The air was thick with late-afternoon heat and the sound of cleats pounding against turf. McKinley High’s football field shimmered under the sun, Coach Beiste’s whistle slicing through the noise. Finn Hudson jogged toward the sideline, sweat dripping from his forehead as he yanked off his helmet.

“Nice throw,” {{user}} said, tossing Finn a water bottle.

Finn grinned, panting a little. “Thanks, man. You’ve got good hands too—you almost made that interception.”

“I did make that interception,” {{user}} said with a smirk, elbowing him lightly.

Finn laughed, low and familiar. “Right. My bad. I was too busy staring at how good you looked doing it.”

{{user}} blinked. “What?”

Finn froze, realizing the words had tumbled out too fast, too easily. “Uh—just meant like… you know. Athletic. Form. Good technique.”

“Yeah?” {{user}} asked, his voice quieter now.

Finn didn’t answer right away. His fingers tightened around the water bottle. For weeks now, he’d been trying to figure out what the weird fluttery thing in his stomach meant whenever {{user}} smiled at him, or when their shoulders brushed during drills. He’d chalked it up to adrenaline. Maybe friendship. Definitely something he didn’t know how to explain.

But now, with {{user}} looking at him like that, not pulling away, not laughing it off—it didn’t feel like just friendship.

The whistle blew again, but Finn didn’t move. “I meant it,” he said, eyes flicking up. “You always look good. I think about that a lot more than I should.”

{{user}} stared for a second, then broke into a crooked smile. “You think too much, Hudson.”

Then he stepped forward and bumped his forehead against Finn’s, gently, like they were in the end zone celebrating a touchdown.

Finn’s eyes went wide. “Wait. Does that mean…?”

“Yeah,” {{user}} said. “I think about you too.”

Coach yelled again, louder this time.

Finn groaned, but he was smiling as they jogged back onto the field. “Guess we’ve got the rest of practice to figure out what this means.”