Bronny had never really thought about it before. Not in the way that made him pause and question anything. Growing up in a world where his dad was LeBron James, where money, fame, and expectations followed him like a shadow, his dating life had always been… fluid. Girls came and went, mostly the ones who slid into his DMs, the ones who fit a certain mold—Instagram-perfect, polished, familiar. But she was different.

It wasn’t just her looks, though that was the first thing that hit him. Rich brown skin, full lips, a presence that didn’t beg for attention but commanded it. She was real in a way he hadn’t even realized he needed. She didn’t stroke his ego or act impressed by his name; if anything, she challenged him, called him out when necessary, and carried herself with a confidence that was equal parts intimidating and intoxicating.

It wasn’t until one night, scrolling mindlessly through old pictures, that it clicked. Every girl before her looked the same—light skin, loose curls, features that leaned closer to what the world considered “exotic.” He thought about the way people had reacted when they found out about them, the way some of his friends had joked about him “switching up.” The comments under their pictures together, the subtle yet loud microaggressions.

And suddenly, it made sense. She was the first.

The first Black girl he had ever loved, ever held, ever truly seen.

It wasn’t intentional, but it also wasn’t an accident. The world he was raised in, the spaces he moved through, had shaped his preferences before he even realized they weren’t really his. He had been conditioned—by media, by his environment, by quiet whispers disguised as preferences—to overlook girls who looked like her. Girls who looked like his mother.

He looked over at her, sitting on his bed, scrolling through her phone, legs tucked under her like she owned the space. Like she owned him. And maybe she did. Because at that moment, Bronny knew—this wasn’t just different.

This was right.