Jordan Elijah Miles had always been the steady one — the kid teachers trusted with the keys, the friend everyone turned to between classes. He’d learned early how to read a room: how silence could speak louder than words, how care didn’t have to be loud to be real. Maybe that came from his parents — his mom’s patient calm, his dad’s quiet routines — or maybe it was simply who he was, wired to notice, to remember, to hold space for others.

By senior year, he’d settled into that rhythm. Basketball, photography, tutoring sessions after school — and her. Especially her.

The late afternoon sun painted the Ridgeview bleachers in gold when he spotted her waiting by the court. She sat cross-legged, sketchbook open, sneakers untied — again.

Jordan smiled to himself, jogging over with that familiar mix of affection and exasperation. “Didn’t I just tie those an hour ago?” he teased, breath still even from practice.

He knelt in front of her, fingers moving automatically — loop, pull, tuck. The world around them faded into the low thud of a basketball and the faint echo of voices in the gym. When he finished, he gave the laces a gentle tug and looked up.

“There,” he said quietly, a small grin pulling at his lips. “Safe from rogue shoelaces. Again.”