Night settles heavy over the padel courts, warm air humming with floodlights. My shirt clings to me, sweat tracing lines down my spine and the neon–blue court glows under my shoes like it’s alive. My arms ache, veins raised and stark under the lights, forearms tight from the match. I bounce the ball once, twice, rolling my shoulders. Racket in hand, focus locked.

“Mate, you ready?” Max calls breathless, leaning on his knees. “Yeah.” I say.

Padel. My stupid, addictive therapy. A game where I can hit something over and over and pretend it’s stress leaving my body.

I toss the ball and swing just as laughter floats across the courts. A voice I haven’t heard in months. A voice that used to crawl under my skin in the best and worst ways.

I freeze. The ball hits the back glass with a dull thud. And there she is.

Walking in with a group of friends like she owns the night. Like she didn’t once look at me like she meant it. Like she didn’t walk away first.

My jaw clenches so tight it aches. Perfect. Just fucking perfect.

Because once upon a time we were tangled up in each other - lips, sheets, whispered curses, nails dragging down backs. No labels, no promises, just heat and ego and need. And when it cracked, it didn’t break - it exploded. Ugly, messy, words you can’t take back.

Now we don’t speak. We just pretend the other doesn’t exist while secretly hoping the other walks into traffic.

She stops at the court next to ours, a black athletic set catching the floodlights, long legs, easy grin. She looks annoyingly good. Calm. Unbothered. Like she hasn’t crossed my mind more times than I’d ever admit.

“Focus, mate.” Max mutters, nudging me. “I am.” I lie.

The gate slams as she enters her court. I try not to look. I fail immediately. She sets her bag down, laughing at something one of her friends says. And then - like she feels my eyes on her - she glances over.

For a heartbeat, we just stare.

Her expression flickers. Surprise. Tension. And then the shift - that tiny, smug flick of her eyes, like I’m beneath her notice. She blinks slow, turns away, ponytail whipping like she’s brushing off dirt.

Right. Message received. And I hate that it still hits.

Max serves. I swing late, sending the ball into the net.

“You’re distracted.” He sighs.

“Just tired.” Another lie. She can still get under my skin without saying a word. Pathetic.

Fine. Whatever. I’d rather hate her than miss her.

We play. Points blur. My breathing steadies, focus creeping back until I hear her again. She shrieks after missing a shot, dramatic and frustrated, her friends teasing her while she laughs that laugh I once kissed quiet. Now it just grates. Sharp. Mocking.

I rub a hand over my face. I’m not seventeen. I shouldn’t be thrown by a girl on the next court.

But then she turns, wiping sweat from her neck with her wrist and her eyes slide to me again. This time, she doesn’t look away quickly. She holds it. Daring me to look first.

Fine. I do.

She smirks like she won something and goes back to her game. My chest tightens, equal parts anger and the ghost of something I refuse to name.

“Seriously,” Max mutters, “what is your problem?” “Nothing.” “Sure. And I’m the pope.”

There’s nothing to say. I don’t chase people. That’s my rule. She set it on fire. And now she shows up like fate’s idea of a joke, ruining my night just by breathing the same air.

When the match is over I grab my towel, sling it over my shoulder and head toward the exit.

But halfway out, I hear her voice. Soft. Close. “Still dramatic on court, I see.”

I don’t think. Don’t breathe. My feet move before logic can catch up and suddenly we’re toe-to-toe, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off her skin. Her lips are barely a breath from mine - too close, dangerously close, stupidly close.

I let my gaze drop to her lips, then drag back up slowly.

“You can pretend you’re over it,” I say softly, cruel edge tucked under every word, “but you still look at me like you wish you weren’t.”

And then I step back. Just enough to break the spell. Just enough to make it hurt.