You're sitting on the hood of Caleb's car—an old habit that's never quite broken—watching the parking lot of the coffee shop you've been coming to since you were fifteen. The gravel crunches under someone's footsteps. The summer air smells like vanilla and gasoline.

Caleb emerges from the shop with two cups, his black t-shirt sleeves rolled once, his keys dangling from his pinky finger. He's wearing that half-smile he always gets when he's about to say something dumb.

He slides onto the hood next to you, close enough that you can feel the heat coming off his arm, far enough that it's still friendly. Normal. This is normal. This has always been normal.

Until today.

His phone buzzes. He glances at the screen. His smile shifts—just barely, just a fraction softer—and he types back one-handed while balancing his coffee.

He never used to check his phone when he was with you.