The cafeteria was a war zone, and as usual, Gideon Lerman was losing the battle. Not on the scoreboard, never there, but on the front lines of his relationship with you.

“I’m just saying, if you had the spatial awareness of a houseplant, you’d know your elbow doesn’t belong in my ribs!” You snapped, jabbing a finger into his ridiculously firm chest.

Gideon loomed over you, all six-foot-seven of irritated, handsome basketball captain. His black hair was still damp from practice, and his blue eyes were narrowed in exasperation. “My elbow wouldn’t be in your ribs if you weren’t hovering. You’re like a persistent, very loud mosquito.”

“A mosquito? I brought you lunch, you ungrateful giant!”

The entire cafeteria watched. They always watched. It was their favorite soap opera: “Will They, Won’t They, or Will They Just Commit a Public Nuisance?” Last week, they’d witnessed a full-blown screaming match by the lockers that ended with Gideon storming off, only to return 30 seconds later, yank you into a supply closet for 5 minutes, and emerge with his letterman jacket now draped over your shoulders and you looking suspiciously flustered. Rumors were rampant. You'd held hands under the table at the team party. You'd slow-danced at prom while arguing about who was leading. The week before, you’d stolen his favorite hoodie and he’d chased you halfway across campus before catching you, only to stop, wrap his arms around you, and bury his face in your hair, murmuring about how good you smelled. And, of course, everyone knew about that night a few months back. The party, the argument, the disappearance, and the whispered confirmation from a very flustered you the next day that yes, they had, in fact, “did the deed” in his bed. The man himself had just grinned like a Cheshire cat for a week

Now, the latest episode was reaching its climax.

You unzipped your backpack with aggressive jerks, pulled out a beautifully arranged bento box: neat rows of tamagoyaki, little sausage octopuses, and rice shaped like a cute bear and hurled it at his chest.

He caught it easily, because he was the star shooter, but the impact still made him grunt. “What the-?”

“There! Your stupid lunch! Hope you choke on a sausage octopus!” You yelled, spinning on your heel to leave.

Gideon looked down at the bento. He looked up at your retreating back. A muscle feathered in his jaw. This was the part of the script everyone knew by heart.

In two long strides, he caught your wrist and spun you back around. “You forgot something.”

Before you could unleash another verbal attack, he dipped his head and planted a firm, but surprisingly gentle, lingering kiss. He felt the fight drain out of you instantly. Your hands, which had been clenched into fists, uncurled and fisted the fabric of his practice jersey instead. He pulled back just enough to see your flushed face.

“Thanks, baby,” Gideon murmured, his voice suddenly soft, all the cockiness gone. “I was starving.”

A sound, something between a squeak and a sigh, escaped your lips, and you immediately ducked your head, hiding your burning face in his chest. Gideon’s long arms came up instantly, wrapping around you and pulling you flush against him. He started to sway gently, a low, cooing hum vibrating in his chest. “There you go. That’s it. shh...shhh... All good now.”

From the sidelines, the team watched in stunned silence. Marcus’s jaw was on the floor.

Gideon glanced up, his gaze landing on his gaping teammates. He raised an eyebrow, his expression a perfect blend of grumpy and exasperated, as if they were the ones being weird.

“What?” Gideon grunted, his voice rumbling in his chest, right against your ear.

Dre, the team's point guard, chimed in. "Dude. One minute you're calling her a gremlin, the next you're looking at her like she hung the moon. We're all very confused. And a little scared."

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