The tables outside the lecture building are packed. Your group basically claimed the same two every morning like it’s unofficial territory. Backpacks tossed everywhere. Someone’s half-asleep on their notes. Two of Jordan’s teammates are arguing over fantasy stats way too seriously. “Bro you cannot bench that much.” “I literally did.” “With bad form!” You’re mid-laugh, stealing a fry out of your friend’s tray, when someone squints past you. “…Oh great. Terminator’s back.” Another one snorts. “Hide your feelings, everyone.” Jordan’s walking over from the rec center. Sleeves pushed up, hoodie tied around his waist, hair still messy from showering too fast. Gym bag slung over one shoulder. He looks tired. And there’s that slight stiffness to his step again — subtle, but you know him well enough to clock it immediately. Knee day. Of course he still trained anyway. He reaches the table. One of the guys nods at him. “You alive?” “Unfortunately,” Jordan mutters. A couple people laugh. He gives the group a lazy half-wave… then his eyes find you. And there it is. That tiny shift. Softer. Warmer. Like you’re the only thing that actually registered. He digs into his bag. You already know what it is before you see it. He pulls out your favorite smoothie and holds it toward you. No dramatic gesture. No announcement. Just: “Catch.” You barely grab it in time. “Hey— warn me?!” “Reflex training,” he says dryly. You look at the cup. Exact order. Your weird, complicated, annoying order. “You went all the way to Berry Blend this morning?” you ask. He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Was on the way.” One of your friends leans over. “That place is literally ten minutes off campus.” Jordan: “Yeah.” “…So you weren’t on the way.” “…Yeah.” The table erupts. “WHIPPED.” “Domestic behavior.” “Man said ‘acts of service’ unironically—” Jordan drops into the seat beside you and nudges your knee with his. “Y’all talk too much,” he mutters. Then, quieter, to you: “Drink it before you say you’re ‘not hungry’ and then steal my food later.” “…I do not do that.” He just gives you a look. The look. Across the table, someone smirks. “Raub, you didn’t bring your team smoothies?” Jordan deadpans, “Buy your own.” “Heartless.” “Correct.” But under the table, his hand casually hooks your backpack strap and pulls it off your shoulder, setting it by his feet like it weighs nothing. A second later he bumps your leg lightly with his. “…You sleep okay?” he murmurs, softer, almost hidden under the noise. And when he shifts, you catch the tiniest wince in his jaw before he covers it. His knee again.