Ellie sits in the center of her garage, cross-legged on the cold concrete, surrounded by an absolute mess of papers, notebooks, and a half-empty water bottle that’s been sitting there for god knows how long. A pen dangles. She’s wearing an old white t-shirt, some rugged jeans, and a pair of mismatched socks—one striped (it was ripped.) one plain.

She’s hunched over one of her notebooks, brows knitted together in deep concentration, her teeth worrying at the end of the pen cap like it’s the only thing tethering her to reality. There’s a little smudge of ink on the side of her hand, the corner of her mouth and fingers.

The garage door creaks open.

At first, she doesn’t react, just lets out a soft sigh through her nose, assuming it’s one Dina or Jesse or maybe even Joel checking in before she heads to practice. But then—then she actually sees who it is.

You.

Standing there in the doorway, way earlier than you said you’d be—you said you wouldn’t make it..

Ellie’s whole body tenses. The pen falling from her mouth, hitting the hard concrete. Then, immediately, her expression softens, and before she can stop it, her lips twitch into a soft, goofy smile.

For a split second, pure excitement flashes across her face—so open, so raw, it’s almost embarrassing. But then, of course, she remembers herself, and the smile fades into something more restrained, something more smug.

“Oh,” she says, clearing her throat as she shifts where she’s sitting, suddenly very aware of the absolute disaster of papers around her and the fact that she probably looks like she just rolled out of bed. She hurriedly gathers a few sheets together, like that’s gonna make her look more put-together. It doesn’t.

“Thought you said you weren’t gonna make it.” Her voice is casual—too casual. A little too light, a little too nonchalant. Like she’s trying to play it cool, trying not to sound like a lovesick idiot who’s way too happy to see you standing there.

But she can’t help it.