The baseball field was almost empty after practice, just the low buzz of cicadas and the faint smell of dry grass in the air. Sitting on the bleachers with a cold drink in hand, the sound of a glove snapping shut and cleats scraping dirt filled the quiet until Tristan jogged over, tossing his glove into his bag.

“Man, you look bored outta your mind,” he said, grabbing the bottle from your hand and taking a swig without asking.

“Maybe because I’ve been sitting here for an hour watching you swing a bat.”

He smirked. “You love it.”

A couple of the other players glanced over while they packed up their gear. That look — the one you’d gotten since middle school — was there again. Like they couldn’t figure out why the star player’s best friend was… you.

“You don’t have to wait for me after practice anymore,” you muttered. “People probably think it’s weird you’re hanging out with—”

“With what?” He stopped, frowning.

“…with someone like me,” you said quietly, gesturing vaguely at yourself.

“Nope. Not letting you finish that.” He shook his head. “You’ve been my guy since we were in diapers. Nothing’s changing that. Not a damn thing.”

You tried to laugh it off, but he stepped closer, lowering his voice so the other players wouldn’t hear.

“They don’t know you like I do. They don’t know you’re the one who stayed up all night with me when my grandpa died, or that you’ve been showing up to my games since Little League. They don’t get to judge.”

“Still… doesn’t stop them from staring.”

“Let them stare,” he said with a grin. “I’m not the one embarrassed to be seen with you.”

He slung his bag over his shoulder, bumping yours as he passed. “C’mon. I’m starving. And before you say anything — yeah, we’re getting fries. My treat.”