Six Things Before Breakfast

11

Sanders hasn't told Becks he loves her since the date.

He's gotten used to saying those three little words every morning when he wakes her up. It's like a little prayer, a reminder, a thing to do before breakfast. Sanders means saying it. He does. He's put so much meaning into those words after he knew, when the mere mention of Becks's name made the butterflies in his stomach go wild.

But after the date, somehow, in some way, it felt wrong. The words felt wrong on his tongue. Love seemed like a word too scratched, too abstract—a word he used when Becks kissed him for the first time, when his fingertips came alive just by touching her skin. It was new, then.

This—whatever he feels for Becks after spending an entire night with her, after holding her hand in his pocket—seems old. Like it's been living somewhere in his brain, chest, belly, fingers—the halls of his heart. It feels like it's crawling, it feels like watching a show for the hundredth time and still getting angry at the ending—and it feels less like something Sanders dove into and more like something he's swimming in. He's been swimming. Floating on his back, head turned toward the sky.

So he doesn't say the words. He lets them rest on his tongue, lets his lips fall shut and instead turn up, his instinct to smile kicking in whenever Becks buries herself further into her pillows, her curls splayed all over her face.

He's not expecting anything. He's not expecting anything from Becks. He knows where he stands, he knows what she feels for Maxon—one date isn't going to change that.

So when she drops by the volleyball court completely unannounced, while Sanders is playing his game, he almost misses the ball going straight at him. Thankfully, his body starts moving before his brain does, and he's able to catch it, raise it to the air, before running to spike it down.

The blockers jump up, but the ball goes through their hands. The other team's players dive to catch it, but they miss.

His team claps him on the back, but Sanders's attention is on the bleachers. He tilts his head at Becks, a silent question in the raise of his eyebrows.

She's with Adan. They're both in a sports bra and leggings. Becks waves at him, like she's dismissing him, telling him to focus on his game.

Sanders tries his best. He really does. He doesn't know why Becks is here, but his palms start sweating, and his senses go into haywire—like he's more aware of his teammates, more aware of his opponents, more aware of the ball.

His team wins. Of course they do. They tap their hands with the other team's across the net, and then Sanders and Rosen are jogging to the bleachers, completely forgetting about the need for water.

"Hey," Sanders says, sitting beside Becks. He's panting, still catching his breath. He leans on his palms behind him and asks, "Your training ended early?"

"We finished on time," she says, passing him her water bottle. "You guys are ending late. We thought we'd drop by."

The volleyball court is on the opposite side of the campus's gates. When Sanders isn't done, she'd usually go ahead and eat somewhere with Adan, or go home and shower. She doesn't like wasting her energy walking to the court when the gym is nearer.

So Sanders can't fathom why exactly she's here. He's scared. He gulps down the water and asks, furrowing his eyebrows, "Did I do something wrong?"

She turns her head to look at him. "What?"

"Did I...forget to do something?" Sanders tries, blinking. "Tell me. I promise I'll do better."

She purses her lips, like she's trying not to smile, and tosses the towel slung over her shoulder in his face. "You didn't do anything wrong, idiot," Becks mutters, rolling her eyes. "What, we can't watch you play? Adan has been—oh, for fuck's sake."