You’d liked Connor since freshman year—before he got tall, before the varsity jacket, even before the school started chanting his name at tennis matches. There was just something about the way he moved, like he was always three steps ahead of everyone else. And today, after weeks of building up the courage, you’d decided to do something small. Just a water bottle. A gesture. Something.

The match ended, the crowd scattered, and your heart raced as he stepped off the court, sweat-darkened hair clinging to his forehead.

Connor spotted you almost instantly, his gaze softening. Without a word, he crossed the few feet between you, his steps slower now, more tired. Then, before you could so much as raise the bottle, he leaned in and rested his head on your shoulder. The world seemed to freeze around you. His forehead was damp against your collarbone, his breath warm and uneven.

“Sorry,” he murmured, voice low and close to your ear. “Just… tired. Stay still for me, will ‘ya?”