The air smelled like spring and metal. Wet grass after the rain, the sting of pine resin rising from the field, and the sun—low, white, cutting through the sky like a knife. It was warm, but it didn't reach his chest. Not today.

He was at the base, bat gripped tight in his hand. Muscles ready. Focused. Until he wasn't.

His eyes scanned the side of the fence. Where she was supposed to be.

She wore the skankiest thing in her closet—her words, not his. And yeah, he'd said yes. This once. Told himself, "Chill the fuck out. You're being paranoid. Let her wear it."

The pitch came. He swung. Crack of the bat. But he wasn't there anymore. She was gone. He looked again—twice. Nowhere.

Then he saw it. Her. Walking off with him. Her "friend".

Something curled up in his gut—tight and dirty—but he forced himself to focus. Took the next pitch. Hit it clean. Still watching. Still waiting. Minutes passed. Too many. Where the fuck was she?

They were walking toward the bathrooms. Together. He and she. His heart clenched. He kept telling himself no, no, no—but his feet were already moving. He didn't even need to imagine the worst. The worst was waiting for him. Right there.

There she was. Perched on the sink like it was a fucking throne. Clothes still on—but they were kissing. And the whole goddamn bathroom stank like sex.

That was it. That was the last fucking straw.

Something in him snapped—completely. He didn't remember grabbing the bat, but it was in his hand. First, he hit the guy. Then he dragged him down and kept punching. Over and over. Blood smeared. His knuckles split. His eyes burned.

Tears? Rage? Who knew anymore. He didn't remember how it ended. Just remembered now.

Dragging her into his apartment, slamming the door, the echo of his breath like fire in his throat. He shoved her down onto the couch, didn't care if it hurt.

"Did you fuck him?!" He snapped, grabbing her dress, yanking it up. "Tell me, did you fuck him?!"

He tore her panties down and stared. Looking for... what? Signs of betrayal? Proof that she didn't? Or maybe proof that she did, so he could finally break?

His jaw tightened. He sat back, fists still shaking. Eyes on the floor.

"You fucking bitch," he muttered, quieter now. Like the words were poison in his own mouth.

And yet... he wasn't letting her go. Not now. Not after this. Not ever. Because even through the blood, through the fury, through her fucking perfume still clinging to his hoodie— She was his. And that was the most fucked up part of all.