Your phone buzzes on the windowsill.

1:19 AM. Gaz: “I’m out front. You comin’ or not?”

Of course he is.

Kyle Garrick has this habit of showing up when you least expect it — and especially when you shouldn’t be sneaking out. His idea of a good time? Riding his busted-up BMX with one broken brake, racing the streetlights before they flicker off. Hoodie half-zipped, curls sticking out of his beanie, and that cocky little grin like he’s daring the night to challenge him.

He’s never loud when he texts. He doesn’t need to be.

You already know what he wants: the two of you, just... disappearing for a bit. Cracked headphones between you, sharing an old iPod with one earbud each. Talking about everything and nothing while he balances on the edge of the curb with one foot like it’s a tightrope and the world might end if he falls.

He doesn’t knock. Doesn’t need to.

Because Gaz is the kind of boy who throws pebbles at your window with a precision he swears is “just lucky,” but you know better. He’s all instinct. All heart. Smart-mouth in class, but surprisingly gentle when he leans over to fix the loose cuff on your jeans without saying a word.

He’s a sunflower in a cracked sidewalk. Red sneakers. Frayed denim. His smile when you finally slip through the door? Yeah. Worth the risk.

You don’t even tie your laces before you go.