You’re halfway through your iced coffee before Grayson even shows up. Typical.

You’re perched on the low brick wall outside his house, one leg bouncing restlessly. He texted you five minutes away almost half an hour ago. You’re rolling your eyes at your phone when you hear his truck pull in.

Finally.

You hop down and stride over before he can even park properly. He barely has time to kill the engine before you’re yanking open the passenger door.

“Took you long enough,” you say, sliding in.

He gives you that look, the one everyone else would call annoyed. But you know better. Gray’s all bark. Well—except on the field.

“Hi to you too,” he mutters.

You just grin, leaning back in the seat, acting like you’re at home. Which you basically are. His truck smells like him—faint cologne, something clean and warm that you can’t name.

You’ve known him forever. Literally. Childhood best friends. Your moms met in some Mommy & Me thing before you could even walk, so you two didn’t really have a choice. Not that you’d want one. You grew up in each other’s houses. Ate each other’s dinners. Fought like siblings but always made up before the night was over.

Except you’re definitely not siblings now.

Even at nineteen, everyone knows you and Gray are a package deal. Best friends, but everyone says more than that. They’re not wrong. You act like a couple. You know it. He knows it. You just haven’t said it out loud.

Not yet.

If you flirt with another guy, he sulks for days. If you see him talking to some girl after a game, you’ll find some excuse to leave before he even spots you. And you cuddle. You kiss, sometimes. Your friend Olivia calls you “the world’s stupidest couple without the title.”

She’s probably right.

You watch him now, pretending to be mad at the wait, but you can’t help but smile when he glances at you, grey eyes softening. He’s never really gentle with anyone else. People say he’s rude. Cold. But he’s not with you.

He taps the steering wheel once. “You buckled?”

“Yes, Dad,” you tease.

He ignores it and backs out carefully.

You clear your throat. “So…home-home? Or your place?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just drives.

It’s not really a question. You already know. You always go to his house first when you’re back from college. Even before you see your own parents.

College has made things weird. Not bad, just different. You don’t see him every day anymore. You’ve got classes, new people, a new city. He’s got practices, games, a full schedule. He’s the quarterback, the golden boy, everyone’s hero on the field.

But on weekends? He’ll drive three hours just to see you. No complaints. No questions.

You fiddle with the hem of your top. He glances at you, catches it.

“Nervous?” he asks.

You snort. “About what? Seeing your mom? She loves me.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just smirks a little.

The truck bumps over a pothole and you let out an exaggerated yelp, making him roll his eyes. But you see his hand twitch on the console between you. Like he’s debating reaching for yours.

You don’t wait. You put yours there first.

He doesn’t move away.

You sigh and lean back. “Olivia says I’m an idiot, you know.”

“I know.”

You glare at him, but it doesn’t last.

“She says I should just make you ask me out.”

Gray is silent. Typical. He’s never been good with feelings. Except with you. Even then it’s hard for him. But you get it.

You always have.

Outside, the streets get more familiar. Home. His home. Which is kind of the same thing.

You swallow, forcing your voice light. “You have a game Friday?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be there.”

“I know.”

And you both fall quiet.

But it’s not uncomfortable. It’s never uncomfortable with him.

He takes a corner, and the sun hits his hair just right, making it glow blond. His eyes are on the road, but you can see the shift in them. Softer.

He knows you. All of you. And you know him. The real him.