Chapter 4 blaschko

Alex

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The bell rings, echoing through the halls like a starter pistol, and within seconds, the corridor fills with noise. Locker doors slam, sneakers squeak, and the buzz of half-finished conversations fills the air. I keep my head low as I twist open my locker, switching out my books, trying to stay in my own lane.

I feel them before I see them—two of the football guys, the loud kind that think they own the damn school. Carson and Brigg. I don't even have to look up to know it's them. They've been on my case since freshman year.

"Yo, Lowe," Carson says, leaning too close. I catch his smirk out of the corner of my eye. "You ever heard of a loofah, man? Or a dermatologist?"

Brigg laughs, loud and fake. "Dude's got tiger stripes. Maybe if he scrubs hard enough, they'll come off."

I freeze for a second, that old familiar heat crawling up my neck. I've heard it all before—every insult, every joke about my skin. The Blaschko lines I was born with? They're just part of me. I've learned to live with them. But that doesn't mean the jabs don't land sometimes.

I shut my locker a little harder than necessary, trying to ignore them, but Carson steps in front of me. "Nah, for real though. Do you even know what's wrong with you? You look like some freaky science experiment."

I open my mouth, ready to say something—I don't even know what—but before I can, I hear a sharp voice cut through the air like a slap.

"Wow," Livia says, heels clicking as she strides toward us, ponytail bouncing. "That's cute. You two clowns still think you're relevant?"

Carson turns, caught off guard. "What?"

She plants herself right in front of them, one hand on her hip, the other holding her iced coffee like a weapon. "Newsflash: making fun of someone's skin isn't edgy or funny. It's pathetic. Y'all are just jealous because Alex is actually so fucking hot and has something unique going for him. Unlike you two—same basic haircut, same basic jokes, same basic boring-ass white boy energy. Get lost."

Brigg opens his mouth, but she lifts a brow and he shuts it again like a coward. The hallway's gone a little quieter now, students nearby pretending not to watch but definitely listening.

Carson mutters something under his breath and grabs Brigg's arm. "Let's go, man. Freakin' psychos." And just like that, they're gone, shoving their way through the crowd.

I blink, still standing there. Livia turns to me with a satisfied little smile.

"You good?" she asks, like she didn't just verbally body slam two dudes in broad daylight.

I clear my throat. "Yeah. Uh... thanks for that."

She shrugs like it's nothing. "Whatever. I hate those guys. Always think they can tear someone down to make themselves feel bigger. Losers."

I nod, the corner of my mouth twitching up. "Still. Appreciate it."

She leans a little closer, smirking. "Don't mention it. I've got your back, Lowe. Besides," she says with a wink, "you are hot."

And with that, she twirls around and walks off down the hall like it was just another Tuesday.

I stand there for a second, stunned. But under all of it—the awkwardness, the stares—I feel something warm spread through my chest. Gratitude. Livia might be loud and chaotic, but today? She made me feel seen.

And that... that means more than I can say.

After school, I head home, my backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. The driveway's mostly empty—Kethan's car is gone, probably at hockey practice. My parents' SUV isn't here either. For a split second, I think I've scored some rare peace and quiet.

But the moment I step inside, that illusion cracks.

The crinkle of a chip bag and the low sound of a TV humming from the living room hits my ears, and when I round the corner, I stop dead in my tracks.

There she is.

Chelsea.

Sitting on the couch mid-bite, holding an open bag of Hot Cheetos like she owns the place. Her knees are tucked up, a throw blanket hanging half off her legs, and she's in a tiny black crop top and those skin-tight spandex shorts that leave nothing to the imagination. Her hair's up in a messy bun, loose black blue strands falling around her face, and her eyes go wide when she sees me.

And just like that—boom—my brain short circuits.

She's so fine. Like, dangerously fine. Like you-should-not-be-looking-at-your-brother's-girlfriend-like-this fine. And yet... here I am. Staring.

I clear my throat, trying to reel myself in.

"I didn't think anyone would be home," I say quickly, dragging my eyes to the TV like that'll save me. "Didn't see your car."

Chelsea swallows her bite and wipes her fingers on a napkin. "Oh. Yeah. Kethan dropped me off. Said to just hang here until he's done with practice."

"Right." I nod, still hovering in the entryway like a weirdo. "Cool."

She shifts a little, adjusting the blanket over her lap, and the room suddenly feels hotter. My ears are burning, my jaw tight.

Get a grip, Alex.

But then she smiles—small, soft, almost shy—and it twists something in my chest. That same feeling I've been trying to kill for months. The one I've buried beneath loyalty and guilt.

She's with Kethan. My brother.

Doesn't matter what I feel.

Even if that look in her eyes right now feels like something more than friendly.

Even if being alone with her right now is dangerous.

Even if she looks like every dream I've ever had but never dared say out loud.

I toss my keys on the table and try to act normal.

"You want anything? Water? Something better than flaming chips of death?"

She laughs—low and real—and shrugs. "I'm good. Just killing time."

Yeah. That makes two of us.

I walk into the kitchen, grab a water bottle, and lean against the counter—far enough to keep space between us, close enough to still look at her without being obvious about it. She crunches on another chip, then glances over at me.

"So... Kethan's birthday's this weekend," she says, like she's testing the waters.

I nod, twisting the cap off my bottle. "Yeah. Big nineteen."

She raises an eyebrow. "He wants to do something huge. Like, party-big."

"That sounds about right," I mutter, then instantly regret the bitterness in my voice.

She notices, of course. Chelsea always notices. Her lips press into a line before she speaks again. "He said something about renting out that cabin by the lake."

"Figures." I exhale a dry laugh. "He's been talking about that place since last year."

She picks at the corner of the chip bag, her voice softer now. "You going?"

I shrug. "If the whole team's going, yeah. Hard to skip your own brother's birthday without raising questions."

She nods but doesn't say anything. The silence hums between us—not awkward, just heavy. Like we're both thinking too many things and not saying any of them.

Then I break it.

"We've got a game next weekend, too. Away match."

Chelsea lights up a little, sitting straighter. "Yeah, I know. Kethan's been freaking out about it."

I smirk. "Of course he has. It's against the Westbrooke Lions."

"Their goalie's insane, right?"

"Yeah," I say, surprised she knows that. "But we've got a shot. Especially if Kethan doesn't lose his temper in the second period."

She smiles faintly, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "You always play better when he starts losing it."

That catches me off guard. "You've been watching?"

She meets my gaze, and something clicks behind her expression. "I watch more than you think."

The air between us shifts—thicker now. Heavier.

She looks away quickly, standing up to toss the chip bag in the trash. "Anyway," she says, brushing off her hands, "should be a fun weekend."

"Yeah," I say, barely above a whisper. "Fun."

But inside, all I can think is: How the hell am I supposed to survive a weekend away... with her and Kethan... under the same damn roof?