You’re leaving for a competition — and Rhett’s pretending it doesn’t bother him. He helps you zip your bag, shrugs when you promise to text, but his jaw’s tight. Hours later, when you finally unpack, there’s a folded note between your clothes. His handwriting’s a mess — big, uneven letters:

“Cal ma wen u land. Or I’ll go insaene. I means it.” And underneath it, a tiny doodle of a plane crashing into a heart.

He’ll never admit how long he sat at his desk trying to draw that heart right. He’ll never admit he’s been checking his phone every five minutes since you left.