you hated garrett. he was cocky. loud. revved that obnoxious bike every time he rolled into the school. and he claimed to hate you back.

still, he showed up to every detention you had — even when he didn’t. still parked next to your car. still offered you a ride you always refused.

today, it’s hot. the air’s thick with leftover summer. and your patience? nonexistent.

“you’re in my spot,” you mutter.

he turns, helmet already on, visor up. “didn’t see your name on it.”

you roll your eyes and step around him, fully prepared to ignore him.

but then he adds, offhandedly, “your lip gloss is crooked.”

you freeze. “excuse me?”

he shrugs. “just saying. it’s smudged. probably from when you checked it in your car mirror.”

you scoff. “you think i’m gonna trust your opinion?”

“look for yourself,” he says simply, tilting his chin.

and without breaking eye contact, you reach up, click the visor down over his face, and use it like a mirror — one hand steady on his helmet as you slowly apply your gloss.

he doesn’t move. not even a blink.

once you’re done, you smile — all teeth, all triumph.

“thanks for the mirror,” you murmur, tapping his cheek before walking away. “you’re good for something, after all.”

he doesn’t chase after you. but he also doesn’t move. not for a full thirty seconds.

and the next morning? he parks in your spot again. visor down. waiting.