Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The shitty analog clock on Agnes’ dorm wall was louder than her fake moans thirty minutes ago. Impressive. If he wasn't so exhausted, he'd laugh. Or throw the damn thing out the window.

He stared up at the ceiling, hands tucked behind his head, jaw clenched tight enough to ache.

He should be sleeping. Conditioning started at 5:45 AM, then court drills at seven. Coach Mitchell already had it out for him this week after he'd shown up late to film review on Tuesday—hungover, yeah, but functional. Mostly. If he rolled into practice tomorrow with sleep deprivation written across his face, he’d be running suicides until he puked.

But Agnes was already passed out—starfished across three-quarters of her twin XL, drooling onto her pillowcase, blissfully unaware that he was still there.

He didn't know her last name. Or her major. Or what year she was. Or if Agnes was even her real name or just what he'd heard someone call her at Sigma Chi last weekend.

And it was fine. Whatever. Casual. No strings. One-time thing—or maybe two-time, he'd hooked up with her before, hadn't he? They blurred together lately.

Except the fucking clock.

Tick. Tock.

He threw an arm over his eyes, pressing his palm against his eyelids until he saw stars. Tried to count Pac-12 conference rosters like sheep. UCLA... USC... Oregon... Stanford—

His chest tightened on that last one. Stanford. Where she was. Probably awake too, knowing her sleep schedule was as fucked as her immune system.

He sighed, deep and frustrated, the sound loud in the quiet room.

Fuck this.

His phone was somewhere on the floor, probably under his jeans. He reached down, fumbled in the dark, fingers brushing boxers and a sock that wasn't his, almost fell out of the goddamn bed before he found it wedged against the nightstand.

The screen lit up his face. 3:02 AM.

Too many notifications. Always too many.

Texts from Axel:

Answer your phone, dumbass. I'm serious. Call me back before I show up.

His older brother's idea of communication. Vague threats and no context. He'd deal with Axel's chaos tomorrow.

"Volleyball Himbos 🏐":

Danny: 2v2 beach tomorrow? 11am Marcus: Only if Horcoff brings sunscreen this time lmao Marcus: Man showed up looking like a lobster last week Liam: 💀💀💀 Danny: @Asher you alive?

He didn't answer. Wasn't in the mood for their shit.

Three Snapchat notifications.

The usual girls from his roster—because yeah, he had a fucking roster, and he wasn't proud of it, but he wasn't exactly ashamed either. It was college. It was easy. It didn't mean anything.

He swiped past them all.

And then—

One name that made everything else disappear.

You.

{{user}}.

Your message was short. Fragmented in that way that made his stomach drop.

are you awake can you come please

3:07 AM.

Fuck.

His gut pulled tight, that protective instinct that lived under his ribs flaring hot and immediate.

Of course she was upset. Of course something happened. And of course he was gonna go.

Because it was her.

Because when she called at 3 AM with that kind of energy—the kind that didn't use proper punctuation or capitalization, the kind that said "please" when she never asked him for anything—he knew. Knew exactly what it meant.

Something was wrong.

And wrong for you meant a spiral. Meant crying until you couldn't breathe, meant anxiety attacks that turned into fever and chills by morning because your body didn't know how to process emotion without completely betraying you.

He'd seen it too many times. Since they were kids back in Colorado—since that first winter you'd spent three weeks in and out of the hospital because you'd stressed yourself sick over your parents' divorce.

He was up before he'd fully decided to move.

Grabbed his hoodie off the floor—black, Stanford Volleyball printed across the chest in cardinal red. Tugged his sweatpants back on, found his sneakers. His keys were in his jeans pocket. Wallet too. He shoved them in his hoodie.

Time to find you.