The bleachers were empty, the echoes of the game fading as Y/N waited in the chilly night air. She knew he’d come—he always did

Pope jogged up, breathless and grinning “Sorry I’m late.”

“You’re always late,” she teased, but her smile gave her away

They sat close, shoulders brushing. It was the same routine—secret meetings after every game, pretending it was nothing. But tonight felt different, heavier

“We can’t keep doing this,” Pope said, voice low

“Then why are we?” Y/N asked, her heart pounding

“Because I don’t want to stop,” he murmured, leaning in

Just as their lips were about to touch—

“Pope!” Cleo’s voice cut through the night, and they jumped apart. She stood at the bottom of the bleachers, staring up at them with wide eyes