I’ll take it.”

They walked off together, their steps falling in sync.

From across the street, Keith watched from where he sat on his bike, helmet in hand. He wasn’t smiling. But he wasn’t frowning either.

He just watched until they disappeared around the corner.

Later that evening, Lance sprawled across the beanbag chair in Pidge’s dorm, a bag of gummy worms balanced precariously on his chest.

“You’re chewing too loud,” Pidge muttered, eyes still locked on her laptop screen.

“I’m not even chewing right now.”

“Well, you will be in like five seconds, and I’m preemptively annoyed.”

Lance smirked and tossed a gummy worm at her. It bounced off her shoulder.

“Rude,” she said, not looking up.

Her room looked exactly like him and Hunk always joked it would—cords draped across every flat surface, a whiteboard with equations that might’ve been in Latin for all Lance could tell, and a half-disassembled Roomba in the corner with googly eyes glued on.

“Hey,” he said after a moment. “Do you think taro drinks actually taste good, or is it just aesthetic?”

Pidge raised a brow. “Are you asking because Allura made you drink something purple?”

“No comment.”

She snorted. “You’re so obvious it hurts.”

Before Lance could defend his honor, Pidge’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, and her face did that subtle shift—the one where her usually unreadable features pinched slightly in interest.

“What?” Lance asked, peering over.

“Nothing,” she said too quickly, locking her phone again.

Lance narrowed his eyes. “Was that Keith?”

Pidge didn’t answer, just tapped furiously at her keyboard.

“Pidge,” he said in that sing-song tone he knew she hated.

“Fine,” she huffed. “Yeah. It was Keith. He asked if I wanted to hang out.”

Lance blinked, confused. “Since when do you two hang out?”

Pidge didn’t answer immediately. She tugged her hoodie sleeve down over her wrist, suddenly very focused on the floor.

“My dad and brother were on the Kerberos mission. With Shiro.”

Lance’s breath caught in his throat. His mouth formed a silent oh , the weight of her words hitting him all at once.

Pidge shrugged like she hadn’t just dropped something heavy between them. “After the news broke… my mom kind of shut down for a while. It was just me in the house for a bit. Keith and I… we sort of bonded over being the last ones standing.”

Lance sat up straighter, the gummy worms forgotten.

“I didn’t know,” he said softly.

Pidge gave a half-smile. “Most people don’t. I don’t usually bring it up unless someone asks. Keith was one of the few people who didn’t try to fix it. He just sat with me in the quiet. That actually helped, you know?”

Lance nodded slowly, feeling like the air in the room had changed.

“You never told me that,” he said.

She looked at him then—really looked. “I didn’t have to. You were already being loud and annoying enough for two people. Honestly, it helped in its own weird way.”

A small smile tugged at Lance’s lips. “Glad to be of service.”

Pidge rolled her eyes. “Anyway, Keith’s… not so bad. Once you get past the brooding loner act. He listens.”

Lance tilted his head. “Yeah. He does.”

There was a quiet moment between them, filled only by the soft whirr of Pidge’s laptop fan. Then, casually, like it was nothing:

“You jealous?”

Lance nearly choked on the gummy worm he’d just popped into his mouth. “Jealous of what?!” he squawked, eyes wide.

Pidge gave him a flat look, arms crossed. “Relax, I meant Keith and me hanging out.”

Lance narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “I’m not jealous. Why would I be jealous?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. You’ve been acting weird lately. All broody and thoughtful. That’s kind of his thing, you know.”

“Broody? Me ?” Lance scoffed, placing a hand on his chest. “I’m practically sunshine in human form.”

“Sure,” Pidge said dryly. “Sunshine with unresolved feelings.”

Lance opened his mouth, ready to deny it, then hesitated. He dropped his gaze, fiddling with the edge of a snack wrapper.

“I just didn’t know you two were close,” he muttered. “That’s all.”

Pidge softened a little. “We’re not close close. Just… there’s history. Shared grief, I guess. Not the kind you talk about, but the kind you sit with. Keith gets that.”

Lance nodded slowly. “Yeah. I think I’m starting to understand that about him.”

Pidge eyed him for a moment. “You’ve changed, you know.”

Lance blinked. “What, like my hair?”

“No. I mean you’re different than when we met. In a good way.”

Lance raised a brow, surprised. “Was that… a compliment?”

Pidge rolled her eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

He smirked. “Too late.”

She stood and stretched. “Alright, I’m heading out. Keith’s probably already there waiting like some kind of emotionally constipated gargoyle.”

Lance laughed. “Tell him I said hi. And that I’m not jealous.”

“I’ll be sure to not pass that along,” she said, grabbing her bag.

As the door shut behind her, Lance leaned back, letting the silence settle around him again. He didn’t feel jealous exactly—but the thought of Keith, waiting quietly somewhere for Pidge, did stir something. Something uncertain. Something a little too close to the heart.

The next morning arrived in a blur of too-little sleep and too-early alarms. Lance stumbled into physics class balancing a half-empty coffee and a barely-functioning brain. He slid into his seat next to Hunk, who gave him a sleepy thumbs-up before dropping his head onto the desk.

“Alright, everyone, settle down,” Shiro called from the front of the room, voice calm but firm as always. He adjusted his glasses and pulled up the lecture slides. “I know it’s early, and I know your brains are already halfway to Thanksgiving break, but I need you to hang on a little longer.”

A few groans echoed across the room.

Shiro gave a sympathetic smile. “I’ll keep it short. You’ve got a couple days left before break starts—so use the time wisely. And when we get back, you’ll have exactly two weeks before the midterm.”

That got more than a few people to sit up straighter.

“Yes, it’s coming fast,” Shiro continued, flipping to a slide outlining key topics. “No, I will not push it back. And yes, it will cover everything we’ve done up to now—including the labs.”

Lance sank a little lower in his chair, glancing sideways at Hunk, who mouthed, we are so screwed .

Shiro leaned back against the desk, arms crossed. “But you’ve got time. If you stay on top of things, this should be totally manageable.”

Lance let his gaze drift toward the front row where Keith sat, scribbling neatly into his notebook. He looked as calm and collected as ever. Lance tore his eyes away and refocused on the board. For once, he wanted to prove he could keep up without needing someone to push him.

But of course, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t take help if it came.

As soon as class ended, students surged toward the doors, the buzz of holiday plans already in the air. Lance lingered by the side wall, tugging his phone from his pocket as it buzzed. Mamá.

He answered with a grin and slipped into the hallway.

“¿Oye, mi amor, ya saliste de clases?” came his mother’s voice, warm and quick like always. ( Hey, my love, are you out of class already? )

“Sí, acaban de terminar,” Lance said, shouldering his backpack. “¿Cómo están las cosas por allá? ¿Y la finca?” ( Yeah, they just ended. How are things over there? And the farm? )

“¡Ay, mi hijo! La finca sigue igual, peleando con el gallo de tu tío todos los días,” she laughed. “Las vacas están bien, y tu sobrina insiste en darle nombres nuevos a las gallinas.” ( Oh, my son! The farm's the same, still fighting with your uncle’s rooster every day. The cows are doing fine, and your niece insists on giving the chickens new names )

Lance snorted. “¿Otra vez? ¿No les cambió los nombres la semana pasada?” ( Again? Didn’t she rename them just last week? )

“Claro que sí, pero ahora dice que una se llama ‘Beyoncé’ y otra ‘Pitbull’.” ( Of course, but now she says one’s called ‘Beyoncé’ and another one ‘Pitbull’ )

He grinned, picturing it vividly. “La extraño, mamá.” ( I miss her, Mom )

“Ella también a ti, mi cielo.” ( She misses you too, sweetheart )

“Y dime, ¿cómo van esas sesiones de tutoría? ¿Todavía estás viendo al muchacho ese?” ( Tell me, how are those tutoring sessions going? You still seeing that boy? )

Lance rolled his eyes fondly, adjusting the phone against his ear. “Sí, mamá. Keith todavía me ayuda. Ya no me estoy ahogando en física, así que eso es algo.” ( Yeah, Mom. Keith still helps me. I’m not drowning in physics anymore, so that’s something )

“Bueno, pues yo necesito conocer a ese niño,” she declared, her tone decisive. “Si salvó tus notas, se ganó un cafecito y un plato de arroz con frijoles.” ( Well, then I need to meet that boy. If he saved your grades, he’s earned himself a coffee and a plate of rice and beans )

“Mamá…” Lance groaned, a little embarrassed now.

“Nada de pena, mi amor. Tú sabes que si alguien te ayudó de verdad, se merece lo mejor.” ( No need to be embarrassed. You know if someone really helped you, they deserve the best )

Lance sighed, still a little embarrassed. “Está bien, mami. Le pregunto si está libre durante el break.” ( Alright, Mom. I’ll ask if he’s free over break )

“Eso quiero oír.” ( That’s what I like to hear )

Lance flopped face-down onto the bean bag in the corner of Pidge’s dorm room with a dramatic groan.

“My mom wants to meet Keith,” he said, muffled into the fabric.

Pidge didn’t look up from her laptop. “So? She’s your mom. Moms like meeting people.”

“No, you don’t get it.” Lance rolled over and gestured wildly. “She wants to feed him. Like, full Cuban welcome-to-the-family feast level feeding.”

Hunk, perched on the floor with a bag of chips in his lap, snorted. “Dude, she did the same with me and Pidge two years ago. It’s tradition.”

Pidge glanced up from her laptop, smirking. “Oh yeah, you guys were lucky to survive the amount of food she shoved at us. I still remember that casserole.”

Lance groaned, flopping back down. “I don’t know if Keith can handle a Cuban mother. She’ll interrogate him. And then she’ll feed him until he can't move.”

Hunk chuckled. “Look, it’s not that bad. You’ll survive. Besides, Keith’s not gonna have much room to complain when he’s too busy trying to finish off the arroz con pollo.”

“I’m not worried about him complaining,” Lance said, rolling over and sitting up. “I’m worried about how much my mom is going to ask him. She’s going to want to know everything. What’s his favorite color? How many siblings does he have? Does he like the same food I do?”

Pidge raised an eyebrow. “Well, that sounds like a normal family thing. Your mom’s gonna love him. You’re just stressed because you’re not used to this side of things. You never bring people home.”

“Yeah, well, I usually don’t bring home my tutor ,” Lance mumbled.

“Well, he’s more than just your tutor now, isn’t he?” Pidge said with a sly grin.

Lance narrowed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Pidge leaned back in her chair, her lips curling into a playful smile. “Oh, nothing. Just that he’s probably gotten pretty comfortable around you, huh? I mean, you’ve spent a lot of time together lately.”

Lance’s face flushed, and he crossed his arms, trying to hide his discomfort. “He’s just my tutor. And I’m just asking him if he’s free over break to, you know, hang out. It’s no big deal.”

Hunk snorted from the floor. “Sure, no big deal. You’re so casual about it, Lance. It’s cute.”

Lance shot him a look. “I’m not cute. I’m just—”

“Adorable?” Pidge teased, raising an eyebrow.

“No!” Lance threw his hands up in frustration. “Okay, fine, maybe I’m a little nervous. But that’s only because my mom is already planning to make him an honorary Cuban, and I have no idea how to explain that to him.”

Pidge’s grin widened. “Oh, so you’re not worried about asking him to come home with you. You’re worried about him being forced into the chaos that is your family.”

Lance groaned and flopped back on the bed. “Exactly. I mean, have you seen my mom cook? It’s not just dinner; it’s an event. The guy won’t be able to breathe with all the questions and food she’ll throw at him.”

Hunk chuckled. “Sounds like a rite of passage to me. If Keith can survive that, he’ll be officially part of your circle.”

“Great,” Lance said dryly, “so I’m not only making him meet my family, I’m making him join the ‘survive the Cuban mom’ club.”

Pidge gave him a sympathetic pat on the back. “It’ll be fine. And honestly, you two are pretty much already there. Just think of it as... taking the next step in your friendship. ”

A smile creeped onto Hunks face. “I’m not sure ‘friendship’ is the right word anymore.”

“Now what does that mean?”

“Oh you know,” Pidge started. Sitting behind Hunk and wrapping her arms around his waist. “Late nights in the desert on the back of his sexy motorcycle. Longing looks.”

Lance’s face turned bright red. “What the hell, Pidge? Are you seriously—?”

“Oh, come on,” Hunk chimed in with a smirk. “We’ve all seen it. The way you two look at each other when you think no one’s watching. It’s practically a telenovela at this point.”

Lance groaned and flopped back onto the bed, covering his face with his hands. “You guys are ridiculous. Seriously. It’s not like that. He’s... he’s just my tutor.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” Pidge said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Your tutor who’s saved your grades and takes you on moonlit motorcycle rides through the desert? Totally just your tutor.”

Hunk laughed, clearly enjoying the teasing. “I mean, you are making it harder to deny.”

“First of all,” Lance let out an exasperated sigh, holding up a finger, “I’m this close to finally getting Allura after like, three years.”

Pidge raised an eyebrow, giving him a sideways glance. “Uh-huh, and what does that have to do with anything?”

Lance flopped back onto the bed again, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. “Keith’s... complicated. He’s just my tutor, okay? There’s no way I’m gonna make it weird between us now. I can’t even... I can’t even think about it.”

Hunk leaned forward, his expression serious. “Lance, buddy, you’re acting like it’s some huge deal. You’ve been hanging out with him a lot lately. Maybe it’s time to stop pretending there’s nothing there.”

Lance shot him a look. “What? No way. I’ve got enough to deal with right now. Allura, my grades—hell, even trying to survive this semester. I don’t need... whatever this is with Keith.”

Pidge smirked. “You know, it sounds like you’re trying really hard to convince yourself you’re not into him. Maybe you should stop running from it.”

Lance groaned, rolling over and pulling a pillow over his face. “Can we talk about literally anything else? I don’t know what’s going on, okay? I just want to pass physics.”

Hunk grinned. “Well, whatever’s going on with you and Keith, I’m sure it’ll work itself out. And if you ever need advice on the... ‘confusing feelings’ part of things, we’re here for you.”

Lance shot up from the bed. “I don’t have confusing feelings ,” he said quickly. “I just—he’s my tutor. That’s it.”

Pidge raised her hands, teasing. “Whatever you say, love doctor.”

Lance rubbed his temples, the weight of everything finally starting to feel too much. “I’m not a love doctor. I just—why does everything have to be so complicated?”

Hunk leaned back in his chair. “Hey, you’ll figure it out. Just don’t ignore it forever, alright?”

Lance let out a long breath. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks for the ‘advice.’”

Pidge grinned. “No problem, Lance. Anytime you need a reality check, we’re here.”

Chapter Text

Lance stood on the sidewalk in front of his dorm building, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the pavement. One arm felt like it was about to pop out of its socket from the weight of his duffel bag, and the other idly fidgeted with the frayed ends of his backpack straps. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing down the quiet road for what had to be the tenth time in the past five minutes.

The campus had already thinned out—most students had taken off for Thanksgiving break the second their last class let out. It was strange seeing it so quiet, like a paused video game. Still, Lance stayed rooted to the spot, trying not to let his impatience show on his face.

He sighed, tilting his head back to watch the sky shift into deeper shades of gold and amber. The air had that crisp dryness unique to Arizona evenings, brushing across his skin like a whispered reminder that winter was creeping closer—even if it never quite arrived in full.

Keith was late. Not late late, but enough to get on Lance’s nerves. He blew out a breath and scanned the empty road, ready to accept the fact that Keith had said yes to coming with him as a sick joke. He remembered the way he had stopped mid paper correction to look at Lance like he had grown a second head when he asked.

“You want me to what?” Keith had asked, monotone but unmistakably bewildered.

“To come with me. Just for the break. Meet my family. They’ll feed you. It’s free food, Keith, this isn’t a hard sell.”

Keith had stared at him, brow furrowed. “That’s… random.”

Lance had shrugged, trying to play it cool. “I mean, you don’t have any plans. And I owe you. Plus, I already told my mom I’d bring you. If you bail now, you’re personally offending a Cuban mother.”

That had gotten a flicker of hesitation—maybe even amusement—in Keith’s eyes. He’d muttered something about regretting this and gone back to grading.

But he’d said yes. He had said yes.

And yet here Lance was, standing like a dork with two bags and no ride, squinting down the road like some abandoned golden retriever.

Maybe it had been a joke. Maybe Keith had said yes just to mess with him, and Lance—desperate to avoid another awkward car ride home with one of his cousins—had let himself believe it. He glanced at the time again and let out a groan. “If this guy flaked on me, I swear—”

Then came the sound.

Not the familiar, low growl of Keith’s motorcycle—but the smooth, slightly more dignified hum of an engine Lance didn’t recognize. His brow furrowed as a white Acura SUV pulled up to the curb and eased to a stop right in front of him.

The window rolled down, and there was Keith in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, expression as unreadable as ever.

“Shiro let me borrow it,” he said, nodding toward the dash. “Figured we didn’t want to be stuck on a motorcycle for three hours.”

Lance blinked. “You—what? Since when do you drive normal cars?”

Keith shrugged. “Since today, apparently.”

A beat passed.

Lance looked from Keith to the SUV and back again. “You’re telling me we could’ve been road tripping like this the whole time? With air conditioning ?”

Keith rolled his eyes. “Get in, Lance.”

Still slightly stunned, Lance tossed his duffle bag into the back seat and climbed into the passenger side, clutching his backpack. The interior smelled faintly like pine and coffee. Shiro. Of course. The man probably had a scented air freshener shaped like a tiny spaceship.

“You buckled in?” Keith asked, glancing over.

Lance smirked. “Aw, you care .”

“No, I just don’t want your mom to kill me if I crash and you go flying through the windshield.”

“Wow. Romance is alive and well.”

Keith didn’t respond, but Lance swore he saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

As they pulled out onto the highway, the Garrison fading in the rearview mirror, Lance leaned his head against the window. The late afternoon sun dipped low, casting everything in a warm, golden glow. For the first time all week, he let himself relax—at least a little.

He watched as Keith’s slender fingers flicked through his playlist displayed on the center console.

“Hold on—,” He was sitting fully upright now, “Depeche Mode? What decade are you from, dude?”

Keith didn’t even glance over. “Good music is timeless.”

Lance scoffed. “You say that like you didn’t give me hell for my k-pop playlist last week.”

Keith let out a short laugh. “Because your playlist was 90% boy bands and the other 10% was just Jungkook breathing into a mic.”

Lance gasped, scandalized. “That is art , you swine.”

Keith arched a brow, clearly amused. “Pretty sure one of those songs had the lyric ‘baby you my universe’ like five times in a row.”

“ It’s poetic! ” Lance threw up his hands, slumping back against the seat. “God, you’re lucky you’re hot.”

There was a beat of silence. Keith blinked. “What?”

Lance froze, eyes wide. “I said— you’re not wrong . About the lyric. Whatever. Shut up.”

Keith smirked, the kind of smug that made Lance want to jump out the moving car. “Sure.”

Lance debated opening the door and throwing himself out while the car was still moving. You’re lucky you’re hot?? Where did that even come from? The guy had a mullet and wore fingerless gloves like he was trying to bring the '80s back single-handedly. And yet… somehow, he was hot. Infuriatingly so. In that broody, sharp-jawed, annoyingly competent kind of way.

He groaned quietly, dragging a hand down his face. Maybe he was dehydrated. Maybe the desert heat had finally cooked his brain. That would explain why Keith suddenly looked like someone you’d hire to star in a cologne ad.

“Everything okay over there?” Keith asked, not looking away from the road but clearly catching the flailing energy radiating from the passenger seat.

“Peachy,” Lance gritted out. “Just realizing I’ve made some extremely questionable life choices.”

Keith raised an eyebrow but didn’t press, the faintest twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

Lance slumped lower in his seat and muttered under his breath, “You and your stupid face.”

“What?”

“ Nothing. ”

The hum of the tires filled the quiet stretch between towns, and Lance let himself sink into the moment—unsure whether it was the sun, the music, or the person next to him making his heart beat too loud.

About an hour into the drive, the endless stretch of highway finally broke at a modest rest stop nestled just off the I-10, on the outskirts of Phoenix. The sun had dipped lower, now brushing the desert mountains with a soft orange hue, the sky painted in streaks of gold, rose, and violet.

Keith pulled into the nearly empty lot and parked under the shade of a lone, creaking mesquite tree. The engine cut off with a low hum, and for a moment, neither of them moved.

Lance finally unbuckled with a sigh and stepped out, stretching his arms over his head as the dry heat kissed his skin. “Man,” he breathed, eyes locked on the horizon. “Arizona may try to kill you with heatstroke, but it really knows how to put on a show.”

Keith came around the front of the car, silent as he stood next to him. The wind was gentle here, the kind that rustled creosote bushes and carried the scent of dust and wild sage.

“I used to come out here sometimes,” Keith said, voice low. “Back when I needed to get out of my own head.”

Lance glanced at him. “You mean you weren’t born in a motorcycle garage?”

Keith gave a soft huff of a laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Surprisingly, no. Though I think I lived in one for a while.”

Lance looked back at the horizon, the jagged silhouettes of mountains bathed in twilight. “This kinda makes me want to ditch everything and live off the grid.”

“You wouldn’t last a day.”

Lance shrugged. “Maybe not. But I’d look good doing it.”

Keith let out a quiet chuckle, and for a second, the quiet between them felt easy again—settled like dust over the desert floor.

The golden light followed them as they stepped inside the rest stop gas station, the door chiming overhead in that tinny, slightly-too-loud way. The air-conditioning hit Lance like a slap—welcome, but jarring after the dry warmth outside.

Keith headed straight toward the drink coolers while Lance lingered by the food aisle, staring down the sad lineup of options. Burritos wrapped in plastic. Questionable egg salad sandwiches. A rotating hot dog that looked older than him.

“This is tragic,” Lance muttered, grabbing a bag of spicy chips and a bottled iced coffee like it might make up for the existential dread radiating from the hot food case.

Keith returned with two Gatorades and a neutral expression. “You going to eat real food or just suffer in silence?”

“I’m making a statement,” Lance replied, clutching the chips like they were his last hope. “Besides, I don’t trust any food that’s been spinning in place longer than my last relationship.”

Keith raised a brow but said nothing as he made his way to the front counter. Lance trailed after him, eyeing the candy rack and impulsively tossing a bag of sour gummies onto the pile.

As they checked out, the bored teen behind the register barely glanced up. Keith paid with a quiet “thanks,” and they headed back out into the fading light, the sky now turning indigo at the edges.

Back at the car, they perched on the hood of the white Acura, their legs stretched out in front of them, ankles crossed as they slowly worked through their modest gas station dinner. The metal was still warm beneath them from the day’s heat, but the desert night crept in cool and quiet, brushing their faces with dry wind. The sky had turned indigo, and the last of the sun had disappeared behind the jagged silhouette of the mountains. Overhead, the first stars had started to poke through the fading light.

They didn’t talk much—didn’t need to. The only sounds between them were the crunch of chips, the crinkle of a bag, and the occasional slurp from a straw. It wasn’t awkward, though. The silence felt earned, comfortable even, like both of them understood they didn’t have to fill it.

Lance leaned back on his palms, eyes scanning the darkening horizon, watching headlights flicker on far down the highway.

“Hey, man,” he said, voice quieter than usual, almost like he didn’t want to disturb the moment. “Thanks for coming.”

Keith didn’t look over, just shrugged, still sipping his Gatorade. “I didn’t have anywhere else to be.”

“Yeah you did,” Lance said, turning his head to glance at him. “I’m sure Shiro’s with his—your family for break.”

There was a pause. Just long enough to make Lance wonder if he’d overstepped. But then Keith shifted slightly, his expression unreadable in the dim light.

“He is,” he said finally. “With Adam’s family. I was invited.”

“But?”

Keith shrugged again, this time with a little more weight. “I don’t know. They’re great people, but… it’s not the same. Shiro’s the only one who really gets it. And even he’s different lately.”

Lance watched him for a beat, unsure what to say. He wasn't used to seeing Keith this open, this unguarded. The guy was a human wall most days, all sharp glares and short answers. But right now, he just looked… tired.

“I get that,” Lance said quietly. “Holidays can feel weird when things change.”

Keith gave him a look—more curious than annoyed this time. “Yeah?”

Lance nodded. “My oldest sister moved to Miami after she graduated med school. First Christmas without her felt like something was missing, even though everyone else was there. My mom still set a place for her like she was coming home.”

That earned a small, surprised smile from Keith. Not mocking, just soft. “Did she?”

Lance huffed a laugh. “Nah. But she called during dinner, made us pass the phone around like it was some sacred torch. My abuela was yelling the whole time because she thought she was on mute.”

Keith chuckled under his breath, and Lance smiled wider, proud of himself for getting a laugh.

They sat there a little longer, the desert night wrapping around them like a blanket. The hum of cicadas had started somewhere off in the brush, and the gas station lights buzzed faintly behind them.

“I meant it, though,” Lance said again, after a beat. “Thanks. For coming. I know it’s not exactly your idea of a vacation.”

Keith looked at him then, really looked. “You don’t know what my idea of a vacation is.”

Lance smirked. “Fair point. But if it involves chips, gas station sushi, and me making questionable playlist choices for the next two hours—welcome to paradise.”

Keith just shook his head, a real smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “God help me.”

Back on the road, the SUV hummed steadily along the dark stretch of highway, headlights cutting through the desert gloom. The world outside was nothing but long shadows and endless, open space. Lance had taken control of the playlist this time—after prying Keith’s phone from his hands with dramatic flair—and was now cycling through a carefully curated road trip mix of indie pop, Latin ballads, and the occasional K-pop bop thrown in just to annoy him.

Keith didn’t protest. Much.

“You seriously put ‘Hawái’ after Arctic Monkeys ?” he grumbled, eyes fixed on the road.

“It’s called range, Keith,” Lance said, reclining in his seat, hands folded behind his head. “Try developing some.”

Keith snorted, but said nothing more, and the song played on.

The ride was quieter now, the comfortable kind of quiet that settled in after a long day of travel. Outside, the desert stretched endlessly on either side of them—flat scrubland interrupted by jagged ridges and the occasional lone cactus illuminated briefly in the beams of their headlights. Above, the stars were out in full, brighter and more vast than Lance ever saw back at the Garrison.

“Hey,” Lance said after a while, more serious now. “Are you okay being around my family?”

Keith flicked his eyes toward him, then back to the road. “Yeah. Why?”

Lance shrugged, suddenly unsure. “I dunno. You’re not exactly... the bring-home-to-mom type.”

“Wow.” Keith deadpanned. “Thanks.”

“I meant that in a complimentary way,” Lance said, laughing. “You’re, like, mysterious and broody. You don’t scream ‘potluck and pastelitos’ is all I’m saying.”

Keith gave a slight smile. “I’ll survive.”

“They’re just... a lot. Loud. Nosy. My mom’s already planning a feast, and if you even hint that you like something, she’ll send you home with an entire tray of it.”

“I can handle food,” Keith said dryly.

“Oh, it’s not the food you have to worry about. It’s the questions. If my tía starts asking if you have a girlfriend, just go with it. Less complicated.”

Keith turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised.

Kidding—mostly.

Lance cleared his throat and glanced out the window again, ears suddenly a little too warm. “Just... thanks for doing this. For real.”

Keith nodded, his profile calm in the soft glow of the dashboard. “You’re welcome.”

For the next few miles, they rode in silence again. Only the music filled the space, shifting from beat-heavy pop to a soft acoustic number that Lance didn’t even remember adding.

He glanced over at Keith, who still had both hands on the wheel, hair messy from the wind earlier, face relaxed in a way Lance rarely saw.

And for a moment, Lance let the quiet settle in his chest, warm and steady.

The familiar Welcome to Yuma sign flashed past them just after midnight. The streets were quiet, washed in yellow streetlamp glow and the occasional neon flicker of a 24-hour diner or gas station. Keith slowed as Lance rattled off turns with the kind of muscle memory that only came from years of taking the same route home.

“Right at the next light,” Lance said, sitting up a little straighter in the passenger seat. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms overhead. “And then two more blocks. That’s us.”

Keith gave a small nod, eyes scanning the narrow residential streets. “You nervous?”

Lance hesitated. “Nah. I mean… maybe a little. They’re just loud, that’s all.”

He wasn’t lying. But he also wasn’t saying how strange it felt to be pulling up to his house with Keith of all people. The boy who used to ignore him in class. The boy who rode a motorcycle like it was an extension of himself. The boy who, for some reason, said yes when Lance asked if he’d come home with him for break.

He wasn’t thinking about what it meant. Not yet.

The house came into view, a modest two-story ranch-style home, tucked into the outskirts of Yuma. The porch stretched wide, a gentle contrast to the vast desert that surrounded it. A warm yellow glow from a hanging porch light bathed the front yard, illuminating a family gathered in the cool evening air.

Rachel sat cross-legged near the porch steps, her phone held high, capturing the moment with an unmistakable grin plastered across her face. The wide lens of her phone caught their car pulling in, her expression one of pure mischief. She waved the phone back and forth, nearly knocking over a soda can she had forgotten was perched on the ground next to her.

Lance rolled his eyes, smiling despite himself. "Really? You couldn’t wait to get a shot of me pulling in?"

Rachel didn’t even glance at him, too busy framing the perfect shot. "I had to. It’s a family tradition. You think I’m missing out on that?" she teased, snapping another photo just as Lance turned to look at her.

Keith, glancing at Lance with a slight smirk, muttered, "This is gonna be a long night, huh?"

"You have no idea," Lance replied, shaking his head. He could already hear his mom’s voice calling out from inside the house, probably trying to figure out who had just arrived, even though it was obvious enough.

The car rolled to a stop, and as soon as the engine was off, Rachel jumped up, her grin now a full-on grin of excitement. She practically skipped to the passenger side, throwing open the door. "So, who's the new guy?" she asked, leaning in to get a better look at Keith, her curiosity obvious in her eyes.

Lance sighed, an affectionate yet exasperated look on his face. "Rachel, this is Keith. Keith, my twin sister, Rachel."

Rachel nodded at Keith, still holding her phone, though now with much more interest than before. "You guys buddies from school?"

Keith raised an eyebrow, clearly unsure how to answer that. "Something like that," he said, glancing briefly at Lance, who gave him a look that screamed don’t make it weirder than it is.

"You’re not gonna have him do your homework for you, are you?" Rachel joked, poking Lance in the side as she stepped back to give Keith room to climb out of the car.

Keith smirked, his arms crossed, "He’s been doing that just fine on his own. No help needed."

Rachel’s teasing smile widened as she looked back at Lance. "Uh-huh. Sure, Lance. I’ll just wait for the 'I need help with this one problem' text."

Lance groaned, throwing a hand over his eyes. "Don’t start, Rach. Please."

Keith, sensing the tension in Lance’s half-annoyed, half-amused reaction, stepped up to help lighten the mood. "Your brother’s been doing just fine," he said, a smile playing on his lips as he gave Lance a nudge, before glancing back at Rachel. "Besides, it sounds like he’s got a lot of help from you anyway."

Rachel laughed, dropping her teasing act for a moment. "Eh, you know, I just keep him on his toes. Can’t let him get too comfortable."

Lance shot her a pointed look but didn’t say anything more, his mind already shifting to the rest of the family. As they walked toward the door, he could already hear the familiar chatter inside, the sound of his mom and dad’s voices floating on the evening air. His nerves started to kick in, though he masked it well. Keith might not have known this side of him—the side that always felt the pressure of family expectations hanging over his shoulders, especially now that he was in the thick of school and uncertain about what his future really looked like.

They reached the door, and before Lance could even get his hand on the handle, it swung open. His mom stood there, a wide smile on her face, eyes twinkling with warmth. "Mijo! ¡Bienvenido a casa!" she exclaimed, pulling him into a tight hug that made him feel all of five years old again.

"Ma!" Lance laughed, squirming a little. "You’re embarrassing me."

"You love it," she teased, pulling back with a soft pat on his cheek. "And is this who I think it is?"

Lance turned to Keith with a slight smile, feeling his cheeks warm under his mom's gaze. "This is Keith," he said, looking between the two. "Keith, my mom, Lisa."

Keith’s smile was polite but tinged with a hint of awkwardness as he extended his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”

Lisa immediately waved a dismissive hand, a grin spreading across her face. “Please, call me anything but ‘ma’am.’ Makes me feel like I’m ready for a rocking chair and a cane.” She chuckled, shaking her head as if the very thought were absurd. With a dramatic flourish, she turned back to Lance, her eyes lighting up with mischief. “Oye, mijo, you didn’t tell me your tutor was so handsome!”

Lance felt his stomach flip, an uncomfortable heat creeping up his neck. Great, just what he needed—his mom's tendency to turn everything into a match-making opportunity. Before he could respond, Lisa’s voice took on a teasing note. “The Martinez family next door—nice folks. They’ve got a daughter just about your age. You should go say hello! She’s a wonderful girl. Very sweet. Very pretty, too.”

Lance’s eyes widened in an exaggerated look of panic. “Ma, stop,” he groaned, already imagining the awkward dinner that would follow if his mom kept this up.

Keith, to his credit, didn’t appear too flustered, though the faintest blush was creeping up his neck. He cleared his throat, trying to maintain his composure. “I—I appreciate the suggestion,” he said, voice even, though Lance could hear the slightest edge of hesitation. “But I’m just here to help with school stuff, really.”

Lisa laughed heartily, her voice warm and welcoming, yet still teasing. “Ay, such a gentleman,” she said, patting him on the arm with affection. “I like that. But, you know, mijo, there’s no harm in having a little fun along the way.”

Lance shot Keith a look, silently apologizing for his mom's relentless energy. Keith’s expression shifted from bemused to mildly uncomfortable as he smiled awkwardly.

"Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind," Keith said, half-grinning, his voice dipping into a casual tone.

Lisa, satisfied with the exchange, finally nodded in approval and gestured toward the door. “Come inside, come inside! Dinner’s waiting, and you’re both starving, I’m sure.” With that, she turned away, already moving toward the kitchen, her energy as contagious as ever.

Lance turned to Keith, clearly mortified but also slightly amused. “I swear, she does this to everyone.”

Lance followed his mom into the house, his steps dragging slightly as he braced for whatever came next. The warm, familiar scent of rice and beans hit him immediately, making his stomach rumble. The house felt just as he remembered—cozy, a little cluttered, but always filled with love. The living room was brightly lit, a mismatched set of sofas taking up most of the space, and family photos scattered on every wall.

As they entered, Lisa called out, “Ay, look who’s home!”

Sitting on the couch was a woman he didn’t expect to see—his older sister, Veronica. The surprise must’ve shown on his face, because she lifted her head and smirked.

“Surprised to see me?” Veronica teased, her sharp, confident voice unmistakable. She sat back against the couch, flipping her dark, shoulder-length hair over her shoulder in that way that was so distinctly her.

Lance blinked, still processing. “Vero? What are you doing here?”

Veronica stood up, her tall frame just as poised as he remembered. She was dressed in a fitted blazer and dark jeans, looking every bit the neurosurgeon she had become. She’d always been the one to set high standards for everyone, herself included. Lance couldn't help but feel a mix of awe and intimidation when she was around, especially now that she'd moved to Miami after graduating med school. She’d been gone for almost two years.

“I didn’t think I could miss my little brother’s break, especially with you spending all this time up at that fancy school of yours,” she said, her voice still carrying that cool, amused tone. “Besides, I promised Mom I’d stop by and check in on you.”

Lance’s mouth went dry for a second. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see her—it was just that Veronica had always been the one with all the answers. The one who seemed to have it together. And for him, that was a constant reminder of how much further he still had to go. He hadn’t expected to be under her scrutiny while on break.

“Right... I should’ve known you’d find a way to pop in,” Lance said, flashing a playful grin as he took a seat on the armchair beside her.

Veronica’s eyes softened for just a moment before she dropped back onto the couch. “You know I’m always here when you need me,” she said, but the words came out as more of a statement than a question, like she was checking something off her mental list.

Lance shot her a quick look, but before he could respond, the rest of the family started pouring into the room. His older brother, Luis, walked in, still dressed in his barista apron, his face breaking into a grin when he spotted Lance. He was the easiest of the McClain kids to talk to—nothing fazed him, and he always knew how to make Lance laugh.

"Good to have you home, bro," Luis said, his voice light and easy. He clapped Lance on the shoulder before grabbing a seat next to Rachel, his gaze flicking to Keith with a curious look. Rachel was already sitting on the floor by the coffee table, sketching something in her notebook.

Keith, who had been standing awkwardly near the doorway, gave a small, polite wave. "Nice to meet you all," he said, a touch of uncertainty in his voice as he glanced around the room.

Lisa was the first to bustle forward, eager to introduce him properly. “Everyone, this is Keith, Lance’s tutor at school. Keith, meet my crazy bunch.”

Lance could feel the heat creeping up his neck as his mom introduced him to the whole family. He wasn’t sure how to explain that Keith was a little more than just his tutor now, but that wasn’t a conversation he was ready to have just yet.

“So, Keith,” Veronica said, her eyes narrowing slightly as she sized him up. “Lance hasn’t exactly mentioned much about you. How long have you two been... working together?”

Lance’s stomach did a flip. Great, Veronica wasn’t one to let anything slide. She was already digging, and Lance was about to be in the spotlight, whether he liked it or not.

Keith’s response was a little hesitant but confident. “A few months now. I’ve been helping him with physics.” He glanced at Lance, unsure whether to continue.

Veronica raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. Instead, she gave Keith a polite smile. “Well, it’s nice to meet someone who can get Lance to focus,” she said with a sly smirk, turning her attention back to her brother.

Lance could feel himself blush again. This was exactly why he hadn’t wanted to bring Keith home. It was hard enough juggling his own emotions, let alone having his family turn everything into a game.

“So, what’s the plan for tonight?” Luis asked, shifting the topic. “You guys have some catching up to do?”

Before Lance could respond, Keith spoke up, a slight laugh in his voice. “I think we’re supposed to eat dinner first?”

“Dinner!” Lisa called out from the kitchen, her voice ringing with excitement. “Come eat, come eat! Let’s not waste time chatting when we’ve got so much food waiting!”

Lance chuckled and stood up, giving Keith an apologetic look. "You’re about to experience the McClain family in full force," he said.

Keith, ever the good sport, smiled back. "I think I’m ready," he said, though there was a hint of nervousness in his eyes as they followed the rest of the family into the kitchen.

The kitchen was alive with motion—chairs scraping back, plates being passed, Lisa orchestrating it all with the ease of a seasoned general. The dining table, already crowded with steaming dishes, looked like it could collapse under the weight of arroz con pollo, fried plantains, ropa vieja, a big bowl of yuca con mojo, and two pitchers of homemade mango juice sweating onto the tablecloth.

Keith hesitated at the threshold for a moment, eyes wide as he took it all in.

Lance pulled out a chair for Keith beside him, gesturing for him to sit as Rachel slid in on his other side, still clutching her sketchbook under one arm.

“Keith, I hope you’re hungry,” Lisa said, setting down a basket of warm bread. “You’re too skinny. Don’t they feed you at that school?”

“I—uh, they do,” Keith replied, a bit startled, though not unkindly. He looked down at the spread in front of him, eyes wide. “This all looks amazing.”

“Sit, sit!” Lisa called, gesturing to the open seat beside Lance. “Keith, you eat everything? No allergies? No picky habits? I don’t have patience for picky.”

Lance elbowed Keith lightly as they took their seats. “Say yes, or she’ll lecture you for thirty minutes.”

“I eat everything,” Keith said quickly, earning a beaming smile from Lisa as she ladled rice onto his plate.

Across from them, Luis had already ditched his barista apron and was chatting animatedly with Rachel, who was balancing her sketchbook on her knee while stuffing her face with maduros.

Veronica sipped from a glass of agua fresca, watching the interaction with that usual, observant smirk. “So Keith, tell me—besides tutoring my little brother, what do you do for fun?”

Lance gave her a sharp look. “Vero…”

“What? I’m just asking,” she said, feigning innocence as she plucked a piece of avocado off her plate.

Keith, to his credit, didn’t flinch. “I work on bikes and cars. Ride, sometimes. Mostly just try to keep up with school.”

Rachel perked up at that. “Like motorcycles?”

“Yeah,” Keith said, surprised. “I used to go drifting a little.”

“Okay, that’s actually cool,” Rachel said, eyes bright. “Way better than barista-ing like Luis.”

“Hey!” Luis objected through a mouthful of plantain. “Some of us gotta fund this family empire somehow.”

Laughter rippled around the table, easy and warm. The clinking of forks, the rustle of napkins—it all created a sense of movement, of a family orbiting around each other in well-worn patterns. Even Keith, who’d started the evening hovering just outside the circle, seemed to relax, shoulders less stiff, mouth twitching into a small smile as he scooped more beans onto his plate.

Lance watched him for a second, caught off-guard by how natural it all felt—how easily Keith slipped in.

He looked up to find his mom watching him from across the table. Lisa didn’t say anything, just smiled knowingly before turning her attention to refilling Veronica’s glass.

in the kitchen mellowed into that satisfied post-meal haze. Luis was lounging back in his chair, drumming his fingers against his water glass while Rachel doodled on a napkin. Lisa had already started clearing dishes with her usual insistence that no one help her—though Veronica, unfazed as ever, ignored that and started stacking plates anyway.

Lance pushed back from the table with a content sigh, catching Keith’s eye. “Wanna see the rest of the place before you get dragged into dish duty?”

Keith nodded quickly, clearly relieved. “Yeah. If that’s okay?”

“Please,” Lance said, already standing. “Before my mom ropes you into drying.”

Lisa swatted at him playfully as they passed. “As if I’d put your guest to work. I’m not that bad.”

Lance laughed as he led Keith out of the kitchen and down the hallway. “She absolutely is,” he whispered once they were out of earshot.

The hallway was narrow but clean, lined with family photos—some recent, some faded with time. There was one of all five McClain siblings as kids on a beach, another of Rachel in her soccer uniform, and one of Veronica in her white coat, her hospital badge clipped proudly to her lapel.

“So,” Lance said, gesturing toward the first door on the left, “this one’s Rachel’s. Enter at your own risk—she bites.”

Keith peeked in briefly. The room was a chaos of books, art supplies, and clothes draped over a chair. “Looks about right.”

“The next one’s Luis’s,” Lance said, tapping the door across the hall. “You’ll know it by the smell of coffee and gym socks. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Keith chuckled. “I’ll take your word for it.”

At the end of the hall, Lance stopped in front of a slightly ajar door. “That one’s my mom and dad’s room. Off-limits unless you want to get caught in a telenovela-level interrogation.”

He moved to the final door, opening it with a bit of flair. “And this is mine.”

The room was modest—twin bed, a small desk cluttered with textbooks and notebooks, a poster of an old anime series on one wall, and a half-finished LEGO set on the dresser that Keith immediately noticed.

“You’re into Gundam?” Keith asked, stepping inside and nodding toward the half-built model.

Lance rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. “Yeah… I mean, kind of. I used to share this room with Marco and Luis when we were younger. Marco was obsessed—like, full-on build battles and soundtrack-on-repeat level obsessed. And I wanted to be just like him, so I made it my whole personality for a while.”

Keith chuckled, stepping closer to inspect the model. “Classic younger sibling move.”

“Right?” Lance leaned against his desk, arms crossed loosely. “It stuck longer than I thought it would. I don’t build as much now, but it’s one of the few things that still feels like... mine, you know?”

Keith looked up at him, a flicker of something understanding in his gaze. “Yeah. I get that. I used to do the same. Except mine always ended up missing limbs.”

Lance laughed. “Oh, trust me, half of mine are armless. I just don’t display those.”

They stood there for a moment in the quiet of the room, the distant sounds of family still echoing faintly from the kitchen. For the first time all evening, it felt like they had a little pocket of space to themselves.

“So,” Lance said, leaning against the doorframe, “what do you think? Still alive?”

Keith looked around, then back at him. “Barely. But... I like it here.”

Lance’s grin softened. “Yeah. Me too.”

Keith glanced around the room again, taking in the little details—the scuffed corners of the dresser, the faded posters, the careful clutter that made the space feel lived-in. “Hey… where’s your dad? I don’t think I’ve seen him since we got here.”

Lance followed his gaze toward the far end of the hallway, then shrugged lightly. “He’s probably fast asleep by now. It’s well past 1:30, and he spent the whole day working out on the farm. Long days kind of come with the territory.”

Keith raised his brows. “Even this late into the year?”

“Yeah,” Lance said with a soft laugh. “Cows don’t care what season it is. And with Luis helping out part-time, Dad’s been picking up the slack. He’ll be up again before the sun, too—guaranteed.”

There was a beat of quiet between them, filled only by the hum of the house settling for the night. Keith nodded slowly, taking that in. “Sounds like a lot.”

Lance looked toward the window, where the backyard stretched into the dark. “It is. But he never complains. I think… I think it makes him proud, knowing he’s still building something for us.”

Keith nodded thoughtfully at Lance’s comment, the quiet weight of it settling between them. Before he could say anything else, a sudden knock at the doorframe broke the silence.

“Yo,” Luis said, poking his head in, already peeling off his barista apron. “Y’all getting settled in here?”

Rachel appeared just behind him, holding a folded-up air mattress almost as tall as she was. “Mom said to set this up for Keith. We figured you two would get distracted and forget.”

Lance huffed a laugh. “We were getting there. Slowly.”

Luis stepped inside and dropped onto the floor with a dramatic sigh. “I swear, I’ve inflated this thing more times than I’ve passed midterms. Let’s get it over with.”

Rachel tossed the mattress onto the floor and grabbed the electric pump from the hallway closet. As she plugged it in and the low hum of air filled the room, Keith gave a sheepish smile.

“You guys don’t have to—”

“Nah, it’s tradition,” Rachel interrupted, grinning over her shoulder. “Anyone who stays over gets the ‘McClain hospitality package.’ You’re lucky we don’t still make guests wear the SpongeBob sleeping cap.”

Luis chuckled. “We save that for people we really like.”

Lance rolled his eyes but smiled, watching them with something close to fond disbelief. “You’re all so dramatic.”

“Please,” Rachel said, smirking. “You’re the most dramatic one here.”

The room filled with warmth and noise as the mattress began to rise, the quiet tension from earlier melting into easy laughter.

Once the mattress was fully inflated and the fitted sheet pulled snug, Rachel clapped her hands with exaggerated finality. “Mission accomplished. You're welcome.”

Luis stretched with a yawn and gave Keith a quick nod. “If you need anything, kitchen’s down the hall. Bathroom’s across. And ignore any weird noises—this house creaks like it’s haunted, but it’s just old.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Keith said with a small laugh.

Rachel made a mock-spooky face before flicking Lance’s forehead. “Don’t keep him up talking all night, lover boy,” she teased, then ducked out of the room before he could throw a pillow at her.

Luis followed behind her, flashing a lazy grin. “Night, bros.”

When the door finally clicked shut, silence fell over the room, soft and gentle. Keith sat down on the edge of the mattress, testing the bounce. “Not bad,” he said, glancing up. “This actually feels kind of nice. Cozy.”

Lance leaned against his desk, arms loosely crossed. “Yeah. It’s loud and cramped and chaotic… but it’s home.”

Keith looked around the room—at the old posters, the scuffed hardwood floor, the mismatched books on the shelves. “I get that,” he said quietly.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The quiet buzz of the house settling at night filled the space. Lance watched Keith’s expression soften, the guarded look he usually wore slipping away.

“You know,” Keith said, eyes still on the ceiling, “this is probably the most relaxed I’ve felt in a while.”

Lance blinked. “Really?”

Keith nodded. “There’s something about this place. Your family. Even with all the teasing… it feels real.”

Lance’s heart stuttered for a beat. He didn’t know exactly what to say to that, but the way Keith said it—like it meant something—lodged itself deep in his chest.

“Thanks for coming,” Lance said finally, voice low.

Keith looked over at him, eyes warm. “Thanks for inviting me.”

And for the first time that night, the quiet wasn’t awkward or heavy—it was comforting. Familiar. Like the beginning of something neither of them had quite named yet.

The lights were off now, the room bathed in the soft glow of old, fading stars dotting the ceiling. Some of them were missing corners, others barely glowed anymore, but there was still a faint constellation that stretched from one side of the room to the other—glow-in-the-dark stickers Lance had put up in elementary school and never taken down.

Keith lay on the mattress, hands behind his head, staring up at them.

“You ever try to make actual constellations out of those?” he asked after a long stretch of silence.

Lance, sprawled across his own bed just a few feet away, let out a quiet laugh. “When I was like eight, yeah. I was convinced I made a better version than the real ones. I named them after Pokémon.”

Keith snorted. “That actually tracks.”

Lance turned his head, grinning faintly. “Hey, I was a visionary.”

Keith shifted slightly, his voice softer now. “Did you ever think you'd end up here? Like… not just school. But all of this?”

Lance was quiet for a moment. “No,” he admitted. “I used to think I'd live here forever. On the farm. Maybe help my dad out, marry some girl from town, raise chickens or something.”

Keith turned his head too, looking over. “But?”

“But then I started looking up,” Lance said. “Like really looking up. At those stickers, at the real stars. I wanted more. I wanted something else. I just didn’t know what it was until I left.”

Keith hummed, gaze drifting back to the ceiling. “It’s funny. I always thought I didn’t belong anywhere. So I kept moving. Trying to outrun that feeling.”

Lance didn’t answer right away, but the silence between them was thick with understanding.

“I think,” Lance said finally, “maybe you didn’t need to outrun it. Maybe you just hadn’t found your place yet.”

Keith glanced at him again, expression unreadable in the dark. “And where do you think that place is?”

Lance met his eyes. “Still figuring that out. But… I don’t think it’s as far as you thought.”

Keith looked at him for a beat longer before smiling—small, honest. “You’re such a sap, McClain.”

“You’re the one getting all deep about star stickers,” Lance shot back.

Keith chuckled, and Lance felt something settle in his chest. A kind of peace. A quiet realization that this moment, under peeling glow-in-the-dark stars and shared silence, was something he’d remember.

Eventually, Keith’s breathing evened out, soft and slow, and Lance turned back to the ceiling. The stars didn’t shine as bright anymore, but they were still there—quiet, constant, comforting.

Lance squeezed his eyes shut, convincing himself that if he ignored the light behind his eyelids it really wouldn’t be morning. That was, until, he felt something wet stick in his ear and his eyes shot open.

Lance's eyes shot open, his heart leaping into his throat. He blinked several times, trying to process the small figure above him.

The a small boy with short cropped hair and a missing front tooth grinned down at him. He was no taller than Lance’s knees, wearing pajamas with cartoon characters all over them, his little arms crossed proudly.

“Tio, you drool in your sleep,” he announced, his voice a mix of triumph and mischief.

Lance groaned, rubbing his face and sitting up in a flurry. “Sylvio, I swear…”

Before he could finish, the small boy was already darting away, giggling like he'd won some kind of victory. Lance’s eyes tracked his movements, and sure enough, he was heading straight for the door, where his little sister, Nadia, stood, a wide-eyed, innocent smile plastered on her face.

“Tio drooled!” Sylvio declared as he reached her, pointing dramatically at Lance like he was making some earth-shattering revelation.

Lance sighed, collapsing back onto the mattress with his hands over his face. “I’m never living this down,” he muttered.

Nadia giggled, her voice high-pitched and light. “It’s okay, Tio! Everyone drools!” she said, as if offering some form of consolation, though it only made Lance laugh in spite of himself.

Keith, who had been woken up by the commotion, was rubbing his eyes. He blinked and looked around at the chaos unfolding. “What just happened?” he asked, still trying to shake off the remnants of sleep.

Lance sat up again, this time more slowly, and glanced at Keith. “That,” he said, pointing toward the door, “is my nephew, Sylvio. And my niece, Nadia. They’re usually the first ones up.”

Keith watched the kids dart around the room, laughing and full of energy, as Sylvio climbed into the bed beside Lance, making himself comfortable like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“So… this is your family’s version of waking up, huh?” Keith asked, still bleary-eyed and blinking against the morning light streaming in through the window.

Lance chuckled, leaning back against the headboard and rubbing his face. “Yeah, pretty much. They’ve got more energy than I know what to do with.” He glanced over at Sylvio, who was now happily settled on his side, his legs sprawled out like he owned the place. Nadia, not wanting to be left out, hopped up onto the bed too, crawling her way toward Keith with a big grin.

Keith, still a little groggy, gave her a sleepy smile. "And I’m supposed to just roll with it?" he asked, half-joking, as Nadia stopped in front of him and studied his hair with an intense curiosity.

“Yep!” Nadia said matter-of-factly, before leaning forward to touch a lock of his hair, her little fingers brushing it softly. “I like your hair. It’s spiky. Like a hedgehog.”

Keith blinked at her, slightly taken aback but amused. "Hedgehog, huh?" he said, glancing at Lance for support.

Lance just shrugged, still half asleep. “It’s true. You don’t know the half of it.”

Sylvio, who had been quietly observing the scene, piped up with a grin. “Tio, you’re awake now. We get breakfast?” His tiny voice was full of hope and impatience, clearly ready to jumpstart the day.

“Breakfast? Sylvio, it’s barely 7 a.m.,” Lance said, exasperated but trying to keep his tone light. “Keith and I drove late last night. We need sleep. Please.”

Sylvio didn’t seem to understand the concept of sleep deprivation. His eyes sparkled with energy as he hopped off the bed and tugged at Lance’s shirt. “But I’m hungry! You said we could have pancakes!”

Keith, still half in a daze and thoroughly entertained by Sylvio’s unrelenting enthusiasm, shot Lance a look. “Pancakes, huh?”

Lance sighed, looking at his nephew. "You heard him. He doesn’t know what time it is." He turned to Keith, grinning sheepishly. "Pancakes are probably happening whether we like it or not."

Keith rubbed his eyes. "I’m starting to think I’m more in the mood for sleep than pancakes right now," he muttered, but he couldn't help the smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“You’re too old for that,” Sylvio said sagely, as though he had all the wisdom in the world on the matter of sleep. “You just get up and eat. You’ll feel better.”

Lance chuckled. “Sounds like something my mom would say.”

Sylvio’s face lit up with pride. “I learned from the best,” he said with a dramatic flourish, gesturing as if his knowledge of breakfast was something profound.

Lance shook his head, still smiling. “Alright, alright. I think we’ve been outvoted, Keith. Let’s go get some pancakes before Sylvio makes us feel worse about it.”

Keith just laughed, standing up and stretching. “Lead the way, then. I suppose I’ll survive on caffeine until I can actually get some sleep.”

The two of them followed Sylvio and Nadia out of the room, their laughter trailing behind them as the house began to buzz with activity, the promise of pancakes filling the air.

Rachel was already downstairs. Her backpack was slung over one shoulder, her hair hastily pulled into a messy ponytail, and she was stuffing her face with a piece of burnt toast, the corners charred beyond recognition.

Lance brushed by her, knocking his nail against the lens of her Coke-bottle glasses. “This is a sad look, bug eyes,” he grinned, glancing at her through the mess of her morning routine.

“Shut up, loser,” Rachel shot back with a mouth full of toast, not even bothering to wipe away the crumbs. “I overslept. Didn’t have time to put in my contacts because someone decided to come home past midnight.”

Lance raised an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I interrupt your beauty sleep?” He smirked, crossing his arms as she glared at him over the top of her glasses.

“Pfft, beauty sleep? If I had any, you’d be the last person I’d wake up to,” she muttered, barely looking up from her toast as she turned the page of a textbook she’d clearly been skimming. “And don’t act like you didn’t know I’d be up late studying. Some of us actually have responsibilities, unlike you.”

Lance couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’m not the one eating burnt toast for breakfast, Rachel. But sure, keep pretending you’re the responsible one.”

She flicked a glance at him, her expression unreadable behind her thick glasses, but the corners of her lips twitched. “Better than having to wake up early to make pancakes for everyone. But if that’s how you want to live, go for it, loser.”

Lance shook his head, amused. “You’d never make pancakes even if you had all the time in the world.”

Rachel shot him a playful, half-hearted glare. “True. But at least I’m not the one who’s gonna get roped into it this morning. Have fun with that.”

Lance grinned, knowing exactly what was coming. “You’re right. Pancakes are happening whether you like it or not.”

Lance stood at the stove, flipping pancakes with a practiced hand. The smell of warm butter and vanilla filled the air as he worked, a stack of golden-brown pancakes slowly growing higher. He hummed under his breath, enjoying the simplicity of the task. It was a familiar comfort, one he’d done countless times growing up, despite his tendency to avoid the kitchen. The sizzle of the batter hitting the griddle made a rhythmic sound, adding a layer of calm to the morning chaos.

“Rachel, quit eating all the berries!” Lance called out, his voice light but firm, as he turned another pancake. He glanced over at his sister, who was already sitting at the table, a spoon full of syrup hovering over her stack of pancakes, her mouth halfway full of berries.

“I’m not eating all of them,” she mumbled between bites, but it was hard to ignore the evidence on her plate. She’d gone through half the raspberries already.

“Sure, sure, you just need to eat all the berries before anyone else gets a chance,” Lance grinned, shaking his head. He slid the last pancake onto the plate, setting it down in front of her with a mock glare. “Here, your pancake with a side of attitude.”

Rachel barely looked up as she drizzled syrup over her stack, taking a bite. “I’ve got a test today. I need energy,” she muttered with a slight shrug, not offering any other explanation.

Lance raised an eyebrow, but before he could respond, he heard the faint sound of footsteps behind him. Keith, who’d been lingering in the hallway, appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking a little out of place with his tousled hair and sleepy expression.

“Smells good in here,” Keith commented, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Thanks,” Lance replied, flipping the final pancake onto a plate. “Want some?”

Keith nodded and walked over to the counter, taking a seat at one of the stools. “Sure, but I’ve never had anyone make pancakes like this before. Don’t think I’ve ever seen someone put so much... love into it.” His smile widened a little as he looked at the stacked plates.

“I do what I can,” Lance chuckled, handing over a plate. As Rachel scarfed down her food and gathered her things, Lance felt a moment of peace before the whirlwind of the day began.

Rachel grabbed her backpack, slinging it over her shoulder. “I’m out,” she said, barely glancing at Keith. “See ya.”

“Good luck on your test,” Lance called out, but Rachel was already out the door, her footsteps heavy as she hurried to her car. The sound of the engine starting up and the tires crunching over the gravel driveway lingered in the air long after she was gone, leaving behind a brief but noticeable stillness in the house.

Lance stood there for a moment, staring at the door as if willing the silence to fill the space. After a few more seconds, he shook himself out of the moment, setting the spatula down with a soft clink. Wiping his hands on a towel, he took a deep breath and walked over to the counter, taking a seat next to Keith. The warm stack of pancakes still steamed lightly, filling the air with the familiar, comforting smell of breakfast.

Keith, who had been quietly enjoying his plate, paused for a second to savor the last bite before setting his fork down with a soft clink. He wiped his mouth with a napkin before turning to Lance, his curiosity evident in the tilt of his head. “So, why don’t you two go to the same school?” he asked, voice casual but still holding that note of genuine curiosity. “I mean, you’re... twins.”

Lance, who had been busy cutting his pancakes, froze for just a moment, the question catching him a little off guard. He hadn’t really thought about it that way before. To him, Rachel had always seemed so... separate from his world in a way. She’d carved out her own path, and he’d been doing the same. Still, there was something in the way Keith had asked that made him pause, as if maybe it was a question that deserved a deeper answer.

He shrugged lightly, trying to shake off the slight unease that the question brought up. “Rachel’s never been very STEM-minded,” he said, his voice casual, but his fingers drummed against the edge of his plate, betraying his inner thoughts. “She’s always been an artist—always has been. Even when we were kids, she’d spend hours with her sketchpad while I was over here trying to solve math problems or build something. It just wasn’t her thing.”

Keith nodded, his expression thoughtful as he took in the explanation. “That makes sense,” he said, his voice low and understanding. “I guess it’s easy to forget that not everyone’s into the same stuff.”

“Yeah,” Lance continued, his eyes flicking to the half-empty plate in front of him. “She’s actually applying to art school right now. I think she wants to go somewhere in New York, but I’m not really sure. I’m not exactly keeping tabs on her life. But yeah, she’s got her own thing going on. It just doesn’t really line up with mine.” His tone softened a little, as if the words were more complicated than they seemed.

Keith didn’t press, but his gaze lingered for a moment before he took another bite of his pancakes, chewing slowly. “It sounds like you two just have your own paths. Different ones, but that doesn’t make them any less important, right?”

Lance let out a quiet laugh, his fingers still playing with his fork as he thought about his sister. "Yeah. It's just... sometimes I feel like everyone’s got it figured out, you know?" He shrugged slightly, pushing around his pancakes absentmindedly. "Rachel’s always been the perfect student, the perfect daughter. And then there’s me, just trying to keep up. She’s always known exactly what she wants to do—art, you know? She’s good at it, like, really good. And I’m over here... just trying to figure out what my thing is." He paused, his voice quieter now. "I don’t even know if I have a thing, Keith. It feels like everyone’s got their path laid out, and I’m just... lost in the shuffle."

Keith was about to respond when the familiar sound of footsteps echoed down the stairs, followed by the soft hum of a familiar tune. Lance looked up to see his mom, Lisa, coming into the kitchen, her phone in hand as she absentmindedly scrolled through it. Selena’s voice could be heard faintly in the background, the music playing through Lisa’s phone as she moved about the kitchen. Lance froze for a moment, his attention diverted. He knew where this was going.

Suddenly, to his surprise, Keith started humming along. Lance blinked, nearly choking on his pancakes as he shot Keith a puzzled look.

"What do you know about Selena ?" Lance asked, trying and failing to mask his amusement.

Keith raised an eyebrow, a small, playful smile creeping up on his lips. "I’m not that uncultured, Lance," he replied confidently.

Lance couldn’t hold back a laugh. "Uh, yes, you are," he said, grinning. He paused, then, mimicking Keith’s voice in a mock-serious tone, added, "'My name’s Keith, I’m so emo.'"

Keith’s eyes narrowed, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "I do not sound like that," he protested, rolling his eyes.

"Oh, but you totally do," Lance shot back, his grin widening. "Answer the question, mullet."

Keith leaned back slightly, folding his arms across his chest as he looked up at Lance with a deadpan expression. "I was born in Texas, McClain."

Lance blinked in surprise. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered, chuckling. "You know what? I can't argue with a Texan."

Keith gave a quick nod. “I know enough to keep you on your toes.”

Lance leaned back, shaking his head with a laugh. “Alright, alright, you’ve earned some credibility,” he admitted. “But Selena ?” He gave Keith a teasing side-eye. “How is it that someone from Texas knows Selena and not end up listening to full-on country?”

Keith raised his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, some of us have diverse taste." He gave Lance a wink. "You should try it sometime."

Lance snorted, shaking his head as he pushed his plate aside. "Maybe later, cowboy. But not today."

Keith smirked, glancing back toward the stairs as the sounds of Lisa and Selena filled the room. "Maybe you’ll convert me to some of that pop, huh?"

"Not happening," Lance said with a wink, but his voice softened a little, a sense of camaraderie settling between them. It was nice to joke around like this—like everything wasn’t so heavy all the time.

It was lunch when Lance’s dad came inside through the side door in the kitchen. Beads of sweat dotted along the wrinkles and creases of his forehead. His white shirt clinging to his chest and his jeans covered in mud and clay.

“¡Hace un calor tremendo y apenas es noviembre!”

“Miguel!” Lisa shouted from the living room, “We have a guest! Please me mindful of the languages you use. Don’t make him feel left out.”

Lance’s dad, Miguel, paused mid-step, his broad frame filling the doorway. He glanced at Keith and then at his wife, his tired eyes softening with a mix of sheepishness and stubbornness.

"¡Ay, Lisa! No me hagas esto," Miguel muttered, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "You know how this heat gets to me."

Lisa, already busy tidying up, waved her hand dismissively. "Just try, Miguel," she said, but there was a smile tugging at her lips, softened by the affection she had for her husband. "I don’t need to translate every other word."

Lance, who had been staring at his dad’s work-worn appearance, finally spoke up with a chuckle. “It’s fine, Dad. Keith’s been around the block with our family enough to get it.”

Keith nodded with a small smile. "I’m good.”

Miguel let out a soft grunt of acknowledgment, taking a step further into the kitchen. His eyes flicked over the table, now set with food, and his lips curled into a tired but satisfied grin. "Ah, looks like lunch is ready, huh?"

“Come sit down, miguelito,” Lisa called, motioning toward the table. "I made your favorite—don't make me say it twice."

Miguel grinned at the offer, peeling off his mud-stained boots before collapsing into a chair with a heavy sigh. "Well, it's good to be home," he said, though the exhaustion in his voice was clear. "But I swear, this weather’s gonna kill me one day."

Lisa stood behind him, massaging his shoulders. “I put Sylvio and Nadia down for their nap, Marco will come by to get them when he’s done with work.”

Miguel raised his eyebrows and chuckled, “You managed to get Sylvio to nap?”

Lisa sucked her teeth. “Barely, I had to threaten that boy with no rice pudding this weekend first.”

Miguel chuckled, his deep voice rumbling with amusement as he leaned back in his chair, finally letting the weight of the day ease off his shoulders. "You got him to nap with that?" he said, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. "That boy’s a nightmare when it comes to napping."

Lisa rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at her lips. She ran her hands gently over his tense shoulders, kneading the muscles that had been worked hard all day. "I swear, Sylvio’s more stubborn than a mule," she muttered. "But if there’s one thing that kid loves, it’s his rice pudding. It worked like a charm."

Miguel shook his head, his grin widening. "You’ve got a soft spot for him, though. Spoiling him with that treat all the time." He tilted his head back to look up at Lisa, his exhaustion temporarily forgotten. "I don’t know how you do it. All these kids, the farm, keeping the house together… I’d be a wreck."

Lisa gave his shoulders a final squeeze before stepping around to the front of the chair, where she leaned down to kiss his forehead. "I manage, like always," she replied with a wink. "And speaking of kids, don’t think I forgot about Marco bringing the kids by later. I swear, I’m going to start charging him for daycare at this rate."

Miguel’s tired eyes softened as he glanced toward the hallway, where the soft sound of Sylvio and Nadia’s giggles could still be heard from the bedroom. "I’ll take the kids when Marco gets here," he said, his voice quieter now, filled with affection. "Let’s give you a break for once."

Lisa gave him a grateful look before glancing over at Keith, who had been sitting silently through their exchange. "Keith, you haven’t eaten yet, have you?" she asked, gesturing to the table where the lunch spread awaited.

Keith, who had been trying not to intrude on their family’s dynamic, shook his head. "No, I haven’t. Thank you for offering, though," he replied, his voice still a bit uncertain, but he appreciated the warmth that filled the room.

"Good," Lisa said with a smile. "We’ve got plenty to share. Sit, eat, relax. You’re family now, after all."

Miguel turned to fully regard Keith for the first time. “So, Keith, have you ever worked on a farm?”

Keith blinked, caught a bit off guard by the question, but he quickly recovered with a small chuckle. "A farm? No, not exactly," he said, shaking his head. "I grew up in the outskirts of Tucson, but I was still in the city more often than not. I’m more used to concrete and noise than… well, whatever that is." He gestured vaguely toward the outside, where the sprawling fields of the McClain farm lay beyond the window.

Miguel grinned, a low, throaty laugh escaping him. "I figured as much," he said, his voice rich with amusement. "City boy, huh? Well, you’re in for a treat. You’ll get to see how hard work is really done when you’re out here. You should come with me when we finish lunch. I’ll put you on the tractor."

Lisa rolled her eyes, but her smile was affectionate. "Miguel, don’t scare him off. He’s already got enough on his plate with Lance."

Keith glanced at Lance, who had a look of mock horror on his face. "What’s that supposed to mean?" Lance protested, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward in amusement. "I’m not that bad to deal with, am I?"

Keith shrugged, his grin widening. "You’re an interesting guy, McClain," he said, keeping his tone light. "I think I’ll survive."

Miguel chuckled, clearly enjoying the playful exchange. "Interesting, huh? Well, Lance, looks like you’ve got yourself a fan," he teased, giving Lance a sidelong glance before returning his attention to Keith. "But really, you’re in good hands. Lance might be a handful sometimes, but he’s got a good heart."

Lance rolled his eyes, but there was an undeniable warmth in his chest at his dad's words. "Thanks, Dad," he muttered, then grinned at Keith. "See? I’m not that bad. Just wait until you’ve had to put up with me for a while."

Keith raised an eyebrow. "If it’s anything like this, I’m in for quite the ride," he said, his grin never fading as he leaned back slightly, clearly more comfortable now in the casual banter.

"Alright, alright," Lisa said with a laugh, stepping in before the teasing could go too far. "Enough of the McClain family roast. Let’s eat, before we end up all talking and no food." She grabbed a plate and began serving herself, casting a quick look at the clock. "Marco will be here soon to pick up the kids, so we better take advantage of the peace and quiet while we can."

Miguel, ever the instigator, wiggled his eyebrows at Keith. "Just remember, city boy, if you survive Lance, you can survive anything."

Keith couldn't help but laugh. "I’ll take my chances," he said, reaching for another piece of chicken. "But if you really want to throw me into the deep end, I guess a tractor ride wouldn’t be the worst place to start."

Miguel’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "You’ve got the spirit of a farmhand, I’ll give you that. Alright, finish up, and we’ll hit the road. Got a lot of work to do today."

Lance smirked, clearly amused at the prospect of Keith stepping into his world. "Get ready, city boy," he said with mock solemnity. "It’s not all fun and games out there."

Keith raised an eyebrow but said nothing, finishing the last of his meal as Miguel stood up to grab his keys from the counter.

The moment they stepped outside, the midday sun hit them like a wall of heat, the air thick with the scent of grass and earth. The truck sat idling in the driveway, ready to go. Miguel tossed the keys to Lance, who caught them easily, a knowing smile on his face.

"You’re riding shotgun," Miguel said, "but I’m driving. Don’t think I’ll let you off that easy."

Keith chuckled as he climbed into the front seat, squeezing in next to Lance. They both settled in, the seat cramped with the three of them together.

Lance shot Keith a smirk. "Welcome to the McClain family experience—tight spaces and no personal space."

Keith leaned back, nudging Lance with his elbow. "I’ll survive. At least it’s not a tractor seat."

Miguel’s laugh echoed from the front as he started the engine. "Just wait until you’re sitting on one of those all day. You’ll be begging for this cramped truck."

The truck rumbled down the dirt road, the familiar sounds of the farm growing louder—the cawing of roosters, the occasional moo in the distance, and the hum of farm equipment working. Keith glanced out the window, taking in the open fields, feeling a strange sense of calm settle over him.

"So, what exactly am I getting into?" Keith asked, half-joking.

"You’ll see," Lance replied with a grin, "Trust me, it’s hard work, but you get used to it."

Miguel glanced back at them with a grin. "Yeah, it’s a simple life, but it’s a good one. Nothing like the city."

The truck bounced over another rut in the road, and Keith found himself shifting closer to Lance as the truck jostled. Both of them laughed, the tension in the cramped space easing with each bump.

"You ready for this?" Lance asked with a playful glance at Keith.

Keith shrugged with a grin. "I think I’ll survive. Bring on the tractor."

Lance tilted his head back, eyes closed, and silently began praying to every ancestor he could think of. He hadn’t quite anticipated this moment, and now it felt like some cosmic joke. He stood next to his father, watching as Keith maneuvered the tractor with surprising skill. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing his forearms that flexed with each movement. But what really had Lance’s stomach doing flips was the sight of Keith’s hair.

With the sun beating down, Keith had pulled his mullet into a low, messy bun, and Lance could feel his heart rate pick up as he saw the baby hairs at the nape of his neck exposed to the heat. The fine strands were beginning to curl with sweat, clinging to the back of his neck in a way that was so... intimate. The combination of Keith’s effortless work on the tractor and the sight of his damp, tousled hair left Lance feeling torn between embarrassment and something else—something he couldn’t quite place.

“I’m gonna go sit in the truck,” Lance muttered absently to his dad as he turned on his heel, not waiting for a response. “Let me know if Keith breaks something.”

Miguel’s brow furrowed, and he called after him. “You alright?”

Lance gave a distracted wave over his shoulder, not even bothering to look back. “Yeah, just—just dehydrated.” He didn’t even realize how much his voice had faltered until he slammed the truck door a little harder than necessary.

He slid into the driver’s seat, the familiar smell of leather and dust filling his nostrils. Lance turned the key in the ignition, wincing slightly at the sound of the engine turning over. He cranked the A/C to full blast, hoping the cold air would help clear his head. The hum of the cooling system was a welcome distraction as he lay his face in his hands, his elbows propped up on the steering wheel.

What was wrong with him? He let out a frustrated breath, trying to collect his thoughts. There was just something about the whole situation that felt... off. Keith working the tractor had triggered something, and Lance couldn’t shake the feeling that he was on the edge of a thought he couldn’t quite reach.

It wasn’t like he’d never seen Keith before, or spent time with him for that matter. But there was something different now. Keith wasn’t just a tutor, a friend who helped him with his grades. Seeing him like this—sweat-drenched and focused, looking oddly at home in this rural landscape—made Lance feel things he couldn’t quite name. The baby hairs on the back of Keith’s neck, damp from sweat, curled in the sunlight, and Lance couldn’t stop staring at them. He was hyperaware of the way Keith’s every movement seemed to affect him now, the way the simple action of Keith rolling up his sleeves or tugging at his hair felt so personal.

Lance groaned, rubbing his face with both hands, trying to push the confusing thoughts out of his head. Why did it feel like something was shifting? And why did it feel like it had been happening for a while, only now he was just beginning to notice?

He let out a shaky breath, feeling the weight of everything. Maybe he needed a minute. Maybe the heat and the exhaustion were getting to him more than he thought. Or maybe—just maybe—he was overthinking all of it. He straightened up in his seat, trying to steady himself. Whatever it was, he was going to have to figure it out. But for now, he closed his eyes, letting the cool air wash over him and hoping that by the time he opened them again, he’d have a clearer mind.

They made it home just before the sun began its slow descent beneath the horizon. The sunset stretched for what felt like miles, the sky awash in soft peach-pink hues, gradually deepening into lavender and gold. The hills stood silhouetted against the changing canvas, their outlines softened by the fading light. The desert sand shimmered in the warmth, bathed in the final rays of the day, as though it was reluctant to let go of the sun.

Lance gazed out the window, the view nearly hypnotic. The vastness of the landscape always made him feel small, but in a way that was grounding. As the truck rumbled along the dirt road toward home, he could see the fading light tracing the contours of the land, the rugged beauty of the place he’d grown up in.

For a moment, everything felt quiet. No distractions, no confusion, just the world settling into a peaceful dusk. It was the kind of silence that settled deep in the bones, the kind of quiet that could make a person feel more connected to the earth beneath them than anything else.

Keith, sitting beside him, let out a quiet breath, seemingly lost in the same scene. It was a silence they shared, one that spoke volumes without either of them having to say a word. It was as if they both understood that in this moment, the landscape and the setting sun were enough.

The truck’s tires kicked up a cloud of dust as it rolled down the dirt driveway, the house finally coming into view as the evening shadows stretched longer, swallowing the last traces of sunlight. The fading glow from the horizon made the landscape look almost dreamlike, as if the world was holding its breath before night fully settled in.

Lance barely had time to open the door before he felt a small body launch herself into his arms. Nadia, with her tiny frame, had her arms wrapped around his neck in an instant.

“Why’d you leave?” Her voice was filled with a mix of annoyance and something else, perhaps a little hurt, as she tugged at him. “I wanted to show Keith Princess Jasmine and Peppa!”

Lance blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the sudden onslaught. He looked down at her, trying to process what she was saying. Was he really this out of it? "Who are we talking about right now?"

Nadia's eyes narrowed in that way only little kids could manage, and she flung her head back dramatically in his arms. "The goats, tio. The goats!" she exclaimed, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Lance felt a chuckle bubble up from his chest, the warmth of her enthusiasm pushing away the lingering tension of the day. He shook his head, still trying to wrap his mind around what she was saying. "You renamed them again?"

"Of course I did! Princess Jasmine is the white one, and Peppa is the black one!" she said proudly, as if her new system made perfect sense. “They were lonely while you were gone.”

Lance smiled at the thought, a rush of affection sweeping over him. The day had been long, and the truck ride back had given him time to think, but seeing Nadia, full of energy and life, brought him back to the simple joys of home.

The crunch of gravel echoed again as another car pulled into the driveway. Marco, dressed in his auto-tech uniform, stepped out. He gave a brief wave to Lance before walking toward the house, his movements confident and steady, as though he’d just finished a long shift but was used to it. Nadia immediately let go of Lance and ran to him, her voice bubbling over as she began to recount everything she’d done that day with Keith, the goats, and the seemingly endless list of things she needed to tell her dad.

Marco chuckled, lifting Nadia into his arms effortlessly. “I see you’ve been keeping busy,” he said, glancing at Lance.

“More like keeping Keith busy,” Lance replied with a grin. “He’s not a bad farm hand, I’ll give him that.”

Marco raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Keith, huh?” He exchanged a brief, knowing look with Lance. "This the physics tutor mom’s been going on and on about?"

Lance sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, that’s the one. He’s… interesting.” He glanced over at Keith, who was still chatting with Sylvio by the goats, trying his best to keep up with the boy’s energy.

Marco nodded slowly, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. “You know, mom’s been pretty adamant about how much you need this guy to help you with your grades. So, I’m guessing he’s making an impression?”

“Making an impression is an understatement,” Lance said, his voice a little more serious than he intended. He paused for a moment, then added, “But, yeah, I guess I’m starting to see what she meant. He’s different. In a good way.”

Marco's smirk softened into a more thoughtful expression, and he looked out at the horizon for a moment, his arms still holding Nadia as she squirmed to get back to the goats. “You always gravitate towards the different ones,” Marco observed quietly. “Just make sure you don’t lose yourself in it, alright?”

Lance blinked, taken aback by the seriousness in Marco’s tone. It wasn’t something his brother usually said—he was more the laid-back type. “I’ll keep that in mind,” Lance replied, but the words hung in the air between them, heavier than he expected.

Marco shifted Nadia in his arms and gave Lance a small, reassuring smile. “Good. Just don’t forget where you come from, alright?”

Lance nodded, his gaze drifting back to Keith, who had finally managed to escape the chaos of the goats. "I won’t. Thanks, Marco."

The moment passed, and the siblings fell into a comfortable silence, the quiet buzz of the evening settling around them.

Every time Lance closed his eyes, he could only see Keith on that tractor again. His sleeves were rolled up, forearm muscles flexing as the sweat glistened on his skin, reflecting the harsh sunlight. It was almost like something out of a dream—too real to be a fantasy, but still vivid and hard to shake. The image lingered in his mind, the way Keith had looked so effortlessly at ease, so… competent. It made Lance’s stomach flip in a way he wasn’t used to.

Sitting on his bed, Lance buried his face in his hands, the weight of the day still heavy on his shoulders. He watched the water drip from his damp hair, pooling on the hardwood floor beneath his bare feet. His mind was racing, too fast for him to catch up with. What was it about Keith that had his thoughts in a constant whirl?

He was supposed to be focused, supposed to get some rest—get ready for the next day. But every time his eyelids fluttered shut, Keith’s face was there. The curve of his jaw, the way his hair had fallen over his forehead. He hadn't even been trying to impress anyone. It was just… him.

Lance sighed, rubbing his face before dropping his hands and looking around the room. The familiar clutter, the old posters on the walls, the empty water bottle next to his bed—it all felt so mundane now, so ordinary compared to the overwhelming thoughts swirling in his head.

The sound of water running in the bathroom reminded him that Keith was still in the shower, and Lance had been waiting for what felt like hours to turn off the lights. He couldn’t shake the image of Keith—sweaty, focused, so damn effortless. It wasn’t like Lance had never seen people work hard before, but there was something about the way Keith did it that made everything feel... different. He wasn’t just working. He was owning it.

Lance stood up, stretching his back, trying to shake off the restlessness. He needed to get a grip. Keith was just a tutor. A weird, mulleted, overly intense tutor who happened to be unexpectedly good with farm equipment. Nothing more. Right?

When the sound of the shower turned off, Lance let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He reached for the light switch, ready to turn it off, but his hand hovered just above it as the door creaked open.

Keith stepped out, his hair still damp, strands of it falling in wet tendrils over his forehead. He didn’t look at Lance immediately—his focus was on fixing the towel around his hips, tugging it into place with a nonchalant ease. Lance tried to keep his eyes on the floor, trying to ignore the flutter of his pulse at the sight of him, but his gaze betrayed him. It drifted back to Keith, watching him move with a casual confidence that seemed to make everything feel just a little more charged.

“Ready for lights out?” Keith asked, his voice still carrying the remnants of steam from the shower, rough but somehow soothing at the same time.

Lance cleared his throat, feeling like an idiot for feeling flustered over something so simple. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Just… just a minute.”

Keith nodded, giving him a glance as he reached for his clothes on the chair next to the bed. He didn’t say anything more, but Lance could feel his presence still lingering in the room, that quiet energy hanging between them like an unspoken tension.

The seconds stretched on as Lance sat there, trying to ignore the heat creeping up his neck. Every movement Keith made seemed to draw his attention, the way his towel hung low on his hips, the way his hair stuck to his skin, dripping water onto the floor. It shouldn’t have been that big of a deal, but Lance couldn’t seem to help himself. Every small detail about Keith felt... important. Like he was constantly noticing things he wasn’t supposed to.

Finally, Keith finished getting dressed, his footsteps soft on the wooden floor as he moved across the room. He paused by the door, his hand on the handle, and turned back to Lance. “You good?”

Lance nodded quickly, not trusting himself to say anything else. “Yeah. Just... tired.”

Keith’s lips quirked into a small smile, but he didn’t push it. “Alright. Goodnight, McClain.”

“Night,” Lance replied, his voice quieter than he intended.

The door clicked shut, and Lance was left in the stillness, the sound of his own heartbeat louder than the silence that filled the room. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing mind, but it didn’t help. Keith was still there, lingering in his thoughts, even as the darkness settled around him.

The room was quiet again. Lance lay back, letting the ceiling blur as his eyes adjusted to the dark. The hum of the ceiling fan, the muffled sound of crickets outside, the faint scent of shampoo Keith had left behind — it all wrapped around him like a blanket, too warm and too strange. He closed his eyes.

At first, it was nothing. Just blackness and the usual static of sleep settling in.

Then it shifted.

He was outside. Somewhere familiar but not quite real — the field behind the house, maybe, but bathed in a golden hour haze that made everything look softer, warmer. The sky above them glowed orange and pink, like the day was holding its breath. And there was Keith, standing a few feet away with the sun at his back, his expression unreadable but his posture open, expectant.

Lance took a step closer.

He didn’t remember how it started. Maybe Keith reached for him first, or maybe he just moved without thinking. But suddenly, Keith’s hand was in his, rough and warm, and their bodies were inches apart. Lance could feel Keith’s breath on his cheek, see the way his lips parted just slightly. The moment stretched, charged, and then—

Keith kissed him.

It wasn’t tentative. It was like they’d done it a hundred times before. Familiar. Certain. Lance leaned in like gravity was pulling him, like this had been waiting in the wings of every moment they’d spent together. Keith’s hand cupped the back of his neck, fingers threading into Lance’s hair as their mouths moved together, slow and hungry.

Lance made a small sound in the back of his throat, part surprise, part relief. Keith pulled him closer, and Lance went willingly, letting himself get lost in the feeling—the heat of it, the weightlessness, the way everything else just fell away.

Here, in this place that wasn't quite real, nothing was complicated. It was just the two of them, breathing in the same air, touching like it meant something.

And it did. God, it did.

Lance gripped the front of Keith’s shirt, bunching the fabric in his fists as their mouths collided again, harder this time. Keith made a low sound against him, something between a growl and a gasp, and Lance felt it reverberate through him like a struck chord. It made his knees weak.

They stumbled back blindly, Lance’s hands slipping under the edge of Keith’s shirt, fingers brushing over warm, taut skin. Keith’s breath hitched, but he didn’t stop him—instead, he tugged Lance closer, their hips pressed together now, no space left between them. The air was thick, electric, each kiss more demanding than the last.

Lance pulled back just long enough to catch his breath, only to have Keith chase after him, lips trailing down his jaw, his throat, biting gently at the spot just below his ear. Lance shivered, his fingers digging into Keith’s back as his head fell to the side, giving him more access. Everything burned—the way Keith touched him, kissed him, like he’d wanted this just as badly, just as long.

“You drive me crazy,” Keith murmured, voice rough against Lance’s skin.

Lance barely had the presence of mind to respond. “Yeah? That makes two of us.”

They sank into the grass, Lance landing first, Keith following without hesitation. Their legs tangled, hands everywhere—pushing, pulling, needing. Keith braced himself above Lance, eyes locked on his, dark and glassy with want. For a moment they just stared at each other, the silence roaring with everything unspoken.

Then Keith leaned in again, and the kiss turned desperate—like they were trying to memorize each other, to press themselves into skin and soul alike.

Lance moaned against Keith’s mouth, overwhelmed and aching and completely undone.

And then—

A loud knock. A door creaking. A burst of hallway light.

Lance jerked awake, breath ragged, heart pounding like he’d run a mile. His sheets were a mess, sweat clinging to his skin, and the image of Keith’s mouth on his neck lingered like a ghost.

The door clicked shut again. Footsteps faded.

Lance sat up slowly, dragging a shaky hand through his hair.

What the hell was that?

Lance sat frozen for a beat, chest still heaving, heartbeat echoing in his ears like thunder. The dream clung to him like smoke—Keith’s mouth, the weight of his body, the heat. Lance dragged a shaky hand down his face, trying to shake the images loose. He glanced toward the blow-up mattress in the corner of the room.

Empty.

He blinked. When did he leave?

Stumbling to his feet, Lance pulled on a hoodie and padded down the stairs, feet cold against the tile. His face was pale, eyes wide and shell-shocked, like he’d seen a ghost—or maybe become one.

He turned the corner and stopped dead in his tracks.

There, in the soft morning light filtering through the blinds, was Keith. He sat awkwardly cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by action figures, trying to entertain Sylvio with what looked like the least convincing villain voice Lance had ever heard. The toddler giggled anyway, delighted.

Lance’s heart should’ve settled. It didn’t.

He stood frozen in the doorway, watching in growing horror as Keith, completely unaware of the emotional warfare happening just feet away, reached behind him for a glass of water. He took a long drink, throat working, Adam’s apple bobbing with every swallow.

Don’t look. Don’t—

Then the universe turned its cruelty up a notch.

A single droplet escaped the corner of Keith’s mouth, trailing a slow, glistening path down the line of his jaw and along his neck before disappearing beneath the collar of his worn T-shirt.

Lance inhaled sharply.

Nope. Absolutely not.

He turned on his heel and bolted back up the stairs.

He needed air.

He needed a distraction.

He needed a lobotomy.

Desperately. Urgently. Immediately.

His brain had clearly declared war on him, and Lance wasn’t about to sit around and be the battlefield. Without thinking, he yanked on a pair of mismatched socks, jammed his feet into the nearest pair of sneakers, and marched back downstairs like a man possessed.

As he reached for the garage door, a voice called out from the kitchen.

“Where you going?” Rachel asked, her words muffled around a mouthful of toast and orange juice. She raised an eyebrow, one hand still on the fridge door.

Lance froze. His mind scrambled. He glanced around, eyes landing on the half-empty carton of juice on the counter like it was a lifeline.

“We need, uh…” he said, grabbing the truck keys off the hook. “More orange juice.”

Rachel squinted at him. “Pretty sure there’s another carton in the back of the fridge.”

Lance was already halfway through the door. “We need the cold kind. Trust me!”

The door slammed behind him before she could ask any more questions.

Outside, the morning heat was already creeping in, and the truck radiated leftover warmth from the previous day. Lance slid into the driver’s seat, cranked the AC, and gripped the steering wheel like it might keep him tethered to reality.

What the hell is happening to me?

He didn’t have an answer.

But apparently, it involved cold air, an unnecessary juice run, and putting as much distance as possible between himself and Keith's stupid, perfect neck.

Lance barely registered the keys turning in the ignition before he was pulling out of the driveway like the truck owed him an escape. His brain was still short-circuiting, stuck somewhere between dream logic and waking reality.

He gripped the steering wheel with one hand, the other fumbling for his phone. His fingers moved on autopilot, dialing the first number that offered any kind of grounding.

Hunk.

It rang once.

Then—

“Yo!” Hunk’s voice burst through the speaker, bright and familiar—like a lifeline tossed across stormy waters. “Is the farm on fire? Did someone die? Blink twice if it’s a crisis, Lance.”

Lance exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since the dream. “Dude.”

“Are you in a spaceship right now?”

Lance rolled his eyes, shifting the phone to his other hand. “No, I’m in my dad’s truck. It’s too old for Bluetooth. I’m literally holding the phone like it’s 2006.”

“Okay, just checking. Your voice sounds all echo-y and dramatic, like you’re about to confess something life-altering.”

A beat.

“...Oh my god. Are you about to confess something life-altering?”

Lance let his head fall against the steering wheel with a dull thud . “I hate how well you know me.”

“Don’t dodge the question, man. Spill.”

Lance groaned. “Look, nothing’s on fire. No one died. The goats are fine. I’m just… processing.”

“Processing?” Hunk repeated, suspicious. “Lance, are you dying?”

“I mean, maybe emotionally. Also physically—I think I saw God yesterday, and he looked a lot like Keith on a tractor.”

There was a pause.

“…Okay, I need you to back up. Did Keith run you over with a tractor or are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“No one got run over! Why is that always your first guess?”

“Because it’s you , dude.”

Lance slumped back in the driver’s seat, staring blankly at the dusty windshield. “I need orange juice, Hunk.”

“You don’t even like orange juice.”

“I know. But Rachel was drinking it and it felt like a safe lie.” Lance dragged a hand through his hair, still damp at the roots from his rushed shower. “I had a dream. A really... vivid one.”

“Okay,” Hunk said slowly. “Was it one of those falling or flying ones? Or like... you were naked in public?”

“I was not the one who was naked, Hunk!”

Pause.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Another beat.

“So… Keith?”

Lance groaned so hard it came out as a guttural, tortured wail . “I need to rewire my brain. Or bleach it. Or just—bury myself alive. That might be more cost effective.”

Hunk chuckled, but it was warm, not mocking. “Okay, okay, breathe. First of all, dreams are dreams. It doesn’t mean anything unless you want it to. Second… you sounded kinda panicked. Like, more than usual. Are you okay?”

Lance was quiet for a moment. The desert road stretched ahead, nothing but scrubby brush and horizon.

“I don’t know,” Lance admitted, voice low as he leaned his head against the steering wheel. “I just—every time I close my eyes now, it’s him. And then I wake up and he’s downstairs, being stupidly nice and good with kids and accidentally hot, and I just—I needed to get out before I did something crazy. Like stare at his neck again.”

Hunk laughed, warm and a little too knowing. “Okay. So maybe we’re not totally in denial anymore.”

“There is nothing to be in denial about!” Lance shot back, sitting up straighter like that could somehow make his point stronger. “I, Lance McClain, have gone seventeen years in a Catholic, Cuban household without so much as a blip . Not one questionable dream, not one confusing crush—nada. This is just the heat. It’s frying my brain. I need electrolytes, not a sexuality crisis.”

There was a pause on the other end, and then Hunk said, “Bro. You are in a truck, in the middle of nowhere, running from the sight of this guy’s neck . I don’t think Gatorade’s gonna fix that.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“No, you’re not,” Hunk replied calmly. “Because if you were, you’d have done it already. Instead, you’re sitting there having a crisis in your dad’s truck like a dramatic telenovela protagonist.”

Lance let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a groan and a prayer. “This isn’t a crisis. It’s heatstroke. Sun poisoning. Demonic temptation. I don’t know. Maybe this is what happens when you skip Sunday mass too many times.”

“Oh my God ,” Hunk said, laughing. “You think God is punishing you with a hot farm boy?”

“I didn’t say that! ” Lance hissed. “I’m just saying—there are rules, okay? Cosmic, cultural, Cuban rules. And Keith has this face , and this hair , and— no! I rebuke this. In Jesus’s name, I rebuke it.”

There was a long beat of silence. Then Hunk said, “So you definitely think he’s hot.”

“I’m hanging up for real this time.”

“No, you’re not.”

Lance slammed his forehead against the steering wheel and whispered, “Padre nuestro que estás en el cielo, por favor hazme ciego antes de volver a ver su maldito cuello.”

Lance did hang up eventually—after Hunk made him promise not to crash the truck or join a monastery.

Now he stood in the middle of the grocery store, still wearing his dusty jeans and sweat-dampened T-shirt, staring blankly at the juice aisle like it had personally wronged him. The air conditioning was turned up high, blasting down in cold, almost holy waves, and he stood directly under a vent like it might purge the memory of Keith’s stupid, sweaty neck from his brain.

Orange juice. He came here for orange juice.

Why did it feel like he’d just survived a spiritual battlefield and not, you know, a completely normal, totally heterosexual tractor ride?

A woman passed by with her toddler and gave him a polite nod, but he didn’t move. His hand hovered near a bottle of pulp-free Tropicana, then dropped again.

He wasn’t even thirsty.

God, he needed an exorcism.

Or maybe a lobotomy.

Or maybe— no . There was nothing to unpack. Nothing to examine. He was simply tired. And the sun was hot. And Keith had accidentally been attractive in a completely unavoidable, infuriating way.

Totally explainable.

Totally fixable.

He grabbed the juice, turned on his heel, and headed to checkout like it was a military operation.

All he had to do was get home, give his mom the juice, and avoid Keith for the rest of the night.

Simple.

Right?

The screen door creaked as Lance stepped back into the house, a plastic bag swinging half-heartedly in one hand. The sun had dipped even lower now, casting long shadows across the kitchen tile. The orange juice was cold. His soul was not.

“Got it,” he announced to no one in particular, setting the bottle on the counter with a little more force than necessary.

From the living room, he could hear cartoons blaring and the distant sound of plastic smacking against plastic — Sylvio and Nadia were clearly waging war with their action figures again. No sign of Keith yet. Maybe he was upstairs. Maybe the universe had granted Lance a moment of mercy.

“Lance!” Lisa called from the laundry room. “Did you remember the pulp-free kind?”

“Yes, Mamá!” he called back, already halfway to the stairs. “No pulp! I’m not a criminal.”

He climbed two steps — and froze.

There was Keith. In the hallway. Wearing one of Lance’s old t-shirts, too big on him by a mile and hanging off one shoulder. The collar was stretched out from the numerous times he’d yanked at it despite his mother’s warnings and there were various holes from the times he and his brothers would go running through the brush. His hair was damp. He must’ve showered again . Why did he shower so much? Was he trying to ruin Lance’s life?

Keith turned, holding a towel and looking only mildly surprised to see him. “Hey. Thought you got lost.”

“Nope,” Lance said too quickly. “Just… mission: citrus.”

Keith smiled. It was unfair. “Well, thanks. Nadia was devastated.”

“Yeah, she told me. She wanted to show you the goats.”

“She did. Jasmine tried to eat my sock.”

Lance should’ve laughed. Should’ve said something casual. But all he could think about was the way Keith’s collarbone peeked out from the neckline of his shirt, and how his skin looked still-warm from the shower, flushed and—

“Okay,” Lance blurted. “I need another shower.”

Keith blinked. “Didn’t you just—?”

“Yup. Farm dust. You know how it is.” He didn’t wait for a response. Just spun around and took the stairs two at a time, trying not to trip over his own guilt or attraction or overwhelming need to scream into a pillow.

This was fine.

Everything was totally, completely fine.

Right?

Lance came back downstairs, towel slung around his neck, trying to act like he hadn’t just stood under cold water for twenty minutes questioning every decision that led him to this moment.

But then—Luis’s voice cut through the kitchen.

“Lance!” he hollered over his shoulder, somewhere between amused and scandalized. “You know city boy over here’s never been fishing?”

Lance froze halfway down the stairs.

City boy?

He made the mistake — the fatal mistake — of looking toward the living room.

And there was Keith. Sitting cross-legged on the rug, in between Rachel’s legs as she gently braided his hair. His back was straight, head tilted slightly forward to give her easier access, and every so often, she’d tap his shoulder to get him to relax his posture. His hair, still a little damp from earlier, curled just slightly as she worked, glossy in the sunlight that poured through the nearby window. He looked serene. Comfortable. Like he belonged.

And then Keith laughed at something Rachel said, and Lance felt his heart trip over itself.

This was fine.

This was definitely fine.

“What?” Keith asked, looking up at him with that wide-eyed curiosity that never failed to sucker-punch Lance’s composure. “You ever been fishing?”

Lance tried to play it cool, leaned against the wall like it was holding him up for reasons not related to a growing identity crisis. “I live in a town with three bait shops, Keith. Of course I’ve been fishing.”

“Good,” Luis said, clapping him on the back as he passed. “’Cause I told him we’re taking him out with us tomorrow. Crack of dawn.”

Keith made a face. 

Lance swallowed hard. This wasn’t just a crush. This was a test. A cosmic joke. Fishing at sunrise? That meant five hours stuck on a boat, next to Keith, who apparently had never gone fishing, or sinned in his life, because of course the broody Keith Kogane somehow got along with everyone, including Lance’s entire family .

Lance was going to die. Probably in the boat. Probably tangled in fishing wire.

He gave a weak thumbs-up. “Can’t wait.”

The house was still dark when Luis banged on the bedroom door like the cops.

“Up and at 'em, ladies!” he shouted. “Sun’s not gonna wait for us!”

Lance groaned into his pillow. “God give me strength,” he mumbled.

Keith, from somewhere near the floor, let out a muffled, “What time is it?”

“Too early for God to be awake,” Lance answered, dragging himself upright. He caught sight of Keith, still wrapped in his blanket on the blow-up mattress, hair a tangled halo around his head.

Great. Even sleep-deprived and half-dead, Keith still looked annoyingly ethereal.

Lance shoved on a hoodie and tried not to stare as Keith sleepily pushed his hair out of his eyes and blinked at him like a baby deer coming out of hibernation.

He’d done nothing wrong. God was just testing him. Again.

They stumbled out to the truck with Luis and Marco already packing up the tackle boxes and bait. The morning air was sharp and cool, thick with the scent of wet soil and faint desert bloom. The kind of chill that nipped at your nose and made you regret every decision that led to being awake before the sun.

Mittry Lake was about twenty minutes out, and the drive was quiet in that hushed, sacred kind of way — the sky still gray, with a faint orange blush creeping up along the horizon. Lance sat in the backseat, squished between a thermos and Keith, who was slowly nursing a gas station coffee and watching the desert roll past.

Lance tried not to look at the way Keith’s profile softened in the early light, how the curve of his jaw caught gold when they passed through open stretches of road.

Mittry appeared like a secret — mist curling just above the water’s surface, cattails standing still as sentries at the shoreline.

They pulled up beside the dock, tires crunching on gravel. Luis hopped out, already shouting instructions, while Marco pulled the cooler out of the bed of the truck.

“Welcome to paradise,” Luis said with a grin, stretching. “Smells like fish guts and dreams.”

Lance stepped out, shoved his hands in his pockets, and stared out at the lake like it might give him answers.

Keith came up beside him, tugging his hoodie tighter. “It’s kinda beautiful, actually.”

Lance risked a glance at him.

Yeah. Kind of.

Mittry Lake looked peaceful—silent mist rising over the still water, the sky brushing into soft pastels—but that serenity ended the second Luis pulled out his tackle box like it was Excalibur.

“All right, Keith,” he said, clapping a hand on Keith’s back so hard it made him stumble. “Time to see what you’re made of.”

Lance, already regretting every life choice that brought him here, muttered, “He’s made of vibes and eyeliner. Let him live.”

Keith shot him a look. “I’m not wearing eyeliner.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Lance grumbled, yanking on a too-small life vest that kept riding up his ribs like it had a personal vendetta.

Luis started passing out fishing rods like a game show host on speed. “Here’s yours, Keith. Don’t cast it into your face. Marco did that once.”

“I was ten!” Marco shouted from the bed of the truck. “And I needed stitches!”

“Still counts,” Luis called back, then turned to Keith. “Anyway, just flick your wrist and keep your eye on the line.”

Keith did as instructed. His cast was… not great. The line landed with a plop about three feet from shore.

Lance tried not to laugh. He failed.

Keith glared at him. “You wanna try?”

“Oh, I was born for this,” Lance said dramatically, grabbing his rod with flair. “Fishing is in my blood. My ancestors practically invented —”

His hook immediately got caught in a bush behind him.

Keith snorted.

Luis was wheezing. “Yeah, that’s some ancient technique right there.”

“I panicked!” Lance shouted, yanking his line free and nearly hitting himself in the face. “It’s the vest. I can’t move in this thing. I feel like a trapped hamster.”

Meanwhile, Keith tried casting again and somehow managed to hook a boot floating in the water.

“Oh my god,” Lance said, wheezing with laughter. “You caught a boot. You’re a cartoon character.”

Keith deadpanned, “Maybe there’s a fish living in it.”

Marco, now reclining with a sandwich, called out, “I’m giving that cast a solid 3 out of 10, but the commitment? That’s a 9.”

Rachel had shown up somewhere between chaos and sunrise with Nadia and Sylvio, who immediately started throwing breadcrumbs into the water and yelling, “Here fishy fishy!”

“I don’t think that’s how bait works,” Keith said politely.

Nadia frowned. “You don’t know. You’ve never been fishing before.”

Keith blinked. “Fair.”

Lance watched it all—the cartoon boot, the floating breadcrumbs, his father teaching Sylvio how to pee off the side of the dock like it was a rite of passage—and sighed dramatically.

“This is the worst episode of National Geographic I’ve ever seen,” he muttered.

But when Keith smiled beside him, sun catching in the soft curve of his cheeks, Lance looked away quickly, as if the light itself had scolded him.

“Still better than church camp,” he added under his breath.

The sun had climbed high enough that the heat was basically a war crime. Which meant, naturally, someone—probably Rachel—shouted, “Everybody in the water!” like they were storming Normandy instead of Mittry Lake.

Marco was the first to cannonball in, sending a wave big enough to soak half the dock and all of Luis’s dignity.

“Bro!” Luis yelled, shielding the sandwich in his hand like it was sacred. “There was mayo on this!”

Rachel peeled off her shirt and ran in after, Nadia right behind her with floaties up to her ears, shrieking with glee. Even Sylvio was already paddling with a weird little intensity, like he was training for the junior Olympics.

Keith stood at the edge of the dock, eyeing the lake with suspicion. “Do we know what’s in this water?”

“It’s fine,” Lance said, rolling his eyes as he tugged his shirt off. “Just some fish. Maybe a couple sea monsters. Possibly a cursed ghost bride. Who knows? Mittry’s full of surprises.”

Keith gave him a flat look. “Comforting.”

Then Lance shoved him.

Keith flailed midair with a “LANCE, YOU—” before he hit the water with a loud splash.

Lance was laughing so hard he almost fell in himself. “Oh man, the betrayal in your eyes.”

Keith resurfaced with his hair slicked back, glaring murder. “You’re dead.”

“Gotta catch me first, city boy!”

And that was all it took. Keith lunged for the dock just as Lance yelped and dove in. A full-blown splash war erupted, complete with Sylvio yelling “WATER BATTLE!” and hitting everyone indiscriminately with his inflatable dolphin.

Marco had given up and was floating on his back like a sea lion. Rachel was trying to teach Nadia synchronized swimming, which mostly looked like flailing and yelling “kick prettier!”

Lance swam away from Keith as fast as he could until he made the mistake of looking back. Keith was closer than he thought.

“Wait, wait! Time out!” Lance shouted, laughing.

“No time outs in water vengeance,” Keith growled, dunking him.

Lance popped up sputtering. “That was an illegal dunk ! I’m calling a lifeguard!”

“You shoved me first!”

“I did it out of love —!”

“Debatable!”

They were both laughing now, treading water, their faces way too close for comfort. Lance’s smile faltered slightly.

Keith blinked. “What?”

“Nothing,” Lance said quickly, splashing water in his face again. “Your eyeliner’s waterproof.”

“I’m not—oh my god.”

Marco swam by on a pool noodle he clearly stole from a five-year-old. “You two done flirting, or…?”

Lance splashed him next.

Thanksgiving Break was coming to an end, and prying Keith away from his new honorary family felt like trying to wrestle a cat out of a sunbeam. Lance had to practically drag him toward the truck, offering repeated promises— swear-on-my-life, cross-my-heart -style—that he’d bring him back as soon as finals were over for Christmas. Keith, for his part, didn’t argue much, but he kept glancing back at the house like it might disappear if he blinked.

The sky was still half-asleep, a soft gradient of pale indigo bleeding into the faintest hints of pink on the horizon. The road back to campus stretched long and empty ahead of them, flanked by silhouettes of saguaros and low brush barely visible in the dawn light.

Keith had one hand on the steering wheel, the other loosely resting on the window ledge as the SUV rumbled steadily down the highway. His eyes were steady on the road, the faint glow of the dashboard lights casting his face in soft shadows.

Lance sat slouched in the passenger seat, wrapped in a hoodie that was two sizes too big—one he may or may not have “accidentally” stolen from Keith over the weekend. His hair was still damp from the rushed morning shower, and he looked like he hadn’t entirely re-entered consciousness.

“You know,” Keith said, voice still raspy with sleep, “for someone who begged to stop for coffee, you’re doing a lot of sulking and not a lot of sipping.”

Lance grunted, lifting the lukewarm cup from his lap. “It tastes like sadness and gasoline.”

Keith smirked. “That’s because you asked for the gas station espresso shot.”

“I was desperate,” Lance mumbled, staring blearily out the window. “And sleep-deprived. And emotionally fragile from being woken up by Luis yelling 'Fishing! Dawn Patrol!’ like we were Navy SEALS.”

Keith chuckled, the sound low and warm. “You screamed.”

“I was vulnerable.”

They lapsed into silence for a few miles, save for the low hum of tires on asphalt and the occasional buzz of a distant highway sign. The early morning light crept in slowly, casting a golden halo on Keith’s cheekbone, and Lance—still not quite awake, not quite dreaming—found himself staring a moment too long.

He looked away, forcing his eyes on the horizon instead. “You know,” he muttered, “I meant it. About coming back for Christmas.”

Keith’s grip on the wheel tightened slightly, just for a second. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Lance smiled faintly. “Lisa said she’s making arroz con leche again. Miguel’s already got your name down for ‘Tractor Duty, Day One.’ It’s basically a trap. You’re doomed.”

Keith glanced over, the edge of his mouth twitching into a tired grin. “Guess I’ll pack my work boots.”

A comfortable silence settled between them, filled only by the hum of the SUV and the occasional croak of early morning desert wildlife. The horizon was bleeding gold now, soft light reflecting off the windshield and catching in the messy strands of Keith’s hair.

Then a text popped up on the car’s dashboard screen, cutting through the quiet like a splash of cold water:

James Griffin: when u coming back

Lance’s eyes flicked to the message before he could stop himself. His chest gave a tiny, inexplicable lurch—quick and sharp like a static shock.

Keith didn’t react right away. He just stared ahead at the road, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. His thumb tapped the steering wheel twice, a nervous rhythm like he was debating whether to reply or toss the whole phone out the window.

Lance tried to play it cool. Tried to keep the edge out of his voice. “Didn’t know that was still going on.”

Keith’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Dunno.” Lance shrugged, turning toward the window, though his voice carried more weight than he meant it to. “Just that you brought me to your childhood home to apologize for that guy’s behavior. Told me all the bullshit he put you through. And now he’s texting you like nothing happened. I’m just guessing he’s probably back at your place, waiting to pick up where you left off.”

Keith was quiet for a beat too long. The silence stretched out between them, taut and humming with tension.

“He’s not,” Keith said finally, his voice low and even. “He’s not staying with me. I’ve barely seen him since my birthday.”

“Barely,” Lance echoed, the word catching in his throat like it had teeth. Frustration flickered beneath his ribs, sharp and uninvited. “That’s not never , though, is it?”

Keith’s fingers tightened around the wheel, knuckles paling. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m not trying to say anything,” Lance snapped, then exhaled and ran a hand down his face. “I just—God, I don’t know. You make it sound like he’s out of the picture, and then he’s popping up on your screen like a jump scare.”

Keith glanced over at him, brows drawn. “You jealous or something?”

Lance scoffed. “Of James ? No. I just—” He faltered, then shook his head. “You told me all that stuff he did. How he treated you. And then… it’s like none of it mattered.”

“It did matter,” Keith said sharply. “It still does.”

“Then why’s he still in your life?”

That landed like a punch in the chest. Keith’s mouth opened, then shut again. His jaw clenched, and he went silent, eyes fixed straight ahead as the road stretched out endlessly before them.

Another text lit up the screen.

James Griffin : i’m at ur place when u get back.

Lance didn’t say anything this time. He didn’t have to.

Keith's eyes flicked to the screen, and for a second, his jaw clenched so tight Lance thought he might crack a molar. He didn’t reply. Didn’t even reach for the phone. Just locked his gaze back on the road like if he stared hard enough, he could outrun the notification.

Lance leaned back against the headrest, letting the silence thicken between them. “Guess that answers my question,” he muttered.

Keith's hands tightened around the wheel, the leather creaking beneath his grip. “I didn’t know he’d be there.”

“But you gave him a key,” Lance said, not accusatory, just quietly resigned. “That’s gotta count for something.”

Keith exhaled harshly through his nose, like he was trying to hold back a thousand words at once. “It’s not like that.”

“No?” Lance turned to look at him, voice low. “Then what is it like?”

The truck rumbled down the highway, the early morning light casting long shadows across Keith’s face. He didn’t answer right away.

Keith’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Lance let out a sharp laugh, humorless. “Really? Because I was there, Keith. I sat there while you told me everything that asshole did. How he made you feel like garbage. How he made you think you weren’t worth—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “And now he’s at your place like it’s nothing? Like he gets to walk back in like that ?”

Keith’s voice rose, sudden and sharp. “You think I want him there?!”

“Then why the hell is he, Keith?” Lance shot back, twisting in his seat now, fully facing him. “Why does he still have access to you? Why is he the one who gets to be at your place, when I—”

He bit his tongue, too late to stop the words that had almost slipped out.

Keith blinked, caught off guard. “When you what?”

Lance stared at him, chest rising and falling. “Forget it.”

“No,” Keith snapped. “Say it.”

The truck’s cabin filled with their uneven breathing, the hum of tires over asphalt a distant backdrop.

“When I’m the one who stayed,” Lance said finally, quieter now but no less angry. “When I’m the one who gave a damn. When I’m the one who—” His voice cracked. “God, I don’t even know what this is, but it sure as hell isn’t fair.”

Keith opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

So Lance finished it for him.

“You brought me home, Keith. You let me into your family, into your world—and I let myself start thinking that maybe that meant something. But if James still gets to just… walk back in, like none of it mattered, then what the hell am I even doing here?”

“You’re here because you were failing physics. Nothing more, nothing less.” 

That was a punch to Lance’s gut. “Yeah. My bad.”

Keith didn’t even look at him when he said it. Just kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead, jaw tight, mouth set in a grim line like he’d already regretted the words the moment they’d left him—but not enough to take them back.

Lance sat back, stunned silent for a second, the air in the car feeling suddenly too thick, too hot. He scoffed, but it sounded more like a laugh strangled in his throat.

“Right,” he said, biting down the lump rising. “Thanks for the reminder.”

The silence that followed was deafening. The soft hum of the engine, the tires kissing pavement—it all faded into the background noise of Lance’s spiraling thoughts.

“I must’ve been really fucking stupid,” he muttered, almost to himself, looking out the window again. “Thinking we were actually friends.”

Keith’s fingers twitched on the wheel, but he said nothing. Not a single goddamn word.

Lance swallowed hard and stared at the blur of desert hills and morning light outside the window, fists clenched in his lap.

This time, when his voice came, it was ice-cold.

“Next time James needs help passing a class, maybe you can take him home.”

The car rolled to a stop outside Lance’s dorm building just as the morning sun began casting long, golden streaks across the pavement. Campus was quiet—too early for the usual bustle, but too late for the comfort of darkness. It was that in-between hour when everything felt raw and a little too real.

Keith killed the engine, but neither of them moved at first. The silence between them had thickened over the drive, stretched until it felt like it could crack open at any second. But it didn’t. It just… hung there.

Lance stared at the passenger side window, watching the reflection of the sun inch its way up the glass. His chest felt tight, like all the words he wanted to say were lodged in his throat, too sharp to swallow but too heavy to spit out.

Keith didn’t say anything. He hadn’t said anything since that last blow in the car—the one that had landed right in Lance’s gut, so clean and casual it almost didn’t register until it burned.

You’re here because you were failing physics.

Right. Of course he was. Silly him for thinking it had ever been more than that.

The seatbelt clicked as he unfastened it, the sound startling in the thick silence. He grabbed his bag from the back seat, yanking it a little too hard, but he didn’t care if Keith noticed.

His hand hovered on the door handle for a split second longer than it needed to.

One word. One look. One anything, and maybe—

But it didn’t come. Keith didn’t say a thing.

So Lance opened the door and stepped out into the cold morning air. He didn’t slam it—he wasn’t giving Keith the satisfaction of a dramatic exit—but the soft thunk of it closing behind him felt like the end of something.

The gravel crunched beneath his sneakers as he walked away. Backpack slung over one shoulder, fists jammed in the pockets of his hoodie, he kept his eyes straight ahead. He didn’t look back. He wouldn’t give himself the chance.

Not to see Keith sitting there, still gripping the wheel like it might anchor him to something. Not to see if he looked sorry. Or confused. Or anything at all.

Because if he looked back, Lance might stay.

And he couldn’t afford to do that.

ϕ🜉ϕ

“Lance, this is the third time you’ve gotten this question wrong. And it’s literally the same mistake.”

Keith's voice was edged with mild irritation, but it wasn’t angry—just tired. He was sprawled out on his stomach across the worn carpet of Allura’s dorm room, a mechanical pencil twirling between his fingers. The faded gray t-shirt he wore had slipped slightly off one shoulder, exposing a sharp line of collarbone that Lance was definitely not looking at.

Lance groaned, sprawled out face-down on her dorm room floor like a starfish in distress. “That’s because my brain is fried. Crispy. Extra well-done.”

Allura’s roommate, Romelle, was somehow still dead asleep in the corner, curled up with noise-canceling headphones despite it being nearly two in the afternoon.

“I’m trying ,” he whined, flipping over to stare blankly at the ceiling. “Nothing’s clicking. I need physics to spontaneously combust.”

Allura giggled and rolled onto her back beside him, their shoulders touching. “Dramatics aren’t gonna get you an A on this final.”

“I’m not being dramatic,” Lance replied solemnly. “I’m being realistic . We both know my academic demise is imminent.”

“Keith’s been helping you all semester—you’ve got this.” She reached over and tugged at his cheek. They were close enough for him to notice the faint flush of her cheeks and the indigo that speckled her blue irises. Lance smiled weakly at her, but even as he did, his eyes drifted—just for a second—back to Keith. To the way his brow furrowed in concentration. To the tan line peeking out from the hem of his shirt sleeve. No. Nope. Stop.

This, Lance told himself, was normal. Him and Allura. Shoulders touching. Her pretty laugh. Her even prettier eyes. This made sense. Not whatever… whatever had come over him during break. That had to have been a mirage. A desert hallucination. Lack of electrolytes. Temporary possession.

“If I get an A,” Lance said, forcing a grin to keep things light, “do I get a kiss?”

Allura blinked at him, startled—and Lance couldn’t help but hear the quiet rustle of Keith’s pencil pausing mid-spin.

Allura blinked at him, startled—but only for a second. Her lips curved into a mischievous smile as she rolled onto her side to face him fully.

“Well then,” she said, propping her head up with one hand, “study hard, lover boy. Sounds like it’s a date.”

Lance flushed, but before he could say anything—before he could even process the flutter of confusion in his chest—Keith’s voice cut in, sharp as a paper slice.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he muttered, still staring down at the textbook like it had personally offended him.

Lance blinked. “Excuse me?”

Keith finally looked up, arching a brow. “You’ll need a miracle to get an A. Better start praying instead of flirting.”

Allura snorted. “Keith, let the man have his dreams.”

“I’m just trying to save him from public embarrassment.”

Lance sat up, squinting at him. “Why do you sound like my abuela when she’s had too much coffee?”

Keith shrugged. “Maybe your abuela has a point.”

Something twisted low in Lance’s gut. He wasn’t sure if it was irritation, embarrassment, or that weird little pulse of something else he’d been trying not to name. Either way, it made his voice come out way too defensive.

“Right. Because you’re the expert on my life now.”

Keith didn’t respond right away. He just stared at Lance, unreadable.

Allura clapped her hands once, breaking the tension. “Okay! Back to circuits before I start charging you both for wasting my time.”

“All I’m saying,” Lance continued, folding his arms as he leaned back against the side of Allura’s bed, “is that maybe if you smiled more, you wouldn’t be such a bitter little cactus.”

Keith didn’t even blink. “And maybe if you studied more, you wouldn’t be failing your way into a nervous breakdown.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Lance shot back. “Didn’t realize the human embodiment of a traffic violation was gonna come for my academic record.”

“I don’t break traffic laws,” Keith said flatly.

Allura, flipping through the textbook, didn’t even look up. “You ran three stop signs last week.”

Keith’s jaw tensed. “They were more like... suggestions.”

Lance threw his hands up. “See? This is what I mean! Lawless energy. I’m not taking criticism from a guy who drives like he’s in Mad Max .”

“You begged me to drive to the grocery store because your hands were full of orange juice.”

“Because someone was ogling my neck and I panicked!”

Silence.

Keith blinked slowly. “What?”

Lance froze.

Allura turned to him, brows raised. “I’m sorry. Did you say someone was ogling your neck, or...?”

“I—I said dogging my steps!” Lance blurted out. “Yeah, someone was following me. Totally normal. Not neck-related.”

Keith gave him a look that could only be described as surgical.

“Wow,” he said slowly. “That was the worst cover story I’ve ever heard. And I used to lie to get out of detention.”

Lance flailed a little. “Shut up, desert gremlin.”

Allura snorted, burying her face in her hands. “I can’t believe I willingly invited this energy into my room.”

“You knew what this was,” Lance said dramatically.

“I thought you’d at least pretend to care about physics,” she muttered.

“I do!” he insisted. “Just not when Keith’s sitting there looking all smug and know-it-all and—”
He made a vague, frustrated gesture. “...shoulder-y.”

Keith blinked. “Shoulder-y?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“Oh, thank God,” Keith said. “Because none of it makes sense.”

Lance opened his mouth for another retort—something about Keith’s tragic inability to use conditioner—when Allura finally snapped her textbook shut with a thwack that echoed like a gunshot.

“Okay,” she said, voice sweet in the way that meant danger . “If the two of you don’t shut up in the next five seconds, I’m kicking you both out. I don’t care if we’re in the middle of a nuclear winter. I will personally launch your asses into the quad.”

Lance blinked. “Whoa, Allura—”

“ Five. ”

Keith sat up straighter.

“ Four. ”

Lance scrambled for his pencil.

“ Three. ”

They both practically faceplanted into their notebooks.

“Thought so,” she muttered, opening her textbook again. “Last final tomorrow. We’ve accomplished nothing in two hours except discovering Lance has a neck thing and Keith is allergic to joy.”

“I do not have a neck thing,” Lance hissed under his breath.

Keith didn’t look up. “You absolutely do.”

Allura’s head snapped back up. “ Do you want to die? ”

Dead silence.

“Didn’t think so,” she said sweetly, returning to her notes.

Lance, cheeks flaming, glared at Keith without lifting his head from the page. “This is all your fault.”

“Good,” Keith said blandly. “Suffer.”

They didn’t speak again for thirty full minutes.

Sort of.

Because Lance definitely muttered “stupid shoulder-y bastard” under his breath at least twice.

Chapter Text

Lance woke up at 5:59 a.m.

 Not by choice—his body had simply given up on pretending to rest. Anxiety had gnawed at him all night, keeping his sleep shallow and fragmented, like his thoughts. Now he lay there, eyes open in the gray half-light, feeling like he hadn’t slept at all.

His AP Physics C midterm was in almost exactly six hours, and the pressure was already buzzing beneath his skin. Hunk was asleep on the other side of the dorm, snoring softly, completely dead to the world—as usual.

Lance briefly considered shaking him awake just for the company. Or maybe to see if he could transfer some of his panic via physical contact, like static electricity.

But instead, he stayed in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying equations and mistakes over and over in his head. And worse than the physics—he was also replaying the previous hours he had spent on Allura’s dorm floor.

He didn’t know why he said what he did.

I mean—yeah, who wouldn’t want to be kissed by someone as gorgeous as Allura?

But the words had tumbled out of his mouth before his brain could filter them, and somewhere in the back of it all, he remembers distinctly glancing sideways—just a flick of his eyes—to see if Keith would react.

And Keith had.

 Just a twitch in the jaw, a curl of sarcasm in his voice sharp enough to cut paper. Nothing obvious. Nothing anyone else would’ve caught. But Lance had. He’d seen it. Felt it.

Now, lying in bed, it hit him with fresh embarrassment. Like he’d been fishing for something—attention, jealousy, a reason to believe this whole mess wasn’t one-sided—and it had backfired.

He turned onto his side and groaned into his pillow. “God, I’m such an idiot.”

Outside, the sky was just starting to lighten. The day was still waiting to begin, but Lance already felt behind.

Lance finally dragged himself out of bed around 6:30, the sky outside still gray and the campus eerily quiet. Hunk was snoring softly across the room, completely unaware of the existential crisis unraveling three feet away.

He got dressed in silence, tugging on an old hoodie and jeans, not bothering to fix his hair. The dining hall had just opened for early breakfast, and the only people there were athletes, overachievers, and students with anxiety-induced insomnia.

He grabbed a lukewarm breakfast sandwich and a cup of orange juice—because apparently, that was his brand now—and ate in near silence by the window. The food didn’t help. If anything, it made the nausea worse.

By 7:15, he was outside again, still wired and jittery and nowhere near ready to face his midterm or the look in Keith’s eyes if they happened to run into each other.

Without really thinking about it, his feet carried him across the quad, past the library and the science buildings, until he found himself in front of the small campus chapel. The stained-glass windows caught the early morning light and cast soft colors onto the brick.

He’d always found it funny that a science-based academy like Garrison had things like this. A chapel. Like divine intervention was gonna help you pass Calculus II or figure out how to wire a propulsion system without blowing up the lab.

Still, he stepped inside.

The door creaked slightly as it swung shut behind him, sealing out the world and its exam schedules and unresolved emotional entanglements. The air inside was cool and still. Dust floated in the colored beams of light filtering through the stained glass, casting soft patterns on the pews.

Lance hesitated for a second, then slid into the back row like a guilty Catholic cliché. His mom would’ve called it instinct. He called it muscle memory.

He didn’t kneel. Didn’t cross himself. Just sat there, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely like maybe he could fake piety well enough to earn a partial credit miracle.

He stared at the crucifix for a long time, memories of his childhood that he didn’t want creeping in anyway. Early Sunday mornings, groggy and grumbling, as his mom wrangled him into a too-stiff plaid button-up and khakis that always itched behind the knees. He used to try hiding under the bed to avoid it—once managed a full fifteen minutes before she found him and yanked him out by the ankle like some Cuban exorcist.

He used to think church was boring. A place where you sat still, stood up, sat down, stood up again, mumbled things you half-knew, then got donuts if you survived the hour. He’d found the old traditions stiff and suffocating. Something to rebel against—not out of malice, but because he wanted to breathe. He’d roll his eyes during sermons, doodle in the margins of donation envelopes, and sneak looks at his watch every five minutes.

But there’d been comfort in the ritual. In the smell of old hymnals and floor polish. In the way his mom’s hand would find his when they prayed, squeezing twice to say I’m here.

Now he was older, supposedly wiser, and here he was again. Not because he believed it would fix anything, but because it was quiet. He missed it. Not the rigidity or the guilt, but the structure . The sense that someone out there had a plan. That if you followed the rules, if you kept your head down and your shirt tucked in and never looked twice at the wrong person, things would make sense. You’d be safe. Loved. Redeemed. Because the world outside was too loud and too full of things he didn’t understand—like partial differential equations and the exact temperature at which Keith Kogane’s shoulder blades could melt steel beams.

He looked up at the crucifix again and sighed.

“Why couldn’t I have just fallen for, like, a girl in bio lab?” he muttered, resting his chin on his hands. “Someone who says ‘lol’ out loud and drinks pink smoothies and doesn’t make me want to scream into a pillow and kiss them at the same time .”

He scrubbed his hands down his face. “I can’t even look at Keith without remembering how his stupid back looked in that tank top last week. I’m doomed.”

His voice echoed faintly in the empty chapel, like even God was trying not to laugh.

“You know,” a voice piped up from behind him, “you’re not exactly the first person I expected to find having a theological crisis at dawn.”

Lance jumped in his seat, whipping around to see Pidge standing in the aisle, hair sticking out under a beanie and a thermos in hand. She squinted at him over the rim of her glasses.

“Pidge?” he blinked. “What the hell—how long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to hear the phrase ‘stupid back in a tank top.’” She raised an eyebrow. “Which, for the record, is a wild thing to say in front of a crucified man.”

Lance groaned and dropped his head into his hands. “I’m gonna combust. Just spontaneously burst into flames right here.”

“You’d be the third Garrison student to do that this semester,” Pidge said, plopping down beside him. “Though the last one was just a grease fire in the mech lab, so—debatable.”

He cracked a smile, weak and small, but there.

“Alright, spill,” she added, leaning back on the pew. “Is this about physics? Or is this about the walking wedge of unresolved tension and jawline that is Keith Kogane?”

Lance let out a long breath and didn’t answer. Pidge gave a knowing hum.

“I mean, look. If God didn’t want people to be hot, He wouldn’t have invented cheekbones. That’s just logic.”

Lance snorted despite himself. “I hate that that almost made me feel better.”

“Good,” Pidge replied, sipping from her thermos. “Now come on. Hunk’s complaining that he has no one to eat breakfast with. Then you can stress-cry over electric fields like the rest of us.”

Lance stood slowly, rolling his shoulders like maybe the tension would finally fall off. It didn’t. But Pidge’s presence helped—a small grounding force in the middle of his internal hurricane.

“Does he know you’re the one who always ditches him?” Lance asked as they walked toward the exit, his voice still raspy with exhaustion.

Pidge shrugged. “He thinks I’m doing mysterious genius things in the lab. I’m not about to ruin the mystique by admitting I was just watching compilation videos of raccoons stealing food.”

Lance let out a soft laugh, the first genuine one of the morning. “Honestly, that does sound therapeutic.”

“Oh, it is. I’ll send you a playlist.”

They pushed open the chapel doors, greeted by the sharp morning air and the faint hum of a campus slowly waking up. The sky was still pale, streaked with early pink and gold.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to face today,” Lance admitted, squinting into the light.

Pidge bumped his shoulder with hers. “No one is. That’s why breakfast exists. And caffeine. And Hunk. Mostly Hunk.”

Lance smiled, a little more real this time. “Lead the way, oh wise raccoon prophet.”

“As you wish, O sinner of vector components.”

And with that, the two of them walked toward the dining hall, the chapel fading behind them, replaced by the smell of hash browns and the steady, comforting buzz of campus life moving on.

The dining hall was still half-empty when they got there, a rare lull in the usual morning chaos. The lights were a little too bright, the industrial coffee smelled like regret, and the eggs looked vaguely suspicious.

Hunk was already at their usual table, surrounded by three different plates and a stack of napkins that might’ve qualified as a structural hazard. His face lit up when he saw them.

“There you are! I was two seconds away from texting a fake emergency.”

“Lance was communing with God,” Pidge said, dropping her bag onto the bench and sliding in.

Hunk blinked. “Wait, like… actually?”

Lance gave a one-shouldered shrug and sank down next to him. “Don’t worry, I didn’t burst into flames.”

“Good to know,” Hunk said, handing over a plate like it was a peace offering. “I got you the not-suspicious eggs.”

“There are suspicious eggs?” Lance asked, suspiciously.

“There are always suspicious eggs,” Pidge mumbled, already digging into her bowl of cereal like a gremlin emerging from its cave.

Lance poked at his plate, grateful for the food even if his stomach wasn’t quite ready to cooperate. “Thanks, man.”

Hunk gave him a once-over, brows drawing together. “You okay? You look… I mean, more tired than usual, which is saying something.”

“I’m fine,” Lance lied. “Just—finals, you know. Physics. The usual spiral into academic despair.”

“Mm,” Hunk said, in that way that meant he didn’t believe him but wouldn’t push—yet. “Well, eat something at least. You can’t pass out dramatically in the middle of the midterm. That’s my brand.”

“Don’t worry,” Lance muttered, half-smiling as he took a bite. “If I go down, I’ll do it quietly. With dignity.”

“You? Dignity?” Pidge said around a spoonful of cereal. “Name one time.”

Lance pointed a fork at her. “This is why we’re not friends.”

“This is why you passed chem. You’re welcome.”

After breakfast, the weight of the upcoming physics midterm settled back into Lance’s shoulders, a quiet but persistent pressure. He couldn’t focus on anything else—every step toward the lecture hall seemed like an extra mile. The hallways were buzzing with last-minute cramming, people holding open textbooks or whispering formulas to each other like they were casting spells.

Lance could barely get a breath in, but he wasn’t the only one. Pidge was by his side, her face determined, and Hunk was somewhere behind them, muttering about how he was “absolutely certain” he could rewrite the laws of physics with one wrong answer.

“I’m not ready,” Lance admitted quietly, pulling his jacket tighter as they neared the lecture hall. The doors loomed ahead, like the gates of a battlefield. “I don’t even know how i ended up in AP Physics.”

“I’m not ready,” Lance admitted quietly, pulling his jacket tighter as they neared the lecture hall. The doors loomed ahead, like the gates of a battlefield. “I don’t even know how I ended up in AP Physics.”

Pidge gave him a sidelong glance. “I feel like I distinctly told you not to last year. You barely survived AP Calc.”

“I thought I was on a roll!” he protested, voice pitching slightly. “One good test grade and I started thinking I was Einstein or something.”

“You got a B on a pop quiz,” she said dryly.

Hunk, trudging behind them, let out a groan. “Okay, but let’s not pretend like any of us have functioning brain cells left. I woke up this morning and put deodorant on my toothbrush.”

Lance laughed, though it was more nervous than amused. “That explains the minty freshness in your armpits.”

“You joke,” Hunk said, “but I almost cried.”

They reached the lecture hall steps, their pace slowing as they approached the heavy double doors. The muffled rustle of papers and whispers of panicked review seeped out from inside.

Pidge let out a breath and rolled her shoulders. “Alright, battle stations.”

Lance paused, staring at the door like it might rear up and bite him. “If I don’t make it out… tell Keith he still owes me that pencil he borrowed.”

“Tell him yourself,” Pidge said, pushing the door open and giving him a gentle shove inside. “You’re not dying. You’re just taking a test.”

“Same thing,” Lance muttered under his breath.

But he followed her in anyway.

The lecture hall was too bright. The overhead lights hummed with artificial cheerfulness, and Lance could swear they were aimed directly at him like interrogation beams. Rows of desks were already filling up with students hunched over like soldiers before a charge. Some muttered formulas under their breath. Others sat in a terrifying, meditative stillness, like monks preparing for spiritual battle.

Lance chose a seat near the back, wedged between Hunk and a kid he only vaguely recognized from lab. Pidge slid into the row ahead, immediately pulling out her calculator like it was a holy relic.

Shiro walked down the aisles with a stack of thick paper booklets, slapping them onto desks like bricks. Lance’s heart pounded louder with every thump.

Shiro dropped the test packet in front of Lance with a curt nod. Lance offered a nervous smile in return, though he wasn’t sure if it even registered. His fingers twitched as he reached for his pencil, the weight of the exam already pressing down on his chest.

“Alright,” Shiro said, walking back to the front of the room. He scanned the lecture hall like a general surveying a battlefield. 

“This will run a lot like how the actual AP exam will go in May. You will have 45 minutes to complete 35 multiple choice questions and another 45 minutes to complete three free-response questions. This exam block is two hours, but you will not need the whole time. You may take a break in between the MCQ and the FRQ, but use your time wisely. You may not speak or make any noise during this break or your grade will be automatically cancelled.”

Lance swallowed hard. Cancelled sounded way too final. Like death. Or expulsion. Or getting ghosted by College Board.

Shiro moved with the controlled precision of a soldier, dropping the thick test packets like hammers onto desks. Lance flinched when his landed, the slap of paper too loud in the breathless room.

“Scantrons, pencils, calculators out,” Shiro continued, voice calm but firm. He was wearing a Garrison Academy hoodie and holding a coffee the size of a small child. “No phones. No talking. If you look at your neighbor, I will personally remove your eyeballs and submit them for extra credit.”

A few nervous laughs rippled through the room. Lance didn’t laugh. His stomach was doing Olympic-level gymnastics.

Hunk nudged his elbow and passed him a peppermint. “For luck.”

Lance took it with trembling fingers. “If I fail, bury me with this test so I can haunt it.”

“You’ll be fine,” Hunk whispered. “You’ve been studying with Keith. And Allura. And Pidge. And me. That’s, like, a nerd full house.”

He stared at the cover page.

AP Physics C: Mechanics. Midterm Examination.

His palms were already sweating. He hadn’t even opened the thing yet.

He looked down at the test in front of him. His name was already scrawled on the Scantron. His pencil was sharp. His calculator was on. He was out of excuses.

“Your time starts… now.”

The silence that followed felt deafening. Lance flipped open the booklet. The first question stared back at him with cruel, impassive letters:

A 2.5 kg block slides down a frictionless incline of angle θ…

He blinked. Once. Twice.

His brain was oatmeal.

To his left, he could already hear Hunk’s pencil scratching across the page. Ahead, Pidge’s fingers flew over her calculator like she was defusing a bomb. Even the guy who always napped in the back row looked like he knew what he was doing.

Lance glanced down again. Inclined plane. No friction. Easy. Right?

F = ma. Component of gravity parallel to the incline is mgsinθ... right?

He wrote it down. It looked familiar. That was something.

Okay, he thought, tightening his grip on the pencil. You can do this. Just like the practice problems. Just like when Keith yelled at you for forgetting units.

For a split second, Lance could almost hear Keith’s voice in his head: Show your work, dumbass.

And for some reason, that helped.

He filled in his first bubble.

Then the next.

The rhythm started to come back. Slowly. Tentatively. Like testing your weight on a frozen lake.

Time ticked on.

He didn’t know if he was actually doing well, or if he was just surviving—but either way, he wasn’t frozen anymore.

Forty-five minutes later, Lance dropped his pencil and leaned back in his chair with a soft exhale. His hand ached. His brain was soup. But he’d done it—the multiple choice was over.

Shiro paced to the front of the room, checking his watch. “You may now take a five-minute silent break before moving on to the free-response section. You may stretch, drink water, or lay your head down. Do not talk. Do not pull out your phone. Do not look at anyone else’s paper.”

Lance sat back and closed his eyes, tilting his head toward the ceiling like it might offer him divine intervention. His heart was still racing, and his palms were sweaty from gripping his pencil like it was a lifeline.

He cracked one eye open and glanced sideways. Pidge was already chugging water like she’d run a marathon. Hunk had his head down on the desk, mouth slightly open, clearly whispering some kind of prayer or food-related mantra. Even Keith—no, not Keith. Keith wasn’t there. Not today.

Lance’s chest pinched a little at the thought.

He sat up and rubbed his hands on his jeans, resisting the urge to pull out his phone just to check the time. Instead, he stared at the blank cover of the next test booklet. It might as well have been a tombstone.

He took a slow breath in. Held it. Let it out.

Three free-response questions. You can survive three. You’ve survived worse.

And then, as if summoned by that single, shaky confidence, Shiro called out again.

“Break’s over. Open your FRQs. Begin.”

Lance flipped the page, pencil already in hand.

Round two.

Lance opened the booklet and immediately wished he could close it and walk into the sea.

Question One: An object of mass m is attached to a spring and placed on a frictionless incline of angle θ…

His eyes blurred. Spring. Mass. Incline. Frictionless incline. He read it twice, three times, before the words stopped looking like squiggles. His pencil hovered.

Okay. Draw a diagram. Free body. Resolve the forces.

He began to sketch, hands shaking a little. The incline slanted wrong. He erased. Re-drew. Why does the triangle look like it’s melting?

He could hear someone scribbling furiously nearby—probably Pidge, because of course she was thriving while Lance was battling a cartoonishly hostile spring.

His brain jumped ahead, trying to guess the final question, or maybe how much of his grade this would tank if he just… stopped. No. He couldn't stop. Keith might not be in the room, but his voice—sharp, sardonic—echoed in his head anyway.

"This is literally the same mistake."

Lance gritted his teeth and forced his attention back to the problem. He moved to part (b). And then (c). Somewhere around drawing energy diagrams for Question Two, he started to enter a kind of flow—an exhausted, slightly delirious state where answers came not from confidence but sheer academic muscle memory.

At one point, he nearly laughed aloud because one of the sub-questions was the exact kind Keith had drilled him on three nights ago, while sprawled out on Allura’s floor arguing over formulas like idiots.

He didn’t laugh, though. Not really. It caught in his throat.

By the time he reached the final problem, his hand was cramping and his handwriting had deteriorated into something that looked like a panicked chicken had run through graphite.

The last question was about electric fields between two parallel plates, and for the briefest second, Lance felt… calm. He knew this one. He could do this one.

He finished with two minutes to spare.

And then he sat there, staring at the last line of his answer, blinking hard. The silence in the room was deafening.

Shiro’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “Pencils down. Booklets closed.”

Lance dropped his pencil with a clatter and folded his arms over his head. His muscles ached. His heart still hadn’t settled.

But somehow—somehow—he had made it.

The moment Shiro dismissed them, the room erupted in the soft chaos of shuffling papers, groaning chairs, and relieved exhaling. Lance didn’t move at first. His arms were still folded across his desk, his forehead resting lightly on his sleeves. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too loud for a room that had been silent for two hours.

“Lance,” Pidge said softly, nudging his shoulder with a mechanical pencil. “C’mon. It’s over.”

He lifted his head slowly, eyes unfocused and dry. “I feel like I just aged forty years.”

“You look like it too,” she replied, but there was no bite to it—just exhaustion and sympathy.

He stood on legs that didn’t want to hold him. The desk creaked as he pushed himself upright, and the hallway outside the lecture hall felt ten degrees cooler, like stepping into a different world. Sunlight poured in through the glass walls lining the corridor. It should’ve felt freeing, but it didn’t. Not yet.

Hunk joined them a moment later, balancing a water bottle and his own test packet. “I forgot how to spell my own name during the FRQ. That’s where I’m at.”

“Didn’t know spelling counted in physics,” Lance muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“It does if you accidentally call ‘kinetic energy’ ‘kitchen energy,’” Hunk replied, deadpan.

That at least pulled a small laugh from Lance. A real one, not the hollow kind. They began walking together, the three of them moving slowly down the path back toward the dorms. The quad was already filling with other students pouring out of their exams—some triumphant, others dead-eyed.

“I can’t believe we just did that,” Lance said, voice low.

“Survived,” Pidge corrected.

“Barely,” Lance added.

He didn’t mention that part of his brain was still stuck on Keith. On the night before. On the awful quiet car ride home from the desert and what Keith had said—and what he had said.

The words still echoed.

You’re here because you were failing physics. Nothing more, nothing less.

Lance shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets and tilted his head up to the sky. The sun was too bright.

“Wanna get something sweet?” Hunk offered, catching his expression. “Like donuts or celebratory pancakes?”

“I could go for celebratory pancakes,” Pidge nodded. “And you could use the sugar.”

Lance smiled faintly. “Yeah. Okay.”

They were two steps away from being out the building when a voice called Lance’s name.

Keith.

Lance turned around, eyebrows furrowed “Uh, hey, Keith.”

“We won’t be able to leave today,” he panted like he had sprinted, “I missed my AP Lang midterm so I have to make it up tomorrow.”

Lance blinked at him, “Leave for… what exactly?”

“Winter break?” Keith shifted nervously, “I thought I was staying with you and your family again. They invited me, remember?”

Lance blinked.

Something in his chest lurched—like the floor had dropped a couple inches beneath him and his body hadn’t caught up.

“Oh,” Lance said.

That was all. Just oh .

Because of course that had been the plan. Weeks ago, during a glitchy video call with his mom—her voice cutting in and out between laughter and scolding one of his younger siblings—she’d said, “Tell Keith he’s welcome back for the holidays. We’ll even make those cassava balls he liked so much.”
And Lance had. He remembered the way Keith’s expression had shifted when he told him—like something had softened in him, just a little. Like the idea of home wasn’t entirely foreign anymore.

But that was before.
Before the silence. Before the sharp words. Before Keith had made him feel like he was just a failing grade Keith had to carry over the finish line.

Lance cleared his throat, trying to buy time while his brain caught up. “I… don’t think that’s possible anymore,” he said, forcing the words out evenly. “Campus residences close tonight. Once I check out, I won’t be able to get back into my dorm, so I have to leave today.”

Keith blinked. “Oh. Well—” He shifted awkwardly, like he hadn’t expected this to be complicated. “You could crash at my place tonight. I’ve got an extra room. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s better than scrambling for a hotel or something.”

Lance stared at him for a beat. The offer was simple, even generous on the surface. But it landed wrong. Because Keith hadn’t apologized . Hadn’t acknowledged what he’d said in the car or the way it had made Lance feel like an afterthought.

So instead of answering right away, Lance looked down the hall toward where Pidge and Hunk were waiting quietly, pretending not to eavesdrop while totally eavesdropping. Then back to Keith.

His voice was flat when he replied, “I’ll think about it.”

And for now, that was all he could offer.

Lance zipped the last duffel shut with a sigh, flopping back dramatically onto his stripped bed. The dorm felt hollow, echoing with that strange, in-between energy—most students had already cleared out for break, leaving the halls quieter than usual.

Three weeks away from Garrison. Three weeks of pretending he didn’t almost cry during his physics midterm. Three weeks of pretending things weren’t weird with Keith.

He sat up, stretched, then grabbed his backpack and slung it over one shoulder. He was dressed light: a faded T-shirt and joggers, a hoodie tied around his waist in case it got breezy after sunset. The winter sun outside was still bright, casting long, lazy shadows across the quad. It was warm for December—perfect Arizona weather where you questioned if it was even winter at all.

Lance took one last look around, then locked the door behind him.

Keith was already waiting out front.

His bike gleamed in the sun, black and sleek and a little obnoxious—kind of like its owner. Keith leaned against it with his helmet tucked under one arm, sunglasses shielding his eyes, wind ruffling his messy hair. He didn’t say anything as Lance approached, just gave a nod.

“You ready?” he asked.

Lance squinted up at him. “You’re wearing sunglasses and a leather jacket. You trying to impress me or audition for a music video?”

Keith didn’t even flinch. “Yes.”

Lance snorted but took the spare helmet anyway, tightening the strap before climbing on. His duffel was already bungeed behind him, probably secured with the same overachiever energy Keith put into test corrections and knife training.

He wrapped his arms around Keith’s waist without hesitation this time. “Just don’t kill us.”

“No promises,” Keith said, but Lance could hear the smirk in his voice as the bike roared to life.

They pulled out of campus and into the open desert roads, the horizon wide and endless.

Lance let the sun hit his face, the wind pull at his hair, and—for just a little while—let himself forget everything else.

The ride through the desert was quiet, save for the hum of the engine and the rush of wind. Lance didn’t say much—there wasn’t much to say. The sun was beginning to lower in the sky, casting long streaks of gold across the open road, and by the time Keith pulled off the highway and into a small residential area, Lance’s thoughts had started to settle into a low, dull hum.

Keith’s apartment complex was tucked behind a row of palm trees, low-rise and sun-bleached, like most things in Arizona. The walls were a dusty beige, and the cracked parking lot had faded white lines and a few scattered oil stains. Keith parked in his usual spot near the back, cutting the engine and tossing his helmet onto the seat like they hadn’t just been going 70 down the freeway.

The stairwell smelled faintly of sun-baked concrete and someone’s takeout from the night before. They climbed up to the second floor, where Keith unlocked a door with peeling paint and nudged it open with his shoulder.

For the first time, there was no James Griffin lounging half-naked in the space looking at Lance like he was a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. It finally gave Lance the opportunity to fully take in Keith’s apartment—which wasn’t much. It was blank and sterile, looking almost like the stock photos you’d find on the internet if you looked up ‘two-bedroom apartment’.

The walls were bare except for a single, crookedly-hung calendar that still said November. The couch was the kind you bought from Craigslist for thirty bucks and hoped didn’t have bedbugs, and the marble kitchen counters were spotless—too spotless, like no one ever cooked here. There were no photos, no knickknacks, no sense of someone living a life. Just function. Just Keith.

For some reason, that unsettled Lance more than the silence.

He stepped inside slowly, his footsteps muffled by the thin, scratchy carpet. “Wow,” he said, trying for levity. “Cozy. Definitely doesn’t scream I’ve emotionally repressed every major event in my life. ”

Keith gave him a dry look as he set his keys in the bowl by the door. “Don’t get too comfortable. It’s just for the night. We leave for your place tomorrow morning.”

Lance dropped his duffel by the couch and looked around again. “Where’s James?”

Keith opened the fridge. “With his boyfriend. Probably terrorizing Scottsdale.”

Lance blinked. “James has a boyfriend?”

Keith shot him a look. “Why does that surprise you?”

“Because he’s… James,” Lance said, flopping dramatically onto the couch. “You don’t find it a little weird that he has a boyfriend and still sleeps with his ex and hangs out at his place like a leech?”

Keith shut the door with a little more force than necessary and tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter. “He’s not a leech,” he said flatly, though the lack of conviction in his voice was obvious. “And we’re not sleeping together… not anymore.”

Lance let out a slow breath, leaning his head back against the cushion as he stared at the ceiling. “You realize how that sounds, right?”

Keith didn’t answer. He was still standing by the counter, arms tense at his sides, like he was bracing for something to hit him.

Lance sat up a little straighter, his voice quieter now. “Why does he still have a key?”

Keith rubbed the back of his neck. “Because I kept thinking maybe he’d need a place to crash. Or that if I changed the locks, it’d feel like slamming a door I wasn’t ready to close.” He glanced up, meeting Lance’s gaze. “I know it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Lance said, even if part of him still felt like yelling. “It’s just… sad. You let people hurt you and then you make excuses for them.”

Keith winced, and Lance instantly regretted how harsh that sounded.

“I’m not trying to be a jerk,” Lance added quickly. “I just—I don’t like seeing you get treated like you’re disposable. You’re not.”

Keith looked away, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on a spot on the floor like it had all the answers. “I don’t feel disposable when I’m with you.”

Lance froze.

The words hung between them like something too fragile to touch.

“Oh,” Lance said, suddenly very aware of how loud the silence had become.

Keith gave a small, awkward shrug. “Yeah. Oh.”

Lance felt the walls closing in on him. He didn’t like where this conversation was going.

“So where am I sleeping?” he asked, mostly to break the silence.

Keith didn’t answer right away. He rubbed his jaw, then walked past Lance toward the hallway.  “End of the hall. Sheets are clean. Probably.”

Lance snorted. “Wow, you really know how to make a guy feel welcome.”

Keith leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “You’re the one who called me ‘emotionally constipated’ the last time you were here.”

“I stand by that,” Lance said, pointing dramatically. “But at least now I get to see the bachelor pad in all its empty glory.”

Keith smirked, just barely. “You done giving a Yelp review of my apartment, or do I need to find the comment card?”

The room was just as bare as the rest of the apartment except for what looked like a fake succulent that sat in the middle of the nightstand.

“Keith, we live in Arizona. What do you need a fake succulent for, just grab one outside.”

Keith raised an eyebrow, walking past Lance into the room and poking the little green plastic plant like it had personally offended him. “It was a gag gift from Shiro. He said even I couldn’t kill this one.”

Lance cackled, dropping his duffel bag onto the bed. “Wow. The bar is in hell.”

Keith gave him a deadpan look. “You’re welcome to go sleep outside with the real succulents.”

“Oh, don’t tempt me,” Lance shot back, flopping dramatically onto the mattress. It let out a creak that didn’t sound entirely trustworthy. “I’ll commune with nature and get a cactus spine up my ass.”

Keith made a face as he turned toward the door. “Just don’t bleed on the sheets. I don’t want to explain that to the landlord.”

Lance rolled onto his side, grinning. “You say that like I haven’t already bled on at least one thing in every room of your apartment.”

Keith paused, blinking. “What—”

“ Nosebleeds , Keith,” Lance interrupted innocently. “God, you’re gross.”

“Right—well, I’m gonna be in the garage in the back of the complex. I would offer dinner but I can’t remember the last time I cooked in this place.”

Lance waved a hand lazily from the bed, eyes already half-lidded. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t expecting a five-star experience. Just glad there’s no James waiting to insult me on the way to the bathroom.”

Keith snorted under his breath, turning back toward the door. “Garage is unlocked if you need anything. Just… don’t touch the toolbox. Or the welder. Or the bike.”

“So basically don’t breathe near anything cool,” Lance replied, flipping onto his back. “Got it.”

Keith smirked faintly and pulled the door halfway shut behind him. “Try not to die of boredom.”

“Only if you don’t die of loneliness first,” Lance called after him, grinning at the sound of Keith muttering something under his breath as he padded down the hallway.

The room fell quiet again, and Lance let out a long breath, letting the ceiling blur slightly as his eyes unfocused. The bed was firm, the air still smelled faintly like motor oil and old dust, and there was something strange about being in Keith’s space without all the tension that usually came with it. Strange… but not bad.

Lance stared at the ceiling for a good five minutes after Keith left, the silence of the room starting to press on his ears like cotton. Eventually, he sighed and rolled off the bed, padding barefoot into the apartment’s tiny kitchen.

It wasn’t much. A narrow strip of countertop, an outdated stove with a stubborn burner, and a fridge that hummed like it was actively fighting for its life. He opened it cautiously and was met with… well, nothing too surprising. A half-empty carton of almond milk, some sad-looking eggs, three different kinds of mustard, and a Tupperware container of something unidentifiable.

“Wow,” Lance muttered, squinting. “So this is what the inside of a bachelor’s soul looks like.”

Still, he wasn’t about to let that stop him. A quick search through the pantry turned up some pasta, a dusty jar of tomato sauce, and—miracle of miracles—garlic powder. He cracked his knuckles dramatically.

“Time to chef it up,” he muttered. “Keith Kogane, get ready to cry tears of joy over something that didn’t come from a takeout box.”

He got to work, boiling water and humming under his breath as he chopped up the only vegetable he could find—an onion that was questionably soft on one side. He cut around the mushy part and tossed it into a pan, letting it sizzle as he added garlic powder and a pinch of salt like he was on a cooking show with a live audience.

The kitchen began to smell, well… actually kind of amazing. Warm, savory, a little burnt around the edges, but it was the kind of scent that made a place feel like someone lived there. He was plating two heaping servings of pasta onto the small two-person table when he stopped, suddenly feeling nauseous. This was eerily domestic and it made his stomach turn. He stared at the plates for a moment, the steam curling up like quiet reminders of something too tender. It wasn’t the food that made him nauseous—it was the idea of it. Of cooking dinner for someone. Of waiting for them to come home. Of making enough for two without thinking.

Too familiar. Too easy. Too much like he cared.

Lance gripped the edge of the counter and exhaled slowly through his nose. “Get a grip,” he muttered to himself. “It’s just dinner. You’re not… nesting.”

But it was hard to ignore the weight that settled in his chest as he looked around the apartment—the blank walls, the sad fake succulent, the empty table now set for two. He had spent the last few weeks convincing himself that whatever was between him and Keith wasn’t real. Not in a serious way, anyway. Definitely not in a let-me-cook-for-you-and-make-your-apartment-smell-like-home kind of way.

He sat down before his knees could talk him out of it, trying to shake off the feeling, trying to swallow the lump in his throat that had nothing to do with hunger. The front door creaked open a few seconds later, and Lance schooled his face into something casual, like he hadn’t just been on the verge of a quiet existential spiral over pasta.

Keith stepped in, wiping grease from his fingers with a rag. “Smells good,” he said, cautiously, like the words might set off a trap.

Lance forced a smile and gestured to the table. “Don’t get used to it. Next time you’re getting microwaved taquitos.”

Keith raised an eyebrow as he slid into the chair opposite him. “There’s gonna be a next time?”

Lance shrugged and stabbed at his food. “Shut up and eat before I throw it out.”

The smile Keith gave him in return was small but real. And that scared Lance more than anything.

Keith twirled some of the pasta around his fork, studying it like he wasn’t sure whether it was edible or not—then took a bite and froze.

“This is actually good,” he said, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Lance rolled his eyes. “Don’t sound so surprised. I cook, Keith. I’m not just a pretty face and a slightly above-average SAT score.”

Keith gave a soft scoff. “It’s the most food this place has seen in months.”

“Well, you’re welcome. I expect a framed ‘World’s Okayest Chef’ award by the time I leave.”

They ate in a comfortable silence for a while, the clinking of forks and soft hum of the fridge filling the space. The tension from earlier had softened around the edges, like the heat from the food had thawed something between them.

Lance glanced up between bites. “So… what were you working on in the garage?”

Keith didn’t look up right away. He pushed some pasta around his plate, shoulders tensing a little. “An old car my dad and I used to work on. 71’ Camaro z28,” he said eventually. “I’ve been trying to fix the clutch for weeks. It’s not responding the way it should.”

“Right, right, because I totally know what that is.”

Keith let out a short laugh through his nose. “It’s a classic muscle car. Fast. Loud. Totally impractical.” He finally looked up, the edge of a smile tugging at his lips. “I thought you’d be into that kind of thing.”

Lance raised an eyebrow. “Because I give off strong ‘gearhead’ energy?”

Keith shrugged. “Because you’re dramatic and like being the center of attention. It’d suit you.”

“Oh, please,” Lance said, dramatically pressing a hand to his chest. “Just say you want to see me in sunglasses leaning against the hood like I’m in Fast & Furious .”

Keith didn’t respond right away, just gave him a long look that was unreadable but not unkind. “I mean,” he said slowly, “you’d probably crash it within five minutes.”

Lance gasped. “That’s slander. I have a perfectly average driving record, thank you very much.”

“Average,” Keith echoed, smirking. “That’s comforting.”

They fell into silence again, this time companionable, filled only by the sounds of scraping forks and low hums from the appliances. Lance glanced around the kitchen—it was small and plain, but this moment made it feel less empty somehow.

“You still work on it a lot?” he asked after a while.

“When I can,” Keith said. “It’s slow going. I don’t have all the tools, and parts are expensive.”

Lance leaned back in his chair. “That why you’re always disappearing into the garage? Not because you’re brooding in the dark with a bottle of motor oil?”

Keith gave a rare, full laugh—quiet but genuine. “Motor oil’s too expensive for brooding.”

“Well, now I’m hurt,” Lance said, grinning. “What happened to all the emotionally tortured mechanic vibes? Am I the only one keeping this aesthetic alive?”

Keith just shook his head, still smiling faintly as he stood to clear their plates. “You’re exhausting.”

“And yet,” Lance said, standing up to help, “you invited me anyway.”

Keith shot him a side glance. “Guess I’m a glutton for punishment.”

Lance bumped his shoulder gently as they loaded the dishwasher. “Guess you are.”

“I can show you the car when we’re done cleaning up, if you want.”

Lance paused mid-motion, wiping his hands on the dish towel before tossing it aside. "Wait, seriously?" He raised an eyebrow, trying to gauge if Keith was messing with him. "You want me to get in a car that you’ve been tinkering with for weeks? The car that I have absolutely no idea how to drive?"

Keith shrugged, not looking up from the sink. "I mean, if you don't mind getting a little grease on you, it's a classic. Besides, you’d be safe with me. I’m a professional."

"Professional at what? Getting in accidents?" Lance teased, but his tone was light, like he was trying to push aside the little knots of unease that always seemed to creep up when he was around Keith for too long.

Keith gave him a sidelong glance. "If you don't want to, that's fine. Just thought you might want to see it. I’m getting pretty close to finishing it." There was something almost proud in his voice, and Lance couldn't help but feel a tug of curiosity.

"I mean, I do love me a good project," Lance said with a grin, "and I guess it wouldn’t hurt to check it out. Maybe I’ll even pretend to understand what’s going on under the hood."

Keith’s lips twitched. "That’s the spirit. Let’s finish this up and I’ll show you."

The air between them felt different now, a little warmer, a little more open. Lance wasn’t sure if it was the proximity, the car, or something else entirely, but the words didn’t seem as hard to say now. "You really care about it, huh?"

Keith’s expression softened slightly, the usual guardedness slipping away just a fraction. "Yeah. It’s… It’s the last thing I have left from him. My dad, I mean."

Lance stopped what he was doing, his hands stilling on the plate he was drying. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Keith shrugged again, though his eyes seemed distant. "I’m fine," he said quietly. "Just... sometimes it’s easier to fix things than deal with other stuff."

Lance didn’t know what to say to that, so he just nodded and gave Keith a small smile. "I get it," he said simply, deciding to let Keith have his space in that moment.

They finished cleaning up in comfortable silence, then made their way to the garage, the night stretching out ahead of them, quiet and full of possibilities.

Keith bent down for the latch and pulled it up. It was a two-car garage, the inside was more spacious than Lance had judged when they walked up to it. On the right was an old, red Porsche 964 up on a lift with a missing tailgate and to the left—

“There she is,” Keith gestured to what Lance was assuming was the Camaro in question.

“She’s beautiful, ” It wasn’t the same red as the Porsche. The undertones had more purple. Ghost flames stretched along the long hood of the car and across the doors. If Lance shifted to his left they were orange and if he shifted to his right they were a metallic purple.

Lance stepped closer, his gaze tracing the curves of the Camaro as Keith beamed. The fading light from the overhead bulb flickered slightly, casting a soft glow on the paint.

“She really is a beauty,” Lance murmured, his hand hovering just above the hood, afraid to touch in case it wasn’t ready for it yet. “This car is… it's got personality.”

Keith smiled, a rare, genuine smile that reached his eyes. “It’s a work in progress, but yeah. She’s got character. We used to drive her around all the time. My dad would take me on trips to the coast, just to get out. It was like our thing.”

Lance nodded, his thoughts swirling for a moment. “I get why you’re fixing her up. It’s like keeping a piece of him with you, right?”

Keith glanced at him, but didn’t say anything immediately. There was a hesitation, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to open up more than that. Instead, he gave a quick nod and gestured toward the engine. “Yeah. Anyway, the clutch’s been giving me hell lately. I’ve tried adjusting it, but the pedal’s still too stiff. I’ve been working on it for days.”

Lance crouched down next to the engine, peering inside with interest, even though he had no idea what he was looking at. “I have zero clue about cars,” he admitted with a small chuckle, “but this looks complicated. Like, how do you even start fixing something like this?”

Keith smirked, clearly amused by the honesty. “Well, first you start by not having zero clue. You’d be surprised how much you can figure out if you just try. The internet’s full of people who love fixing up old cars.”

“I bet I’d be more helpful if I started by Googling things like ‘How to not mess up a car that’s probably worth more than my life,’” Lance joked.

They stood there for a few moments, the quiet hum of the garage surrounding them, each of them lost in the unspoken comfort of simply being there. Lance took a breath, feeling the weight of the night and the warmth of the moment. Maybe it was the intimacy of the space, or the fact that they were sharing something so personal, but it felt like a step forward. A shift, small but important.

“So,” Lance nudged Keith’s side, “How many guys you take out in this thing?”

Keith looked at him incredulously and Lance raised his hands. “Or girls—whomever you’re into, I don’t judge.”

Keith’s eyes narrowed, his lips pulling into a smirk as he crossed his arms. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

Lance grinned, leaning casually against the car. “Just curious. I mean, this thing’s a showstopper. Can’t blame a guy for wondering.”

Keith’s smirk grew slightly, but there was something a little softer in his gaze now. “I don’t know. I’ve been a little busy, you know? Not exactly been out here trying to impress people.”

Lance raised an eyebrow. “Busy with what? The garage?”

“Among other things,” Keith said, his tone dropping slightly. It was a subtle shift, but Lance noticed it. He felt the change in the air, and his teasing smile faltered for a moment.

He took a breath, trying to bring the conversation back to something lighter. “Well, I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t want to take this beauty out and have to share it with anyone else either.”

Keith looked at him, his eyes searching for something—maybe a joke, maybe sincerity—but he didn't seem to find exactly what he was looking for. Instead, he shrugged. “Yeah. It’s kind of… my thing, you know?”

Lance nodded slowly, understanding that there was more to it, but also recognizing that maybe now wasn’t the time to push. Keith had a way of keeping parts of himself hidden, and Lance had learned not to press too hard.

“So, uh, what’s next?” Lance asked, tapping the side of the Camaro gently. “You want me to hold the flashlight while you play mechanic?”

Keith snorted, a rare, genuine laugh that sounded like it came from somewhere deeper than the usual snark. “Yeah, that’s about right.” He reached for a toolbox on a nearby shelf, glancing back at Lance. “Just don’t break anything, alright?”

“I’ll try,” Lance said with a mock salute, feeling a small spark of warmth spread through him. There was something comforting about this—the two of them, working on the car, the quiet buzz of the garage surrounding them. It felt like a moment he could hold onto, even if he wasn’t entirely sure what it meant.

As the night stretched on, the tension between them seemed to loosen, just a little. Keith showed him how to check the fluid levels, how to carefully twist the bolts without stripping them, and Lance did his best to keep up, even if he was mostly faking it.

But there was a calmness between them, a rhythm to the way they worked together. The kind of calm that felt like it had been waiting for them all along.

Lance blinked against the bright light filtering through the small window next to the bed groggily rubbing his eyes. The previous night came back to him in bits and pieces—working on the Camaro in the garage, their casual conversation, and then the overwhelming exhaustion that had settled over him after hours of trying to keep up with Keith’s mechanical talk.

He sat up slowly, his back stiff from the awkward position he had managed to get himself in at some point during the night. The smell of eggs hit him first. Still rubbing his eyes, he followed the smell down the hallway and out into the living area. On the far corner by the TV stand was a record player he had missed in his inspection the afternoon before. A sleek black vinyl sat in the center spinning as soft jazz had filled the living room and kitchen. Had Lance fallen asleep in someone else’s apartment?

“Ah, sleeping beauty is finally awake,” Against Lance’s better judgement, he turned to face Keith.

Maybe he shouldn’t have fought his mom as hard as he did about going to Sunday school because standing by the stove was Keith Kogane in nothing but his underwear with his hair pulled back into a low bun with the soft baby hairs on the back of his head curling against his nape. He turned to regard Lance with a pair of black glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, the sunlight pouring in from the nearby window making his pale skin almost shimmer.

Dear God .

“Since when did you wear glasses?”

Keith shrugged. “Always? I just have a really bad habit of always falling asleep with my contacts in.”

Silence settled again and Lance found himself looking Keith up and down again.

Keith raised an eyebrow. “You gonna stand there gawking or do you want eggs?”

Lance opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Words refused to form in any coherent order in his brain. He was glitching. His entire operating system had just bluescreened. A soft puff of jazz saxophone behind him didn’t help the surreal nature of the moment.

“I—uh—sure,” he managed, voice cracking a little. “Eggs. Yes. Great. Love those. Big fan.”

Keith turned back to the stove, utterly unfazed, as if he hadn’t just shattered Lance’s brain into a hundred hormonal pieces. The muscles in his back shifted as he stirred something in the pan, and Lance tried very hard not to look. Or breathe. Or exist.

“Didn’t peg you for a jazz guy,” he said, mostly to distract himself.

Keith gave a soft snort. “It was Shiro and Adam’s stuff. This was their place that I crashed at a lot, that’s why there’s an extra bedroom. They moved out when Shiro came back and I mostly left all the things they already had.”

Lance blinked, the comment sobering him slightly. “That’s… actually kinda sweet.”

Keith just shrugged, nudging some scrambled eggs onto a plate. “It’s tradition now. Thought you might like it more than waking up to the sound of me dropping a wrench on my foot.”

Lance smiled, softer this time. “You’d be surprised how often I’ve woken up to worse.”

Keith handed him the plate and set a fork down beside it. “You’re not at a beach hostel in Nicaragua, Lance. You can have normal mornings here.”

Lance made an exaggerated gasp. “Normal mornings? With breakfast? And jazz? What kind of luxury resort is this?”

Keith just rolled his eyes and poured himself a cup of coffee, then leaned against the counter, sipping slowly. He looked more relaxed now—still guarded in that Keith way, but less like he was waiting for the floor to drop out from under him.

Keith shook his head with a little smile and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Eat your eggs, McClain.”

They stood in companionable silence for a moment, the record crackling faintly beneath the music. Lance eyed the eggs and then Keith’s very bare legs. “But, uh. Not to make this weird, but you are very… underwear. ”

Keith, to his credit, barely flinched. “You’re staying at my place. You don’t get to judge my pants level.”

Lance held up both hands, one still holding his fork. “Hey, I’m not judging. Just—stating facts. Very observational. Scientific, even.”

Keith quirked an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You’re ogling me and calling it science?”

“I’m not ogling,” Lance protested, face already warming. “I’m making a comprehensive environmental assessment. You’re just… part of the ecosystem right now.”

Keith turned back to the stove with a shake of his head. “You’re lucky I didn’t come out in less.”

Lance nearly choked on a piece of egg. “ There’s less?”

Keith smirked, and Lance suddenly found the floor tiles intensely fascinating.

“Anyway,” Lance said after a beat, stabbing his eggs with newfound determination, “I think I preferred when you were emotionally constipated.”

Keith laughed under his breath, a rare, unguarded sound. “Tough luck, McClain. You get me how I am now. Pants optional.”

Lance groaned dramatically. “This vacation is going to kill me.”

Shiro and Adam came by to drop off the same Acura they had taken the last time. Keith was crouched by the Camaro when the familiar hum of an engine pulled into the lot. Lance leaned against the garage wall, wiping grease off his hands with a rag that had seen better days. The sleek, dark gray Acura eased into one of the visitor spots, sunlight glinting off the polished hood. Shiro stepped out of the driver’s side, sunglasses perched on his nose and a familiar easy grin on his face. Adam got out on the passenger side, waving as he rounded the front of the car.

Keith stood up, brushing his palms on his jeans. “You’re early.”

Adam shrugged, tossing him the keys. “Figured we’d beat the traffic. Plus, someone—” he nodded toward Shiro “—was itching to get back behind the wheel of his ‘baby.’”

Shiro rolled his eyes. “You say that like you don’t love this car as much as I do.”

Keith smirked faintly and pocketed the keys. “Still runs better than half the junkers that come through here.”

Lance gave a mock salute. “Your noble steed, returned in one piece.”

“Barely,” Adam added with a chuckle. “You should’ve seen how Shiro parked it last night.”

Shiro shot him a look that didn’t hold any real heat. “Traitor.”

Lance crossed his arms. “So, you two just popping by to drop the car off? Or is this a whole ‘hang out and judge our garage handiwork’ situation?”

Adam looked past them into the garage and whistled low. “That the Camaro?”

“Yep,” Keith said, a little quieter this time.

Shiro gave a soft, appreciative nod. “Your dad would’ve been proud of how far you’ve gotten.”

Keith’s gaze lingered on the car, his posture just a little more guarded now. “Still a long way to go.”

“Yeah, well…” Adam clapped a hand on Keith’s shoulder. “So was the drive. And we still made it.”

Keith gave a faint smile in return.

They didn’t leave right away. Shiro and Adam lingered for a bit, helping Keith move a few tools and check the tire pressure on the Camaro like it was a pit stop instead of just a garage. Lance leaned against the passenger door, sipping a soda and watching the three of them with a mix of amusement and something else he didn’t want to name—something tight in his chest at the way Keith seemed more at ease with them around.

Eventually, they said their goodbyes. Adam pulled Keith into a brief hug that looked more like a sturdy handshake with extra steps, and Shiro handed over a small paper bag filled with what he claimed were “road trip essentials.”

The Acura’s interior was cool and quiet, the AC humming softly as they pulled onto the highway. Lance stretched out in the passenger seat, legs kicked up just enough to be annoying, and fiddled with the aux cord until Keith gave in and handed it over without a fight.

"You're lucky I trust you," Keith muttered, eyes on the road.

Lance grinned, tapping the beat out against the armrest. “Please, you literally showed up to our first tutoring session in a leather jacket and combat boots. You stereotyped yourself .”

Keith gave a dry snort, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “Fair point.”

The song shifted into a breezy, summery track with a synthy sax solo, and Lance leaned his head back against the seat, eyes closed. “Besides,” he added, voice softer now, “this is good road trip music. Don’t fight it.”

Keith hummed in reluctant agreement, the rhythm of the song syncing with the sound of tires humming along the asphalt. A hawk circled high overhead, casting a fleeting shadow across the hood as they sped through another stretch of open highway.

“Just don’t start crying over Mitski in the middle of nowhere,” Keith said eventually.

“No promises,” Lance replied, grinning with his eyes still closed. “It’s not a real road trip unless someone has a mild emotional breakdown between pit stops.”

Keith huffed but didn’t argue, one hand loose on the wheel as the city faded behind them and the Arizona wilderness took over—flat, golden land that shimmered under the sun like a mirage. Cacti stood like lone sentinels along the road, and every so often, a dust devil spun lazily in the distance.

“Sylvio and Nadia miss you,” Lance broke the silence. “Nadia renamed the goats again.”

Keith let out a soft groan, but there was a flicker of warmth in his voice. “Don’t tell me… something cursed like ‘Mr. Meowgi’ again?”

Lance laughed, eyes still on the horizon. “Worse. ‘Goatye’ and ‘Vincent van Goat.’”

Keith actually choked, nearly swerving. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was,” Lance said, clutching his stomach from laughter. “She made signs for them and everything. Sylvio tried to veto it, but you know how persuasive she gets when she wants something.”

Keith shook his head, smiling now despite himself. “That kid’s a menace.”

“A creative menace,” Lance corrected. “She also made a sock puppet version of you. Said she missed your ‘grumpy little face.’ Her words, not mine.”

Keith rolled his eyes, but there was a visible softening in his expression. “I’m not grumpy.”

“Keith, you scowl in your sleep,” Lance said, deadpan. “You once scared a dog just by looking at it.”

“That was one time,” Keith muttered, but he was laughing now, quiet and genuine.

The mood settled into something lighter, the road stretching ahead like an invitation, the weight of past semesters and strained conversations melting away under the desert sun.

The rest of the drive passed in easy conversation and bursts of music. Lance occasionally rolled the window down to let the dry wind whip through his hair, and Keith didn’t complain once—even when Lance played the same song three times in a row.

By the time they turned off the highway and onto a long stretch of dirt road, the sky had softened into late-afternoon gold, casting everything in a warm glow. Keith slowed as familiar shapes came into view—the weathered white house with the wraparound porch, the rusting mailbox leaning a little more each year, the faint sound of goats bleating from somewhere out back.

They hadn’t even fully pulled into the driveway before the screen door slammed open.

“There he is!” Sylvio’s voice rang out first, followed by a stampede of younger McClains spilling out of the house.

Lance barely had time to throw the car into park before the doors were yanked open. Nadia launched herself at him with a shriek, and Sylvio came around to Keith’s side of the car, grinning ear to ear.

“Well, if it ain’t our honorary McClain,” Luis said, pulling Keith into a back-slapping hug before he could even get both feet on the ground. “Thought we might’ve scared you off last month.”

Keith, a little winded but smiling, shrugged. “Guess I’m a slow learner.”

Rachel pushed Luis out of the way, running her hands through Keith’s hair. “You desperately need a haircut.”

Luis laughed, unbothered as Rachel took his place with the precision of someone who’d been bossing around siblings her whole life. Keith blinked as her fingers carded through his hair with practiced disapproval.

“I like it long,” he said, not quite defensively, but enough to make Lance snort as he came around the car with their bags.

Rachel arched a brow. “Yeah? Well, we’re not in a boyband, sweetheart. You’re gonna melt in this heat.”

Lance tossed Keith a look over his shoulder. “Don’t bother arguing. Rachel once gave me a bowl cut in the fifth grade and insisted it was ‘French.’”

“Still looked better than your rat tail phase,” Rachel shot back.

Keith watched the exchange with the barest twitch of a smile. “I think I’ll take my chances with the heat.”

From the porch, Nadia was already calling out something about the goats and trying to drag Keith toward the backyard. Luis intercepted just in time, slinging an arm around Keith’s shoulders and steering him toward the door.

“C’mon, before Ma sends out the search party. She’s been prepping for this visit like the pope was coming.”

Lance leaned in with a grin. “Told you. Circus.”

Keith, surrounded by noise and affection, didn’t look nearly as out of place as he had the first time. He nudged Lance lightly with his elbow. “Yeah. But I think I like it.”

Lisa was already pulling at Keith’s cheeks complaining about how skinny he had gotten in just a month.

“I hope you brough your boots, boy. I’m putting you to work for real this time.” Miguel clapped him on the back.

Keith chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck as Lisa continued to pinch his cheeks like he was five years old. "I'm not that skinny," he protested, though his words were drowned out by her rapid-fire complaints.

Lance smirked, folding his arms across his chest. "Don't listen to her. She'll have you running a marathon in the middle of a desert for fun if you let her."

Keith glanced over at Lance with an exaggerated look of fear. "I can handle a marathon. I’m definitely not prepared for anything else your family might throw at me, though."

Miguel laughed heartily, slapping Keith’s back again in what was probably supposed to be a friendly gesture but felt like it could’ve knocked the wind out of him. "Don't worry, Keith. You’ll learn quick. You’ll fit right in. Now, go wash up. Dinner's almost ready, and I’m not sure how much of that plantain you’ll get if you don’t start running." He grinned, a devilish gleam in his eye.

Keith made a face but nodded, slipping past the chaos of Lance's family to head to the bathroom. As he disappeared down the hallway, Lance shot a glance at his brother.

"You really did drag him back here under threat of chores, huh?" Lance said with a teasing smile.

Luis winked. "Hey, what are family gatherings for, if not for a little work ? Besides, Keith's got that quiet charm. He’ll be put to work without even realizing it."

Lance snorted, shaking his head as his gaze followed Keith, who was probably already deep in conversation with one of the uncles about something mechanical or car-related.

"You know," Lance mused, "he’s actually starting to fit in with all this." He gestured at the bustling family around him.

"I noticed," Luis agreed, giving his younger brother a sideways glance. "Guess you’ve got more than just a couple of mysteries up your sleeve, huh?"

Lance blushed a little, his mind momentarily circling back to the last few days with Keith. He quickly shook it off. "I guess. He doesn’t mind, you know, all the... chaos." He didn’t add anything more, letting the rest of the sentence hang in the air.

Luis nodded, giving him a knowing look. "Don’t overthink it, bro. Let the guy eat first. Then, we’ll see how much work he’s really willing to do."

Lance had come to realize that there should’ve been a warning of some sort every time Keith decided to lose his shirt. It was like a switch would flip, and without a moment’s notice, Keith would strip it off as if it were just part of the job. But today, it was Christmas Eve, a day that was supposed to be full of nothing but lazy lounging, family games, and the smell of roasting food. Instead, it had turned into an impromptu automotive rescue mission, thanks to Luis.

The chaos had begun when Luis had burst into the house, his voice carrying like a tornado as he yelled something about his car making a rattling noise. The words barely registered before Keith and Marco were up and moving, like a well-oiled machine. Within seconds, the two of them were in the driveway, tools in hand, diving under the hood of Luis’s car without a second thought. Lance had tried to protest, but Rachel had tugged him out to the front porch, claiming that the most he could do was observe while they worked.

So now, here Lance was, perched on the old swinging chair on the front porch, with Rachel by his side, trying—mostly unsuccessfully—not to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Keith, of course, was shirtless . The sun wasn’t even fully down yet, but the cool air of the desert evening did nothing to deter him. He had stripped off his t-shirt the second they hit the driveway, and now, there he was, arms deep in the engine, his muscles flexing and shifting as he worked with a focus that was almost too intense. The sound of tools clinking against metal filled the air, a strange juxtaposition against the Christmas lights twinkling from the roofline above the house.

Rachel, who had taken a seat next to Lance on the porch swing, glanced over at him with a grin. “You should’ve known better than to think Christmas Eve was going to be a lazy day around here.”

Lance sighed dramatically, slouching deeper into the swing as he crossed his arms. “I honestly thought today would be different. You know, no engines, no grease stains, just... food and relaxation.”

Rachel smirked, leaning back and crossing her legs. “And you thought that Keith, of all people, would let a little holiday stop him from diving into a car problem? If anything, today’s just another excuse for him to be all... this .” She gestured in Keith’s direction, her smile widening when she saw the way Lance’s gaze followed Keith’s every movement.

Lance’s face flushed, and he quickly looked away, muttering something under his breath about how it was ridiculous for anyone to be this good at looking this good while fixing a car. But Keith, apparently oblivious to his silent fan club, kept on working, completely absorbed in the task at hand.

“I think we need a sign or something,” Lance muttered, not entirely to Rachel but clearly meant for anyone who would listen. “Like, ‘Warning: Keith will take off his shirt at the slightest inconvenience.’”

Rachel chuckled softly, but there was a mischievous glint in her eyes. “You’re not complaining. You’re just... observing, right?”

Lance groaned, leaning his head back against the porch swing and staring up at the evening sky, trying to act like the whole situation wasn’t making him feel warm in places that had absolutely no business getting warm. "I’m just trying to keep my dignity intact here, you know?"

Keith, of course, chose that moment to glance up from the engine, his expression unreadable for just a second before a small, cocky smile tugged at his lips. He shot a wink in Lance’s direction before returning his attention to the task at hand, completely unbothered.

Lance blinked, his heart stumbling in his chest. “Seriously?”

Rachel, who had been watching the exchange with an almost too observant gaze, raised an eyebrow. “Well, now you’ve got his attention. I’m just here for the show.” She leaned back with her hands behind her head, the soft creak of the swing accompanying her satisfied grin.

Lance groaned inwardly, wishing for once that he could just live through a normal holiday without his emotions being tangled up in the heat of the moment. But then again, when had any day with Keith ever been truly normal?

Keith had always had this effect on him—whether it was by being annoyingly good at fixing cars, or just by existing in a way that made Lance second-guess everything he thought he knew about himself.

He pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them, trying to focus on the distant hum of Christmas lights and the sound of his family chatting inside. But no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, Keith’s presence kept drawing his attention like a magnet. And there he was again— shirtless —making it impossible for Lance to pretend he wasn’t affected.

"Yeah, next time," Lance muttered, half to himself, half to the universe, "there's definitely going to be a warning."

Dinner had promptly gone to hell. It started off normal and quaint, like any other family meal—everyone crowded around the long wooden table, the rich smell of roasted turkey and mashed potatoes filling the air, the clink of silverware against plates as they passed around side dishes. There was laughter and light conversation, the kind that only comes from being surrounded by family. It was cozy, warm, and for a brief moment, Lance had almost convinced himself that maybe, just maybe, they could all enjoy a peaceful holiday without things spiraling out of control.

But that peace didn’t last long.

It began innocently enough with Rachel teasing Luis about his lack of cooking skills. Then, of course, there was Miguel chiming in about how Lance had been “the pickiest eater growing up,” and how his “eccentric tastes” made family dinners interesting. There was a good-natured back and forth, the kind of teasing that had been passed down through generations, a constant in the McClain household.

Then, somewhere in the middle of someone passing the cranberry sauce, it happened.

“So, Keith,” Mr. McClain had started, casual as ever as he scooped a second helping of mashed potatoes onto his plate, “What are your plans after you graduate next semester?”

It was a simple enough question, the kind asked at a dozen dinner tables every holiday season, but something in the way he said it—light, expectant, maybe even a little too interested—made Lance’s stomach drop. He didn’t know why. Not exactly. But he knew that look in his dad’s eye. It was the same one he gave to roosters before a Sunday stew.

Keith, oblivious to the incoming storm, nodded politely and set down his fork. “I’m actually applying to a couple places out of state,” he said. “Aerospace engineering. I’ve got a few backups, but if I get into the one I want, it’d be in Florida.”

Lance’s heart did a weird little thing at the word Florida —not that he’d admit it—but before he could react, Rachel raised an eyebrow. “Aerospace? That’s what Lance is applying for, right?”

Keith glanced at Lance, and there was that small, familiar smirk. “Yeah. I guess I kinda took a page out of his book.”

Lance flushed, caught somewhere between pride and panic. “You never said that.”

“You never asked.”

Before Lance could respond to that—with something stupid, probably—his dad leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “So what—you’re both planning to go halfway across the country now?”

And there it was.

Lance tensed. “It’s not halfway , it’s—”

“You think I raised you just to watch you run off and build rockets for someone else’s dream?” Mr. McClain said, not unkindly, but firmly. “We’ve got work here. Real work. You think the animals feed themselves? You think Miguel and Luis are gonna keep doing double shifts forever?”

“Dad,” Lance said, voice tight, “we’ve talked about this—”

“We said we’d talk about it,” his mom cut in gently, placing her fork down. “You never actually listened.”

Now everyone was quiet. Even the twins, who had been arguing about who got the last biscuit, were staring.

Veronica shifted in her sear. “It’s not like Lance wouldn’t come back and visit—”

“That’s not the point,” Mr. McClain said, eyes still on his son. “This family’s not a hotel, Keith. It’s a legacy. And when you’re a McClain, you carry that.”

“Dad,” Lance said again, more forcefully this time. “I’m not abandoning anyone. I’m trying to build my life. You think I don’t love this place? You think it doesn’t kill me to know I’m leaving it behind? But you always told me to chase what I loved. This is it.”

“You can love rockets and still keep your boots in the dirt, mijo,” his mom said. “Just… maybe not at the cost of your family.”

The silence that followed was thick, heavy, like the walls were leaning in.

Lance felt Keith watching him. Maybe out of sympathy, maybe solidarity. But all it did was make him feel more exposed. More torn.

“I need air,” Lance pushed back his seat, not caring about the spine curling screech that came with it. 

He didn’t slam the door behind him—though he wanted to. The screen clattered shut with a finality that might as well have been a slap, but no one came after him.

The air outside was crisp in that way desert nights could be—clear and biting, carrying the scent of dry earth and faint traces of hay. Lance didn't stop moving. He made a beeline for the truck parked under the jacaranda tree, its hood still dusted with petals even though it hadn’t bloomed in weeks. His breath fogged in front of him as he yanked the door open and climbed in.

Two mismatched shoes—one of Luis’s beat-up sneakers, the other a cracked flip-flop from last summer—sat on his feet like a joke he wasn’t in the mood to laugh at. His hands trembled slightly as he jammed the keys into the ignition. The truck rumbled to life, low and familiar, and for a second, that was enough to ground him. Just for a second.

He didn’t know where he was going—he just needed to go . Needed to get away from the table where Keith had looked at him like he understood. Needed to get away from the weight in his mother’s voice, the disappointment behind his father’s silence. From the unspoken expectation that he would always return , like a satellite destined to orbit the same tired path.

The gravel crunched under the tires as he pulled out of the driveway. He didn’t blast music this time. Didn’t even touch the radio. Just drove, one hand loose on the wheel, the other fisted in his lap like it was holding in everything he didn’t have words for.

Maybe they'd say he was being dramatic. Maybe he was . But the thing was—he could love his family and still want something more. Something bigger. That didn’t make him selfish. It just made him someone .

And right now, that someone needed space to breathe.

The open road welcomed him like an old friend.

He sat on the edge of the dock where they had taken Keith fishing with the legs of his pants rolled up and his feet in the water. When he was younger, Luis and Marco had convinced him that the Lockness Monster had lived in the lake. He didn’t go in for weeks. Now he wished more than ever that was true so it could eat him whole.

The stars overhead were blurred by the welling in his eyes, and he refused to blink them away. The night didn’t need him to be composed. It didn’t ask anything of him. That’s what made it bearable.

The dock creaked gently beneath him, old wood worn soft from years of sun and rain. He let his toes curl in the cool water, the ripples spreading out in soft concentric rings—like maybe the ache in his chest could ripple away too, if he just sat still long enough.

He wasn’t mad at his parents. Not really. He knew they loved him. He knew what the farm meant to them. To all of them. But he couldn’t keep pretending that love and obligation were the same thing. Couldn’t keep swallowing the lump in his throat every time someone talked about “coming home” like it was the only place his dreams could fit.

A small splash broke the quiet, and for a ridiculous second, he half-hoped it was the monster, reaching up from the depths to pull him under and away from all of it.

But it was just a fish. Just the lake, doing what it always did—holding stories and secrets and teenage boys too overwhelmed to say the right things at dinner.

He leaned back on his hands and looked up at the stars again, the same ones Keith wanted to chase. The same ones that had always felt too far out of reach for someone like him.

And for the first time in a while, Lance wondered what it would feel like to go after them anyway.

The sharp cut of headlights sliced across the dock, flooding the water with white. Lance blinked against it, momentarily blinded, until the engine cut and a car door slammed shut behind him. Footsteps crunched over gravel, then softened on wood.

He didn’t bother turning around. “If you’re here to mug me,” he called out, voice dry, “I got nothing but a bad attitude and a sock with a hole in it. Just put me out of my misery.”

A pause. Then, quietly, “I’m sorry about dinner. I didn’t know.”

Keith.

Lance exhaled, shoulders sinking. Of course it was Keith. He didn’t know if that made him feel better or worse.

“Didn’t know what?” Lance asked, voice tight. “That my life’s been pre-scripted since I was old enough to pick tomatoes?”

Keith didn’t answer right away. Instead, the boards creaked again as he came to sit beside Lance, leaving just enough space between them for the night air to settle in.

“I didn’t know they’d put that kind of pressure on you. I thought—” Keith rubbed the back of his neck. “I thought maybe you were the one choosing to stay.”

Lance barked out a humorless laugh. “Choosing? That’s rich.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s not a choice when the cost of leaving is making everyone you love feel abandoned.”

They sat in silence for a while, the sound of water lapping at the dock the only thing daring to speak.

“I didn’t mean to rub it in,” Keith said eventually, voice low. “Talking about school. About leaving.”

Lance sighed and finally turned to look at him. “You didn’t. Not really.” He stared at Keith, this frustrating, beautiful, brilliant person who had once been a rival, then a reluctant tutor, and now—now Lance didn’t even know what to call him.

“You just reminded me what I wanted. What I’ve always wanted. And how far away it still feels.”

Keith’s gaze didn’t waver. “Maybe it’s not as far as you think.”

Lance looked back out over the water, stars reflected like scattered glass. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Maybe.”

Keith was quiet for a moment, his profile lit soft and silver under the moonlight. Lance could feel him waiting, the silence between them patient, like he knew there was more coming.

And there was. God, was there.

“You know,” Lance said, picking at a splinter on the edge of the dock, “I tried really hard to hate you freshman year.”

Keith glanced at him, brows drawn. “Why?”

Lance huffed a breath, the kind that almost counted as a laugh. “You got the scholarship. The one I wanted. Full ride. STEM honors. I was this close. And then you showed up—quiet, pissed-off, mysterious—and they handed it to you like it was nothing. And you didn’t even seem to care!” He shook his head. “I had to take out loans. Work hours between classes. I hated you on principle.”

Keith didn’t speak right away. His face was unreadable, but his eyes were searching Lance’s, like he was flipping through a book and trying to find the page where it all made sense.

“I didn’t know,” he said softly. “They never told me anyone else was in the running.”

Lance shrugged, kicking at the water. “Not your fault. You earned it. Hell, you still do. You’re brilliant, Keith. Just—back then, I wasn’t mature enough to admit it.”

Keith turned fully toward him now, expression almost pained. “Lance…”

“I needed someone to blame,” Lance said, meeting his eyes. “And you were right there. Tall, broody, and better than me in everything we competed in. It made sense to hate you.”

Keith’s mouth lifted in a faint, almost sad smile. “Guess I wasn’t exactly welcoming either.”

Lance chuckled. “You glared at me for an entire semester.”

“You kept calling me mullet boy.”

“Yeah, well,” Lance grinned, the tension easing slightly, “it was a mullet.”

Keith rolled his eyes, but there was a softness in it now. The kind that settled in the cracks of something old and bruised. “So, what changed?”

Lance looked down at his hands. Then up again, slowly. “You did. Or maybe… I did.”

He didn’t say it outright, but it hung there, suspended in the space between them.

You let me see you. And I couldn’t hate you after that.

Keith was quiet for a beat too long—so long Lance almost backpedaled, ready to laugh it off and make a joke about emotional oversharing by moonlight.

But then Keith nudged him gently with his knee. Just a small press, but steady. “You really think I’m better than you?”

Lance blinked, caught off guard. “I mean… academically? Sure. You’re a genius. Hands steady, brain fast, always three steps ahead.”

Keith huffed, and the sound was disbelieving. “Lance.”

He shifted a little closer on the dock, their knees now fully pressed together, side by side and warm in the night air.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” Keith said, voice low, almost like he was afraid if he spoke too loud, it might break whatever this was between them. “You work harder than anyone I’ve ever met. You care about people in a way I didn’t even understand until I watched you do it. You walk into a room and everything shifts because you’re in it.”

Lance’s throat tightened. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not,” Keith insisted, and now he was fully turned toward him, one leg bent up, body leaning in slightly. “You’re amazing, Lance. You’re smart, and funny, and stubborn as hell. You make people feel seen. That’s something I never knew I needed until I met you.”

Lance opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

And Keith—stupid, brave, impossibly earnest Keith—reached up and tucked a piece of wind-tousled hair behind Lance’s ear, fingers brushing the side of his face like it was nothing. Like it was everything.

“I spent so long thinking I didn’t belong anywhere,” Keith said. “And then you came along and made everywhere feel a little more like home.”

Lance’s heart was beating so loud, he was sure the lake could hear it. “That’s… that’s not fair,” he said, barely above a whisper. “You can’t say things like that with your face that close.”

Keith smiled, slow and soft. “Why not?”

Lance swallowed hard. “Because I might do something stupid.”

“Then do it,” Keith said, barely breathing. “Please.”

Lance’s breath caught.

His eyes flicked down to Keith’s lips and then back up again. The world felt suspended, like the lake was holding its breath right along with them. Keith was so close now, warm and real, his hand still resting lightly against Lance’s cheek. Lance could smell the faint scent of motor oil and laundry detergent and something uniquely Keith. It would be so easy— so easy—to close the gap. To just—

But before he could lean in, before the moment could fully tip into something electric and irreversible—

BZZZZZT. BZZZZZT. BZZZZZT.

Lance’s phone lit up in his pocket, vibrating violently like it knew exactly what it was interrupting. The sudden noise made both of them jump.

“Jesus,” Lance muttered, scrambling to fish it out. He squinted at the screen. “Hunk.”

He answered, trying to steady his voice. “H-Hey, buddy.”

“ MERRY CHRISTMAS, DUDE!! ” Hunk’s voice practically exploded through the speaker. “Sorry if I woke you, but I promised I’d call exactly at midnight and I didn’t want to miss it!”

Lance laughed, the sound a little too high-pitched. “No, you didn’t wake me. I’m, uh… I’m down by the dock.”

“Oh sweet, are you watching the stars? Or, like, having a dramatic monologue with the lake or something?”

Lance glanced at Keith, who was sitting back now but still close—shoulders brushing, eyes not quite meeting his.

“Something like that,” he said, softer now.

Hunk went on, rambling about the present he got from Pidge and how he accidentally burned the sugar cookies but claimed it was a “caramelization technique.” Lance let the words wash over him, grounding and familiar, even as his heart still raced.

He could feel Keith next to him, could still taste the almost of it all.

And it was killing him.

ϕ🜉ϕ

Lance spent the next week trying very, very hard to pretend he hadn’t almost kissed his tutor.

It wasn’t easy.

Partially because Keith had this infuriating habit of existing within five feet of him at all times, looking unfairly good in borrowed flannel and acting like nothing had happened. But mostly, it was because Lance couldn’t stop thinking about it. About how close they’d been. About how badly he’d wanted it.

And worse—about how wrong it was.

It was the kind of wrong that sat heavy in his chest, like a stone lodged under his ribcage. It flared up every time his mother blessed the food before dinner, her voice warm and sincere as she thanked God for family, for health, for guidance.

It burned every time he slid into the cracked leather seat of his dad’s old truck, where the plastic baby Jesus on the dashboard rattled in time with every pothole and seemed to stare directly into his guilt-ridden soul.

Lance tried to push it down—tried to laugh too loud at Luis’s jokes, to help Rachel decorate sugar cookies with more frosting than necessary, to lose himself in the chaos of family and chores and the countdown to the new year.

But none of it could shake the way his stomach flipped when Keith walked into a room. Or how his mind kept replaying the way Keith had looked at him that night—like maybe Lance wasn’t a total mess. Like maybe he was someone worth seeing.

And God, wasn’t that the cruelest part?

Because pretending nothing had happened was one thing. But pretending he didn’t want it to happen again?

That was killing him. 

“Dad, please ,” Lance groaned, dragging out the word like it might somehow summon mercy. “ Agua , PLEASE!”

He stood in the middle of the field, shirtless, drenched in sweat, and shaking bags of feed like maracas while trying to coax the devil’s own chickens out of hiding. The sun beat down on him with zero forgiveness, turning the dust around his boots into a fine, sticky paste. His shirt had been abandoned somewhere between the coop and his sanity, and if the overgrown brush hadn’t kept scraping up his legs, he would’ve ripped his jeans off too without a second thought.

The chickens, of course, were entirely unbothered by his suffering. They strutted just out of reach like they knew he needed them to cooperate and were absolutely taking it personally.

“¡Mira esto, Keith!” his dad called from the porch, grinning like this was quality entertainment. “This is what a man looks like when he’s paying off a debt to society!”

Lance didn’t even bother flipping him off—mostly because he was too dehydrated to lift his arms.

He glanced toward the porch, squinting against the sun. Keith was leaning against a support beam in only jeans and a fucking cowboy hat, sipping something cold with a smug little tilt to his mouth. That was betrayal in a glass right there.

Lance pointed dramatically. “ You! You’re supposed to be my emotional support tutor-slash-wrench monkey!”

Keith raised his glass in salute. “This looks like a character-building exercise. I wouldn’t want to interrupt.”

“Oh my god,” Lance muttered. “I hate everyone in this house.”

A chicken pecked at his boot and he yelped, jumping a solid foot in the air.

“Except you, Pollito,” he amended immediately. “You’re cool. Don’t kill me.”

Miguel eventually stopped laughing long enough to wave them off. “I’m heading back in. Don’t forget to latch the coop this time, por el amor de Dios. And keep an eye on that red one—she’s been eyeing the fence like she’s planning a prison break.”

“Got it,” Lance called back, wiping sweat off his brow with the back of his hand.

The screen door slammed behind his dad, leaving Lance and Keith alone with the soft rustle of dry grass, the occasional irritated cluck, and the oppressive hum of summer heat pressing down on them.

Keith ambled over from the porch, still holding his drink. “So. This is what rural charm looks like.”

“Oh yeah,” Lance said, grabbing another sack of feed. “The chickens, the heatstroke, the potential tetanus—it’s got everything.”

Keith crouched beside him, helping to spread the feed with a practiced motion. “You sure you’re not the one with the scholarship?”

Lance snorted. “Nope. I’m just the dumbass who flirts with the guy who did get it.”

Keith froze for half a second before slowly turning his head. “So we’re calling that flirting now?”

Lance blinked, brain buffering. “I mean… I’m calling it flirting. If you were just being nice, that’s cool too. I’ll go back to throwing myself at emotionally unavailable shirtless mechanics in cowboy hats.”

Keith smirked. “Good luck finding one that looks half as good as me covered in engine grease.”

“Oh my God,” Lance said, flinging a handful of feed at him.

Keith ducked and retaliated with a light shove, which Lance exaggerated into a full, dramatic fall into the dirt.

“Oh no,” he gasped from the ground, limbs sprawled like a chalk outline. “I’ve been attacked. The betrayal.”

Keith rolled his eyes and moved to help him up—but Lance grabbed his wrist mid-reach and yanked, sending them both tumbling into a mess of tangled limbs and dusty laughter.

They wrestled half-heartedly, laughing too hard to care who was winning. Lance managed to pin Keith for half a second before Keith twisted beneath him, flipping their positions so fast it knocked the wind out of Lance’s lungs.

Keith hovered above him, hands planted on either side of his head in the dry grass. Their chests rose and fell in sync, mouths parted, breath mingling in the heat.

The laughter died.

Lance’s fingers curled slightly around Keith’s wrist where he still held on, his grip suddenly delicate.

Keith’s gaze flicked down to Lance’s lips, then back to his eyes.

It would’ve taken nothing. Just one lean forward. A breath of courage.

But then—

Lance’s phone buzzed violently in his pocket, followed by the loud, unmistakable voice of Hunk on speaker, shouting:
“NEW YEARS PARTY IN TWO DAYS! YOU IN OR YOU IN?”

Lance flinched like he’d been shot. “Jesus Christ!”

Keith sat back with a groan, running both hands down his face.

“Hi, Hunk,” Lance deadpanned, still lying flat on his back and glaring at the sky.

“Did I interrupt something?” Hunk’s voice was way too smug.

Lance sighed. “Nothing I’ll ever emotionally recover from, no.”

Keith let out a dry laugh, still seated beside Lance in the dirt, his knees pulled up loosely to his chest. “You’ve got great timing, man,” he called toward the phone, voice thick with half-amused frustration.

“Oh, do tell,” Hunk said, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “Wait—was this, like, a moment moment? Like a capital-M ‘Moment’?”

Lance covered his face with both hands, groaning into his palms. “I hate you so much.”

“No you don’t,” Hunk chirped. “But seriously, party. Pidge is coming, even Matt. Keith, you too. No excuses.”

Keith glanced down at Lance, who was still pretending he could sink into the earth and vanish. His lips twitched. “Yeah. Sure. We’ll be there.”

Lance peeked between his fingers. “We will?”

Keith shrugged. “Might as well start the new year with a bang.”

Hunk let out a delighted noise. “That’s the spirit! Okay, love you, see you losers soon—don’t do anything I wouldn’t do! Or do! I’m not your mom!”

The call ended with the chirp of a disconnect, leaving behind an oddly quiet field.

Lance let his arms fall to the dirt beside him, staring up at the sky like it had answers. “He’s the worst. ”

Keith leaned back onto his elbows, glancing sidelong at him. “You didn’t say no.”

“Didn’t say yes either.”

“You didn’t want to say no.”

Lance let out a soft exhale that was almost a laugh. “Maybe.”

They sat in silence again, the buzz of summer and distant clucks of content chickens filling the space between them.

Finally, Keith asked, quieter, “Still wrong?”

Lance closed his eyes, voice soft and honest. “Yeah. But I’m starting to care less.”

She rolled onto her stomach, propping her chin up in her hands. “So? That’s the point of parties. Meeting new people. Expanding my social circle. Possibly falling in love under a string of fairy lights.”

Lance gave her a flat look. “It’s Ryan Kinkade’s party, not a Hallmark movie.”

Rachel shrugged, completely unfazed. “Tomato, tomato.”

“Besides, you’re too young.”

She snatched the nearest pillow and launched it at his head. “We’re the same age, dumbass.”

Lance caught it with one hand and chucked it right back. “Emotionally, I’m at least seventy.”

“Yeah, a grumpy seventy-year-old man who still blushes when someone says the word kiss. ”

He pointed at her with exaggerated offense. “I do not.”

Rachel smirked. “You totally do. And I bet Keith thinks it’s cute.”

Lance turned back to his closet with a groan, yanking out a shirt just to give himself something to focus on. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” she said sweetly, stretching across the bed like a smug cat, “you still haven’t said I can’t come.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I literally said that three sentences ago.”

“But did you mean it?”

“Yes!”

“Harsh.” She grinned, entirely unbothered. “Guess I’ll just ask Keith to sneak me in.”

“Rachel!”

“Ask me to what?” Keith asked, stepping into the room and drying his hair with a towel. He was fresh from the shower, his dark hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, and his low-hanging black jeans looked like they were hanging on by a thread.

Lance, who had up until that moment been holding his own just fine, suddenly forgot what shirts were for.

Rachel, of course, wasted no time. “To sneak me into the New Year’s party.”

Keith paused mid-rub, lowering the towel slowly as he took in the scene—Lance looking mildly horrified and Rachel looking entirely too pleased with herself. “You want me to sneak you in?”

Rachel pointed at Lance. “Because grandpa over there says I’m too young.”

Keith raised an eyebrow, glancing between them. “Aren’t you two the same age?”

Lance threw his arms up. “Why does everyone keep saying that like it means something?!”

Keith just chuckled, slinging the towel around his neck. “I don’t know, man. She seems persuasive.”

Rachel beamed. “See? Keith gets it.”

Lance muttered something under his breath about traitors and meddling sisters, then looked up sharply. “Wait—hold up. Why are you suddenly Team Rachel?”

Keith leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed lazily, smirking just enough to make Lance’s heart stutter. “Because watching you squirm is my new favorite hobby.”

Rachel nodded solemnly. “Same.”

Lance groaned and flopped onto the bed, face-first. “This is bullying. I’m being bullied in my own room.”

Rachel patted his back with mock sympathy. “Love makes you weak, bro.”

Before Lance could fire back with some witty retort—something about Keith being smug and shirtless way too often for someone who claimed not to care—his phone buzzed on the nightstand.

He groaned dramatically, rolling onto his side to check it, expecting another text from Hunk or maybe something from the group chat. Instead, the notification made his stomach drop.

Grade Update: AP Physics C

“Oh no.”

Keith straightened a bit, towel forgotten over his shoulder. “What?”

Lance stared at the screen like it might change if he just blinked hard enough. It didn’t.

“My AP Physics grade just got posted.”

Rachel gasped like it was breaking news. “Check it, you coward!”

Lance made a strangled noise. “I am checking it! I just—” He took a breath. “Okay. Okay, I’m opening it.”

Keith crossed the room and leaned over just enough to peek at the screen.

Lance yelped and angled the phone away. “Do you mind? Personal academic crisis here.”

“Relax,” Keith said, barely holding back a laugh. “It’s not like you flunked.”

Lance narrowed his eyes. “If I open this and it says ‘See Me After Class,’ I’m haunting your ass.”

Rachel, still on her stomach, started softly humming the Jaws theme.

With a dramatic flourish that didn't at all hide how anxious he actually was, Lance tapped the notification and pulled up the grade.

There was a beat of silence.

Then— “I GOT AN A-!”

Rachel shrieked. “Oh my god, you’re not grounded anymore!”

Keith grinned, genuinely proud. “Nice, McClain. All that tutoring finally paid off.”

Lance launched himself upright and pulled Keith into a hug before he could stop himself. “I take back 20% of every mean thing I’ve ever said about you.”

Keith teased, “Only 20%?”

Lance pulled back just enough to raise a brow. “Okay, 25. Don’t let it go to your head.”

But neither of them moved away completely.

Keith’s hands had found their place—one lingering against Lance’s back, the other curling loosely around his waist, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go either. There was something soft in his expression, the usual sarcasm melting into something warmer.

“You earned it,” Keith said, quieter now. “Seriously. You worked your ass off.”

Lance opened his mouth, maybe to make a joke, maybe to say thank you—but the words caught in his throat. Because Keith was looking at him like that , and they were this close, and his heart was doing that thing again where it beat like a snare drum.

Rachel, mercifully, had slipped out of the room at some point. Maybe she sensed the shift in the air. Or maybe she just knew better than to get in the way.

“You’ve always been smarter than you give yourself credit for,” Keith added, voice almost a whisper now.

Lance swallowed. “Yeah, well… maybe I needed someone else to believe it first.”

Keith’s breath hitched.

And then they both leaned in—just a little.

Just enough.

And then—

“Guys. I’m literally right here.” Rachel’s voice sliced through the room like a buzzsaw, arms crossed and an expression of theatrical disgust plastered across her face. She strutted in like she owned the place, dramatically gagging and sticking out her tongue. “Ugh, gross. Emotional vulnerability? Disgusting. Can we not do that in my presence? Some of us are still trying to recover from secondhand cringe.”

Lance groaned and fell back on his bed with a muffled, “Why does she always come in right when things get weird?”

But Rachel wasn’t done. She pointed at him like she was directing traffic. “Anyway, back to the real important business—this party. Let’s circle back to that, shall we?”

“I already said no,” Lance muttered, still hiding his face in his pillow.

Rachel gasped like he had personally betrayed her. “You can’t be serious. Lance. Lance. It’s New Year’s Eve. It’s your A-minus redemption arc. It’s the end of an era.”

“It’s also Ryan Kinkade’s backyard with sticky floors, warm alcohol, and too many guys named Josh,” Lance shot back.

Rachel gave him a pointed look. “Exactly. Prime chaos. Prime opportunity. If I don’t go to a party where someone ends up crying in a bathtub, what was the point of high school?”

Keith chuckled from where he was still standing near the door, towel around his shoulders. “She’s kind of got a point.”

Lance glared up at him. “Do not encourage her.”

“I’m just saying,” Keith said with a shrug. “Could be fun.”

Rachel beamed, hands on her hips like a victorious general. “Two against one. Democracy wins.”

“Democracy’s a lie,” Lance mumbled, but his lips were already twitching into a reluctant smile.

Lance crept down the hallway like a spy on a top-secret mission—except his accomplice was chewing gum loudly and wearing sparkly lip glosst.

“Rachel,” he hissed. “Can you not sound like a cartoon character while we’re trying to sneak out?”

She blew a bubble obnoxiously. “Relax. Mom’s knocked out cold and Dad’s been asleep since the weather report ended. You worry too much.”

Behind them, Keith emerged from the shadows of the hallway, hoodie zipped up and keys dangling from one hand. “Your dad snores like a freight train, by the way.”

“See? We’re good.” Rachel opened the door slowly, wincing when the hinges gave a soft creak . “Your stealth missions suck, by the way.”

“Shut up, Rachel,” Lance muttered, slipping outside and into the crisp night air.

Keith’s Acura sat in the driveway like a coiled secret, sleek and just begging for trouble. Lance slid into the passenger seat while Rachel claimed the back, immediately kicking her feet up on the center console.

Keith slid behind the wheel and started the engine, the soft purr of it oddly intimate in the stillness of the neighborhood. He didn’t say much—he never did—but his glance toward Lance before pulling out of the driveway said more than enough.

“You know this is going to end in disaster,” Lance said under his breath.

Keith smirked. “Most fun things do.”

They drove through the darkened streets of Yuma, headlights washing over stretches of cactus, the occasional Christmas light still blinking lazily on fences. The car’s speakers hummed with a mellow synth beat from Keith’s playlist—something lowkey and atmospheric, like they were in a coming-of-age movie.

Rachel leaned forward between them. “So what’s our plan when we get there? Blend in? Steal snacks? Find true love in thirty minutes or less?”

“Have you ever been to a party, Rachel?”

“Not all of us were lucky to be on a private school campus for four years, Lance.” He could hear her roll her eyes without even looking over, “Try getting out of the house without Sylvio waking up every five minutes.”

Keith glanced at the rearview mirror, catching the playful fire in Rachel’s eyes. “Sounds like you’ve got it rough, kid.”

Rachel shrugged, clearly unfazed. “Some of us have to work harder to escape our family, okay?” She shot a pointed look at Lance. “Unlike someone who only has to dodge his mom's Sunday morning Bible study.”

Lance snorted, leaning his head against the window. “Sure, because getting caught by that would be way worse than getting caught by Dad’s tractor.”

Keith laughed under his breath, shaking his head as he made the turn onto Ryan’s street. The house up ahead was practically glowing in the dark, music vibrating through the air like a pulse.

“So,” Lance said, pushing himself up in his seat and glancing over his shoulder at Rachel, “what exactly are you expecting out of this party, anyway?”

Rachel didn’t miss a beat. “You know, the usual. Heart-to-heart with someone who will definitely not remember my name tomorrow. Preferably someone who looks like they listen to indie music. Maybe I'll kiss someone under the mistletoe, who knows?” She beamed, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “You guys could be my wingmen.”

“I’m literally only here to make sure you don’t get arrested,” Lance muttered, rolling his eyes. “You know, the usual.”

Keith turned the car into the driveway, parking a little farther away than necessary so they wouldn’t be noticed right away. “Alright,” he said, shutting off the engine. “Party time. Let's see what kind of trouble you two can get into.”

Rachel leaned forward with exaggerated seriousness. “Trouble? I’m here for memories ,” she said, flicking her hair dramatically. “But if trouble happens, well... it’s just a bonus.”

Lance groaned. “And now I’m the responsible one.” He shot Keith a glance. “Why’d I let you talk me into this again?”

Keith grinned at him, all easy confidence. “Because you love us.”

Lance rolled his eyes and grabbed the door handle. “Don’t remind me. Let’s go before we miss all the snacks.”

The backyard was buzzing with energy, the sound of music and conversation blending with laughter and clinking cups. The familiar faces of Ryan’s friends were scattered across the space, some standing in clusters, others sitting around a fire pit. It wasn’t quite a party, but it wasn’t exactly a get-together either. It was that perfect in-between, where everything felt casual, yet everyone was still trying to have fun.

Lance couldn’t help but look around as they walked in, trying to spot the snack table. He caught sight of Hunk and Pidge near the far side, talking to a group of people. They were already waving excitedly, and Rachel, having already spotted them, practically bounced over to greet them. Lance could hear her enthusiastic voice calling out, “Hey, Hunk! Pidge!” before they wrapped her up in a big group hug.

As he was scanning the yard, trying to locate the snack table, a shadow fell over him. The air around him seemed to cool, and Lance knew before he even had to look who it was.

James.

Of course. Every party had one—loud, cocky, and a magnet for drama. Lance didn’t like him. Actually, he couldn’t stand him. But there he was, walking toward Keith like a predator zeroing in on its prey. Lance’s gut tightened.

“Hey, Keith,” James said, his voice smooth like it was supposed to be charming. “Mind coming with me for a sec? Got something I need help with.”

Lance could feel Keith stiffen beside him. It was subtle, but it was enough to make him pay attention. He watched Keith’s face, trying to gauge what was going on, but Keith didn’t even flinch. Instead, he took a small step back, his stance shifting into something defensive.

“No, I’m good,” Keith replied coolly, his tone sharp, like a blade drawn in the heat of a sudden argument.

James didn’t back down. Instead, he smirked and leaned in closer. "Come on, man. Don’t be a buzzkill. It’s just a little fun."

Lance felt a tightness in his chest as his eyes flickered from Keith to James. The moment between them seemed to stretch out, heavy with something Lance couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was the familiarity of James’s cocky grin, or the way Keith didn’t immediately look away, but Lance could sense it. This wasn’t just a friendly request. There was something else in James’s words.

He watched as Keith’s eyes darkened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. There was no hesitation this time. Keith stepped even further back, straightening up as he glared at James.

“I’m not interested,” Keith said, his voice low but firm. “I told you before—stay away from me.”

Lance felt a shift in the air—an invisible weight. The challenge in Keith’s eyes made his heart race. He could see the tension in the way James’s face faltered for just a second.

James wasn’t used to being challenged. But Keith wasn’t backing down.

James blinked, narrowing his eyes, probably trying to gauge whether Keith was joking or serious. The usual arrogance in his smirk faltered slightly, but it was replaced quickly by irritation.

“Come on, don’t be like that. We both know you’re not as innocent as you look,” James retorted, his voice dripping with condescension.

Lance felt his stomach tighten. The way James was trying to push Keith was obvious, but what made it worse was how Keith was holding his ground—every bit of his posture screamed that he wasn’t going to give in. It was brave. And it made Lance feel like the ground beneath him shifted.

Keith didn’t flinch. He didn’t flounder. He just locked eyes with James, his voice steady and unwavering. “Leave me alone. I said no.”

For a moment, neither of them moved, and Lance almost felt like time stopped. James’s jaw clenched, his eyes flashing with frustration as he looked between Keith and Lance. But then, with a sharp huff, James turned on his heel and walked away, muttering something under his breath that Lance couldn’t quite catch. The air around them seemed to lighten, the invisible pressure lifting as quickly as it had come.

Keith stood there, still breathing a little heavier than usual, his face still hard. But when his eyes met Lance’s, there was something softer there—relief, maybe? Or just exhaustion from the whole thing.

Lance didn’t know why, but the sight of Keith standing up for himself made something in him swell. He didn’t even think about it. He just walked over to him, his voice quiet but sincere. “You good?”

Keith didn’t answer immediately, but when he looked at Lance, there was a glint of something in his eyes—a mixture of frustration and something else, maybe something lighter. “Yeah,” he said, his voice rough, but there was an unmistakable edge of pride in it. “I’m fine.”

For a moment, they both stood there, silent and watching James’s retreating figure. The party continued around them, but Lance was still processing what had just happened. The way Keith had taken control of the situation. The way he hadn’t let James push him around. It was something Lance admired—something that had been brewing ever since he first met Keith. And it was clear now: Keith was no one’s punching bag.

Without a word, Lance gave a small nod, almost to himself, and they turned to rejoin the others. As they walked back into the crowd, Lance felt a quiet pride for Keith. Maybe he wasn’t the type to wear his heart on his sleeve, but in moments like this, Lance couldn’t help but think Keith was stronger than he gave himself credit for.

And maybe—just maybe—he was starting to understand why he wanted to be around Keith so much.

“Lance! Keith! Get over here!” Hunk’s voice boomed across the yard, cutting through the music and chatter like a flare in the night. “Rachel’s about to take her first shot!”

Lance blinked, momentarily pulled out of his thoughts. He looked over to see Hunk waving both arms in the air like a man trying to flag down a helicopter, grinning from ear to ear. Rachel stood beside him, holding a tiny plastic cup like it might bite her, her face a mixture of excitement and cautious determination.

“Oh, God,” Lance muttered, already moving. “We leave her alone for two minutes…”

Keith raised an eyebrow as he fell into step beside him. “She’s never had a shot before?”

“Not that I know of,” Lance said, though his tone was more amused than concerned. “But if she ends up singing karaoke and crying about a boy named Tyler from fifth grade, I’m not babysitting.”

They weaved through the crowd toward the makeshift “bar” table, which was really just a folding table covered in sticky bottles, half-squeezed limes, and questionable Solo cups. A small group had gathered to watch Rachel’s initiation into the world of college parties, everyone cheering and egging her on like it was the Olympics.

“I feel like this is a bad idea,” Rachel muttered, holding the shot glass out in front of her like it might explode. “Is it supposed to smell like paint thinner?”

“It’s basement vodka,” Hunk said with a proud nod. “So yes.”

Lance stepped up beside her, arms crossed. “You know you don’t have to do this, right?”

Rachel gave him a determined look. “Oh, please. I survived Mom’s ‘birds and the bees’ talk. I can survive this.”

“Yikes,” Keith muttered under his breath, and Lance snorted.

Pidge, lounging on a lawn chair with a soda, called out, “Someone start recording in case she pukes!”

Rachel rolled her eyes, straightened her spine like she was about to deliver a dramatic monologue, and raised the glass. “To new experiences. To freedom. And to never speaking of this again if I hate it.”

“Cheers!” the group echoed.

She knocked it back with surprising speed. Her face scrunched instantly as the vodka hit. She coughed, eyes watering, and let out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a whimper.

“Oh God ,” she wheezed, fanning her face. “That was disgusting. Why do people like that?!”

The crowd burst into laughter and applause, and Rachel dramatically bowed, clearly eating up the attention despite her trauma.

Lance leaned over to Keith and said under his breath, “I give her ten minutes before she’s climbing on the table declaring herself queen of the night.”

Keith smirked, eyes still on Rachel. “Ten? You’re generous.”

Lance chuckled, and for a second, he forgot about James, the almost-kiss, and all the chaos of the past few weeks. For a moment, everything was easy. Fun. Like being seventeen didn’t come with landmines at every turn.

And as Rachel mock-shuddered and demanded someone bring her a chaser “or a priest,” Lance thought maybe sneaking out to this party wasn’t the worst idea after all.

“I’m gonna get a drink,” Lance announced, backing away from the group with a dramatic flourish. He pointed squarely at Rachel, who was still blinking through the aftermath of her first vodka shot. “And you —” he wiggled his finger at her, “—are getting water. You can be wild, but be responsible. I’m not explaining to Mom why you came home with a shoe on your head and a concussion.”

Rachel gave him a sloppy salute, already halfway through a bag of chips someone had handed her. “Sir, yes sir. Hydration nation.”

Keith let out a soft laugh, watching her toss chips into her mouth like popcorn. “She’s gonna be a menace,” he said.

“Oh, definitely,” Lance replied, grinning as he turned toward the table lined with drinks and questionable mixers.

Keith trailed behind him, hands tucked in the pockets of his jacket. “I’ll grab something too,” he said, scanning the setup.

Lance raised a brow as he picked out a bottle of soda for the mix. “Didn’t peg you for a party drinker.”

“I’m not,” Keith said, reaching past the crowd to grab a cold can from the ice bucket. He held it up—non-alcoholic beer, the label clearly visible. “I drove. Besides, I don’t really like how it feels. I’d rather remember what I did.”

Lance cracked open his drink and glanced at Keith, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “You’re such a responsible rebel.”

Keith shrugged, popping the tab on his own can. “Guess one of us has to be.”

They moved off to the side, away from the thumping speakers and the mass of sweaty bodies dancing under string lights. The music was muffled by distance, just low enough to let the night settle around them like a thin blanket—cool air, buzz of conversation, someone’s laughter echoing from the porch.

Lance took a sip and glanced over at Keith, who leaned against the deck railing, nursing his drink and scanning the yard like he was cataloguing every exit.

“You always look like you’re half-expecting something to explode,” Lance said, amused.

Keith’s mouth twitched. “That’s just being friends with you .”

Lance chuckled, nudging him lightly with his shoulder. “Fair. But if anything’s exploding tonight, it’s gonna be Rachel’s stomach.”

They stood there in companionable silence for a moment, drinks in hand, watching as their classmates mingled and drifted from group to group under the party lights. And maybe it was the glow from the bulbs overhead, or the faint warmth from the soda in his chest, but Lance suddenly felt a little lighter. Like, for a moment, everything was okay .

Keith sipped his beer and glanced at him sideways. “Thanks for letting me come tonight.”

Lance blinked. “Are you kidding? I needed moral support. You’re my buffer against social disasters.”

Keith huffed a soft laugh. “Happy to be your emotional support delinquent.”

“Don’t make that a sticker,” Lance warned, raising his drink in mock salute. “But honestly… glad you’re here.”

Keith clinked his can against Lance’s cup. “Me too.”

Lance wasn’t drunk.

Okay—he was drunk, but like, the fun kind of drunk. The kind where the music felt like it was made just for him and the stars were spinning a little too slow, and his mouth had apparently declared war on his brain.

The party was in full swing, the backyard lights glowing soft and golden above their heads. Somewhere behind him, Rachel was deep in a conversation about astrology with a group of upperclassmen, gesturing wildly with a half-empty cup in hand. Keith had been shadowing him most of the night, playing designated driver and designated buzzkill with a quiet vigilance that Lance hadn’t acknowledged out loud but appreciated more than he’d ever say sober.

Until now.

“I’m gonna get a drink,” Lance declared dramatically, as if announcing his retirement from professional tennis or something equally important. He pointed across the yard to Rachel. “And I’m getting you water again,” he added, jabbing another finger in her direction. 

“Thanks, mom!” Rachel shouted.

Keith, standing nearby with his non-alcoholic beer, raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you need another one?”

“No,” Lance said, already walking away.

And somehow, after a couple more swigs and a few too many conversations about nothing at all, Lance found himself back near Keith—only this time with a goal. A mission. A vision from God.

They were going to dance.

Keith looked so Keith , standing with his arms crossed, beer untouched in his hand, hair slightly damp and wavy from earlier when someone had sprayed half the crowd with a hose. His shirt clung to his chest and the light from the string lights caught in his eyes, making him look like something out of a music video. Which wasn’t fair.

“You,” Lance slurred slightly, pointing straight at him. “We’re dancing.”

Keith blinked. “We’re what ?”

“Dancing,” Lance said, already tugging on his arm. “Come on. Don’t make me beg. You owe me.”

“For what ?”

“For existing in my general orbit and being the most annoying person I’ve ever wanted to slow dance with under fairy lights.” He said it without thinking, the words slipping out too fast.

Keith opened his mouth, probably to protest—but Lance had already dragged him into the crowd.

The music pulsed through his chest, too loud and too good, and Lance swayed, already moving to the beat with all the coordination of a soggy noodle. Keith stood there, stiff as a board, looking around like he wanted to disappear.

“Oh my god,” Lance groaned, grabbing his hands. “Just feel it. Come on. Even Pidge danced once and she hates joy .”

Keith rolled his eyes but didn’t pull away. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re lucky I’m not filming this.” Lance laughed, spinning in place and tugging Keith with him. “But also you’re doing great. Like a really angry wind-up toy.”

To his surprise, Keith started moving—awkward at first, then looser, syncing just enough with the beat to keep up. His hair bounced with each step, and his eyes never left Lance’s face.

It was warm. Too warm. Lance blamed the alcohol, the music, the winter heat still clinging to their skin—but mostly he blamed the way Keith looked at him like he was something important. Like he mattered .

They ended up too close. Sometime between a messy half-spin and Lance tripping over his own feet, Keith’s hands caught his waist. Lance’s laughter caught in his throat.

His hands found Keith’s shoulders. They didn’t stop moving, but the dance had shifted—slower now, swaying in place, breathing the same air. The music faded into the background, replaced by the rush of blood in Lance’s ears.

Keith looked at him like he was thinking something he shouldn’t say.

Lance felt his gaze flick to Keith’s mouth. His heart stumbled. He leaned in.

And then—God, of course then —

“ LANCE! ”

He jumped like he’d been electrocuted, pulling back an inch too fast.

“Allura?” he said, dazed.

She stood a few feet away, hands on her hips, wearing a pink satin crop top and a knowing smirk. “You’re seriously not answering your phone on New Year’s Eve? What if I was dying?”

“Were you dying?” Lance asked weakly, heart still doing somersaults in his chest.

“No,” she said. “But I was hoping to make an entrance, and now I’m mad you weren’t paying attention.”

Keith had already taken a step back, brushing his hair behind his ear and clearing his throat.

Lance felt like someone had pressed rewind and yanked him right out of whatever moment that had almost been.

“Oh,” he said, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Uh—welcome to the party.”

Lance was still trying to remember how breathing worked when Ryan freaking Kinkade sauntered over fresh out of a Vogue cover photo, two drinks in hand, perfect hair, and a blinding smile.

“Well, well,” Ryan said, eyeing the three of them like they were something he’d just unwrapped. “Look who finally showed up. McClain. Princess Allura. And—” His gaze lingered on Keith a beat too long. “Mystery man in black. You clean up real nice.”

Keith blinked. “...Thanks?”

Lance’s stomach twisted. Maybe it was the tequila. Or maybe it was the way Ryan tilted his head and practically purred, “Didn’t realize the broody look was still in. But I gotta say—it’s working for you.”

Keith raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You’re one to talk. You look like an Abercrombie ad someone lit on fire.”

Ryan grinned . Like that was the best compliment he’d gotten all night. “Flattery and sarcasm? Dangerous combo. You single?”

Lance choked. “Okay—wow—we’re just skipping right to that, huh?”

Ryan didn’t even look at him. “Was I not clear?”

Keith snorted. “Crystal.”

And for a second—just a second—he actually smiled . Not one of his rare, soft, careful Keith-smiles, but a smug one. A flirty one.

Lance’s brain short-circuited. His ears were hot. His fists were clenched.

Allura, bless her heart, leaned over and whispered, “Is he... flirting with Keith right now?”

“ Obviously ,” Lance hissed back.

“And is Keith flirting back ?”

Lance didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Not with the way Keith was looking at Ryan like he didn’t hate the attention.

“So,” Ryan drawled, “what do you say? You, me, maybe another drink?”

Keith tilted his head. “You trying to make someone jealous, or are you always this forward?”