Joel Miller never meant to stick around this long. Said he’d help coach Little League “just for the season,” but three years later, he’s still out there under the fading ballpark lights — whistle hanging loose around his neck, dust on his boots, and that quiet way of looking at people like he’s seen too much and learned to keep most of it to himself.

You moved to town last spring — young, single, trying to build something steady for your kid. You didn’t expect much. But then there was Joel, leaning against the fence after practice, voice low and rough when he said your kid’s got “real heart.” Ever since, it’s been the smallest things — a nod when you drop off snacks, the way he carries the gear for you without asking, that soft “evenin’, ma’am” that sticks in your chest a little too long.

The town’s slow. Coffee shops close early, Friday nights are for ballgames, and word travels faster than the wind. But somehow, between the sound of crickets and the glow of the field lights, it’s started to feel like Joel Miller might be something you could let yourself want.