yours.

[22] Jasper

I come at last to Miles' trophy shelves, which stand stocked with glinting silver and gold statues of men frozen in different stages of kicking a stationary ball. Some medals hang from hooks mounted to the white shelves, and I feel Miles watching as I lift one to read.

"Third Annual Dogwood Season Champion," I read out. I look back at Miles, who's seated on his bed. "You play soccer."

"Yeah." He nods slowly. "I told you yesterday."

I return my attention to the trophies. "I know. I just didn't know you... play. Like, really play."

He comes up to stand beside me, his gaze roving over the multitude of awards. "Yup. I really play."

"For how long?"

"Around five years now. Since I was twelve." He reaches across me to lift a trophy from its place, and I can smell his lotion-scented forearm.

"Isn't that late?" I don't know much about sports, but I do know this.

He turns the trophy over in his palm, agreeing, "It is. But I picked it up quickly, and it was a nice... distraction. From other stuff going on."

I don't press the issue. Instead, I take the trophy from him, wondering what's so special about it. My fingers briefly graze his, and I refuse to shy away from the contact, the memory of my father's hand against my chin rising to mind. I'm tired of being nervous around Miles. I train my focus on the miniature statue. He's not my father. He won't hurt me. I don't know how I'm so sure of this, but I am.

"That's the first one I ever won," Miles tells me, his voice warm. I glance up at him, and his green eyes find me. "My second season of playing. I remember being so excited..." He loses himself in remembrance.

"I'm sure you were." Miles comes back to me, his stare converting to something entirely different as I watch. It scares me -- that amount of hope it gives me scares me. "Miles?" I say, my voice soft.

"Yeah?"

"Why are you... why are you looking at me like that?"

His watch travels over my features gently, reserved. "Like what?"

I swallow. Like you want me. "Like you--"

"Miles?" The voice comes from the doorway behind us.

We spring apart, and Miles blinks rapidly, shocked out of his stupor. "What is it, Chels?" he sighs once he's composed himself. "What do you want?"

She goes on to ask him what he did with some stuffed bear of Lesley's, but I can't bring myself to listen. My mind is stuck on the way he watched me, like I was the only other person in his house, in his world. 

I know better than to give in to my hopes of my feelings for Miles being reciprocated, but I fear I already have: I've begun seeing what I want to see. He probably wasn't even thinking about me. He was probably still lost in a memory, thinking of his time on the field with his teammates, his friends, who I've never met. Who I'll never get to meet and never--

Miles' hand wraps around my wrist. My head snaps up, my cheeks burning. His emerald eyes are concerned. "Jasper?" he says, for what I suspect is not the first time. "You okay in there?"

"Yes, I... hi." The embarrassment is nearly too much to bear.

"Hey." He smiles, and I once again become trapped in his gaze. "Did you hear my question?" I shake my head. "I asked if you've seen a stuffed bear in here." He tries to convey something with his eyes, but I don't know what.

"Yeah, under your pillows."

Miles sighs as Chelsea marches over to his bed, grabbing the bear from under his pillows with a flourish. She waves it at Miles a few times before uttering a vague warning and leaving, presumably back to her own room.

"You weren't supposed to..." Miles runs a hand over his face. "You know what? Never mind. Do you want to play another round of Strike Brawl?"

"Do you want to lose another round of Strike Brawl?" I tease lightly, but my heart is still clenched in disappointment. The moment meant nothing to him, I recognize sadly. He's moved on.

And so should I.

* * *

"One more."

"No."

"One more round, Jasper," Miles pleads.

I spin in a circle in Miles' gaming chair. "I can't. I don't want to risk losing this streak."

Miles makes an incredulous sound, standing from his spot on his bed. "Oh yeah, your one-thousand-round streak."

"More like two thousand," I correct, stretching my arms over my head.

He scoops my controller from my lap, setting it beside his on his desk, and I watch his movements as if from a distance. A distance I've carefully constructed over the past two hours of playing, crafted to ensure I don't lose myself in my feelings for Miles. 

I won't let myself get hurt by him. I can't.

"Fine, fine. Don't, then."

I startle, thinking Miles has somehow heard my thoughts. "Don't what?"

"Don't play another round with me." He rolls his eyes, leaning back against his desk and looking down at me. "Don't... I don't know... help me to become a better Brawler--"

"Oh, nothing can help you," I reply easily, relieved. "You're hopeless."

"No, you're just cracked." He offers a hand to help me up, and I take it without thinking, freezing as his fingers tighten around my hand. We both stare down at our clasped palms, widely known as a friendly gesture, a method of connection between friends or even acquaintances. We could easily pass it off as such, but... we remain touching for a few seconds too long for that.

Our hands drift apart, and I make a beeline for Miles' door. "Well, it's getting late," I say loudly, glancing at the brilliant sunset casting shadows through the window behind me. "I should be getting home--"

"Jasper." Miles stops me with a murmur. "Thanks for playing with me today. I appreciate it."

I swallow, bracing a hand against the door's handle to ground myself. "Okay."

He raises an eyebrow. "Okay?"

Maintain distance. "Okay."

He smiles softly. "Bye, Jasper."

"Goodbye, Miles."