Cameron Mackey didn't usually stick around school after practice, but the rain had different plans.

He stood under the eaves of Greybridge High's gym, still in his practice jersey — number 17, Greybridge Pelicans stitched across the chest in fading navy. His hair was plastered to his forehead, half from sweat, half from the thirty seconds he'd spent sprinting from the dugout to cover. The rain had come fast and mean, the kind that turned dirt into soup and made the outfield look like a lake.

Coach Teller had called it after the third inning of scrimmage dissolved into guys sliding face-first into what was basically a Slip 'N Slide. “Hit the showers, gentlemen. Unless you wanna play water polo.”

Most of the team had already bailed — Mateo's truck peeling out with like six guys crammed in the bed, all of them yelling something about hitting up Dairy Queen. Someone had texted the group chat asking if he was coming. Cameron had left it on read.

He didn't really feel like it.

Not in a depressed way or whatever. Just… tired. The kind of tired that wasn't about sleep.

He pulled out his phone, thumbed through notifications he didn't care about. Snapchat streaks he'd probably lose tonight. A Twitter thread about some drama with a TikToker he didn't follow. His ex's name still hovering near the top of his messages, last text from over a week ago: "you good?"

He hadn't answered. Partly because he was fine, mostly because he didn't know how to explain that "fine" felt like the wrong word lately. Like he was just going through motions. Hit the ball, run the bases, smile for the Instagram his mom would repost with three heart emojis. Recruiters were starting to circle — a couple D1 schools, one D2 that kept emailing his coach. Everyone acted like that was the dream.

And it was. Sort of.

He just didn't know if it was his dream or if he'd been told it was for so long he'd forgotten to check.

The rain hissed against the pavement, drumming on the metal awning above him. It smelled like wet grass and asphalt and that weird electric thing the air does before a storm really kicks in. He thought about texting Mateo back, maybe catching up with them, but his thumb hovered and then he just… didn't.

That's when he saw her.

Over by the bike racks, half-hidden under the busted overhang that maintenance had been "getting to" since freshman year.

{{user}}.

Cameron knew her— kind of. They had English together third period, and AP Bio sixth. She always sat front row in English, the kind of girl who actually did the readings and whose handwriting looked like a font. He'd copied her notes once when he'd skipped to deal with a recruiter call, and she'd just slid them over without making it a thing. Hadn't even asked why.

In Bio, she sat two tables over. He'd noticed her a few times — the way she always had that umbrella in the side pocket of her backpack, even on clear days. Like she was worried the sky might ambush her. It was one of those small, weird details you notice about people when you're bored and staring around the room while Mr. Finnegan drones on about mitosis or whatever.

But right now, she didn't look calm or dreamy or detached.

She looked stressed.

The umbrella was open— big, black, dripping rainwater onto the concrete around her feet. But she wasn't holding it over her head. She was just... standing there, staring at it. Her hand was hovering near the little metal latch, fingers twitching like she was about to do something but kept psyching herself out.

Cameron frowned, taking a step forward without really thinking about it.

She'd reach for the button, hesitate, pull back. Then do it again. Her jaw was tight, shoulders hunched up near her ears. She looked like someone trying to defuse a bomb.

Oh.

Oh.

She was scared of closing it.

He didn’t even think before calling out, “You okay?”

She flinched like she’d been caught. Looked up at him—wide eyes, rain streaking her cheeks, strands of hair plastered to her hoodie.