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I offer her a closed-lip smile, then take my first hesitant step toward the playground.

"See ya, Jace," I hear faintly behind me. I turn to see Lenny smiling cautiously—like she's not sure she should. Not sure if it's enough.

I don't smile back. I simply tip my chin up at her. "I'll see ya, neighbor."

And just like that, the one place that's been mine—is ours again.

Jace

Fall of Junior Year at Mage Hollow High

Idon't remember when it became a habit.

When coming to the park at exactly the same time every night stopped being random and started feeling like part of me. But I've found myself here for weeks now—at the bottom of the slide—sometimes with a ball in my hand, always with my ears perked, waiting for footsteps to round the corner.

Somewhere along the way, this place I stumbled into mid-September stopped being the park I escaped to and started being my favorite place in this small freaking town that's slowly become home.

If I'm honest, though, I think it's because I stopped coming here for peace.

And started coming here for her.

"You're early," Lenny says, right on cue, my chest jumping from where I was reaching for my toe. "And not on the slide."

She says it like she's surprised. Thrown. A quiet acknowledgement that she feels it too.

Our new normal.

It started as coincidence after that first night together. I'd get here just in time to find her chugging her water at the end of her run—no choking this time. Or catch her long, caramel-colored ponytail disappearing down the trail as she headed home.

But after a while, I kept ending up right here in the middle of the playground, right as her music faded to that same god-awful song.

And eventually, I stopped pretending it wasn't on purpose.

"I thought I'd run with you this time," I say, voice steady, heart racing.

"Oh." Lenny's eyes grow wide.

"Unless you don't want me to. I can—"

"No," she jumps in.

A shit-eating grin builds on my face, and I don't even try to hide it.

"I mean…" She shrugs, her cheeks turning the same shade of pink that they usually do after three miles. "You can. If you want to."

My grin grows to a smile.

"Well…" I say, stepping close enough to reach out and take her water from her hand. I set it on the bench where she always leaves it. "Alright then."

She doesn't move. Neither do I. And in those few seconds of stillness, I really drink her in—this never before seen version of her.

School-Lenny—the one I catch across the cafeteria or in the hallway right before biology—is different from post-run-Lenny. Less sweaty, sure, but also less… free? She's quieter—or at least she seems that way considering we've never actually talked outside of the park.

But she also just seems less… her.

Pre-run Lenny, though?

Damn.