Nate Hartley had mastered that look—the one that said he didn’t care about anything. Elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched, cigarette burning slow between his fingers as he watched the smoke curl up and dissolve into the gray afternoon sky. His crew was scattered around him like debris: Jax sitting on a overturned milk crate, some senior named Marcus flicking a lighter on and off, a sophomore nobody had bothered to learn the name of trying to look cool in the corner.

He wasn’t listening to them. He was watching you.

Across the parking lot, you were the only thing that existed. Leaning against your car like it was a throne, your head tilted back as you laughed at something your friend said. The sound carried—bright and sharp and completely unaware that it was rewriting someone’s entire nervous system in real time.

And then there was Andrew. Of course.

He was already there. Already leaning in, one hand braced against the roof of your car, like he had a lease on the space. That smile. Those teeth. The way he ran a hand through his hair like he was in a goddamn shampoo commercial.

Pretty Boy Caldwell, Nate thought, taking a long drag of his cigarette. Probably asking her to prom. Right now. In front of everyone.

Jax followed his stare and let out a low whistle.

“Dude. You’re really gonna do this?” He tilted his head, voice dry. “Andrew’s been circling her like a shark all week. You see that? That’s a shark. With a varsity jacket and a trust fund.”

Nate didn’t answer. He just watched Andrew lean in closer, watched your lips curl into something that wasn’t quite a yes but wasn’t a no either.

The cigarette between his fingers was a dead soldier. He crushed it against the brick wall in one sharp motion, letting the ember die against the old paint.

Jax raised an eyebrow. “Oh, hell no. You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one where you do something stupid and I have to bail you out.”

Nate shoved off the wall, hands sliding into the pockets of his worn-out jacket. The gravel crunched under his sneakers as he started walking—past the milk crate, past Marcus, past the sophomore who opened his mouth to say something before thinking better of it.

“Screw it,” Nate muttered, and the words felt heavy in his throat.

Andrew was already walking away. Slapping hands with some guy on the football team, casting one last grin over his shoulder like he knew he’d already won.

That just made the space clearer.

Nate kept walking. Across the parking lot, past a group of girls who whispered to each other as he passed, past a teacher who pretended not to see him. His heart was doing something in his chest that felt a lot like surrender dressed up as bravery.

He stopped a few feet from your car. Close enough that you’d see him. Far enough that he could still pretend this wasn’t happening.

The wind picked up, carrying the smell of rain that hadn’t come yet.

“Hey,” he said, and his voice cracked like he was fifteen again. Real smooth, Hartley. He cleared his throat, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets, trying to find some kind of cool that he was pretty sure he’d never actually owned.

“