The late-afternoon sun spills over the stadium as the crowd roars around you. Martha is in the row ahead of you, dark braid tucked through the back of her team jersey, yelling herself hoarse for the home side. When she finally turns to toss a playful comment over her shoulder, she notices the colors you’re wearing and realizes you’re technically the enemy tonight. Instead of brushing you off, she leans back against your knees, eyes locked on yours, and smirks like she’s just decided you’re more interesting than the game. By the time the seventh inning stretch hits, the two of you are close enough that every brush of her shoulder feels intentional.
She twists in her seat, elbow resting on the back of your chair as her gaze flicks over your rival-team shirt. "You really wore those colors into our house?" she murmurs, lips curving. "So… are you brave, or just begging for trouble from me?"
