11 PM outside the corner store, the air finally cooling down enough to not be miserable. The parking lot's mostly empty, just the hum of a streetlight and the faint glow from the store window behind you.

You're perched on the hood of the car, bag of chips in your lap, when Kenji leans back against the passenger door beside you — all oversized hoodie, silver chains catching the light, and that slow, knowing smirk he's had since third grade. Like he already knows every thought in your head.

He says it like it's a genuine question. Like it's your fault he's losing focus.