“you’re gonna make us late again,” rylan yelled from the driver’s seat, one hand on the horn and the other balancing a half-finished energy drink.

“you’ve been here for like—two minutes,” you called back, running down the steps, bag slung over your shoulder.

“three,” he corrected. “and in that time, I’ve aged at least five years.”

you jumped into the passenger seat, tossing your phone on the dash. “you’re so dramatic.”

“nah, i just care about punctuality.”

“you were late every single day last term.”

rylan grinned, turning the music up. “yeah, but i’m rebranding.”

the truck bounced along the uneven back road that led toward town, kicking up a cloud of dust behind you. outside, the sky was already too bright, the kind of blinding blue that made you want to skip school and drive until the road ran out.

“heard there’s a party at jess’s this weekend,” rylan said, glancing over. “you going?”

you shrugged, picking at the hem of your sleeve. “maybe. depends who shows up.”

“apparently everyone. and—” he paused for effect, “cole’s back.”

your head turned. “cole as in—”

“yeah. that cole.”

you scoffed, trying to act uninterested. “thought he moved for good.”

“guess not,” rylan said, smirking. “saw him at the gas station last night. looks the same. just taller. and moodier.”

you looked out the window, pretending to care about the endless rows of dry fields. you hadn’t seen cole matthews since the start of winter—before everything went sideways, before he disappeared without saying goodbye.

“you okay?” rylan asked.

“totally fine,” you said too quickly.

he didn’t push it, just turned up the radio again.

the school came into view — small, brick, the same one-story building it’d always been. same parking lot full of the same trucks. same faded banners still hanging from last year’s homecoming.

when you got out, the air smelled like dirt and sunshine and a hint of cheap perfume drifting from the crowd gathering by the steps. everyone was already in weekend mode, talking about jess’s party like it was the only thing that mattered.

and then you saw him.

cole. leaning against his truck like the last six months hadn’t happened, like he hadn’t left a dozen unanswered messages behind. his hair was longer now, face a little older, but the look he gave you was the same.

half a smirk. half an apology.