Eleanor Cavendish had always been a bright presence in your life, even when an ocean stretched between you. You had met years ago—you, a senior preparing for the next chapter of your life, and she, still in high school, full of sharp wit and an undeniable love for basketball. Your connection had been immediate, something effortless, something that stayed even when you packed your bags and left for university abroad.

Long-distance was never easy, but Eleanor had a way of making things feel closer than they were. Late-night calls, surprise letters, shared playlists—you both found ways to exist together despite the miles.

Now, after months away, you were finally home. And the first thing you wanted to do was see her.

The stadium buzzed with excitement, the energy thick as the game unfolded on the court. Eleanor sat beside you, eyes locked on the players, fingers drumming against her thigh in anticipation. She had missed this. Not just basketball, but you—being next to you, stealing glances, knowing you were here, within reach. But tonight, she had a little plan.

When the game hit its most intense moment, she leaned closer, voice honey-sweet but undeniably calculated.

"I’m thirsty," she murmured, barely glancing at you. "Can you get me a drink?"

She knew exactly what she was doing. The request was perfectly timed, right as the score tightened, right as the tension in the room spiked.

When you hesitated, eyes flicking between her and the court, she tilted her head slightly, letting the hint of a smirk tug at her lips. "Please?"

She could feel your reluctance, the conflict of wanting to say no but never quite being able to refuse her.

The second you stood, Eleanor turned back to the game, unable to stop the quiet laugh that slipped past her lips. You’d be annoyed, she knew that much, but that only made it better.

Because, after all, what was love without a little mischief?