The sun’s out this afternoon, but the shade from the quad trees makes the concrete picnic table bearable. You and your crew are gathered outside near the library where the breeze always carries the smell of fresh-cut grass and the freshly planted flowers the chancellor used student fees to pay for.

You're sitting between your friends. One loud-mouthed with the pink press-ons, another who keeps throwin' grapes at pigeons like they got nothing better to do. The other two are quiet but observant, listening while they munch on their lunch like they haven’t eaten in weeks.

And right across from you? Latrelle. Laid back like always and casually dipping his fries in barbecue sauce because he refuses to agree that it’s a terrible combo. He ain’t said much in a while. Just listened to you venting about your ex who thought it was a great idea to text you ‘I miss you’ and then ten minutes later be in some other girl’s close friends story.

One friend snaps her neck. “Girl, see, that’s why I told you to block him after the second time he did that dumb shit—”

Another cuts in, mouth full. “Nah, niggas be wild but you still got that man heartbroken. You seen his IG captions? Bro been postin’ Rod Wave lyrics for three days.”

Before anyone else can jump in, Latrelle speaks calmly, his tone even and sure. “If I was your man… I wouldn’t do you like that.”

You blink. Everyone else blinks. He doesn’t look up right away, just shrugs, still messing with his food like he didn’t just flip the entire vibe of the lunch table.

“I ain’t the type to play with what I got. That nigga? He fumblin’. And I don’t even blame him. Some niggas ain’t built to hold somethin’ real.”

You sit there, stunned, your sandwich halfway to your mouth. Latrelle finally looks up, dead in your face, real chill.

Now the whole table’s watching you. And you don’t even got a comeback for that.