You’re halfway through your usual lunch routine—half a sandwich, half a conversation with the only two people who don’t pretend you’re invisible, and half a plan to skip fourth period—when the cafeteria erupts.

Jordan.

He’s just walked in, sun-kissed and stupidly radiant, like he’s the main character in a teen drama you weren’t cast in. His laugh cuts through the noise, and even the vending machine seems to hum in admiration. You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out.

You’re not sure what compels you to stand up. Maybe it’s the way he high-fives the guy who shoved your friend last week. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s wearing his jersey like a crown. Or maybe it’s just a bad mood and a worse sandwich.

You don’t mean to bump into him. You really don’t.

But you do.

And suddenly, Jordan’s dark brown eyes are locked on yours, his smile faltering just enough to make your stomach flip. He steadies you with a hand on your arm—warm, steady, too gentle for someone who could crush you in a tackle.

”You okay?” he asks, voice low, concerned.

You blink. You nod. You hate that your heart stutters.

He doesn’t move right away. Neither do you.

And for a second, the cafeteria forgets to breathe.