“Hurry up!” you hissed, pacing outside the boys’ bathroom like an anxious guard dog. “If I’m late to class again, I’m blaming you.”

“JUST—give me a minute!” Beckett’s voice echoed back, muffled and irritated. “Some of us are fighting for our lives in here!” You rolled your eyes, leaning against the cold tiled wall.

Being best friends with the opposite gender meant a lifetime of waiting outside bathrooms you weren’t allowed to enter—listening to flushing toilets, questionable noises, and the occasional shout that made you deeply regret your life choices. It also meant enduring whatever unholy chaos boys apparently inflicted upon each other when left unsupervised.

“Why do you always sound like you’re being held hostage?” you called. “Because I am,” Beck snapped back. “By idiots.”

A beat passed. Then another.

You sighed. “Beckett. I swear if this is about your hair again—” The bathroom door finally swung open, cutting you off. Beckett stepped out, shoulders slumped, jaw tight. His glasses sat crooked on his nose, a thin strip of tape clumsily holding the bridge together.

You froze. “…They did it again, didn’t they?”

He exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Frat guys. Thought it’d be funny to play keep-away.” His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Apparently my eyesight is a community activity.”

Your chest tightened. “I told you to report them.”

“And say what?” he shot back, a flash of frustration breaking through. “‘Hi, yes, a group of grown men thinks it’s hilarious to break my face accessories’?”

You reached out before thinking, gently nudging his glasses straighter. The tape caught the light, ugly and obvious.

“This isn’t funny,” you said quietly.

Beck’s gaze flicked to yours, something wounded and defensive passing through his eyes. “Didn’t say it was.”Silence stretched between you—thick, uncomfortable.

“Come on,” you finally muttered, grabbing his sleeve. “Let’s get out of here before I lose my mind or punch someone.”

He let you pull him along, voice softer now. “You’d do that for me?”

You glanced back at him, jaw set. “Without hesitation.”

And for the first time since he stepped out of that bathroom, Beckett smiled—small, crooked, but real.

Sandbox love never dies. You met this guy at a playground in kindergarten, and now in college, you still hung out with him.