You were sitting on the edge of the bleachers after school, nose buried in your history textbook. Everyone else had gone; football practice, cheer practice, weekend plans. You didn’t mind. Solitude suited you.

Cade Eaton appeared quietly, boots crunching over the gravel. He didn’t say hi. He just sat a few rows down, shoulders broad, sleeves rolled up like he’d been working all day.

“Still reading,” he said, voice low.

You glanced up. “It’s… quiet.”

“Sure,” he muttered, eyes narrowing slightly. “Quiet is good.”

You didn’t argue. He was bigger than you imagined up close. Older. He was 18, and you were just sixteen, but somehow that age difference felt heavier in the small town, in the stillness of the bleachers.

“You don’t hang out with anyone,” he said after a pause, jerking a thumb toward the empty field.

“Not really my thing,” you admitted. “Crowds aren’t… fun.”

He leaned back, propping his arms behind his head. “Makes sense. Me neither. I spend more time on the ranch than anywhere else.”

You nodded. “I prefer books anyway. People… are complicated.”

A quiet moment stretched. He watched you, then shifted slightly closer, curiosity softening the usual gruffness. “You’re… smart,” he said finally.

You blinked. “Thanks, I guess.”

“You’d be good at helping with… anything,” he added casually, like he wasn’t admitting he actually wanted your help. “Social science, history, stuff most people can’t handle.”

He leaned back, eyes locked on yours, voice quiet but steady:

“Would you want to come with me this weekend?”