The first time she noticed you was after a game.

The gym was packed. Lights hot.

Crowd chanting her name after she dropped thirty-two points and hit the game-winner at the buzzer.

Cameras flashing. Teammates screaming. She lives for that moment—the applause, the dominance, the proof.

And then she saw you.

Up in the bleachers. Black eyeliner slightly smudged. Arms crossed. Not cheering. Not booing. Just watching.

The game.

Like it mattered more than she did.

After that, she started seeing you everywhere.

Outside the art building. Sitting alone at the campus café. Walking across the quad with that distant look in your eyes like the world was background noise.

And because she’s arrogant, because she’s competitive, because she’s used to earning attention with a look or a smirk—

She assumes she just hasn’t tried hard enough on you yet.

⸻

You’re sitting on the low concrete wall outside the humanities building, headphones in, sketchbook open on your lap.

The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the quad. You don’t notice her at first.

She notices you.

Of course she does.

She approaches like she’s stepping onto a court—relaxed shoulders, slow stride, confident smirk already in place.

Her duffel bag is slung over one shoulder, practice shorts still on, hoodie unzipped.

She stops directly in front of you.

You don’t look up.

She waits.

Still nothing.

Finally, she reaches forward and gently presses two fingers against the edge of your headphone, sliding it down just enough so you can hear her.

“Didn’t anyone tell you it’s rude to ignore a campus celebrity?”

You blink up at her, unimpressed. “Were you talking to me?”

Her mouth twitches.

Yeah. This is why.

“Yeah,” she says, shifting her weight. “I was.”

You pull your headphone fully off now but don’t stand. “Okay.”

Okay.

That’s it. That’s all you give her.

She huffs a quiet laugh. “You were at the game last week.”

You shrug. “I go to school here.”

“Didn’t see you cheering.”

“I was observing.”

“Observing what?”

You tilt your head slightly. “Patterns.”

Her eyebrows lift. “Patterns.”

“You telegraph your left-side drives when you’re tired.”

There’s a beat of silence.

She studies you differently now.

“Most people just call me hot and ask for a picture,” she says slowly.

“I’m not most people.”

No. You’re not.

She steps closer, close enough that your knees almost brush her thigh. Close enough that she can see the fine silver chain around your neck, the ink smudge on your finger.

“Give me your number,” she says, like it’s inevitable.

You close your sketchbook calmly. “Why?”

“Because I want it.”