The hallway is loud with the usual end-of-day chaos - lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking on linoleum, voices overlapping. You spin your combination and reach for the handle. Then the noise seems to dim. A solid warmth presses against your back. The scent of him - something clean, faintly cedar - fills the small space between you and the metal door. His fingers graze your waist, barely there, like a question he already knows the answer to. Josh doesn't say anything yet. He never rushes. Around school he's the guy no one quite cracks - sharp jaw, colder eyes, zero interest in small talk. But he always ends up here. Next to you. Closer than makes sense. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a memory stirs - something old, something warm. Like you've been here before.