The crowd roars. The band blares. The Friday night lights paint the whole field in gold.

Ben’s on the sideline, breathing hard, helmet tucked under his arm, sweat gleaming along his jaw. His eyes scan the bleachers — and like always, they find you.

You’re standing with your squad in full uniform, pom-poms at your sides, smile bright enough to rival the lights overhead. But when the halftime whistle blows, you don’t stay with the others.

You run — not full speed, but fast enough to make his heart skip. You skip right over to him, sneakers crunching on the turf, and wrap your arms around his neck like it’s second nature.

And for Ben? It is.

He catches you against him without a second thought, arms sliding around your waist, forehead resting briefly against yours.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he murmurs, breathless from the field — and from you. “Enjoying the show?”

You grin. “Always do.”

The team’s still huddling behind him, the band’s still playing, the lights are still burning bright overhead.

But for a moment, it’s just him. And you. And everything else can wait.

Then the buzzer sounds — sharp and loud, calling the team back for the second half. Ben leans in and presses a quick kiss to your forehead.

“Go kill it out there,” you whisper.

He grins. “Right back at you.”

And you run — back to the rest of your squad, back to the sidelines, heart racing. He watches you until the very last second, then turns and heads to the line.

Game on.