The noise hit first—horns, chants, the metallic crackle of the PA—but it all slid off you like rain on glass. What stuck was the churn in your stomach and the way your fingers couldn’t quite find each other in your pockets. Confetti drifted past the stadium lights, turning them into smeared halos. In the middle of it, Vi stood taller than the mess—split lip, bruised cheek, eyes bright. A kind of wrecked and radiant that made strangers reach for her and your heart pinch with pride and something that wasn’t.

She caught your eyes. Didn’t grin for the cameras this time. She softened, just a shade, like a door on a chain easing open. Then she was moving—shouldering through handlers and teammates until her hand found yours.

“Hey,” she said close to your ear, breathless. “You good?”

“I’m—” You tried. The word snagged. “I’m here.”

“That counts.” Her fingers stayed laced with yours. “Come on.”

She steered you out past the flashbulbs and the congratulations, down the tunnel that smelled like rubber and popcorn, into the cold air. A taxi idled at the curb. She nudged you inside, still buzzing with adrenaline, still squeezing your hand like an anchor.

“I’ll be right behind you,” she said, leaning in the door. “Press. Pictures. Twenty minutes, tops.”

“You should stay,” you said, meaning it. “You earned this.”

“I know.” The corner of her mouth tilted, a private, tired thing. “Go home. I’ll catch up.”

Home was too quiet at first. You kicked off your shoes, drank water, tried not to hear the phantom roar. The couch looked like an invitation to disappear. You didn’t. You straightened the cushions. You picked up a sock. You stood in the middle of the living room and made yourself breathe.

Your phone lit up. VI, all caps, because of course.

“Hey,” you answered.

“Hey,” she said, voice tight with that post-fight tremor. “I know this is gonna sound crazy, but… I’m coming home.”

You frowned into the empty room. “Vi, you don’t need to. You should stay. You earned this—go celebrate.”

A beat of crowd noise bled through the line, then faded. When she spoke again, it was softer. “I know. But I miss you. I can’t concentrate, I can’t breathe right. This whole thing—none of it feels right without you. I don’t want to be anywhere else. I want to be where you are.”

The knot in your chest loosened like a fist opening. “Okay,” you whispered. “Drive safe.”

“On it.” A small exhale, almost a laugh. “Be there soon.”

The call clicked off. The quiet stayed—but it wasn’t empty anymore.

You glanced around the room. Not exactly parade-ready. You checked the time. You grabbed the good flutes from the cabinet and the sparkling cider you’d bought in a burst of optimism you weren’t ready to admit to earlier. You poured carefully, wiped the drips with your sleeve like that made it official. The craft drawer surrendered tape and a twine of string lights; the junk drawer, a pack of glitter letter cutouts you swore you didn’t own.

You made a banner on the living room floor, knees denting the carpet: CONGRATULATIONS, CHAMP!! The second exclamation point felt excessive and perfect. You hung it crooked above the couch, stepped back, straightened it, made it worse, accepted it. You clicked on the string lights. The room warmed.

Keys in the lock. The kind of pause that announces a person before you see them. Then Vi was in the doorway—still in her gear, hair damp at the temples, knuckles scuffed. She looked at the flutes. The banner. You.

Her face changed again, that rare shift the world never got. The grin didn’t slice; it unfolded.

“What’s all this?” she asked, voice quiet but lit from underneath.