The Forgotten Gilmore

Chapter Sixteen: Crossed Lines

Flashback (to when Alessia just left for Yale)

Riley was stretched out on his bed, headphones in, half-listening to some random playlist when a loud knock interrupted his peace. He pulled his headphones off, ready to ignore whoever it was, but the door swung open, and Beau walked in, looking annoyed.

"Seriously, your door's just unlocked? You're asking to get murdered, you know that?" Beau joked as he threw himself into Riley's desk chair, spinning lazily.

Riley smirked. "Yeah, because there's a long line of people dying to break into my dorm room. What's up?"

Beau groaned dramatically, running a hand through his hair. "My idiot roommate. He's blasting his awful music again. I swear, if I hear one more angsty lyric, I'm going to throw his speaker out the window."

Riley chuckled. "So, you came here to hide? Should've known you'd come crawling back."

Beau scoffed, tossing a balled-up sock from the floor at Riley. "Don't flatter yourself. This is just the lesser of two evils."

Riley dodged the sock, a playful grin spreading across his face. "Harsh words for someone who looks like they've been dragged through a tornado."

Beau narrowed his eyes but couldn't hide the smile tugging at his lips. "At least I don't look like I rolled out of bed five minutes ago. How's that bedhead treating you?"

Riley touched his hair absentmindedly, realizing it was messier than usual. "Better than your fashion choices," he shot back. "Who even wears a flannel over a hockey jersey? It's like you're trying to be a lumberjack and a jock at the same time."

Beau laughed, the sound bright and genuine. "It's called style you Neanderthal."

"Oh, yeah?" Riley stood up, moving closer, the competitive edge in his voice unmistakable. "Pretty sure I've seen garbage cans with more style than you."

Beau stood up too, not backing down. "Says the guy who only owns three pairs of sweatpants."

"Correction—four pairs. And they all look better than your entire wardrobe," Riley teased, shoving Beau lightly.

Beau, never one to back down from a challenge, shoved him back. "Keep talking, and I'll make you eat those words."

"Big talk for someone who couldn't even land a decent hit on the ice last practice," Riley taunted, grinning.

Beau's eyes sparked with playful defiance. "I'd land plenty if you weren't hogging all the glory."

"Maybe you should just get better," Riley quipped, smirking.

"Oh, that's it!" Beau lunged at Riley, and suddenly they were tussling, laughing and throwing half-hearted punches that were more playful than serious. They grappled with each other, trying to get the upper hand. Riley managed to get Beau in a headlock, and they both tumbled onto the bed in a heap of limbs, laughing breathlessly.

After a few moments, Riley pinned Beau down, one arm pressing Beau's wrists above his head. They were both panting, their faces inches apart, and Riley could feel the heat between them—something unspoken simmering just beneath the surface.

Riley's grip loosened slightly, his gaze lingering on Beau's flushed face. Beau's eyes flickered, caught somewhere between defiance and something softer, something neither of them could quite name. Riley's heart pounded, and for a second, he thought about closing the gap between them, about giving in to the tension that had been building for far too long.

But Beau, always quick to deflect, broke the moment with a smirk. "This is the best you got? I'm not even trying."

Riley released him, rolling his eyes as he stood up. "Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, champ."

Beau laughed it off, brushing the moment aside like it was nothing. But as they settled back into easy conversation, both of them knew something had shifted—something they weren't ready to face just yet.