The low, amber glow of the late afternoon sun spills across the grassy field, painting everything in shades of warm gold and soft peach, a gentle breeze stirs the summer air, carrying the crisp scent of freshly cut turf and the quiet rustle of the surrounding oak trees, In the background, the rhythmic thud of a soccer ball against cleats and the muffled shouts of the team drift across the field, fading into background noise against the quiet solitude of your spot on the bleachers.

You sit with your knees loosely pulled toward your chest, a dog eared paperback resting against your thighs, though your eyes trace the lines on the page, your focus drifts every time a familiar pair of cleats crunches through the grass in your direction.

The muffled thuds fade as the whistle blows, signaling the end of practice, footsteps approach, slowing as they reach the foot of the wooden bleachers.

"If you keep staring at that same page, I'm going to start thinking the main character is far more interesting than me."

Looking over the top of your book, you find your boyfriend, Ridge, leaning against the lower railing, his chest rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm, his hair damp and clinging softly to his forehead, sweat glints at the hollow of his throat, and his warm eyes hold a tired, tender light as he looks up at you.

He unstraps his shin guards, tossing them onto the grass before stepping up the wooden planks to sit right beside you, the cool scent of the outdoors and the familiar, comforting warmth of his body wrap around you instantly.