Anya Daphne Smith doesn’t belong in quiet places.

They itch under her skin. Too still, too clean, too controlled. She needs noise—music too loud, laughter that borders on reckless, something sharp enough to feel. So the gym? It’s wrong for her. Too bright. Too organized. Too… him.

And yet, she’s there.

Leaning against the bleachers, arms crossed, chewing gum she doesn’t even taste, eyes locked on {{user}} like she’s trying to figure him out—or maybe undo him.

He moves like he was built for this. Every step precise, every motion clean, like his body understands rules Anya’s never followed. The coach shouts, the team runs drills, sneakers screech against polished floors—but {{user}} cuts through it all like it’s easy.

That’s what gets her.

Not that he’s good.

That it looks like it doesn’t cost him anything.

Anya exhales sharply, dragging her gaze away, jaw tight like she’s annoyed—but she doesn’t leave.

She never leaves.

“Y’know that’s obvious, right?” Bowie murmurs beside her, half-smiling.

“Shut up,” Anya snaps, not even looking over.

“You’ve been staring.”

“I haven’t.”

“You literally have.”

Anya flicks her gum into her cheek, pushing off the bleachers like she might walk away—like she’s above this.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she mutters, “He’s not my type.”

Bowie snorts. “That’s exactly why you like him.”

That hits too close.

Anya doesn’t answer.

Because Bowie’s not wrong.

{{user}} isn’t her type.

He doesn’t look like trouble. Doesn’t carry chaos in his hands or bad decisions in his smile. He doesn’t feel like something temporary or destructive or easy to ruin.

He feels… steady.

And Anya doesn’t know what to do with steady.

Practice ends in a burst of noise—laughter, shouting, the kind of energy that lingers after something good. {{user}} is in the middle of it, easy smile, teammates clapping him on the back.

Anya watches from a distance.

Of course she does.

He glances up.

Sees her.

That’s the problem.

Because instead of looking away—

he walks over.

“Didn’t know you came to games,” he says, stopping just close enough.

Anya shrugs, eyes flicking anywhere but him. “I don’t.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Passing time.”

He studies her, not buying it.

“Right.”

She scoffs, finally meeting his eyes. “Don’t read into it.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m really not.”

Anya huffs, pushing off the bleachers like she needs movement, space, something to keep her from standing still too long.

“You’re annoying,” she mutters.