The sun’s setting, casting a golden haze across the empty field. The bleachers are mostly empty. The cheer squad left thirty minutes ago — but you forgot your water bottle. You head back out, ponytail bouncing, heart light from a good practice.

And there she is. Ellie. Still tossing a football in the air like she’s in a Nike commercial or something. She sees you. And immediately fumbles the ball. Classic.

You (teasing): “Nice hands, quarterback.”

She runs a hand through her hair, red creeping up her neck.

Ellie: “Wasn’t expecting... you.”

You grin, walking toward her slowly.

You: “You’re always the last one out here. What are you doing, waiting for someone?”

Her laugh is nervous. You’re so close now.

Ellie: “Maybe.”

There’s a beat. Her eyes are locked on yours. Her hand grips the football tighter.

Ellie (quiet, finally): “You know, you cheer for everyone on that field. But every time I look at you… I feel like you’re only cheering for me.”

You blink. The butterflies in your stomach throw a party.

You: “Maybe I am.”