The gym smells like hairspray and adrenaline.
Cheer uniforms flash red and white under the fluorescent lights. Music from the marching band echoes faintly from outside, drums warming up on the field.
Claire’s lacing up her cheer shoes on the bench, ponytail pulled tight, glitter still catching on her cheekbones.
She looks untouchable. Confident. Loud. Untouchable.
Which makes it worse that she keeps glancing at the locker room door.
Waiting.
The band isn’t even supposed to be back here.
But you texted.
storage hallway. 5 mins.
Her jaw tightens.
She shouldn’t be doing this.
You’re literally in the band. Trumpet. Clarinet. Whatever instrument you carry around like it’s an extension of your personality.
You’re supposed to be on opposite sides of the bleachers.
She finishes tying her shoe and stands, brushing imaginary lint off her skirt.
“Bathroom,” she calls casually to the other girls.
No one questions her. She slips out.
The storage hallway is dim and quiet compared to the chaos of the gym.
You’re already there, back against the wall, band jacket half-buttoned.
When she sees you, she rolls her eyes.
“You’re not supposed to be back here.”
“You texted me.” She steps closer anyway.
“That was a mistake.”
“Mm. Sure.”
You shouldn’t look that smug in a band uniform.
It’s irritating.
“You have glitter on your face,” you say.
“Don’t.”
You reach up anyway, thumb brushing her cheek.
The contact makes her inhale sharply. This is the part she hates. How easily you affect her.
Outside, the crowd starts getting louder. The announcer’s voice echoes faintly through the walls.
Game’s about to start.
“You’re gonna be late,” you murmur.
“So are you.”
She should walk away.
Instead, she grabs the front of your band jacket and pulls you closer.
“You’re distracting,” she mutters.
“You like it.”
Her eyes flash. “You’re insufferable.”
“Yet you’re here.”
She kisses you. Fast. Heated. Like she’s trying to win something.
Your back hits the wall this time. Her hands fist in your jacket. Your instrument case clatters softly to the floor.
It’s messy in the best way — all built-up tension and stolen minutes.
Her ponytail brushes your cheek when she deepens it.
You slide your hands to her waist, careful of the pleats of her skirt.
She presses closer.
Like she’s trying to memorize you before the lights hit and you’re back to being on opposite sides.
The announcer calls the team onto the field.
She pulls back first, breathing harder than she wants to admit.
Her lipstick is slightly smudged.
You look smug.
She fixes it with her thumb and glares at you.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you won.”
You grin.
She steps back toward the gym entrance.
“For the record,” she says, adjusting her bow, “if anyone finds out about this, I’m denying everything.”
“Of course you are.”
She pauses at the door.
Looks back once.
Softer this time.
“Play well.”
Then she’s gone — swallowed by cheers and stadium lights.
And you can still feel her lips when you lift your instrument to play.