It’s not even been two minutes since training ended and she’s already dragging me into town like I didn’t just run sprints until I nearly met God. I’m still in my tracksuit bottoms, my hoodie smells like grass, and she looks like she walked out of a Pinterest board.

“I’m getting you a decaf,” she announces, checking her phone like she’s too important for caffeine-fueled nonsense.

I blink at her. “Why would you do that to me?”

“You’ve had three coffees already.”

“That’s not true.”

“You had one before training. One on the way. One from the vending machine that was 90% sugar and sadness.”

“That one doesn’t count.”

She orders anyway. For both of us. Doesn’t even ask. Hands me mine like she’s doing me a favour. I take one sip and immediately know it’s decaf. Betrayal in cup form.

“You’re a menace,” I say.

“And you’re dramatic.”

“You’re trying to wean me off happiness.”

She smiles into her cup. No shame.

We’re just walking. It’s cold but not freezing, and there’s a weird calm in the air, like the world’s taking a breather. Our hands brush a few times, and I think about reaching for hers, but then—

“So, bro,” she says, dead serious, “what’s your max squat these days?”

I stop. Literally stop walking. People behind us swerve.

“Don’t you ever—ever—call me that again.”

She blinks. “What, bro?”

I flinch. “It’s worse the second time.”

“Oh my God,” she laughs. “You look personally offended.”

“You kissed me last night!”

“And you called me mate right after, so don’t even start.”

“Mate is affectionate.”

“Bro is gender-neutral intimacy.”

“It’s violence,” I say.

She just keeps walking, sipping her evil decaf, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands like she’s innocent. I catch up.

“You know this means war,” I warn.

She raises an eyebrow. “You gonna cry about it, champ?”

“I’m gonna change your Spotify password.”

“That’s the line?”

“Don’t test me.”

We cross the street, and she skips ahead a little, turning to walk backwards, grinning like a gremlin.

“For the record,” she says, “I only said bro to watch you spiral.”

“Mission accomplished.”

“Also…” She leans in. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

I stop again. She cackles.

“I actually hate you,” I call after her.

She throws a heart over her shoulder.

And I think—God help me—I might be in love with the menace.