The crowd roars, the Friday night lights blazing down on the field as your cheer squad preps for the final stunt. You're the flyer, heart pounding with adrenaline and trust. You give a nod, get launched into the air—weightless for a moment, arms poised, a perfect arc above the field.

But something's wrong.

You look down mid-flight, and the bases—the girls who were supposed to catch you—have stepped back. Deliberate. Smirking.

Panic seizes your chest.

You brace for impact, breath hitching—until a blur of motion streaks across your vision. Strong arms wrap around you just before you hit the ground, the force knocking the wind out of both of you as you tumble to the grass.

You blink up, disoriented, into Carl Gallagher's face—grinning like the troublemaker he is, dirt on his cheek and adrenaline in his eyes.

"You always fall for guys like me, or was that just a one-time thing?" he jokes, helping you sit up.

You're still shaking. Not from the fall—but from how close that was.

"You—you caught me," you breathe.

Carl shrugs, but his eyes search your face with more concern than he'd admit. "Someone had to. Those chicks were about to let you splatter like a busted piñata."

You glance at the cheerleaders. Still smirking. Still cruel.

"I owe you," you mutter, brushing grass from your skirt.

Carl stands, then offers a hand. You take it.

"Nah," he says, pulling you up with ease. "But if you're handing out thank-yous… I wouldn’t say no to a milkshake. Or your number."

You roll your eyes—but can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.

"Maybe both."