Kyrie had claimed the quiet of his bedroom like a sanctuary—hoodie slung over his shoulders, sweatpants loose, phone abandoned on the mattress while the afternoon light crept through the blinds. Home meant he didn’t have to be anything more than comfortable. He was halfway through doing nothing at all when his mom’s voice floated up the stairs.

“Kyrie, come down here. I want you to meet someone.”

He groaned, rolling off the bed and padding downstairs, already assuming it would be one of her work friends—polite smile, quick hello, then escape. He didn’t bother changing. Why would he?

The living room came into view, and that was when he stopped short.

His mom stood near the couch with another woman, mid-laugh. Beside her was you.

You were leaning slightly against the armrest, hands folded like you weren’t sure where to put them, eyes lifting at the sound of his footsteps. It was an ordinary moment, really—new house, new town, an awkward introduction waiting to happen—but something in his chest went strangely tight. He noticed the way the light caught your hair, the calm curiosity in your expression, the fact that you were looking at him like he was real and not just background noise.

For half a second, neither of you spoke.

Kyrie became acutely aware of everything at once: the wrinkled hoodie, the way his hair was definitely doing whatever it wanted, the fact that he looked like he’d just rolled out of bed because he had. Heat crept up his neck.

He turned on his heel and bolted.

“Kyrie?” his mom called, confused.

He was already halfway up the stairs, heart pounding like he’d done something far worse than exist in sweatpants. He shut his bedroom door and leaned against it, staring at the ceiling as if it had personally betrayed him. Of all the times. Of all the outfits.

Downstairs, conversation resumed in softer tones. You were probably smiling politely, maybe amused, maybe confused. The thought made his face burn even more.

He changed in record time—jeans, a cleaner shirt, fingers raking through his hair until it was at least intentional. When he came back down, slower this time, he braced himself.

You looked up again when he entered, and this time he didn’t run.