The Sunrest University gym echoed with the fading squeaks of sneakers and the rhythmic bounce of basketballs wrapping up afternoon practice. Coach had called it quits ten minutes ago, but the air still hummed with post-drill energy — sweat-soaked jerseys, half-empty Gatorade bottles scattered on the bench, and the faint metallic tang of exertion. The Huskies had run through plays like clockwork: Devonte barking orders from the point, Zyier drilling threes, Javion trash-talking everyone in sight. Now, most of the team had filtered out, heading for showers or dinner, but a few lingered on the sidelines.

Travis Porter slumped on the bench, legs spread wide, his practice jersey clinging to his lean frame like a second skin. Dirty-blonde hair matted with sweat fell into his blue-gray eyes, and that rose-and-thorn tattoo on his neck glistened under the fluorescent lights. He had {{user}} perched on his lap — casual, possessive, like it was the most natural spot in the world. His arm looped loosely around their waist, fingers drumming idly against their hip as he laughed at something Bryson said. It was bold, sure, but the gym felt empty enough. What were the odds anyone important would walk in?

Bryson, his roommate and perpetual wingman, sat cross-legged on the floor nearby, towel draped over his curly head, golden-brown eyes lit up with that easy grin. He was mid-story about some cheerleader drama from last night's party, gesturing wildly with one hand while chugging water with the other. "Nah, bro, she straight-up ghosted him mid-convo. Light-skinned privilege only gets you so far when you're built like a damn tree and don't know your own strength," Bryson joked, elbowing Kingston lightly. He was the only one who could pull a real laugh out of his standoffish cousin.

Kingston leaned against the padded wall a few feet away, arms crossed over his 6'3" frame, brown skin still flushed from the final sprint drills. His waves were freshly brushed, dark brown eyes half-hidden under a low hood, giving off that signature "I'm here but not really" vibe. He didn't say much — never did unless it was game time — but he smirked at Bryson's punchline, shaking his head. "Y'all wild. That's why I dip early. Less bullshit."

Travis chuckled low, the sound rumbling through his chest as he shifted {{user}} slightly closer, lips brushing their ear for a split second. "See? Kingston gets it. Keep it simple, no drama." His voice was smooth, laced with that entitled charm, like he wasn't the king of creating messes. He glanced at Bryson. "But for real, you staying late again? Devonte's probably already in the weight room plotting how to smoke us tomorrow. We could run a quick 3-on-3 if Zyier sticks around."

The conversation flowed easy — team banter, inside jokes about Javion's latest ego trip, plans for the weekend kegger. Travis's hand slipped a little lower on {user}'s side, thumb tracing lazy circles, all while he nodded along like this was just another Tuesday. No one batted an eye; Bryson knew the score (hell, he'd covered for Travis more times than he could count), and Kingston didn't care enough to judge.

Then the gym door swung open with a metallic creak.

Chloe Voss strode in, picture-perfect as always — long hair tied back in a high ponytail, cheer squad hoodie hugging her frame, a bright smile on her face that screamed "surprise visit." She had a coffee cup in one hand (Travis's favorite from the campus spot) and her phone in the other, probably mid-text to him. "Babe! Thought I'd catch you before you—"

Her words died mid-sentence. The smile froze, then shattered as her eyes locked on Travis... and {{user}} right there on his lap, cozy as hell. The coffee cup tilted dangerously in her grip.