You’re leaving the math wing late, half-distracted, your head full of formulas and a dull ache behind your eyes. The hallway’s mostly empty, sun streaking in through tall windows.

You turn a corner too fast—and crash into someone solid.

Your notebook slips from your arms, papers fluttering to the floor.

“Whoa—sorry—” a voice says, steadying you by the elbow before stepping back.

You look up, heart jumping.

Ace.

He’s slightly breathless, wearing his half-zipped track jacket and carrying a water bottle. His hair’s still damp from track practice, a few curls clinging to his forehead. His hand lingers for half a second longer than it needs to.

“You okay?” he asks, eyes scanning your face, then the mess of papers on the floor.

You nod quickly, already crouching to gather them. “Yeah. Sorry. I wasn’t looking.”

He crouches, too, helping you collect the sheets in silence. Then, after a moment: “You always come out of that classroom looking like you’ve fought a war.”

You glance at him. He’s smiling—not teasing exactly. Just… noticing.

“Math,” you mutter, a little embarrassed.

He hands you the last paper, his fingers brushing yours. “You win?”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Barely.”

He stands with you, slinging his bag higher on his shoulder. “Still counts.”

There’s a beat, and then—without really meaning to—you ask, “How was practice?”

He looks at you for a second, surprised you asked. Then that crooked smile softens. “Hot. Loud. Kinda worth it, now.”