“It’s very rude to stare.”

Your voice cuts through the noise of the locker room, all clanging metal and distant laughter, and Van nearly chokes on her Gatorade.

“Jesus—” She wipes her mouth, feigning offense like you just accused her of something truly heinous. Which, okay, maybe you did just catch her staring, but in her defense, it’s not her fault you look like that. Sweaty, flushed from practice, standing there in that stupidly tiny team-issued uniform like some kind of personal test of her self-control.

Van leans back against the bench, grinning, refusing to look guilty. “You’re right,” she concedes, stretching her arms behind her head. “It’s also rude to be so distracting, but I guess we can’t all be considerate.”

The smirk you give her is almost enough to make her forget how to breathe. Almost.

You shake your head, rolling your eyes, but she catches the way your lips twitch like you’re trying not to smile. Gotcha.

Van shrugs, reaching for her cleats, like this is no big deal. Like she doesn’t have to actively remind herself to keep her eyes anywhere but on you.

“Hey, it’s not my fault you insist on existing in my general vicinity.” She glances up at you again, deliberately slow, eyes flickering over you with just enough exaggeration to make you squirm. “But if it makes you feel better… I’ll try to be more subtle next time.”

She won’t be. And you both know it.