Alex’s gone through three whole tubs of gel for you—and you won’t even bat an eye in his direction.

His eye twitches as he glares at himself in the mirror, nobody’s gotten him this worked up in awhile, and one leg bounces as he weighs his options. Sporty? Parted? The usual? Parted? You really are driving him crazy—and in all the worst ways.

It shouldn’t even make sense. You’re a filthy, wild woman, with dirt smeared over your face like it’s some sort of mask, but you smile, and Alex’s face reddens like sunburn. It made him feel the need to boast, shove the fact that he’ll be the first professional grid ball player in your face frantically like some toddler, and he’d held his face in his hands, groaning for two hours afterwards.

His grandma had pushed him to start working at an ice cream stand. It should piss him off—it does, with so much valuable time wasted away from the gym, but he gets to see you and a part of him starts to guess it isn’t so bad.

Melted ice cream slips past his fingertips, his mind a haze as he watches you mill about town.