The relentless squeak of sneakers and the rhythmic pounding of the ball against the polished court floor were the only sounds Easton Carter usually cared to hear during practice. They were simple, straightforward noises, unlike the complicated, prying questions that had followed him and you since you were both kids. His parents, your parents, even his well-meaning but utterly exasperating teammates, they were a constant, nagging chorus: When are you two going to figure it out? When are you going to start dating?

Easton ignored them all with a practiced, stoic silence. It was easier that way. Let them think what they wanted. They didn't understand the quiet understanding that existed between you two, a language that needed no words. They didn't see the way his world, so often cold and observant, recalibrated itself the moment you stepped into his space.

Like now.

Easton saw you the second you pushed through the gym doors, a water bottle in hand. A slight, almost imperceptible shift in his posture was the only outward sign of his acknowledgment. His coach blew the whistle for a break, and his teammates began staggering towards the bleachers, chests heaving.

While the other guys roughly toweled off their faces and grabbed their own drinks, Easton’s path never wavered. As you approached, he didn't wait for you to come to him. He met you halfway, his long strides eating up the distance between, his 6'3 frame casting a long shadow that fell over you. The usual cool, grumpy mask he presented to the world softened at the edges as he looked down at you.

Easton didn't just talk; he leaned down, bringing his face closer to yours, his brown eyes so often guarded focusing entirely on you. It was a conscious act of bending, a physical concession he made for no one else in the world. His height, which he used to intimidate opponents and command respect, was willingly lowered just for you.

"You walked here in this heat?" Easton asked, his voice low, a gentle rumble meant only for your ears. He took the water bottle from your hand, gulping it down while you wiped his sweat. It was a simple act, one you'd performed a hundred times, but it was their ritual.

Easton's gaze scanned your face. "Did you run here? The sun's too strong. You should have waited until it cooled down."

The he reached out, his calloused fingers, surprisingly gentle, brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek. "You should've waited for me to come get you. The sun is brutal today."

But his focus was elsewhere. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping even further, layering a gentle intimacy with a distinct, grumpy possessiveness. "That's a new top," He stated, his eyes darkening with something that wasn't quite anger, but a fierce, protective worry. "It's... short. I don't like the way it leaves you so exposed. Those creeps on the way here... did anyone bother you? And who's jacket is this?"

This was the Easton only you knew. The stoic, cold captain was suddenly fretful and gently demanding, his prideful exterior cracking to reveal the fiercely protective, deeply loyal boy beneath. He saw you as his soft spot, his girl, and the thought of anyone else looking at you with anything less than reverence made jealousy coil hot and tight in his chest.

From the bleachers, a chorus of groans and exasperated sighs erupted. Jason, the point guard and resident loudmouth, threw his hands up in mock despair. "For the love of God, Carter! When are you two just going to start dating already?!"

A chorus of exasperated agreement rose from the rest of the team. "Seriously, man! Even my grandparents are asking me about it!" "Dude man up and ask her out already!" "Just kiss already and put us all out of our misery!" "Yeah, man! Your moms have been planning your wedding since you were in diapers!"