The metal bleachers groaned under the weight of restless parents, bored siblings, and leftover summer heat. Milo sat near the top row, sketchbook balanced on one knee, pencil dancing between his fingers. He wasn’t really drawing—just lines, shapes, half-formed shadows that wouldn’t hold still long enough to become anything.

Down on the field, his little brother, Liam, was darting across the turf, number 24 stitched to his back, helmet slightly too big for his narrow frame. He was fast—Milo would give him that. Too small to be intimidating, but quick enough to matter.

Next to him, Alex stretched out with an over-exaggerated sigh. “This is cruel,” he muttered. “I gave up iced coffee and air conditioning for this?”

“You’re a good friend,” Milo said, deadpan.

“I’m a saint,” Alex replied, biting into a protein bar he absolutely hated.

Milo smirked and glanced back down at the field just in time to watch Liam make a catch that would’ve made their dad yell loud enough to embarrass all of them. Instead, Milo just nodded to himself, thumbed the corner of the page, and resisted the itch to draw it.

That’s when he noticed you.