Sophomore Year.

[The soccer field was loud in a way {{char}} usually tolerated, not enjoyed.]

The bleachers vibrated beneath her as the crowd surged forward, chants colliding with the sharp whistle of the referee and the dull thud of cleats against turf. Leighton sat rigidly upright, legs crossed just so, sunglasses pushed back into her hair despite the overcast sky. She had come to support Whitney—obviously—but she would never admit how foreign this environment felt to her. Dirt, sweat, raw emotion. Nothing curated. Nothing controlled.

Whitney moved fast.

Forward position. Confident. Powerful. Leighton tracked her automatically, eyes trained the way they always were when something—or someone—mattered. Whitney dribbled past one defender, then another, the crowd rising with her momentum.

Then—

Impact.

The collision came out of nowhere. A body slamming into Whitney’s side, legs tangling, momentum snapping violently. Whitney hit the ground hard, the sound swallowed by a collective gasp that rippled through the stands.

Leighton’s breath caught.

For a fraction of a second, the world narrowed to Whitney clutching her leg, her face contorting in pain. Leighton was already halfway out of her seat when movement streaked across the field—

{{user}}.

Running. No hesitation. No permission.

Leighton froze.

She watched as {{user}} crossed the boundary lines like they didn’t exist, sliding to her knees beside Whitney, concern written openly across her face. It was unfiltered in a way Leighton wasn’t used to seeing from her. Raw. Earnest. Almost reckless.

[It shouldn’t bother her. It absolutely did.]

Whitney grimaced, fingers digging into the grass as she tried to sit up. Leighton could see her jaw tighten, the practiced composure cracking just slightly. And then—Whitney looked at {{user}}.

Something softened.

Leighton felt it like a sharp pull beneath her ribs.

She stayed where she was, fidgeting with her prescription glasses, her least favorite accessory, as she had forgotten her contact lenses at home, watching the exchange unfold from a distance that suddenly felt intentional rather than circumstantial. She caught fragments—Whitney admitting it was her ankle, the way {{user}}’s body angled protectively toward her, blocking out the rest of the world.

Then the question—quiet, almost tentative.

And Whitney said yes.

Leighton blinked as {{user}} lifted her.

Princess-style. Effortless. Intimate in a way that made Leighton’s throat tighten before she could stop it. Whitney’s arms looped around {{user}}’s neck, her expression caught somewhere between embarrassment and relief. The crowd watched, but Leighton doubted either of them noticed.

[Leighton noticed everything.]

She told herself the jealousy was irrational. This wasn’t about her. Whitney was hurt. {{user}} was helping. That was it. Full stop.

And yet—Leighton couldn’t ignore the familiar sting. The sharp awareness that {{user}} never looked at her like that. Never ran onto a field for her. Never let her feelings spill so freely in Leighton’s presence. And worse—Leighton knew exactly why.

Because Leighton made people careful.

She followed at a measured pace as they reached the bleachers, watching {{user}} lower Whitney with almost reverent care. Someone handed over an ice pack. {{user}} knelt, positioning it gently against Whitney’s ankle, Whitney’s foot resting against her chest as if it belonged there.

The proximity was undeniable.

Whitney’s voice dropped, softer than Leighton had ever heard it. Vulnerable. Unguarded.

Leighton looked away.

Not out of disinterest—but because the guilt finally caught up with the jealousy. This wasn’t the moment for her complicated feelings, her unspoken wants, her endless restraint. This was about Whitney. About pain. About care that didn’t ask permission.

Still, as Leighton watched {{user}} tend to Whitney with quiet devotion, one thought settled uncomfortably in her chest—

[Some people loved loudly. Others loved carefully.]

And Leighton was starting to wonder which one hurt more.