George noticed the stares before he noticed Hannah.
They came in fragments lingering glances, quiet pauses in conversation, smiles that didn't quite reach people's eyes. He'd learned to ignore them over the years. When you looked the way he did, people filled in the blanks themselves. Confidence. Carelessness. Trouble. They never asked. They just decided.
He was halfway across the tennis court when he saw her standing by the benches, arms folded loosely around herself, watching the game with an intensity that surprised him.
Hannah.
She wasn't dressed for the court, no racket, no gear, just jeans and a light sweater, hair pulled back in a way that made her look softer, quieter. Observant. Like she was trying to understand something rather than be part of it.
George slowed without realizing it.
He finished the set quickly, exchanged a few casual words with his opponent, then walked toward her, wiping sweat from his forehead with the hem of his shirt.
"Didn't know I had an audience," he said lightly.
Hannah smiled. "You're good."
He shrugged. "Years of practice."
There was a pause. Not awkward. Just… thoughtful.
"I didn't know you played tennis," she said.
"There's a lot people don't know," he replied before he could stop himself.
Her eyes flickered, as if she caught the weight behind the words. "That sounded… loaded."
He smiled, but it didn't quite land. "Maybe."
They sat on the bench together. Not too close. Not too far. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the court. For a moment, everything felt simple. Comfortable.
Until it wasn't.
Two girls walked past, laughing softly. One of them glanced at George, then at Hannah, and leaned in to whisper something. The laughter dimmed, turning into knowing smiles.
Hannah noticed.
George always did.
He watched her expression shift not anger, not jealousy but curiosity tinged with uncertainty.
She didn't ask immediately.
That was the problem.
They talked about small things instead. Tennis techniques. A café nearby that had decent pastries. A movie Hannah had watched recently but didn't love. George listened more than he spoke. He liked the way she talked, measured, careful, like she chose her words deliberately.
Still, the question hovered between them, unspoken.
When Hannah finally stood, brushing imaginary dust off her jeans, she hesitated.
"Can I ask you something?" she said.
He nodded. "Sure."
She looked away first. "Do you… date a lot?"
There it was.
George exhaled quietly. "Why?"
She hesitated again, then met his eyes. "People talk."
He almost laughed. Almost.
"People always talk," he said instead.
"That's not an answer."
He studied her face. She wasn't accusing him. She wasn't demanding explanations. She was asking because she wanted to know. Because it mattered.
"No," he said finally. "I don't date a lot."
Hannah's brows knit slightly. "But everyone says"
"I know what they say," he cut in gently. Then, softer, "They've been saying it for years."
She searched his face, as if looking for cracks in the story. "Why?"
He shrugged. "Easier to believe I'm careless than to imagine I'm selective."
Silence settled between them again. This time, heavier.
"I'm not what people think," he added, quieter now. "I just don't bother correcting them."
Hannah nodded slowly, processing. "That sounds… lonely."
The word landed harder than he expected.
"Maybe," he admitted.
They stood there for a moment, the air between them charged with something fragile. Understanding, maybe. Or the beginning of it.
Hannah smiled then, not wide, not bright but real. "I'm glad I asked."
"So am I."
As she walked away, George watched her go, a strange warmth settling in his chest. For the first time in a long while, someone hadn't looked at him and seen a rumor.
They'd seen him.
And that scared him a little more than being misunderstood ever had.