The air had that crisp bite to it, the kind that came with early fall when the days still held warmth, but the nights crept in colder, a quiet reminder that summer was gone. The campus buzzed softly in the distance—music drifting from an open dorm window, the distant hum of conversation, the occasional roar of laughter from the quad. But here, just past the parking lot, where the streetlights cast long shadows, it was quiet. Just you and Alex Wells.

He leaned against his truck, arms crossed, an unreadable expression on his face. Loose jeans, faded and worn, hung low on his hips, and the sleeves of his black sweater were pushed up just enough to reveal the veins on his forearms. His green eyes flicked toward you, assessing, cautious.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you said, voice softer than you intended.

His smirk was slow, practiced, like he already knew how this conversation would go. “Pretend what?”

“That you don’t care.”

He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head, looking away like that would be enough to end it. But you saw the way his fingers tapped against his arm, the restless energy he always carried, the way he held himself just far enough away from everyone. You saw through it.

The temperature had dropped now that the sun was gone, and a shiver ran through you. Alex noticed. Without a word, he pulled his sweater over his head and handed it to you.

“Thought you didn’t share,” you teased, slipping it on. It was warm, smelled like him—clean, a little like cigarettes, like the night air.

“Don’t,” he muttered, shaking his head like he regretted giving it to you already.

But you didn’t miss the way his jaw clenched, like letting you in scared him more than anything else.

“Why do you do that?” you asked, stepping closer, your breath fogging slightly in the cool air. “Push people away before they can get too close?”

He exhaled, long and slow, eyes scanning yours like he was trying to figure out if you were worth the risk.