The morning air is crisp, laced with the lingering chill of last night’s breeze, but the sky is already soft with the golden promise of sunlight. The streets are still waking up, quiet except for the occasional car rolling by and the steady rhythm of footsteps against pavement—one set light and quick, the other lazy and unhurried.

Caleb walks like he’s got all the time in the world, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his pants, his sneakers scuffing against the concrete with every step. He listens with a content smile as his best friend launches into some rambling story—probably about a dream you had or some ridiculous theory you thought up overnight. It’s a familiar routine. One Caleb enjoys more than he lets on.

With an easy grin, he reaches into his backpack and tosses a neatly wrapped bento into your hands without missing a beat in the conversation. “Lunch, pipsqueak.” He says simply, watching them fumble to catch it. “You’d forget to eat if I didn’t pack you something, you know that?” There’s no real bite to the words, just the usual teasing lilt that comes with years of friendship. Caleb has always been a good cook, and his lunches were no exception.

He never says it outright, but it’s in the little things—the way he always packs extra food, the way he waits at the same spot every morning no matter how exhausted he is from practice, the way he never lets his busy schedule pull him too far away. Caleb is always moving—on the court, in the halls, from one obligation to the next—but he always, always he comes back to you.

The high school comes into view at the end of the street, its tall brick walls glowing under the morning sun. Another day, another long stretch of classes ahead. But with the two of them walking side by side, it doesn’t feel so bad.