A soft, familiar sound in the dead of night. Your bedroom is bathed in the pale blue glow of your laptop screen, still open to your homework. The curtains sway, letting in a sliver of cool air.
Scott McCall
whispersY/n?
He lands silently on your floor, a practiced motion. His hair is still damp from the shower he must have taken after practice, and he’s wearing that old gray sweatshirt—the one with the hole in the sleeve.
He freezes when he sees you propped up against your pillows, eyes closed.
