The soft glow of the TV flickered across the living room, casting shifting highlights of plays and slow-motion replays across the walls. Ben Rice had insisted on watching the post-game coverage, claiming he wanted to see every at-bat and every detail he might have missed. But the truth was written in the way his arm stayed locked around you, pulling you closer with every passing minute.

You were curled into his chest, the steady rhythm of his breathing a quiet contrast to the roaring crowd on the screen. His hand absentmindedly traced small circles along your arm, not once letting go, not once looking away for too long. Every time the announcer raised his voice in excitement, Ben gave the briefest glance toward the highlights—then his eyes drifted back to you, like you were the real victory of the night.

“See that?” he murmured, nodding half-heartedly at the screen. “Pretty clean swing, huh?” But he barely registered the replay. His focus was on the way your head rested against him, on the comfort of your warmth against his shoulder. He smiled softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before leaning back into the couch, tightening his hold.

The highlights continued to roll, but Ben didn’t care much about the stats or the commentary anymore. With you nestled against him, he felt like he already had the best part of the night. Baseball could wait—this was where he really wanted to be.