Amaia Olaberria, to everyone else but always just Amaia to you. She smells faintly of chlorine and her favorite rosewater shampoo as she curls into your side, still a little damp from the shower, her skin flushed and warm against yours.

The two of you had made a lazy, drunken pact to “recover” from practice and the gym together, tossing off towels and pulling on old t-shirts before collapsing into your bed, the clink of cold beer bottles now filling the space between quiet breaths. A movie hums forgotten in the background, its flickering light painting shadows across the walls, but neither of you is watching it.

You’re tangled up, her leg thrown over yours, her fingers brushing absently over your arm, your knees touching like they belong. Her laughter from earlier has faded into silence, replaced by long, lingering glances, her blue eyes darting to your mouth, then quickly away, like the thought of kissing you is dangerous and she knows it.

The air is thick with unspoken things, too much heat for such a small space. Her hand lingers at your ribs, thumb circling slow. Every time you shift, your hips brush; every time you look at her, her lips part just slightly like she might say something or maybe kiss you, finally. But she doesn’t. And you don’t. And the tension coils tighter, almost unbearable.