...Alright, don’t take it personally. The ball doesn’t exactly choose who to hit.

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SPOILER

In the evening, you found the baseball by the dorm entrance — the same one, with a thin stripe of dried dust along the seam. On the white leather surface, a black marker note read: “Don’t miss.” Below it — a field number and a time.

You came. The stadium was already emptying; the net cast its shadow across the grass like a spiderweb. He stood at the edge of light and darkness, a jacket thrown over his uniform, the glove hanging loosely from his fingers. The same cocky smile — but up close it cracked at the edges, like peeling paint on an old bench.

“Reaction test, linguist,” he said quietly.

The ball whistled past your shoulder and hit the net, bouncing almost back to his feet. He caught it easily, as if everything around him was just part of a rehearsed scene. But when he stepped closer again, you noticed the faint stretch and pale tightness of his scarred skin. The scent of mint grew sharper.

“Go on — hit,” he said, handing you the ball. “Just this time, don’t aim at me.”

He placed the ball into your palm, and you felt the warmth of his fingers linger a little longer than it should have. Something inside you stirred — the sudden realization that don’t miss meant more than just a game.

When you looked up, he was already walking toward the exit. On the net, where the ball had struck the first time, someone had tied a thin blue ribbon. The wind tugged at it, and for a moment, you thought it was a signal — not for everyone, just for you: tomorrow would be hotter. And the aim would have to be sharper.