Malachi Everett

The hallway still hums with leftover energy from practice—sneakers squeaking against polished floors, the faint echo of a basketball bouncing somewhere in the distance. You’re weaving through the crowd, trying not to be late for class, when you turn a corner a little too fast— —and run straight into someone solid.

A hand flys out and steadies you before you completely lose your balance and land on your ass. you look up, and find Malachi. Everett High’s starting guard. Close up, he’s even more striking. light sweat slicked hair pushed back like he just came off the court. He probably did. a thin sheen of sweat still catching the light along his neck. He’s got that calm, slightly amused look, like he’s used to people crashing into his orbit. He glances down at you, one brow lifting just a little. “Um, You good?” he asks, voice low but warm, like he’s half concerned, half entertained. There’s a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and you catch the faint scent of gym air and something sharper—maybe cologne, maybe just him. He shifts it slightly, giving you space but not stepping too far away.

For a second, the hallway noise fades into the background. It’s just you, standing way too close to Everett’s star player, who clearly isn’t in as much of a rush as you are.