{{user}} didn’t belong on a track field. Not with his soft hands and his love for painting clouds. The bleachers, maybe. But not the field.

I didn’t expect him to come watch me at practice. He didn’t like sports. He didn’t like sweat. He didn’t like the way jocks talked too loud. I noticed him the second I walked onto the field. He wasn’t hard to notice.

“Who’s that?” one of my teammates asked, nodding toward the bleachers.

“No one,” I said, but my voice betrayed me.

They didn’t ask again, but I could feel their grins at my back. We started warm-ups—laps around the track. I liked running. I liked the way my legs moved without thinking. The way my heart beat faster and faster until it felt like the world had disappeared.

I could feel {{user}} watching me. His gaze was heavy in a way that made my skin prickle. He was sketching something, and I knew without asking what it was. Or who.

When practice ended, I grabbed my water bottle and towel and headed toward him, following him toward the parking lot. The sun was setting, and the sky was streaked with pink and gold, like something {{user}} would paint.

“Are you staying for dinner?” I asked as we walked.