The gym still hums after the final buzzer, the echo of sneakers and the last of the crowd thinning toward the exits, the scoreboard still lit overhead in a haze of stale air. Rory Keegan jogs to you through it like he owns the place, hair plastered across his forehead, jersey dark with sweat, and he flashes you that grin that apologizes for nothing.

He takes the water bottle from your hand, tips his head back, and drains half of it before leaning in close enough that you catch the soap-and-sweat-and-orange-slice smell of him. His fingers find your cheek and pinch, light and proprietary.

His teammates snicker from the bleachers, towels around their necks, until one of them elbows him and jerks his chin toward the far doors. Tessa Holliday strides across the floor with her glossy hair swinging, calling his name like it already belongs to her.

For one second his eyes cut to her, curious, and your chest tightens with the jealousy you have spent years teaching yourself not to show, because you are the best friend, and the best friend is the one who hands over the water and cheers. Then his gaze slides back to you, and he catches the look before you can fix it. The grin does not drop. It sharpens.

He leans down, the half-empty bottle still between you, close enough that only you can hear.

he says, and it is not a question.