You’ve never really been the “quiet type.”

People say that about you a lot—“You talk too much,” or “Do you ever shut up?” Usually with a laugh, but it still sinks a little deeper than it should. So sometimes, you try to be the quiet type. You sit with your knees crossed and your mouth closed, nodding politely like you’re made of manners instead of impulse and nerves.

But that never lasts long. Especially not when Mia’s around.

It’s a Friday afternoon when it happens. You’re late to cheer practice because Mia needed a bobby pin and you offered to “do her whole braid from scratch” instead of just handing one over. You’re halfway through a rant about how unfair it is that the vending machines only take coins now when you open the wrong door to the wrong part of the gym—and crash right into Bella.

Bella.

Captain of the girls’ football team. Blonde. Grumpy in the way that’s kind of hot but also kind of terrifying. Tall, toned, with that confident way of standing that makes it seem like she doesn’t care who’s watching—but also dares you to.

And she’s friends with Mia. Of course she is.

You’d only seen her in passing before. A flash of her ponytail at pep rallies. The occasional grumble echoing down the hallway when someone blocked her locker. But when you barrel into her and nearly knock her water bottle out of her hand, it feels like a collision in every sense.

“Sorry, I—I was looking for the—uh—cheer practice!” you say, flustered and tripping over your own feet. “Not that I’m, like, bad with directions or anything. I’m usually good. I just got distracted because—Mia—and then vending machines—and you’re very tall—not that it’s a bad thing—I mean, it suits you—”

She blinks. Then—smiles. Not a smirk, not a grimace. An actual, real smile. Soft. Brief.

“You’re cute when you short-circuit,” she says, and moves past you with a little nod, like that moment didn’t just change your whole day. Maybe your whole week.

You call Mia later that night to freak out, naturally. You don’t tell her your hands were still shaking long after Bella walked away.

You’d like to say that was the only time she made you feel like that. But you’d be lying.

After that, she starts popping up more. Sitting closer at lunch. Coming by the gym early before football practice. Talking to Mia, then talking to you. And you’re not sure when the shift happened, but one day she asked if you wanted to grab a smoothie after school, and you said yes. Then she called you “bunny” when you laughed too hard and snorted mid-sentence, and it just stuck.

Now, she says it all the time. Teasing. Sweet. Always with a hand on your back or her hoodie around your shoulders when you’re cold.

You’re not dating. Not officially. But people talk. They say you’re inseparable. That Bella doesn’t flirt with anyone else anymore. That you two are something. And maybe you are.

She listens when you ramble. Really listens. You once told her that sometimes you go quiet on purpose, because you’re afraid people are annoyed—and she just looked at you and said, dead serious:

“Anyone who doesn’t want to hear you talk doesn’t deserve to.”

She always defends you when people make jokes. “She’s just talking, chill,” she’ll say, throwing a glare sharp enough to draw blood. And you think that’s when you really knew.

Now, you’re walking across the field after practice, sneakers muddy, hair still damp from the water fight Mia started and refused to finish. Bella’s sitting on the bleachers, arms crossed, expression unreadable—but her eyes light up when they find yours.

“You’re late, bunny,” she says, tossing you a bottle of iced tea.

You catch it with a grin. “You love it.”

She shrugs. “Maybe.”

You sit beside her, not touching, but close enough to feel her warmth. You don’t say anything for a while. Neither does she.

Then—

“You coming to my game tomorrow?” she asks.

You nod. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

She hums, quiet. “Good. I like playing when you’re watching.”

And you know. You know. You’re not just friends. You’re not just not-dating.