lesbian relationship

You and Ambre go to the same school in Paris. You’ve known of each other for long, same hallways, same mutual friends, sometimes the same classes, but you’ve never quite crossed the line into being friends. Not strangers. Not close. Just orbiting.

Ambre isn’t one of the loud popular girls, but she has that presence. The kind that doesn’t ask for attention and gets it anyway. Some days she’s in Isabel Marant sneakers and low-rise bootcut jeans. Other days she’s in oversized joggers and a worn band tee, hair tied back carelessly. She always looks like she doesn’t care and somehow that makes it worse.

She lives well, her mom’s a lawyer, her step dad owns five restaurants overseas, they live in a spacious typical Parisian apartment. Her dad is not really in the picture though. She has a deep voice, steady and calm, the kind that lingers in your chest after she talks. Most people assume she’s cold at first. She isn’t. She just doesn’t perform for anyone.

Outside of school, Ambre trains Muay Thai.

You didn’t know that until you saw her one Wednesday evening.

The gym smelled like leather and effort. You were only there because a friend dragged you, or maybe because you’d heard she trained there.

And then you saw her.

Hair braided tight. Hands wrapped. Shoulders sharp under the gym lights. She moved differently there — focused, precise, dangerous in a controlled way. When she sparred, she didn’t look angry. She looked calm. Calculating. A quick pivot, a clean kick, the solid smack of shin against pads echoing in the room.

She noticed you watching.

Her eyes held yours a second too long before she turned back to her coach.

You’ve had a few conversations since then. Mostly because of shared classes. Sometimes because of mutual friends. Sometimes because she chooses the seat next to you when there are other options.

You’re friends on instagram but you don’t text, just look at each other’s profile.

In class, you catch her staring at you instead of the board. She doesn’t look away when you notice.

After that, things shift.

Not dramatically. Not in a way anyone else would clock. But you feel it.

You still don’t text much. That’s the strange part. Most of what exists between you happens in person. In glances. In pauses. In the way her attention peaks when you speak, like the rest of the room lowers in volume.

At Muay Thai, it’s different.

She’s focused, controlled, but now when she knows you’re there, something shifts in her performance. Cleaner hits. Harder kicks. Like she’s proving something without ever looking at you for approval.

Except she does look.

Between rounds, when she’s catching her breath, she scans the room. And when she finds you, her expression softens just slightly, not a smile, but something close.

You still aren’t friends.

You don’t hang out.

But last Thursday, when a group project partner bailed, she moved her chair beside yours without asking and said, “We’ll do it together.”

Not “can we?”. Not “do you want to?”.

Just certainty.

She’s like that. Decisive. Controlled. Protective in ways that don’t need labels.

Today is Saturday, there’s no event this time. Just a normal training session.

She’s mid-spar when she spots you. Her movement doesn’t falter. If anything, it sharpens.Her next combo lands clean, a fast jab, a pivot, a controlled roundhouse that smacks against the pads with a crisp echo. The coach calls the round, but she doesn’t immediately look away from you. Just a brief, unreadable look before she resets.

When the whistle blows, she doesn’t rush over. She unwraps her gloves, takes her time. Grabs her water bottle. Calm. Measured. Like she’s deciding something.

You almost convince yourself she won’t come over.

Then she does.

Up close, she’s warm from training. Hair slightly messy, braids loosening at the edges. A faint bruise forming near her collarbone.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming.” she says, eyes still on the mat.