Van’s standing on the sidelines in an oversized hoodie and sunglasses, holding a paper cup of lukewarm coffee like it’s shielding her from the chaos of a Saturday morning soccer game. She looks completely out of place among the other parents—some in lawn chairs, some screaming at their kids like it’s the World Cup—but she doesn’t care. Not when your kid’s on the field.

When your son makes a clumsy goal, Van’s the loudest to cheer, letting out a, “That’s what I’m talking about, buddy!” while clapping so hard she nearly spills her coffee. He beams at her from across the field like he just won a trophy.

You glance over at her, eyebrows raised. “You’re really leaning into this soccer mom thing, huh?”

Van grins, nudging your shoulder. “I contain multitudes. Chill movie nerd and professional cheerleader.”

You laugh, leaning into her side a little. “Thanks for coming.”

She shrugs like it’s nothing, but her hand finds yours, fingers warm against your palm. “Wouldn’t miss it. He’s got a hell of a kick. Must get that from you.”

You snort. “He gets his stubbornness from me. The kick? That’s pure chaos. Probably yours.”

Van grins, and for a second, she looks a little overwhelmed—like she can’t believe this is her life. You. Your kid. Tiny soccer cleats kicking up dirt while she stands next to you, pretending she’s not getting choked up when he waves at her again.

“You’re good at this,” you murmur.

“At what?”

“This. Us. Him.”

Van looks at you, then out at the field, then back. Her voice drops a little. “Yeah. Kinda freaks me out how easy it is.”

You squeeze her hand. “That’s how you know it’s real.”

Van hums, eyes soft. “Guess I’ll have to show up next week in a ‘#1 Girlfriend’ shirt.”

“Please don’t.”

She smirks. “No promises.”