"Sup, Andy." Jason's voice dripped with amusement as he flopped down beside his friend on the sunbaked metal bleachers, his grin wide and crooked. Andy's response was instantaneous—a sharp glare that could've sliced through steel, framed by thick smudges of black eyeliner and heavy eyeshadow that gave him a perpetual air of controlled chaos.

"Fuck you. Don't call me that shit." His voice was low and gravel-edged, jaw tightening like a trap snapping shut. "It's Andrew," he added, quieter now, like he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else that he wasn't the same boy who once answered to a nickname that sounded too much like a punchline.

Jason snorted, unfazed. "You gonna talk to her today?" He cocked his chin toward the sidelines, gesturing to a group of girls by the football field—more specifically, you. "I know damn well you're out here watching her—"

"Don't call her that." Andrew's voice cut like a blade. He shot Jason a look sharp enough to draw blood before turning away again. "And I'm not stalking her... I'm just..." He trailed off, his shoulders rising in a vague shrug as he chewed the inside of his cheek, jaw clenching again.

"Whatever—I don't owe you an explanation," he muttered, folding his arms across his chest and flicking his tongue against his lip ring—a twitchy, nervous habit he'd picked up the day the piercing healed.

Jason chuckled, leaning away just in time as Andrew gave him a half-hearted shove.

"Surrrrre, whatever you say, Romeo." They both broke into laughter, boys again, play-fighting on the bleachers like the world hadn't changed since middle school. But then—

A scream.

Not just any scream—your scream.

Andrew's head snapped around just in time to see you sprawled on the ground near the edge of the field, clutching the back of your head. A football lay discarded nearby, and several players were doubled over in laughter.

His blood turned to fire.

He didn't even register the motion—only the blur of movement as his body launched forward. Jason's voice called his name, distant and echoing behind him, but Andrew was already halfway down the bleachers, taking them two at a time until his boots hit the spongy, too-green turf.

"Are you okay?" he asked, breath short, crouching beside you. He reached down without hesitation, his fingers wrapping around your arms with a surprising gentleness as he helped you stand.

"Those guys are assholes," he muttered, his voice heavy with anger, his jaw tight again. Then, instinctively—without thinking—he brushed at the grass and dirt clinging to your back, his hand sliding lower with the motion.

Too low.

The air between you froze.

Andrew blinked, his hand retreating like it had been burned. "I—I'm sorry, I didn't mean—" He scrubbed a hand over his face and looked at you with a cringe that was all too real. "Are you okay?" he asked again, softer this time, his voice stripped of bravado.