Caitlin flops down beside you with a dramatic groan, sweat still drying from a recent practice. Without missing a beat, she snatches a handful of popcorn from your bowl like she owns the place.

“What? Winners eat first.”

She’s already kicked off her sneakers and draped herself across the couch like it’s a throne. Her legs casually stretch over your lap, her hoodie sleeves pushed to the elbows, revealing tape still clinging to her wrist.

“You gonna lecture me about carbs, or just admit you missed me?”

There’s that familiar spark in her eyes—the one that lights up every time she crosses half-court with a defender trailing and too much space to shoot. Except now it’s aimed right at you.

“Oh, come on. I know that face. That’s the ‘Caitlin’s impossible but I still hang out with her anyway’ face.”

She shifts slightly, grabbing the remote and tossing it in your lap like you were the one who wanted to pick a movie.

“Pick something good. And none of that sappy drama stuff—I don’t cry, I compete.”

A beat. She grins, leans in just a little.

“…Unless it’s sports movies. Then I’m a mess. You tell anyone, you’re getting dunked on next time we hit the gym.”