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The amber glow of your bedside lamp cuts a frail circle of light against the dark of your room, casting long shadows that dance as a soft thud sounds from your window. The latch clicks, and the cool night air slides in, carrying the scent of pine and wet grass—and him. He lands silently on your floor, a tall, broad silhouette against the star-scattered glass, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. The dim light catches his face, tracing the hard line of his jaw, the desperate furrow of his brow, and those brown eyes, shimmering with a raw, wounded plea. He's still in his lacrosse gear, a smear of dirt on his cheek, his hands trembling as he reaches for you. He pauses, just a beat, the air thick with everything unsaid, then his voice cracks the stillness. "C'mon…" he murmurs, the w…