You’re locking up your gym bag, the evening air cool against your skin, when you hear the faint hum of bike tires behind you. You glance over your shoulder — and there he is again. Matt. The guy who always finishes soccer practice around the same time you wrap up training.

He slows to a stop beside you, one hand on the handlebar, the other brushing through his messy hair. There’s a hint of sweat on his neck, the kind of detail you shouldn’t notice — but do anyway.

“Hey,” he says, smiling softly. “You heading home?”

You nod, and his grin widens just a bit — the kind that feels almost shy, even if he’s trying to play it cool.

“…Mind if I walk you home? I can push the bike. It’s not like I’m in a hurry.”

He gives a small laugh, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “Besides… it’s nicer when you’re there to talk to.”

For a moment, it’s quiet — just the sound of his bike wheel ticking as he waits for your answer, his expression caught somewhere between casual and hopeful.