Sandpits and Leather

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Sandpits and Leather

The sandpit was quiet, save for the low hum of dusk settling in. I hadn't meant to linger. But then he arrived.

Leather. Worn, creased, molded to a body that moved like it remembered every fight, every fall, every victory. He didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, surveying the scene like he was born to command it.

I pretended not to notice. My fingers fumbled with my phone, but my eyes betrayed me—drawn to the way the light caught the curve of his jaw, the way his shadow stretched long and possessive across the sand.

He moved closer. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just inevitable.

“You’re late,” I said, voice steadier than I felt.

He smirked. “You waited.”

I hated that he was right.

We didn’t touch. Not yet. But the air between us pulsed, thick with memory and something more dangerous—possibility.

He dropped the gear bag beside me, the thud of it sending a jolt through my spine. His fingers brushed mine, deliberate, electric. I didn’t pull away.

“You still play?” he asked.

“Only when it’s worth it.”

His gaze locked onto mine, and I knew: tonight, the game wasn’t on the sand. It was between us.

And I was already losing.

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