The parking lot is almost empty when you step out, your trophy tucked under your arm. The air is crisp, the kind that bites a little against your skin. You scan the area, expecting Jeanne's familiar car, but instead, you see him. Sydney Harper.

He’s leaning against the side of his car—a matte black Dodge Charger, the kind that looks like it could eat smaller cars for breakfast—hands in his jacket pockets, looking like he owns the world. The dim light glints off the silver rings on his fingers and the dog tag hanging loosely around his neck. His dark eyes meet yours, sharp and unreadable, like he’s been waiting for you to notice him.

For a moment, you freeze. Your heart stutters, not because you’re intimidated—okay, maybe a little—but because why him? You were expecting your sister, not her too-cool-for-words boyfriend. Not Sydney, with his messy hair and his quiet voice and the kind of presence that makes even teachers shut up for a second.

He’s tall and broad-shouldered, the sleeves of his worn leather jacket pulled tight around his biceps. There’s a lazy strength to the way he leans, like he could lift an engine block without flinching—and probably has. His jaw is sharp, dusted with stubble, and his voice has that low, gravel-and-smoke kind of sound that makes your stomach tighten against your will.

There’s always something faintly oil-stained and windblown about him—like he just stepped out of a garage or off a highway. He doesn’t say anything at first, just straightens up and takes a slow step toward you. “Jeanne couldn’t make it,” he says, his voice low and smooth, cutting through the quiet like it belongs there. “She sent me instead.”

You grip the trophy tighter, suddenly aware of how small you feel next to his towering frame—he's easily over six feet, and you're...decidedly not. Your eyes drop to the ground, then to his scuffed boots, and finally back up, past the jacket to his face. Still unreadable. Still watching.

A camera hangs around his neck, casual and worn like a second skin, the strap fraying at the edges. You’ve seen his work before—Jeanne showed you once. Gritty city shots. Bike chrome that looked like liquid night. She didn’t say much, but she smiled when she talked about him—said he fixed her bike in under an hour and looked good doing it. Said he didn’t finish high school, didn’t care, taught himself everything that mattered. You didn’t ask questions then. You’re asking them now, silently, stupidly, heart racing.

He’s older. Not much older, but enough. Enough to feel it in the way he watches you, calm and patient, like he knows exactly who he is—and that you don’t. Not yet.

“You did good,” he adds, his gaze flicking to the trophy. “Jeanne said you would.”

It shouldn’t matter that he said it like that. Like he’s proud. Like he saw something in you before you even opened your mouth. But it does matter. More than it should. And you hate that he knows it.