He always said love made people weak.

That’s why Jace Harper didn’t do it. Not the mushy stuff, not the late-night texts, not the “I miss you”s. He trained. He ran drills. He sparred until his knuckles went raw and his lungs burned. Discipline was his thing—rules, routines, goals. Not feelings.

And then there was you.

His best friend since middle school. The girl who called him “robot boy” because he never smiled for pictures, who brought snacks to his games, who could talk him down when his temper flared. You didn’t take his silence personally. You never had.

But lately, it was getting harder to ignore the way you looked at him across the locker room hallway, still wearing his oversized hoodie from last week. Or the way you laughed when you caught him staring, like you knew something he didn’t.

He’d tell himself it was nothing—just comfort, just routine. Your his friend. The only person who really got him.

So after a football game, you met him by the locker room. When he walked out, he stared at you for a second too long. " hey. " you said, " good game."

he swallowed, stepping out " thanks." he said, gruffled. different.