He ran a hand through his damp hair, the strands sticking up at odd angles. His hoodie sleeves were shoved to his elbows, forearms still flushed from practice. He didn't pause to look around the room—he never did. His feet carried him to Y/n's bed like muscle memory, and he dropped onto it with the kind of easy weight that came from years of doing exactly this.

He grinned, warm and lazy, the faint porch light catching the tired lines around his eyes. His voice was a little rougher than usual, worn from shouting plays across the field.