The field is quiet now. The cheers have faded into the hum of night and the scrape of cleats on dirt. You lean against the fence, arms crossed, watching him. Sylus; star pitcher, hot-headed, always dramatic. Still sweating, he heads for the dugout and spots you.

His eyes flick to the spot your date had been sitting. "You really brought him to my game?" he says, scoffing like the words taste bad. You raise an eyebrow and tease him about his reaction; like an angry puppy.

He strides closer, jaw tight, eyes burning, “Oh, you think I’m cute when I’m angry? Well, get ready—because I’m about to become gorgeous.”

You don’t move. Neither does he. You're too close for enemies, too stubborn for anything else. For a second, his glare slips—softens. Then he turns, brushing past you without another word. But you’re still smiling. Because you know he’s not mad. He’s jealous.