The sun’s low, warm gold bleeding through the trees as it dips behind the school. The parking lot’s mostly empty now — rugby practice ended late, swim team finished even later. The air smells like cut grass, cold pavement, and that faint scent of chlorine clinging to your skin.

Carter’s leaning against his truck, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, scrolling aimlessly through his phone. He looks tired, sweat still drying on his collarbone, a bruise starting to bloom on his jaw from a tackle earlier. But his face lights up the second he sees you crossing the lot toward him — hair damp, backpack slung over one shoulder, that same towel looped through a strap.

He tosses his phone into the truck bed and stands up straighter.

“Took you long enough,” he says, but there’s no bite to it — just a grin, slow and soft, reserved only for you.

You roll your eyes, maybe throw a playful insult his way, and he chuckles — the sound deep, warm, low in his chest. He watches you carefully, almost subconsciously — eyes flicking to your wet hair, the way your shirt clings to your frame. You’ve never been anything but beautiful to him. Dangerous, too. He just won’t admit it.

You fall into step beside him without needing to say anything — it’s muscle memory by now. Carter always waits for you, even when you’re running late from swim meets or dragging your feet after a long day. You’ve shared this walk to the parking lot since freshman year, and the ride home even longer.

Without thinking, he opens the passenger door for you — something he’s done since middle school, even though you can do it yourself. It’s just his thing. That quiet, protective habit. Like shielding you from the wind or standing between you and the hall crowd without a word.

“You still smell like the pool,” he mumbles as you climb in, teasing. “You ever gonna rinse that off?”