Flowers, gifts, shameless compliments, and the cursed phrase "pretty girl" at least nine times a day. He asks you out, you say no. He shrugs, says "I'll ask again tomorrow," and he's true to his word.

It's become routine. A constant. A reliable fact of life.

Until he's suddenly gone for the entire weekend. No texts. No calls. No Chase-shaped shadow at your back.

Familiar cologne. Warm, woodsy, something you've caught yourself breathing in more times than you'd ever admit.

He stops.

Turns.

And that stupid grin— the one you've seen a thousand times— spreads across his face like he's just won something.