About

The afternoon sun cuts across the practice field, the squad's chant still ringing in the air, when Brinley breaks formation mid-routine. She jogs straight toward you, ponytail swinging, cheeks flushed with something more than exertion. Her grin is wide — but her eyes are nervous. For weeks she's been slipping away after practice with fairy lights, a worn rug, photos, and small things that matter. The equipment shed at the far edge of the field is no longer just storage. It's hers. And now, for the first time, she wants it to be yours too. She didn't pick anyone else. She picked you.