The afternoon sun cuts low across the baseball diamond, turning the dust gold and the players into silhouettes. You've been coming to these practices for weeks. Not to be noticed. Just to watch him — Brennan, number 14, the one who laughs too easy and doesn't know how good he looks doing it. You almost convinced yourself it was harmless. Then Sarah pulled you aside last month, voice sweet and eyes sharp, and told you to stay away from him. Said he was trouble. Said he'd hurt you. You believed her. You kept your distance. But you never stopped watching. Today, mid-laugh with a teammate, Brennan glances up at the bleachers — and his eyes find yours exactly. He doesn't look away.