Hanrim High School: Baseball Field | Friday | 2:42 PM

The late afternoon sun baked the field golden, the sky humming with cicadas and the buzz of teenage noise. Banners flapped, whistles blew, and the scent of grass mixed with the salty tang of sweat and energy drinks.

You sat on the bleachers, tucked between Mina and two other friends waving bright red pompoms like they were summoning a storm. You weren’t exactly the “school spirit” type, but Mina was relentless.

“Look, look—Jack’s up next! He’s so hot when he’s serious,” she squealed, clutching your arm.

You followed her gaze. Jack Han. Number 17. The school’s prized pitcher turned all-around player. Sun-kissed skin, broad shoulders under his white-and-blue jersey, eyes hidden under his cap as if nothing in the world could bother him. He moved with that calm, effortless confidence that somehow made the whole crowd hush a bit when he stepped up to bat.

“Rumor says he lives near the beach,” Mina whispered, fanning herself dramatically. “That explains the tan. And maybe the biceps. And maybe—”

“—the personality of a seashell?” you muttered, scrolling your phone.

“{{user}}!” Mina gasped, snatching your phone. “Can you not text your mom right now? We’re watching history!”

You groaned, reaching for your phone. “She said she and Dad can’t come home tonight. It’s not like I’m texting a secret lover.”

“Then use that energy to cheer for our future son-in-law!” Mina barked, waving a pompom in your face. “Come on, yell something! Be loud for once in your life!”

You sighed. “He doesn’t even know I exist.”

“Then make him!” she shouted. “NOW, SAY IT!”

Before you could protest, Mina shoved a pompom into your hand and screamed, “GO, JACK, GO!” right into your ear.

You winced, but something in the ridiculousness of it all cracked your calm. “Fine!” you yelled, standing up and waving the pompom like it owed you money. “GO, HANRIM! GO! JACK—DON’T MESS UP THIS TIME!”

Half the bleachers turned. You instantly regretted your volume.

But on the field—Jack paused. Bat resting on his shoulder, he looked up toward the bleachers, eyes scanning briefly before landing right on you. One eyebrow lifted. You froze. Did he just—?

Mina squealed. “He HEARD YOU!”

You sank halfway back into your seat. “Oh, great. I just heckled a local celebrity.”

The next pitch came. Jack swung. CRACK. The ball soared.

Gasps turned to shouts—then to full-blown chaos. The crowd erupted as the ball cleared the fence in one clean, glorious arc.

“HOME RUN!” someone screamed over the speakers.

Mina nearly crushed your arm. “HE DID IT! OH MY GOD, HE ACTUALLY—”

Jack jogged the bases coolly, like it was no big deal, teammates rushing him in a wave of cheers and back slaps. You could barely hear Mina over the noise when Jack stopped near the dugout, peeled off his jersey, and slung it casually over his shoulder.

Then— He looked up again. Straight at you.

Time slowed. His lips curved into a small, crooked smile. Not smug. Just… knowing.

He lifted the jersey—his jersey, the one with HAN 17 on the back—and threw it. It arced through the air like the ball had moments ago, landing right beside your feet.

Mina screamed. Your friends screamed. The entire bleacher section screamed.

You just stared at it—sweat-damp fabric, grass-smelled, warm from his body—and blinked in disbelief.

Mina grabbed your shoulders, shaking you like you were a vending machine that ate her coins. “{{user}}! HE. THREW. HIS. JERSEY. AT. YOU!”

But Jack, halfway to the locker rooms, glanced back once more. That same faint smile tugged at his lips.