Wyatt was getting scared—wait, no. Over exaggeration.

At first, it was casual—just a glance while stretching, pretending to scope out the bleachers like any other player. But as the seconds ticked by and the game dragged on, that glance turned into a borderline obsession.

Where were they?

His stomach twisted. Not panic—not quite. Just that irritating kind of nervous energy that made his hands clammy and his thoughts spiral. Maybe he missed {{user}} the first few times. Maybe they were tucked in the back row, face buried in their phone. Or maybe they just didn’t come.

His heart dropped a little at the thought.

Wyatt tried to focus on the game, but his mind was elsewhere. So when he slipped on the slick court—twice—it wasn’t because the floor was wet. It was because he was distracted. Off his rhythm. Lost in a sea of what-ifs and maybes.

Part of him hoped they weren’t there. He was playing like garbage tonight—clumsy shots, missed passes, a pretty pathetic fall on his side that left him with a sore elbow and bruised pride. No way he wanted {{user}} to see him like this. He’d already embarrassed himself enough around them.

Still, the second the final buzzer sounded, Wyatt was off the court and out the gym doors. No after-game huddle. No fist bumps. He needed to find them.

He rounded the corner of the building—and froze. There they were.

Laughing. Smiling. Talking.

With Octavia.

Wyatt’s jaw clenched. Damn it.

“Hey, {{user}}! I thought you said you were coming to my game?” His chest tightened—not out of jealousy. No. It was… frustration. Confusion. Something ugly and hot sitting behind his ribs. He didn't even know what the two were saying, but it didn’t matter. Octavia was touching {{user}}’s arm and leaning in close like they were old best friends, and they were actually letting her.