Page 3 of Before You Fell

“Because I hate crust.”

He reaches for the notebook again.

I squeal, which is humiliating enough that I will be taking it to my grave, and twist onto my side. Phoenix is faster. He always has been grabbing what he wants and acting as if the world should hand it over just to see what he does with it.

His fingers hook around the edge of the notebook.

“Phoenix.”

“Willow.”

“Don’t.”

“Too late.”

He tugs. I grab for it, but he pulls it free and leans back, holding it just out of reach with that smug little smirk sitting on his mouth.

“Give it back,” I snap.

He presses the notebook against his chest. “Absolutely not.”

“Phoenix, don’t.”

He stops. Not because he suddenly grows a conscience. That would be a medical miracle. He stops because my voice changes.

His fingers loosen on the cover as his grin fades a little.

“Is it bad?” he asks.

I stare down at the notebook in his hands. The corners are bent. The cover is faded. There is a tiny star sticker on the front from when I was ten and thought stickers made everything better. I wish they still did. I wish I could slap one over my chest and fix whatever stupid thing keeps twisting there every time he looks at me too long.

“No,” I say quietly. “It’s just mine.”

Phoenix looks at me.

For one long second, he is too still for a boy who never stops moving. He is all noise most of the time. Mouth, grin, and trouble. A walking bad idea with too much swagger for someone who still has homework.

But right then, he goes quiet and leans back on one hand, the notebook still unopened in the other, and tips his face toward the branches as if he does not care either way.

“Fine.”

I blink. “Fine?”

“Yeah.” His mouth twitches, but it doesn’t quite become a smile. “Keep your tragic little secrets.”

“You’re tragic.”

“Probably.”

He says it quickly. Almost carelessly. But something in the word lands wrong.

I look at him then. Past the messy black hair and the grin he wears like armour. The cocky tilt of his chin that makes adults sigh and girls at school stare. His jaw is tight. His eyes are on the notebook, not me, and still he has not opened it.

“It’s just another song,” I say.

Heat climbs up my neck, which is ridiculous, because I write songs all the time. I show Phoenix half-finished lines, ugly choruses, verses that fall apart before they find their feet. He has seen my worst words and never once made me feel stupid for writing them.

But this one feels different.