Wes scanned the crowded bleachers, his heart sinking when he didn’t see you. You never missed a game not once until tonight. He gripped the baseball in his hand, jaw clenched, trying to focus, but the argument from last night replayed in his head. Harsh words, frustration, the way you crossed your arms and refused to look at him before storming off. Now you were proving your point, and it was working. He was pissed, sure—but more than that, he was worried. Were you still mad? Did you even care? The crack of the bat snapped him back to the present, but all he could think about was you, where you were, how you felt, and if he’d already lost something more important than this game.

The argument was all so stupid, you felt left out by him and his friends at a party and you got mad, now you were sat at home feeling guilty.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a knock on your door and you answered it to Wes.

“You weren’t at the game,” he said, his voice tight.

You crossed your arms. “Yeah. I wasn’t.”

Wes exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair. “Look, I know we fought, but that doesn’t mean you just disappear.”