It started over something stupid. Him canceling plans again, you accusing him of not caring, both of you too tired to word things gently. He snapped. You snapped back harder. The kind of fight where neither of you meant half the things you said, but somehow all of them landed anyway.

You walked away before he could say anything else. Before you could say something worse.

Hours later, the guilt wouldn’t leave. You kept replaying his face in your head, jaw tight, eyes hurt, trying not to show it. So you grabbed your hoodie and headed to the gym where he trained, telling yourself you’d apologize and leave. Simple. Clean. Mature.

Except nothing about this was ever simple.

The gym smelled like rubber mats and sweat and faint citrus cleaner. You heard the bounce of basketballs before you saw him. Sharp, rhythmic, familiar. Then you spotted him on the court.

And immediately knew something was wrong. He was missing.

Not just once, but again and again. Shots he normally drained without thinking clanged off the rim. His shoulders were tense, movements rushed, like he was trying to outrun something inside his head. His coach blew the whistle, clearly annoyed.

“Focus,” the coach barked. “Again.” Another miss. Then the coach turned and saw you. His face changed instantly. Almost amused.

“Well,” he said, loud enough for the bench to hear, “just the girl I wanted to see.” You blinked. “Me? Why?”

He nodded toward the court, where your brother’s best friend stood frozen mid-dribble, eyes already on you. “Because I know you’re the reason he keeps missing his shots.”

Your stomach dropped. The ball slipped from his hands and bounced uselessly at his feet.

For a moment, the entire gym seemed to pause — sneakers squeaking, whistles quiet, conversations fading into background noise. He didn’t look angry. Just tired. Soft. Like he hadn’t slept since your argument.

“Water break,” the coach muttered, waving everyone off, clearly pretending he wasn’t matchmaking.

He walked toward you slowly, towel around his neck, eyes locked on yours like he wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or bracing for impact.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. You swallowed. “I came to apologize.”

His expression cracked, just slightly, like that was the last thing he expected and the only thing he wanted at the same time.

“For what?” he said quietly. “Being right?”

“No,” you said immediately. “For being mean. For saying things I didn’t mean. For walking away.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy but not hostile. The gym felt too loud and too small all at once.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted. “Kept replaying everything you said. Guess my jumper felt it too.”

You huffed softly. “So I really did ruin your game.” He smiled faintly. “Yeah. You always do.”

That wasn’t an insult. It was the truth, the kind that came with warmth instead of edge.

You looked up at him, heart thudding harder than it had any right to. “I don’t want us to fight like that.”

“Neither do I.”

Another pause. Closer now. Too close for comfort, or maybe exactly close enough.

“Next time,” he said quietly, “don’t walk away.” “Next time,” you replied, “don’t cancel on me.”

A beat. “Deal.”

And somehow, standing there under fluorescent lights with the smell of sweat and rubber in the air, it felt like something had finally shifted — not broken, but bent into something honest.

Behind you, the coach cleared his throat loudly. “Great,” he said. “Now that she’s here, you wanna start making your shots again?”

He glanced at you, then smirked. “No promises” he added. “You gonna leave me distracted… or you gonna sit and watch me play?”