MARCO

Saturday mornings usually mean two things: sleeping in and eating cereal straight from the box while watching cartoons. Classic Marco behavior. But today? I'm wide awake, lying in bed with a goofy grin plastered on my face like I just won the lottery.

And maybe I did.

Last night, I kissed Rachel.

Let me repeat that for the people in the back— I. Kissed. Rachel.

And she kissed me back.

Many, many times.

And these weren't some friendly, "happy birthday" kisses on the cheek. Nope. These were full-on, heart-racing, breath-stealing, are we really doing this? kinds of kisses. Her hands were in my hair, her body was close, and I'm pretty sure my brain chemistry has been irreparably altered.

I'm crazy about her. I've known that for a while, but last night? It hit me like a brick to the face—she's not just a crush. She's it. The way she laughed, the way she held me, the way she kissed me like the world wasn't crumbling around us… I don't know. It felt like everything.

And okay, yeah, I'm usually pretty laid back. Nothing rattles me for long. But this? This has me spinning in a way I didn't see coming. I've always known Rachel was amazing—brave, smart, beautiful—but last night, it was like seeing her in a whole new light. Or maybe I finally let myself admit what I've been ignoring. And now, after everything that happened between us, I think—no, I know—she feels the same.

Now I can't stop smiling. I'm lying here like some sappy rom-com lead, replaying every second in my head. The way she looked at me with those fierce, beautiful eyes, like I was the only person who mattered. It's ridiculous. I've faced Hork-Bajir, Visser Three, and about a hundred near-death experiences, but Rachel's smile? That's what does me in.

If the Yeerks don't kill me, my own cheesy thoughts might.

Though for the first night in a while, we slept in separate beds. Which… was probably wise, considering it took all of my limited self-control not to sneak over and continue the kissing marathon.

But it also means I have no idea what she's thinking or feeling now in the light of day.

Hopefully just as stupidly giddy as me. Because let me tell you—I could die a happy man right now.

Because I kissed Rachel.

Just in case you missed that part.

But as much as I'd love to show up at her place and pick up where we left off, I've got other plans today: Dad Day.

Don't get me wrong, I love spending time with my dad. He's been… different lately. In a good way. Things were pretty rough after my mom died, but it's like he finally snapped out of some fog and remembered how to be the guy I used to look up to. The guy who made terrible puns and actually listened when I talked.

Today, we're hitting up the arcade. Spoiler: I always wipe the floor with him. Okay, maybe he occasionally lets me win, but let's not ruin the illusion. Afterward, it's burgers and shakes at our favorite hole-in-the-wall diner downtown. The kind with greasy fries, flickering neon signs, and a jukebox that only plays songs older than he is. Perfection.

Except for the part where my mom won't be there.

Because she's still out there, trapped with a Yeerk in her head.

I can't tell him that. Can't ruin this fragile happiness he's finally clawed back. Losing her once nearly broke him. If he knew her fate? It would destroy him. So I'll slap on a smile, crack a joke about his sad arcade skills, and keep pretending everything's fine.

It's what I do best, right?

/

We're heading back home when he pulls the car into this old, half-empty lot. I raise an eyebrow. "What's up? You forget something?"

He grins. "Not exactly. Come on."

We get out, and he leads me over to a beat-up Jeep parked in the corner. It's ancient—faded forest green, with rust chewing away at the doors like it's hungry. One of the side mirrors is cracked, and the driver's seat is being held together with duct tape and, presumably, hope. It's the kind of car you'd see in a movie where the underdog mechanic fixes it up just in time to save the day.

I blink at it. Then at him. "You brought me here to show me some junker?"

"It's not just any junker," he says, holding up a key. "It's your junker."

For a second, I just stare at him. Then the Jeep. Then back at him. "Wait, you're serious?"

"Dead serious. Figured it's time you had your own wheels. It's nothing fancy, but it runs. And it's got… character."

I take the key, staring at it like it might vanish if I blink too hard. "Dad, this is… this is awesome."

He claps me on the back, his grin stretching wider. "Figured you'd like it. Now don't go getting yourself into trouble."

"No promises," I say, already imagining the places I'll take it. Missions. Late-night taco runs. Road trips with the gang. Maybe the beach, with Rachel in the passenger seat, her hair blowing in the wind. College next year—if we make it that far.

It's not just a vehicle. It's freedom.

"Thanks, Dad," I say, and I mean it. For the Jeep. For today. For everything.

He smiles back, and for a moment, it actually feels like everything might be okay. His eyes go a little watery, and I feel that telltale sting in mine.

"Well, bud," he says, "why don't you take it out? Go show off your new junker to your friends."

I can't stop grinning.

I know exactly where I'm going first.

/

I drive to her house in the Jeep, grinning like an idiot. Every rattle and groan from the engine just makes it feel more real. The sun's dipping low, throwing golden streaks across the windshield, and I keep adjusting the rearview mirror, trying to make sure my hair doesn't look totally tragic. Not that Rachel would care. At least… I hope she wouldn't.

But the closer I get, the more that grin fades. I'm weirdly nervous. And I don't get nervous about Rachel. She's Rachel. Beautiful and terrifying and brilliant and sharp enough to cut you with a glance. But now? After last night?

What if she regrets it? What if it was the adrenaline, the surprise, the sugar crash from too much cake? What if she sees me now and all she feels is… nothing?

I park in her driveway. No morphing. No sneaking. Just me, walking up to the front door like a normal guy hoping to see the girl he likes.

Jordan answers the door. "Hey, Marco," she says, already grinning. "How was the birthday?"

"Best ever," I say honestly. "Thanks for the cake. I didn't know I needed a giant gorilla-themed sugar monstrosity in my life until now."

She giggles. "Rachel's upstairs. She's in a mood."

Good to know.

I climb the stairs, trying not to overthink this. I knock lightly. "Hey… it's me."

A pause. Then, "Come in."

Rachel's sitting cross-legged on her bed, bent over her journal. Her long blonde hair's pulled up in a messy twist that probably took five seconds and still looks like it belongs in a shampoo commercial. She's in a baggy t-shirt and soft-looking leggings, and somehow unbelievably beautiful.

When she sees me, her cheeks go a little pink, and she snaps the journal shut a bit too fast.

I raise a brow, grinning. "Not writing about me are you?"

She huffs, blushing. Adorable. "And inflate your ego even more? You wish."

But she doesn't meet my eyes.

There's a beat. Her room is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels like it's waiting for something. The tension from last night hasn't gone anywhere—it's thicker now, heavier. But underneath it is something softer too. Tentative. Hopeful.

I lean against the doorframe. "So… any regrets? In the harsh, unforgiving light of day?"

She hesitates. That flicker of vulnerability in her eyes hardens into something sharp, guarded.

"No," she says. "Not… exactly."

I tilt my head. "'Not exactly' sounds like your mom's lawyer-speak for yes."

She stands abruptly. Arms fold across her chest like armor—like if she presses hard enough, she won't fall apart. "Not because of the kissing," she says quickly. "Because of… us."

"Okay…" I say slowly, watching my step like the floor's wired with trip mines. "You wanna elaborate before I start spiraling?"

"I don't know," she snaps—then softens just as quickly. "Sorry. I just… I didn't sleep."

"You look it," I say gently. "Rough night?"

She gives the smallest nod. Still not looking at me.

I want to ask. I want to know what chased her through her dreams after we agreed to sleep apart. I want to wrap my arms around her and promise I'll fight every ghost, every nightmare, real or imagined. But I wait. Because she's Rachel. And Rachel doesn't do vulnerability unless the world's already cracking open.

"Marco, last night was—"

"Amazing?" I offer. "Life-changing? The single greatest moment in either of our young, chaotic lives?"

She glares. And for a heartbeat, I see her— really see her. The girl who once ripped apart a Taxxon with her own severed bear arm. "Stupid," she finishes. "It was stupid."

Ah.

So we're doing this today.

I cross my arms, trying not to flinch. "Stupid, huh? Guess we had very different evenings."

"Marco—"

"No, it's fine," I say, cutting in before she can twist the knife. "We're in a war. People die. Emotions are dangerous. Kissing is a tactical error. Message received."

"This isn't a joke."

"I'm not joking." I take a step closer, just enough to make her look at me. "If you regret it, say it. I'll deal. But don't call it stupid just because it scared you."

Her jaw tightens.

Bingo.

She looks away. "Marco, this thing—whatever it is—it can't happen again. It's dangerous. We need to stay focused."

"You think I'm not focused?" I ask, trying not to sound hurt. "You think kissing you made me forget there's a war?"

"No. But it complicates things."

"Yeah. So does caring. So does hoping for something after this. So does being human."

She doesn't respond.

"Last night," I say, softer now, "I felt like myself again. Like maybe the world isn't just blood and screaming and losing people. I don't know what it was for you, but for me? It mattered."

She looks down. Her hands are fists at her sides.

I move closer, slow and careful.

She tenses—but doesn't move away. Her eyes lift to mine. It's like standing on the edge of a cliff—one wrong step and we both go over.

"Blondie," I say, quiet, teasing. "You really think you're gonna scare me off that easy?"

"Marco…"

"We kissed," I remind her. "A lot. It wasn't a fluke. It wasn't sugar highs and adrenaline. It was real. It was us. And I'm not going to pretend it didn't happen."

Her eyes dart to the door. The bed. Back to me. "It's just… complicated."

I grin. "Of course it is. It's you."

That earns a reluctant smirk. Small, but real.

"I just don't want anyone to get hurt," she murmurs—and there it is. The real fear. Not the war. Not the mission. This.

"I know." I reach out, brushing my knuckles along her arm. Just enough contact to say I'm still here. "We don't have to name it. We don't have to tell anyone. No labels. No declarations. No press tour."

I pause. Let the silence breathe.

"But I'm not walking away," I say. "So if you're planning to shove me out the window and pretend none of this happened…"

I lean in, close enough to share the same breath.

"…you better hit the weights, because I'm not so easy to push around anymore."

She lets out a sound—half sigh, half laugh. And damn, it's everything.

I let her sit in that moment, then speak again, softer. "If you need space, I'll give it. If you want to go slow, we'll crawl. But I'm not pretending last night didn't mean something. And I'm not walking away from you. Not unless you ask me to."

She still doesn't speak.

So I reach for her hand. Slow. Giving her every chance to pull away.

She doesn't.

Her fingers are cold. But they curl around mine.

"I'm yours, Rachel," I whisper. "Even if you can't say it back. Even if you never can. I'm still yours."

Her eyes close.

And for a moment, just one fragile breath—

—I see the wall crack.

Just a little.

Just enough.