Six Things Before Breakfast

14

Sanders keeps his distance.

The first time, he's back from his run with Maxon without almond milk in his hand. Instead of heading straight to Becks's room, he goes to the kitchen to start on breakfast. He's not an asshole—he's going to cook her a plate, too. But just because they're roommates, and nothing more.

He and Maxon are already eating when Becks comes out, and Sanders almost spits out his water. It's the first time in almost a year Becks steps out of her room without her hair combed and straightened, and in her ratty sweatshirts and basketball shorts.

"Morning," Maxon says cheerily, grinning at her.

"Morning," Sanders echoes, giving her a smile.

Becks is staring at Sanders. "You didn't..."

Sanders raises an eyebrow, chewing his food loudly. Becks doesn't continue the rest of her sentence. "I didn't...?"

She swallows the lump in her throat and turns around. "Nothing. I'm going to wash up."

Sanders asks her if she wants a ride with him going to school. Becks says no, she's going to make them late. Sanders shrugs and leaves on his own.

The second time, Sanders stays in the volleyball courts long after training ended. Rosen is with him, and they're talking about grabbing food once they've gathered the energy to stand up.

And then his phone buzzes, and it's Becks. Hey. are we getting dinner together?

Sanders types his response. If you want to, I'm with Rosen, too :)

It takes a minute. Sure. uh what do you want to eat

Sanders always eats whatever she wants to eat. Sure. Fine. chicken wings down the corner? We'll meet you at the gate

Rosen raises his eyebrow. "You're not picking her up from the gym?"

"What's the point of going there if we're going to the same place anyway?" Sanders asks, shrugging, shouldering his bag. "Come on."

Becks is in her big jersey and shorts. She has sweat all over her face, and callouses on her knuckles. Becks isn't as mad as she was before, but the tension around them is palpable and Sanders's hands feel empty from not holding her boxing gloves. Or her hand.

He sits beside Rosen at the restaurant instead of beside Becks. Becks notices this, because she slid over to give him space before Sanders sat down.

The third, fourth, fifth time—Sanders keeps his distance. He'll keep his thoughts and usual flirty remarks and hands to himself. It's not hard to do.

He's watching television on the sofa when Becks sits way too close to him—and, and Sanders pre-argument would've welcomed it, would've buried his head on her shoulder, swing his legs over hers.

But now he just realized—it's trespassing Becks's boundaries.

So he moves away. Keeps his distance. Adjusts his position on the sofa and kicks his feet up the table.

It feels so foreign.

It feels foreign to not stop by the convenience store during his runs. Sometimes, when he comes back, Sanders's feet move on their own in the direction of Becks's room, but his mind catches up with his feet and then he's turning around.

And Becks has been leaving her room without washing up. That's foreign, too.

Talking to her—foreign. Sanders has had to bite his tongue once, twice, thrice. Too many times to count. He's had to think about what he's going to say before he actually says it. He's never done that before with Becks.