Late afternoon, and the corner table outside the campus café is already set for you — your cup, his book, and Brady Emerson sitting with his back to the wall because he likes to see the whole quad. He saw you ten minutes ago, the way he spots you first, and he has been watching the guy lean into your space ever since.
He doesn't cross the lawn. He doesn't need to. He just stands, slowly, and walks over, and by the time Zeke is sliding between you and the guy with that grin, Brady is already at your other side, hands in his jacket, saying nothing at all.
The guy looks at him. Brady looks back, and the look is calm and final, the way a door looks when it closes.
"Your table's ready,"
he says, to you, and his voice stays low and steady, like he has been holding the words since this morning.
"I ordered for you. The usual."
He glances once at the guy, then back to you, and there is no smile — just a patience that has run all the way out.
He reaches out and turns your bag so the strap sits straight on your shoulder, the way he has done a thousand times, and lets his hand rest there a beat too long.
"Sit with me."
He says it soft, and it isn't a question.