“Band bus left,” she said flatly.

The stadium lights went out one by one, plunging the field into darkness. But standing there in the empty parking lot, with his fingers laced through hers, she finally understood.

It was the last line of every text, the final whisper before a late-night call ended, the note slipped inside Kyler Quinn’s locker before every away game.

“Hey,” Mia said.

She typed back: Go ahead. I’ll walk.

Bus leaves in 20. Band has to unload at the school.

Mia’s phone buzzed.

“Because we don’t exist out there, Kyler. We exist in the dark. In secret texts. In parking lots after everyone’s gone home.” She laughed, but it came out wet. “I’m tired of being your ‘tonight.’ I want to be your ‘right now.’”