Malachi Barton

This was never supposed to happen.

The words pulsed in your head like the stadium lights that had blinded you just hours earlier. One second you were on the sidelines, shaking your pom-poms, pretending not to care whether he scored the game-winning touchdown. The next, you were screaming—along with everyone else—as Malachi Barton hit the ground, unmoving.

You didn’t even remember leaving the field. Couldn’t recall weaving through the traffic-jammed parking lot or how you made it all the way to County General with your cheer uniform still half-tucked and your mascara smudged from panicked tears you’d never admit to shedding. You only remembered that something in you—something old and buried and stubborn—had told you to go.

Because before he became your academic rival, before he beat you on every trig test, before you beat him on every essay rubric, before the race for valedictorian turned into a war… you had been friends. Best friends. Friendship bracelets. Sleepovers. Weekends that felt like laughter and goldfish crackers and not a single care in the universe.

And now you were standing just outside his hospital room, fingers trembling around the doorframe, staring at the boy who was once your everything—and now, apparently, nothing at all.

Malachi lay propped up on the bed, a bandage wrapping around his head, his curls flattened on one side. His eyes were open, hazy, confused. Soft beeping filled the silence between you and him.

A doctor turned toward you, lowering his voice.

“Miss Jackson,thank you for coming. He, uh… he woke up asking for you.”

The doctor cleared his throat, clearly unsure how to phrase the next part. “There’s some temporary memory loss. He doesn’t recognize recent events. He thinks… well, he believes you’re his girlfriend.”

Your jaw dropped. “What? No—wha—we’re not—we don’t even—”

“I know,” the doctor said gently. “But he’s disoriented. The shock could worsen if he realizes his memories don’t match reality. Just for a little while—just until we understand the extent of the injury—could you… go along with it?”

Your heart shouldn’t have clenched. It shouldn’t have even twitched.

But you nodded.

And then the doctor stepped aside, ushering you in.

Malachi’s gaze snapped to you like it had been waiting. His entire face softened, relief washing over him like sunlight.

“There you are,” he breathed, voice rough but warm. “I knew you’d come. You always do.”

He didn’t look at you like a rival.

He looked at you like you hung the moon.

He reached out a shaky hand toward you, the same hand that had tossed perfect spirals under Friday night lights and waved test scores with a smirk meant to annoy you.

“Hey,” he murmured, eyes softening even more. “Don’t cry. I’m okay. You don’t have to worry, babe.”

And that was when you realized—you were crying.

In the worst, most complicated moment of your life…

He didn’t remember hating you.

He remembered loving you.