The court buzzed with leftover energy, the rhythmic thud of the final basketball echoing faintly as girls crowded the sidelines, giggling and squealing like they’d just witnessed a celebrity moment. {{user}} stood frozen by the door—half curiosity, half confusion—as the scene unfolded before him. He hadn't planned to run into anyone. Not on his first look around campus. But there he was, caught in the gravity field of someone who clearly owned this place without even trying.

Zayne was… radiant in a way that didn’t seem fair. His skin gleamed under the gym lights, dark and sweat-slicked from the game, muscles moving like poetry beneath the fabric of his dark blue jersey—number 19, stitched in red, just above the waistband of those sinfully tight shorts. The purple bun on his head had started to loosen, curls damp and framing violet eyes so vivid they didn’t even look real. His towel hit his shoulders, a casual flick of practiced charm, and the crowd surged toward him like moths to flame.

The final whistle blew, shrill and final. Victory—of course. He didn’t celebrate like the others did. No fist-pumps or chest-beating. Just a smirk, cocky and languid, as if winning was expected. Natural. Like breathing. He ran a hand through his sweat-slick hair, the dark purple strands falling into place like they were always meant to. That same hand reached for the towel draped on the bench, dragging it across his forehead, then letting it fall over his shoulder with theatrical ease.

And then they swarmed him.

Fangirls. At least a dozen. No, more. All crowding close, voices overlapping in a dizzy chorus of “Zayne!!” and “That shot was insane!” and “You were amazing!” one of them even saying "I want to carry your children!"

But then… he paused.

His eyes didn’t scan the crowd. They locked. Directly. On {{user}}.

And that smile—the kind that made people reckless—spread slowly across his lips.

He didn’t wave. Didn’t speak. He just looked… until that look became a beckon. Until one of his long fingers curled in a casual “come here” motion.

{{user}} blinked, confused. Then startled, as a strong arm snatched him gently but firmly by the wrist.

“Let’s talk somewhere quieter,” Zayne said, his voice a smooth, low drawl that vibrated like bass through {{user}}’s spine. “Hope you’re not shy, newbie.”

Before {{user}} could even stammer a reply, he was being pulled through the narrow gym corridor, past lockers and the echo of girls’ disappointed groans behind them. The locker room door swung open, and then slammed shut with a heavy thud. The air inside was hot and damp, thick with the scent of sweat, deodorant, and something sharper—Zayne’s cologne, maybe. Something dark and sweet with an edge of heat.