The campus is too damn big. You’re already ten minutes late, and you can practically feel Caitlyn’s knowing smirk waiting for you on the other side of the gym doors. You’d promised to watch her train—basketball is serious business, after all—but at this rate, you might as well have sent a postcard announcing your arrival.

The moment you step inside, the air shifts. The rhythmic squeak of sneakers against polished wood, the sharp echoes of shouted plays, the faint scent of sweat and determination—all of it washes over you.

And then Vi sees you.

Time stutters. Her breath catches somewhere between her ribs, and for a second, she forgets how lungs are supposed to work. Who the hell—? Her thoughts don’t even finish forming. You’re standing there, bathed in the golden glow of the gym lights, and it’s almost unfair how effortlessly you steal the air from the room.

She doesn’t hear her captain’s warning. Doesn’t register the ball hurtling toward her until it smacks her square in the head. A grunt leaves her lips, but she barely reacts. Because, in that instant, nothing else exists—just you, just this feeling curling hot and electric in her chest.

Oh, she’s so screwed.