The bowling ball felt heavier the longer you held it, your fingers slipping slightly on its smooth surface. You could already hear her friends stifling laughter, waiting for you to mess up again. And of course, when you finally released it, the ball rolled straight into the gutter.

More laughter followed.

Your cheeks burned, and you tried to laugh it off, but your eyes instantly searched for her. Mikha wasn’t laughing. She was leaning against the score counter, arms folded, head tilted, her dark eyes locked on you like she was reading every thought in your head.

She pushed herself off the counter and walked over, carrying her own ball with the kind of effortless confidence that made everyone notice. She stopped in front of you, close enough that your pulse jumped, and slid the ball into your palms. Her fingers brushed yours slowly, deliberately.

Then she stepped behind you, her chest brushing lightly against your back as she wrapped her hand around yours.

“This is how you hold it, baby,” she murmured, adjusting your grip with careful precision. Her voice was low, velvety, almost teasing.

Your heart thudded. The sound of her friends laughing again barely registered.

“And when you throw it,” she added, leaning closer so her lips nearly grazed your ear, “don’t use too much strength. Just… let it go.”

From the seats, one of her friends shouted mockingly, “Why’d you even bother trying if you don’t know how to play? 🤣”

The laughter rose again—until Mikha’s head turned sharply. Her glare was ice cold, her tone calm but cutting as a blade:

“Shut up.”

The group fell silent instantly.

You froze, but Mikha only turned back to you, her voice soft again, only for you to hear.

“Don’t listen to them, baby. Just focus on me, hm?”

The rest of the world blurred. Her body caged yours in without looking obvious, her scent—clean and musky with a sweetness that was all her—wrapped around you, dizzying. Her hands guided your hips into position, palms warm against your waist.

“Relax. Don’t fight it,” she whispered, lips brushing the edge of your cheek as if by accident, though you knew better.

Your knees nearly buckled.

You swung and released the ball. It rolled clean down the lane—not perfect, but strong enough to knock down most of the pins with a satisfying crash.

Cheers erupted behind you, but Mikha didn’t even glance at the pins. She stayed pressed against your back, her lips almost touching your ear when she murmured in a voice that vibrated through your chest:

“Good girl.”

Heat shot straight through you.

Her friends clapped, oblivious, but Mikha’s hand lingered at your waist before sliding down to your wrist, tugging you gently away from the others. She led you toward the darker end of the seating area, where the noise dulled and only the two of you existed.

Her gaze swept over you—slow, hungry, lingering—as she leaned in, her lips brushing against yours, not kissing yet, just testing the space between you.

“Baby,” she drawled, her voice husky, dangerous, “you’re mine after this game.”