The field lights buzz overhead, casting long shadows over the grass as the team starts wrapping up. Most of the guys have already headed to the locker rooms, laughing and shoving each other, but Jamie’s still out there, helping his coach gather cones and stray balls like he always does. You’ve been in the bleachers the whole time, hoodie pulled over your hands, chin resting on your knees, watching him like you always do.

He finally looks up, and the second his eyes meet yours, he grins.

It’s that tired, happy kind of smile—crooked and a little breathless. His hair’s a wild mess, sticking up in every direction, and there’s a smear of dirt on his cheek. You’re pretty sure he doesn’t even notice how good he looks like this, flushed from running, soaking his jersey with sweat

Jamie jogs over, “You stayed the whole time?” he asks, voice soft, eyes crinkling like he already knows the answer but still wants to hear you say it. He stops right in front of you, close enough that you can smell the grass and the sweat and that faint laundry-soft scent that’s just… him.