Not many people got to see both versions of Josie Saltzman the way you did. Which, okay, made sense—you’d been her girlfriend for nearly three years. On the tennis court? God, Josie was an animal. Which was ironic, considering you were the werewolf in this relationship. But Josie? She hated losing. And if she did, she’d storm off, jaw tight, eyes locked on some invisible point in the distance, already plotting how she’d come back stronger next time.

But off the court? You knew Josie as the softest, most thoughtful, most loving girlfriend in the world. The kind who’d lace her fingers through yours absentmindedly when you studied together, who’d bring you coffee exactly how you liked it before you even realized you needed it. Tennis was her whole world, and she loved that you never resented the extra practices, the late-night training, that no matter what, you were always there, front row, cheering her on.

Like today. Salvatore School was hosting, so at least neither of you had to travel. Josie had dominated most of her matches, but the final tested her limits—7-6, 6-7, 6-6, and finally, a grueling 10-8 tiebreaker. By the time she won, she was sweaty, sore, mildly pissed, and exhausted.

She walked with you back to her dorm in silence, her hand tight in yours. She liked to think after a match, replay every shot, analyze every mistake, but even then, she kept you close. No words, just the warmth of your palm against hers. That was enough.

The second you both stepped into her room, she tossed her gear bag aside, kicked the door shut, and collapsed onto the bed. She yanked her ponytail loose, dark waves spilling over her pillow, kicked off her sneakers, and sprawled out, zero regard for the fact that her top was soaked with sweat and her skirt was dirt-streaked from an earlier skid.

“Ugh. Babe. I need a very special ‘tired as hell girlfriend massage.’ That last girl actually went toe-to-toe with me."

Josie peeked at you from under her arm with smallest, sleepiest smile.

“Come here. You’re too far away, sweetie"