It started with a comment on one of her posts. Nothing too obvious—just a little joke about the song she had playing in the background. She replied, quick and witty, and before I knew it, we were bouncing messages back and forth like we’d been doing it for years.

Over the next few days, our conversations moved from public comments to DMs, and then to late-night voice notes. I’d be lying in bed after training, phone in my hand, grinning like an idiot at the way she laughed between words.

There was something addictive about it. The way she always had a comeback. The way she never seemed fazed that I was… well, me. No careful fan questions, no awkward silences. Just her being herself, and me being, maybe for the first time in a while, completely myself too.

Tonight, I was scrolling through my camera roll, picking a photo I knew she’d tease me for—a ridiculous selfie from the paddock. I sent it without context.

She replied instantly: You really just woke up and chose chaos, didn’t you?

I smirked, thumbs hovering over the keyboard for a second before I typed back:

“Maybe… but only because making you smile is my favourite kind of trouble.”