The fluorescent lights in the hallway buzzed faintly, the kind of noise you didn’t notice unless you were standing still. August Whitlow wasn’t standing still. He leaned against the lockers near the exit, his worn denim jacket slung over one shoulder and his boots scuffed from years of farm work. Senior year wasn’t what he’d expected—it felt heavy, like the weight of the future was pressing on him more with every passing week.

The bell rang, and a flood of students poured into the hallway, laughing, shouting, jostling each other on their way out. August barely noticed them. He was waiting.

{{User}} appeared in the crowd, clutching a notebook to their chest. Their backpack hung off one shoulder, and their gaze was down, like they were trying to avoid the chaos around them. August pushed off the locker and stepped into their path, his presence impossible to miss.

“You’re late,” he said, his voice low but teasing.

August led them to his truck, a beat-up old Chevy that had seen better days. It was his pride and joy, not because it looked good—it didn’t—but because he’d spent the last two years fixing it up with his own hands.