Chapter 3: Pressure Points
The next day at school, the universe decided to test Jalen's patience.
It started in third period English. Mrs. Gable was droning on about The Great Gatsby, but she stopped mid-sentence to gaze fondly at the back row where Jalen and Naomi sat.
"It's interesting," she mused, adjusting her glasses. "The way Gatsby pines for Daisy. It reminds me of the devotion I see right here in this classroom. Some of you," she said, looking directly at Jalen, "know exactly who you want. Even if you haven't told them yet."
The class snickered. A few boys hooted. Naomi turned a shade of pink that matched her eraser. Jalen sunk low in his chair, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole.
"Devotion," Marcus whispered from the desk behind him. "That's a fancy word for 'whipped,' man."
"Shut up, Marcus," Jalen hissed.
By lunch, the teasing had reached a fever pitch. It was like the entire school had collectively decided that today was the day Jalen and Naomi finally became official. They were sitting at their usual table, but it felt less like a sanctuary and more like a stage.
"You gotta ask her to the dance, bro," said Tyrell, one of the juniors from the basketball team. He was sitting across from Micah, who was silently picking at a slice of pizza. "It's, like, a rite of passage. You guys are the power couple. We need the king and queen."
Jalen laughed, but it felt brittle. "We're just friends, Ty."
"Friends don't look at each other like that," Tyrell argued, grinning. "Come on. Micah, back me up. You see 'em together all the time. Don't you think they need to just lock it down?"
The table went quiet.
Jalen's stomach dropped. He looked down at his tray, his heart suddenly pounding in his throat. He didn't want to know what Micah thought. He didn't want to hear Micah agree that he and Naomi were perfect. That would be the final nail in the coffin.
Micah stopped picking at his pizza. He looked up, his expression unreadable, dark eyes scanning the faces at the table before landing on Jalen.
"I think," Micah said slowly, his voice low but clear, "that people should stop worrying about who Jalen is taking to the dance and let him make his own choices."
The silence that followed was heavy. Tyrell blinked, surprised by the sharpness in Micah's tone. Naomi stopped chewing.
Micah held Jalen's gaze for a second—a burning, intense look that made Jalen's hands shake. Then, without another word, Micah stood up, grabbed his tray, and walked away.
"What's his problem?" Tyrell muttered, watching Micah leave. "Guy's been touchy lately."
"Leave it alone," Naomi said quickly, her voice tight. She looked at Jalen, her eyes soft with concern. "You okay?"
Jalen watched Micah's retreating back—the tension in his shoulders, the way he shoved his tray into the rack with a little too much force.
"Yeah," Jalen said, though he felt like he was vibrating. "Yeah, I'm fine."
But he wasn't fine. Because Micah hadn't just defended him. Micah had sounded... jealous. Or protective. Or something Jalen wasn't brave enough to name.
Later that afternoon, Jalen found himself alone in the locker room. He'd stayed late to shoot some free throws, needing to burn off the restless energy that had been plaguing him all day. The gym was empty, the lights dimmed, the only sound the rhythmic squeak-thud of the ball against the hardwood.
He missed a shot. The ball bounced away, rolling toward the shadows under the bleachers.
Jalen jogged after it, bending down to scoop it up. When he straightened up, Micah was standing there.
He was leaning against the gym door, arms crossed over his chest, watching Jalen with that same intense, unreadable expression from lunch.
Jalen nearly dropped the ball. "Micah. I didn't know you were here."
"Clearly," Micah said. He pushed off the door and walked onto the court. His steps were slow, deliberate. "You stayed late."
"Just clearing my head," Jalen said. His mouth went dry. Micah was wearing his practice jersey, the fabric clinging to his chest. He smelled like deodorant and that distinct, sharp scent of gym floor. "You, uh... you were pretty intense at lunch."
Micah stopped a few feet away from him. He was close enough that Jalen could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his pulse beat in his throat.
"They were annoying me," Micah said simply.
"They were just joking," Jalen said, though his voice wavered.
"They were pushing you," Micah corrected. His eyes dropped to Jalen's hands, then back up to his face. "You don't like it when they push you and Naomi together. I can see it."
Jalen felt stripped bare. "It's not that I don't like Naomi. I do. She's great."
"But you don't want her," Micah said. It wasn't a question.
Jalen's breath hitched. He couldn't lie. Not here. Not with Micah looking at him like he was the only person in the world who mattered.
"I don't know what I want," Jalen whispered. It was the truth. He was confused, and scared, and overwhelmed. But looking at Micah, the confusion cleared just a little.
Micah took another step closer. The air between them felt thick, electric.
"You don't have to know right now," Micah said. His voice was rough, scraping against Jalen's nerves. "But you don't have to let them decide for you, either."
Jalen looked up at him, searching for something—permission, rejection, anything. But Micah's face was open, vulnerable in a way Jalen had never seen before.
For a second, Jalen thought Micah might reach out. He thought he might touch Jalen's arm, or brush the hair off his forehead. He wanted him to. God, he wanted him to so bad it hurt.
But Micah just stepped back, breaking the spell.
"See you at home, Jalen," Micah said, turning toward the door.
"See you, Micah," Jalen breathed.
He watched Micah leave, the gym door swinging shut behind him. Jalen stood there alone in the half-light, clutching the basketball to his chest, his heart racing like he'd just run a marathon.
He didn't know what was happening between them. He didn't know if anything was happening.
But for the first time, he thought maybe Micah didn't see him as Naomi's little accessory.
Maybe Micah saw him.