Jax

  The door closes with a soft click, and suddenly the room feels too quiet. Not empty–just different.

  The air still smells faintly of cocoa and cinnamon, and her laughter lingers like the echo of music that won’t quite fade. I stare at the mug she left behind–a smudge of whipped cream near the rim, a faint trace of lipstick, the tiniest reminder that she was really here.

  For weeks, I’ve been living in still frames–rest, recovery, repetition. Every day bleeding into the next. But she walked in like she always does–unexpeceted, bold, a spark dropped into the middle of my carefully built calm.

  And just like that, I remembered what breathing feels like.

  I lean back against the headboard, on hand absently resting on the brace around my ankle. It aches, but it’s different now–more like a bruise that’s learning to fade. I take a slow sip of what’s left of my cocoa. It’s gone lukewarm, thick and sweet. The way Cameron makes it only when she really likes someone.

  “Figures,” I mutter under my breath.

  I can picture it perfectly–Milli in the kitchen, probably talking Cameron into letting her help, getting cinnamon on her sleeve, arguing over how much whipped cream is too much. (Answer: there’s no such thing.)

  A laugh slips out before I can stop it.

  She’s chaos wrapped in warmth. Where I overthink every step, she just moves. Where I hide behind calm, she burns bright without trying.

  And she came here. For me.

  May pops her head in a few minutes later, pretending to collect laundry. “So…good visit?” she asks, not even bothering to sound casual.

  I narrow my eyes at her. “You knew she was coming.”

  “I might’ve had a feeling,” she says, smiling innocently. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

  “Thanks.” I say dryly, but there’s no edge to it.

  May studies me for a moment, her grin softening into something gentler. “You look better. Lighter.”

  “Maybe I am.”

  She hums, satisfied. “Guess you’ve got your therapy sorted, then.”

  When she’s gone, I glance at the window. Snow is falling again–slow, lazy flakes that catch the evening light. The world outside is muted, calm, untouched. But inside, my thoughts are restless.

  I pick up my notebook from the desk–the one I used to sketch choreography in before everything went sideways. For weeks, it’s been sitting there unopened, gathering dust.

  I flip to a blank page.

  At first, I just draw lines. Movements. A turn, a reach, a fall–the language of motion I’ve missed more than I’ll ever admit aloud. Then, without thinking, I sketch her outline–soft waves of hair, a tilt of her head, the curve of her hand mid-spin.

  She’s standing in the middle of the page, half-finished and alive.

  “Maris.” I whisper, the name from the play still clinging to her somehow. Half-shadow, half-spark.

  It fits her too well.

  I close the notebook and set it aside, but the image stays burned behind my eyelids–her grin, her eyes, the way she said “You scared us”, like it mattered more than she meant it to.

  The truth is, it did matter. More than the play, more than the applause, more than pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  I don’t know what this is–friendship, something else, something in between–but I know I don’t want it to end here.

  Not with just a mug of cocoa and an open door.

  I’m taking one of my slow walks through the garden, brace on, ankle stiff but steady. Snow has melted just enough to leave the paths clear, the air sharp and crisp. My headphones are tucked in my pocket today; I want to hear the crunch of my own footsteps, the wind threading through the bare branches.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. I fumble it out, expecting another text from my coach or maybe Abby checking in.

  Milli: Want to come visit?

  My chest does that weird, too-fast beat.

  Millie. She wants to see me.

  I stare at the screen like it’s a puzzle. The timing is perfect–warm, quiet afternoon, a chance to see her again. My thumb hovers over the screen, but I hesitate.

  Wait–did she actually type this herself?

  Part of me knows I should call, should confirm, should be calm and collected like I always am. But another part–the part that remembers cocoa in the kitchen, her laugh, the way she leans in when she talks–that part is already imagining the walk up the driveway, her smile waiting at the door.

  I type back slowly: Yeah I can come. When?

  The reply comes almost instantly.

  Now. I’ll see you in twenty minutes.

  “Now? I mutter under my breath, blinking at the screen.

  I swing my phone in my hand, pacing a little. No warning. No context. I don’t even know if she’s expecting me alone.

  I do know one thing–I can’t wait.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m carefully walking up the path to what I assume is Milli’s house, eyes scanning for movement. But something feels off. The text was precise. A little too precise.

  I don’t know that this isn’t Milli at all.

  I’m about to knock when the door swings open. A small girl, appearing almost like a mini-Milli–maybe twelve, blonde hair in braids, bright mischievous eyes–stands there.

  “Hi!” she says. “You’re Jax! Come in, come in!”

  I freeze, blink. “Uh…Milli?”

  The girl giggles, stepping aside. “She’s busy. But you can come in! I’m April.”

  I stare at her for a beat, processing. Milli has a sister?

  Before I can even ask, she grabs my hand and tugs me inside like she owns the place. “C’mon! She made cocoa–her special kind. You’re gonna love it!”

  I can’t stop myself from laughing. This is ridiculous, and yet–the warm smell of chocolate, the clatter of mugs, the mischievous sparkle in her eyes–it feels good.

  I follow her thinking that somehow, whatever’s coming, it’s going to be exactly worth it.

  April grins at me, tugging me gently toward the living room. “Okay, so…I’m the mastermind,” she whispers, leaning close so only I can hear. “I invited you. But don’t worry. Milli’s totally into you.”

  I blink at her, caught between disbelief and amusement. “You…what?”

  She winks. “Trust me. Now sit on the couch. Make yourself at home. I’ll go get her.”

  I stare at her for a second, trying to process this revelation, but before I can respond, she’s off–sprinting up the stairs like a blur, leaving me in the warm, sunlit living room.

  The house is cozy–couches piled with blankets, the faint smell of baked goods lingering in the air. I sink into the cushions, trying to look casual while my mind races. Milli likes me? That explains a lot. The text. The cocoa. Her visit.

  I hear faint noises from upstairs–a few light thuds and what sounds suspiciously like giggles. I chuckle quietly. The thought of her upstairs, probably pacing or trying to figure out what to say to me, is kind of perfect.

  Out of nowhere, April comes barreling down the stairs again. “She’s coming!” she calls, voice high with excitement.

  And then I see her–Milli.

  She’s at the top of the stairs for a split second, frozen mid-step when she spots me on the couch. My heart does this ridiculous flip. She’s wearing a cute yellow blouse that somehow makes her eyes shine even brighter, paired with jeans. Her hair tumbles in soft waves around her shoulders, and her expression is a mix of surprise, nervousness, and something else I can’t quite name.

  “Jax,” she says, voice soft but carrying that familiar spark that always gets under my skin.

  I’m frozen for a heartbeat. “Hi.”

  A small, awkward smile tugs at her lips. “Hi.”

  For a moment, we just stand there, taking each other in. The faint sound of April’s giggles echoes down the hall, and the room feels impossibly small and huge all at once–like everything else has faded out except for us.

  Finally, Milli steps fully into the living room, setting her hands on her hips as if she’s claiming the space. “Okay I think I’m ready now,” she says, still keeping a little distance, her gaze slicking up and down like she’s studying me.

  I straighten on the couch, trying to act casual–even though my ankle reminds me I’m still healing, my heart reminds me I’m anything but.

  And just like that, the afternoon stretches ahead, full of possibility.