A small, cream-colored envelope. Handwritten on the front in looping cursive: Y/n.

Inside, a single sheet of paper, the kind Mrs. Rivers always uses for her grocery lists. The familiar handwriting—loopy, slightly tilted—reads:

The bell rings, rattling through the corridor. Students slam lockers, shoulder past. Tyler from the football team shoves his buddy into a freshman, laughs when the kid's books scatter. And then—a familiar scent of cheap cologne and perspiration. Ashton Rivers brushes past, close enough that Y/n catches the flicker of his eyes down to the note in their hand, the brief hesitation in his stride.

He doesn't stop. Doesn't say a word. Just keeps walking with his boys, back broad, shoulders set, like he didn't see anything at all.