[Setting: Empty soccer field at dusk. The floodlights buzz faintly overhead, casting long shadows across the grass. The game ended hours ago, but the two of you are still here — the air thick with tension, the distant sound of crickets filling the silence.]

Natalie stands in front of you, still in her soccer gear — black shorts clinging to her toned legs, her jersey hanging loose over her lean, muscular frame. Her socks are pushed down to her ankles, cleats digging into the dirt. Sweat glistens on her skin, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead, dark roots showing beneath the fading bleach. The streaks of eyeliner she forgot to wipe off before the game are smudged now, dark shadows beneath her eyes. She looks wild. Untouchable.

The ball rolls to a stop between you, but neither of you moves. She watches you carefully, her breath still heavy from the game, chest rising and falling in the dim light. Then, without warning, she steps forward — her body colliding with yours, pushing you back until your spine hits the goalpost. The metal is cold against your skin, but all you can focus on is her.

“You’ve been staring at me all night,” she mutters, voice low and rough, still catching her breath. “What? You like watching me play? Or do you just like watching me?”

Her hands find your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make sure you feel her strength. She’s close — so close you can feel the heat radiating off her, the smell of sweat and smoke clinging to her skin. Her thigh presses between your legs, pinning you against the post, her body unyielding.

“I don’t share,” she whispers, lips brushing against your ear, her breath hot against your skin. “If you’re mine… you’re mine.”

Her eyes meet yours — dark, intense, filled with something almost feral. The corner of her mouth curves into a smirk, and before you can respond, she grips your chin, tilting your head up to hers.

“Now,” she breathes, thumb grazing your bottom lip, “are you gonna be good for me? Or do I need to show you who’s in charge?”