hallway crush → lovers
— part three: panic in c-sharp
a/n: entering friend-zone?
WC: 2.2k
intro - part 1 - part 2 - part 4 - part 5 - part 6
after the project ends, everything snaps back to how it was before: you and hollis are just two people who share the same oxygen in the hallways and nothing else.
you go back to stealing glances across lockers. he goes back to pretending he doesn’t notice. nova still drags you to class by your sleeve whenever you freeze mid-step. the only proof anything ever happened is the two texts sitting in your phone like evidence in a murder trial.
unknown number: got up safe?
you: yup! I’m home, lucki’s already asleep lol. thank you again for the ride and the food, i really appreciate it 🙇🏻♀️ have a good night!
you reread them every night until your phone dies. you hate how polite you sound. you hate that you used the bowing emoji. you hate that you’re back to being the hallway ghost.
friday, third period history. you’re zoning out, drawing Lucki in the margins of your notes when your phone buzzes.
brianna posted a story: neon flyer, tomorrow night, some warehouse downtown. nova immediately forwards it with seventeen screaming emojis and the words we HAVE to go.
you are not a party person. not even a little. you love music, you love dancing, but only when it’s you and Nova in her bedroom with the LED lights on red and the volume loud enough to rattle your ribcage. the idea of bodies packed together, drunk strangers touching you, bass that feels like a heart attack; it makes your skin crawl before you even leave the house.
but nova has been patient with how distant you’ve been lately.
you owe her.
and hollis will probably be there. (Don’t think about that. Don’t.)
you tell yourself you’ll just step outside when it gets too much. you’ll be fine.
saturday night you stand in front of your mirror forever. nothing feels right. everything feels like a costume that doesn’t fit. you keep thinking about the outfit Brianna posted on her story; tiny, glittery, perfect. You end up in baggy black cargo pants, a baby tee you cropped yourself last year, and the biggest hoodie you own (your mom’s old one that still smells faintly like her vanilla perfume and hospital soap). you look like you’re going to a gas station at 2 a.m., not a party. whatever.
nova honks twice. you paint on a smile and slide into her passenger seat.
the warehouse is already choking when you arrive. strobe lights slice through artificial fog, the DJ booth is a glowing island in the middle of a sea of bodies, tables lining the walls are covered in half-empty bottles and bowls of stale bar nuts. It smells like vodka, sweat, and twelve different Victoria’s Secret body sprays at war.
an hour in, nova has vanished into a group of juniors you vaguely recognize. you’re posted up by a concrete pillar pretending to text, which is code for trying not to have a meltdown.
then you see him.
hollis is leaning against the far wall, hood up, phone in one hand, looking like he’d rather be literally anywhere else. brianna is glued to his side, talking a mile a minute, acrylics wrapped around his forearm like she’s afraid he’ll float away. every time she laughs she throws her head back so her hair swishes. he barely reacts. just keeps scrolling.
you didn’t expect him to look… overwhelmed. you figured he’d be in the middle of the floor, drink in hand, girls orbiting him like he’s gravity. Instead he looks exactly how you feel: counting down the seconds until escape is socially acceptable.
the song changes to one you and Nova used to scream in her car last summer. she appears out of nowhere, arms flailing.
“Omg y/n come ON this is our song!!”
she grabs your wrist before you can say no and yanks you into the crowd.
you try. you really do. you smile with all your teeth, you sway, you let the bass vibrate in your chest like maybe it’ll fix you. but the bodies keep pressing closer, someone’s elbow digs into your ribs, a stranger’s sweaty arm slides across your neck, the lights are too bright and then too dark and then too bright again. The air is thick and hot and suddenly there’s no oxygen left on planet earth.
your heartbeat is in your ears louder than the music. your skin feels too small. you’re going to throw up or pass out or both, right here in front of everyone.
you need out.
you shove through the crowd, mumbling sorry sorry sorry even though no one can hear you, lungs burning. the fire-escape door is a red EXIT sign glowing like salvation. you slam the bar and stumble outside.
cold air hits you like a slap. you gulp it down, drop onto the metal stairs, and fold forward until your forehead touches your knees.
breathe. just breathe.
you’re still shaking when the door creaks again.
you don’t have to look up to know who it is. you’d know the sound of his footsteps anywhere now.
hollis doesn’t say anything at first. just lowers himself onto the step beside you; close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, far enough that you’re not touching. his rings clink softly against the railing as he braces his elbows on his knees.
minutes pass. or seconds. time feels broken.
“you alright?” his voice is quiet, rough from the noise inside.
you nod too fast. “yeah. just; needed air.”
he doesn’t call you a liar, but he doesn’t believe you either. you can tell by the way he exhales through his nose and glances sideways at you.
“I saw you bolt,” he says. “looked like you were drowning.”
your face burns. Great. he witnessed the whole pathetic thing.
“I get it,” he adds before you can die of embarrassment. “happens to me too sometimes.”
you finally look at him. his hood is still up, shadows cutting across his face, but his eyes are softer than you’ve ever seen them. not nonchalant. not smirking. Just… tired.
“you hate parties too?” you ask, voice small.
he huffs a laugh that has no business being that attractive. “love the music. hate the rest.”
you nod like that makes perfect sense. because it does.
another silence, but it’s not the choking kind. it’s almost… peaceful. city sounds float up from the street below; distant sirens, someone laughing too loud, tires screeching. the bass from inside is a dull heartbeat through the door.
he pulls out a pack of Marlboro Reds, taps one out, offers it to you without looking.
you dont really ever smoke marlboro, you lowkey think theyre gross (camel white lover), but your hands are shaking so bad you take it anyway.
he flicks his lighter—silver Zippo, of course—and cups the flame for you. you inhale, let the smoke leave your lungs slowly. relax.
you pass the cig back and forth.
you pull your knees tighter to your chest. “brianna’s probably looking for you.”
he shrugs. “she’ll live.”
You risk another glance. He’s staring at the skyline like it personally owes him money.
“i thought you’d be in the middle of all that,” you admit.
he turns his head. “you thought I’d be what, shotgun-ing beers and grinding on strangers?”
the way he says it; deadpan, one eyebrow raised; makes you snort before you can stop yourself.
“maybe,” you mumble.
he shakes his head, small smirk tugging at his mouth. “not my scene.”
you pick at a loose thread on your hoodie sleeve. “then why come?”
“same reason you did, probably.” He pauses. “someone asked.”
nova. brianna. same difference.
you both fall quiet again. your breathing has finally evened out. the cold metal seeps through your pants, grounding you.
after one last drag he puts the ciggerette out on the stairs.
he shifts, just barely, and the sleeve of his hoodie brushes your arm. Static electricity sparks where you touch; so light you might’ve imagined it.
“you don’t have to go back in,” he says suddenly.
“I know.”
“I mean; you could just… not. If you don’t want.”
you blink at him. “you trying to ditch with me?”
that gets you the tiniest real smile you’ve ever seen on him. it’s gone in a second, but it was there.
“maybe.”
your heart does something stupid
“c’mon. i can’t listen to this bass anymore.”
he offers his hand. you take it. he still doesn’t let go until you’re both down the fire escape and on solid ground.
his Audi’s parked half on the curb under a flickering streetlight. he opens the passenger door out of habit now, apparently. you slide in. the car smells like him—clove, leather, cold night air.
he starts the engine but doesn’t pull off. just sits there, fingers drumming on the wheel.
“you eat yet?” he asks.
you shake your head.
“there’s a twenty-four-hour McDonald’s five minutes away. you down?”
your stomach growls loud enough to answer for you. he smirks, pulls out.
the drive is quiet except for the lo-fi playlist he puts on low. you watch the city blur past—neon signs bleeding into puddles, homeless guys pushing carts, a club line still wrapped around the block at 1:47 a.m.
his phone lights up again on the console. brianna’s contact photo (a mirror selfie of them from homecoming last year, her lips on his cheek) flashes over and over.
you pretend you don’t see it.
at the drive-thru he doesn’t even ask what do you want, just orders:
“yeah uh, two large fries, two Oreo McFlurries, and a ten-piece, spicy.”
He glances at you. “you like spicy?”
You nod. He adds another ten-piece without blinking.
when they hand him the bag he passes it straight to you like you’re the designated holder. the McFlurries are already sweating in the cup holders.
he parks in the back of the lot under a busted light—far enough from the building that no employees can see inside the tinted windows, close enough that the Wi-Fi still reaches.
you both recline the seats a little. he eats fries one-handed, other arm stretched along the back of your seat without touching you.
his phone is going insane now. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
brianna ❤️:babe where are you hello??
hollis answer me
everyone’s asking where you went
this isn’t funny
he finally picks it up, thumbs flying.
you catch the message before he locks the screen again.
hollis: i’m good.
lost my charger
then he powers the whole phone off and tosses it into the backseat like it insulted his mother.
you take a bite of McFlurry to hide your face.
“she’s gonna be pissed,” you mumble around the spoon.
he shrugs, licks Oreo off his thumb. “she doesn’t get that we’re not together anymore. keeps forgetting.”
it’s barely above a whisper—like he didn’t mean to say it out loud—but you hear every syllable.
your heart does something traitorous and happy about it. which immediately makes you feel like actual garbage, because brianna is… brianna. and you’re eating stolen nuggets in a parking lot with her not-ex-boyfriend at 2 a.m.
you hate how good it feels.
he notices you’ve gone quiet. “you good?”
“yeah,” you lie. “just—brain’s loud.”
he nods like that’s the most relatable thing anyone’s ever said. reaches over, turns the music up a notch. some slowed + reverb version of “Something in the Way” fills the car.
you eat in silence for a while. the kind of silence that doesn’t need filling.
at one point your spoon scrapes the bottom of the cup too loud. he glances over, smirks.
“want the rest of mine?” he offers his half-finished McFlurry like it’s nothing.
you shake your head, cheeks burning. “i’m good.”
he shrugs, keeps eating.
when the food’s gone he balls up the bag, tosses it in the back with his dead phone. then he just… sits there. seat reclined, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it owes him rent money.
you mirror him without thinking. the car feels like a mile wide and also too small at the same time.
“you don’t have to take me home yet,” you whisper. “If you don’t want.”
he turns his head on the headrest, looks at you for a long second.
“didn’t plan on it.”
the way he says it—so casual, so certain—makes your ribs feel too tight.
so you stay.
2:37 a.m. turns into 3:12 a.m. turns into 3:58 a.m. you talk about nothing and everything: lucki’s separation anxiety, the way his mom texts him from Aspen like he’s supposed to care, how you both hate the smell of peach vapes, the fact that the McFlurry machine is never actually broken, they just lie.
st some point you kick your shoes off and tuck your feet under you.
he doesn’t comment.
when the sky starts turning that gross gray-blue color that means the world’s about to wake up, he finally starts the car.
the drive back to your building is quiet again, but softer now. When he parks in the same flickering spot as last time, he leaves the engine running.
you unbuckle, hesitate.
“thanks,” you say. “for… everything. the fire escape. the nuggets. the—” you gesture vaguely at the whole night.
he shrugs, but his mouth does that almost-smile thing. “anytime.”
you’re halfway out the door when he adds, voice low,
“text me when you’re inside, yeah?”
your heart tries to file a noise complaint.
you nod, throat too full of things you can’t say.
the elevator smells like weed and leftover chinese food again. lucki greets you at the door like you’ve been gone for years. you face-plant into bed still wearing your hoodie and someone else’s clove smoke in your hair.
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