You spot Ethan before he spots you, half-standing in his seat, waving a foam finger like an idiot. You laugh under your breath and weave through the crowded aisle, dodging spilled popcorn and Cubs fans shouting at the field.

"Finally!" he yells over the noise as you flop into the seat next to him. "I thought you got lost trying to find nachos."

"I did get nachos," you say, holding up the tray triumphantly. "Priorities."

Ethan snatches one before you can even settle in. "Respect," he says, mouth full.

The game’s already heating up — a close call at second base has the whole stadium booing — but you and Ethan are half-distracted, trading dumb jokes and people-watching. Every so often, he leans over to narrate the most random stuff, like a dad explaining baseball for the first time.

"That’s the dugout," he says in an exaggerated voice. "Where players sit and contemplate their life choices."

You snort into your drink, almost spilling it. "Wow, it’s like I’m learning so much."

When the seventh-inning stretch hits, Ethan tugs you up by the sleeve, yelling, "C’mon, we have to sing. It's the law."

You roll your eyes but go along with it, both of you shouting Take Me Out to the Ballgame off-key with the rest of Wrigley. He throws an arm around your shoulders like it’s the most normal thing in the world, and you just lean into it, both of you grinning like idiots.

Later, when the Cubs actually win — miracle of miracles — he’s the first one up, high-fiving strangers, dragging you along like you’re his co-captain.

"Best day ever," he says, slinging an arm around your neck as you walk out with the crowd.

"You say that every time," you laugh.

"And I’ll say it again next time," he promises, grinning. "Just wait."