"Lacy, phone for you!" Helen calls, smiling sheepishly from the door as I look up from my tennis bag. Dad is watching me carefully, lifting a brow as I move toward Helen, who is awkwardly holding out the phone.

"Who is it?" I ask, my voice flat, trying to sound disinterested since Dad is watching so carefully.

"A boy," Helen says, her tone light, almost teasing. "He sounds eager to talk with you."

"Can you take a message?" I ask, inhaling slowly, ignoring the way Helen frowns.

"Oh Lacy," she says, shooting a look toward my dad, "it's your birthday. What's another five minutes?"

I glance toward my dad, who nods curtly, though his jaw tightens as he finishes packing my bag. I sigh, smiling towards Helen as I pass her for the privacy of the study.

"Hello?" I answer, listening for the faint click of Helen hanging up the other line.

"Oh good," Steve's voice rings through, "you're still wallowing."

I roll my eyes. "Did you call me just to bother me? Because I'm busy."

"No," Steve admits. "I called to wish you a happy birthday, but you seem to be missing the happy part."

The smallest of smiles tugs at my lips despite myself. "I'm not exactly in the mood for a party."

"Yeah, I figured. That's why I'm calling – to remind you that crying on your birthday is dramatic, even for you." His tone shifts slightly, losing some of its playfulness. "Seriously, Lace. You good?"

I glance toward the door, where I can hear someone moving around, wondering if my dad is pacing the length of the entryway. I press the phone tighter to my ear, lowering my voice, "I'm not crying."

"Good," Steve says, his voice softening. "That means you can stop hiding out at your dad's house. I know what you're doing."

"And what's that?" I challenge, though my voice lacks any real bite.

"Running away," he says simply. I laugh despite the annoyance building inside me, opening my mouth to argue, but the words catch in my throat. Steve, as usual, doesn't give me the chance to respond. "Come on, you're living at your dad's house," he says slowly, enunciating the word like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. "If that's not the definition of avoidance I don't know what is."

"I'm training," I mutter, my stomach twisting. "You know, trying to keep my spot on the team."

Steve's laugh comes through the line, loud and unapologetic. "No one's giving away your spot on the team."

I twist the phone cord tighter. "What's your point, Harrington?"

"People miss you, " Steve pauses, letting out a heavy breath, "even Hargrove has noticed you're gone."

I swallow, feeling my heart thud against my chest. "What are you talking about?"

"He asked about you at the basketball potluck last night." Steve pauses, like he's trying to choose his words carefully, "He'll never admit it, but he cares about you or at least cares about what you think of him."

I blink, letting the words sink in. "You're lying."

"You know I'm not," Steve quips, but his tone is still teasing.

I pace the small study, the cord stretching as I move. "What did he say?"

"He asked me if you would be home for your birthday," Steve replies, and I can hear the smirk in his voice, "but I told him that I wasn't picking you up until New Years Eve."

I can't help it – my lips twitch into a small smile, but it quickly fades. "Why are you telling me this, Steve? You're the one who told me I deserved better."

"I did," Steve says, his voice serious again, "and you do, but you're even more miserable now, Lace and clearly he's too stupid to admit that he is too."

"So, what?" I ask, the weight of Steve's words settling over me, "You're part of the Hargrove fanclub now?"

"God no," Steve laughs resentfully, "but I want you to want to come home and I figured you would if you knew that he was waiting for you."

"That's a stretch," I laugh, trying not to hurt my own feelings, "you said it yourself — he'll never admit it."

"Fine, you don't have to jump back into anything with him," Steve argues, his tone playful again, "but you do need to come home and figure it out."

I smile, finally releasing the phone cord. "Soon. I have a few more days to train with my dad," I say, ignoring the way Steve sighs in disappointment. He doesn't get it and I don't have the time to explain it to him. I'll face Billy eventually, but for now – my dad and tennis are about all I can handle.

"Alright, just don't wait too long," Steve says. "Happy Birthday, Lacy."

The line goes dead, and I hang up the phone, letting the cord slowly coil back into place, and press my palms into the edge of the desk. The knot in my chest tightens and loosens at the same time, Steve's words echoing in my mind.

Running away sounds dramatic, but maybe Steve has a point. It's just easier here, hiding behind my dad's expectations, where everything is already figured out for me.

I head back toward the entryway, where Dad is already standing with the front door open, his usual impatient expression firmly in place. I can feel the weight of his expectations settle over me, just like always.

"Finally ready?" he asks, his voice clipped.

"Yeah," I say, tightening my grip on the bag strap. I glance at Helen, who offers me a small, encouraging smile from the kitchen, but I don't allow myself to linger. Dad has been waiting long enough and I hate giving him a reason to criticize me more than he already does.

The drive to the courts is quiet, the radio a faint hum beneath the sound of the car engine. I stare out the window, trying to focus on the rhythm of my heart, but Steve's words are still there, poking at the edges of my thoughts. People miss you, even Hargrove. My stomach twists at the thought.

"I want to see you focus," Dad says sharply, pulling me from my thoughts. "We only have today and tomorrow left and as far as I'm concerned, this is just like any other day," he adds dismissively, as if my birthday is a trivial inconvenience.

I don't answer him. I just grab my bag and follow him into the indoor courts. The familiar squeaking of tennis shoes and the rhythmic beat of tennis balls against the court are a heavy reminder of everything I still need to prove.

The slap of the ball against my racket creates a rhythm, but it's offbeat, messy. My shoulder protests with every warm-up swing, but I clench my jaw and narrow my eyes on my father across the court. Dad moves with an ease I've never mastered, his stance loose yet precise. He sends the ball sailing toward me again, forceful and deliberate.

I manage to return it, but it's sloppy, and he counters with a hit that whizzes past me, grazing strands of hair escaping from my ponytail.

I flinch, but not out of fear of the ball. It's frustration—three days of training, and I'm still not good enough. Steve's words cut through my thoughts like the ball slicing through the air: People miss you, even Hargrove.

"Lacy!" Dad's voice snaps me back to the present, sharp and pointed. "What was that?"

"I slipped," I lie, rolling my shoulder. "Let's go again."

Dad's eyes narrow, flicking to my shoulder, but he doesn't comment. Instead, he shakes his head, swinging his racket with practiced precision. "Push through it."

Push through it. That's his solution to everything. Sheer willpower. But maybe Steve was right—maybe I've been playing Dad's way for so long that I've forgotten I could play my own. I crouch a little lower, settling into position as Dad serves again.

The ball sails toward me with speed and force, but instead of matching his power, I adjust my grip and redirect it with a softer hit, angling it toward the inside corner of the court. Dad scrambles to reach it, his footing awkward as he stretches for the return.

"Not bad," he grunts, brushing himself off like the shot barely fazed him, but I catch the flicker of surprise in his eyes. It's small, fleeting, but it stokes something in me.

Play smart, not strong.

I toss the ball into the air for my next serve, my grip firm but relaxed. I don't focus on hitting it as hard as I can—this time, I focus on where I want it to go. The ball curves just enough to force Dad to pivot, his balance momentarily faltering. My lips twitch into a small smile as I ready myself for the return.

Each rally becomes a test of strategy instead of brute force. By the time we finish, my shoulder still aches, but it's a different kind of pain—earned, not endured.

Dad picks up my bag, nodding toward the door. "That's more like it," he says gruffly, and though his tone is far from warm, there's a hint of approval.

I settle into the passenger seat, my shoulder aching, but my thoughts are louder than the pain. For the past three days I've been convincing myself that being here is about proving something – to Dad, to myself, but for what? I've never needed Dad's approval to play well before. I've never needed him to care about my shoulder to know the injury is real. Yet, here I am letting his expectations weigh me down like lead.

The house is quiet when we return, save for the soft hum of Helen's voice in the kitchen and the muffled clink of dishes being washed. I mutter something about taking a shower and head upstairs before Dad has a chance to sit me down for anything else. The ache in my shoulder throbs with each step, a physical reminder of the day's frustrations, but it's the words swirling in my head that weigh the heaviest.

People miss you, even Hargrove.

I shut my bedroom door and lean against it, letting out a shaky breath. The day feels endless, and despite everything I've told myself, Steve's words stick. Billy Hargrove might care – he might care in his own, stupid, arrogant way. I picture the way he reached for the mixtape, how his fingers hesitated for it in front of me, but he still listened. He still wanted me to know that he had listened and enjoyed it and thought about me the way I had wanted him too.

Shaking my head, I push away the thoughts and reach for my suitcase. If nothing else, packing will give me something to focus on and ensure that I'll be ready to go when Steve is here in two days. I start with the tennis gear I know I won't need, neatly folding the items I've been living out of for the past few days. My fingers slow as I reach for my sweatshirt, the one I had worn the last night I saw him.

The memory flickers like a fragile flame, warming and hurting all at once. I shove it into the bag before I can think too hard about it. There's no point in dwelling. I'll see him at New Years, assuming that Tori still plans on dragging me to the party at Nicole's. It'll give me time to figure out what to say – if there's anything left to say.

The phone rings and without thinking, I feel my legs hurry down the stairs, like the phone calling specifically for me. Dad and Helen are sitting in the living room, ignoring the shrill ring for the news. I reach for the phone in the kitchen, half-expecting Steve again.

There's a pause on the other end, followed by a familiar, hesitant drawl. "Happy birthday, Henderson."

Billy.

My breath catches, and for a moment, I forget how to speak. "Billy?" I finally manage, the name coming out softer than I intended.

"Expecting someone else?" His voice sounds unsteady, like he's testing the waters, waiting for me to drop the other shoe.

"No," I admit, leaning against the wall, wishing that the kitchen doorway had a door to close from my father's prying eyes, "you're the only one that hasn't called."

"Yeah," he admits carefully, "basketball started back up. Coach has been riding us."

"Well," I hesitate, unsure of what else to say to him, "thanks for calling."

There's a short pause, and when he speaks again, his tone shifts. "Harrington still picking you up?"

The question surprises me and I feel myself pressing the receiver closer to my ear, turning away from my dad and Helen in the other room. "Yeah, New Year's Eve," I answer, my voice quieter. "Steve said he'll be here first thing in the morning."

Billy doesn't respond right away and I wonder if I've said the wrong thing. Finally, he clears his throat. "Call me when you get home?"

The way he says it, feels off, like he's bracing for disappointment. "I'm sure I'll see you –" I start, but he cuts me off.

"I have something for you," he says, clearing his throat, "don't overthink it, Lacy. Just call me?"

I can't tell if he's being sincere or teasing me, but my mouth goes a little dry, picturing what Billy Hargrove could possibly have to give me. "Like a birthday gift?" I ask, feeling my own voice now lift with a smile.

"I said 'don't overthink it'," Billy sighs, but his tone is soft again, "just promise you'll call me."

"I'll call you when I'm home," I say, my voice steadier now, "but it better be a really good birthday gift."

Billy hesitates before answering, his voice a little tighter. "It will be. See you soon."

I hang up the phone, the receiver still warm in my hand. I stand there, staring at the wall as if the conversation might play itself back. Don't overthink it, he'd said. Right. That's easier said than done when it comes to Billy Hargrove. I turn away from the phone and head back upstairs to finish packing. Each step feels heavier than the last, as if my body is protesting leaving this behind this weird limbo I've created for myself at Dad's house.

In the guest room, I close the suitcase and set it by the door, turning off the light before crawling into bed. The pillow feels cool against my cheek, and the quiet of the house feels almost comforting. My body aches in a way that promises sleep will come quickly, and yet my thoughts keep circling: to tennis, to Billy, to what he might have for me, but eventually the exhaustion wins, and I drift into a restless sleep.

The dream starts the same way it always does. The woods are too dark, the air too still, and every sound feels amplified: the crunch of leaves underfoot, the distant howl of a demodog in the distance, the pounding of my own heartbeat in my ears.

I can feel it before I see it – the presence. It's not just lurking in the shadows this time. It's closer, the weight of its gaze pressing down on my shoulders like a physical force. Usually, my feet feel rooted to the spot, even as every instinct screams for me to run, but this time – my legs push forward, a new curiosity sweeping over me, like I need a better look.

In the distance of the clearing, the figure steps into view, just at the edge, still far enough away that the details are distorted. Its shape is human, a smudged outline that doesn't quite belong, doesn't feel human despite the curve of its shoulders or the way that it stands. My breath catches, my chest tightening as the figure tilts its head to study me. It takes a step closer, and my vision blurs. The woods spin around me, the ground tilting beneath my feet. My legs itch to run, but I force myself to stay still. If I run, it will follow. If I stay, I can see what it wants – or at least decide for myself when to move. I take a shaky step forward, and the woods tilt, spinning me into darkness. The last thing I see before I wake it is its outstretched hand reaching toward me.

I jolt upright, kicking at the blankets that have coiled around my legs, gasping to catch my breath. The room is dark, the shadows of the furniture stretching across the walls. For a moment, I can't move, the remnant of the dream clinging to me like cobwebs.

The sound of my rapid breathing fills the silence, and I press a hand to my chest, trying to slow the frantic rhythm of my heart. Just a nightmare. They're not real. They can't hurt me. The gate is closed.

But this time, it felt different. Closer. Real.

My mouth is dry and my skin feels clammy, like the nightmare still hasn't fully let go of me. Without thinking, I rip the blankets off of me, slinking out of the bed, and carefully down the stairs to the study. There's only one person I want to talk to, one person who I know can make me feel sane despite how rattled my insides feel. I reach for the phone on the desk, my fingers dialing the numbers on their own, and it's not until the line rings that I glance at the clock on the wall – 2:14 a.m.

I panic, slamming the receiver back into place before it can ring a third time. My hands trembling as I let out a shaky breath, closing my eyes. Stupid. You just woke up the entire house.

The phone rings almost immediately, startling me so bad I nearly knock it off the desk. My pulse races as I pick it up, pressing it to my chest and straining to hear if there's any movement upstairs. When I am content with the stillness of the house, I lift the phone to my ear, "Hello?"

"Why'd you hang up?" Billy's voice is quiet, rough, like he's been awake as long as I have.

"I – I didn't want to wake up your dad," I stammer, sinking onto the edge of the chair. My voice sounds small, even to me. "I'm sorry, did I wake you?"

"No," he says, the word soft and sure. "I was awake. You okay?"

I exhale shakily, pressing the receiver closer. "Yeah… I'm fine," I say quickly, though the words feel hollow. I'm not fine, not after that nightmare, but admitting that feels too vulnerable, even if it's Billy. "I didn't mean to call so late."

"You're a terrible liar, Henderson." Billy sighs, but there's a lightness in tone that pulls a faint smile from me despite the lingering fear coiling in my chest, "Same nightmare?"

I can picture the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, and it's enough to ease some of the tension in my shoulders. "Different, but the same," I admit lamely, staring at the darkened window across the room. The nightmare feels like it's still lingering just outside, heavy and oppressive.

There's a beat of silence on the other end, and then Billy exhales slowly. "They're not real, Lacy. It's a trauma response, when something bad happens your brain has a hard time letting it go."

"They don't feel like nothing," I say, tucking my feet under me.

"They never do," Billy agrees, but there's a slight edge of concern to his voice. I swallow, suddenly longing for the warmth of his body next to mine. "You want to talk about it?"

I hesitate, unsure how to explain the recurring nightmare without sounding ridiculous. "It's always the same," I say finally. "The woods, something watching me, getting closer. It's usually the demodog, but tonight it looked almost human."

Billy doesn't laugh or tease me, the way I expect him to. Instead he exhales slowly, his tone softening again, "You sure it's not Freddy Krueger?"

A breathy laugh escapes me, surprising even myself. "Billy," I say, "this is serious."

"Okay," he says, and I can hear the faint rustle of movement on his end, "I can just come get you."

The way he says it makes my heart skip a beat with surprise, but I try to not let myself linger on the suggestion, overthink the idea of sneaking away in the middle of the night. "I promised my dad I'd finish one more day of training."

Billy doesn't argue, but I can hear the way his breath slows, like he's measuring his words. "I can make it there in twenty minutes," he adds, "just call if you change your mind."

His words are so unexpected, so uncharacteristically gentle, that the knot in my chest almost comes completely undone and I almost tell him to come, to bring me home. We can go back to the way things were, but before I can form the words, Billy's voice continues, soft and low. "Lacy," he calls, like he can hear the unraveling within me, "I miss you, okay?"

For a moment, I can't respond, my breath stills at his words. "You miss me?" I ask, swallowing the shock, scared that it'll break whatever fragile honesty he's offering me.

"I'm not saying it again," Billy mutters, but there's no bite to his tone. If anything, he sounds tired, like he's been holding the words back for too long. "Yeah, Henderson. I miss you."

I swallow hard, running my hand over my legs before pinching the soft skin of my thigh. I'm not dreaming. This is real.

"What are we going to do?" I ask, the corners of my mouth twitching despite myself. I should be annoyed, angry that it took him this long, but once again I am right back where I started, hanging on Billy's every word.

"Just… come home, alright?" he says, and I can hear the tension in his words, like he's trying to say more without pushing too far.

I nod, even though he can't see me. "Soon."

"Good." There's a pause, and I think he's about to say something else, but instead I hear the faint rustle of the phone shifting on his end. "Get some sleep, Henderson."

"You too," I whisper, the warmth in my chest lingering even after the line goes dead.

Billy Hargrove misses me – both a comfort and a terror all at once. Back in my room, I sink onto the edge of the bed, running a hand over the blanket as if to steady myself. I glance at the packed suitcase by the door, the sweatshirt still folded neatly inside. I shouldn't let his words affect me the way they do, shouldn't let myself feel hopeful or fragile or any of the messy things Billy always pulls out of me.

But I do.

I lie down, pulling the blankets up to my chin, the shadows of my room soft and quiet now. My body aches for sleep, but my mind hums with unanswered questions, memories, and what-ifs. Somewhere in the middle of it all, I feel the faintest flicker of something warm, something fragile.

Maybe it was the uncharacteristic warmth in his voice, or the surprising sincerity of his words, but they linger. Either way, I don't fight it, but I do try to shove it aside and remind myself that Billy doesn't get to have the upperhand in this game. Admitting that he misses me is not enough to fulfill what I want from him. I close my eyes and though sleep doesn't come quickly, the nightmare doesn't return, and I can finally feel the knot completely melt away.