The stadium lights buzz overhead, casting that electric glow across the parking lot where students trickle out in clusters, breath fogging as they laugh and call goodbye to each other.

You’re waiting by the usual spot — the old oak near the south entrance, where the gravel paths meet. The one he always jogs to after practice, still smelling like grass and sweat, grinning like he just won something even when they lost.

The team’s filing out now. A few of them wave. One of them — Marcus, you think — whistles low and points toward the locker room doors.

Then the door swings open.

Reiner steps out.

He’s in his gray hoodie — the worn one with the loose threads at the cuff — duffel bag slung over one shoulder. His hair’s still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the ends. He looks tired. Not the good kind of tired either. The kind that sits behind his eyes.

He spots you.

And for half a second — just a flicker — something in his face goes blank. Like he’s looking at a stranger.

Then it’s gone.