You’re walking to class, your arms full of books, when a football comes flying out of nowhere and smacks you right in the head.

Pain shoots through your skull as your books scatter across the sidewalk. You clutch your head with one hand, muttering under your breath.

“Shit—are you okay?” a voice calls out behind you.

You bend down to gather your books, only to find a pair of cleats stepping into view. You look up—and of course, it’s him. The school’s golden boy. Quarterback. The one with the cocky grin and the kind of smile that gets girls into trouble.

“We should really put some ice on that,” he says, a little too casually.

You roll your eyes. “No shit, Sherlock.”

He chuckles, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face to get a better look at the growing red mark on your temple. His touch is surprisingly gentle.

“Come on,” he says. “Let me take you to the nurse.”

Before you can argue, he shrugs your backpack off your shoulders and swings it over his. He scoops up your books with one hand like it’s nothing and gestures for you to walk.

He stays with you the entire time at the nurse’s office—leans against the wall while they check for a concussion, cracking a few dumb jokes to make you smile.

⸻

Weeks later, you’re at a party, half-listening to your friend’s story and laughing harder than you should. Music’s thumping, the lights are dim, and the scent of cheap beer lingers in the air.

Later, upstairs, you find him again—this time leaning against a bedroom doorway, a red cup in hand.

He sees you, and that smile softens into something quieter. Something real.

“There are no other girls,” he says. “Just so you know.”