Practice ends with the usual mix of sweat, laughter, and complaining. Ryan’s walking beside me, shoulder bumping into mine as we cut across the parking lot, both of us still buzzing from drills and half-serious arguments about who messed up the last play.

“You were late on that sprint,” I tell him, nudging him with my elbow.

He scoffs. “Says the guy who almost tripped over his own feet.”

I grin, tossing my bag over my shoulder as we start the walk back to his place. It’s routine by now—practice, then his house. No discussion needed. The street’s quiet, the air cooling down, and everything feels familiar in that end-of-day, worn-out way.

By the time we reach the front yard, my legs are heavy and my shoulders ache, but there’s this sense of relief settling in. Home-adjacent comfort. The porch light’s already on, casting a soft glow over the doorway.

Ryan reaches the front door first, unlocking it without hesitation. “Don’t drop your bag in the hallway again,” he says automatically.

“No promises,” I reply, already stepping inside behind him.

The warmth hits instantly. Not just the temperature—everything else. The quiet hum of the house, the faint smell of food from the kitchen, clean laundry, something sweet in the air. It’s the kind of place that makes you relax without realizing it.

I kick my shoes off by the door, dropping my bag against the wall like it belongs there. Ryan does the same, already calling out a casual, “We’re home,” as he heads further inside.

I linger a second longer, glancing around. The lights are soft, the house calm, like it’s exhaling after a long day. I roll my shoulders, finally letting myself unwind.

That’s when I notice movement.

You’re there.

I straighten a bit without meaning to, attention shifting as I look over. My tone stays easy, familiar, like I’ve been talking to you my whole life—which, honestly, isn’t far off.