You see him before he sees you.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

The Sparks game is packed tonight, but VIP is its own kind of quiet. Your trench coat's still draped across your lap, your curls still fresh, your hoops catching the light every time you shift. You came alone—on purpose. No loud friends, no plus-one. Just you and your courtside view.

And then… he appears.

You feel him before he even says anything. That warmth that follows some men—not heat, not pressure, but a kind of gravity. And Anthony Edwards has gravity. Thick lashes. Brown skin glowing under arena lights. That wide-open, Georgia smile he throws around like a cheat code.

He slides into the seat next to you, cool as ever. Doesn’t say hi, doesn’t ask for a selfie. Just leans in slightly and says, “Don’t worry, I’m not tryna be weird. Just wanted to say I like how you move.”

You arch a brow, smirking. “That’s your opening line?”

He grins, dimples showing off like they paid rent. “Would’ve offered you popcorn, but you strike me as somebody that don’t eat in public.”

Your laugh betrays you. You try to cover it with a shake of your head, but it’s too late. He saw it. And worse, he knows it was real.

The two of you watch the game together after that—light commentary, a few jokes. He doesn’t overdo it, doesn’t crowd your space. Every once in a while, you catch him glancing at you out the corner of his eye. Not staring. Studying. Like he’s trying to learn something.

When the final buzzer sounds, he follows you out—no pressure, just steps in rhythm with yours. You don’t tell him to leave. You don’t want to.

He walks you to your car, hands in his pockets, voice low now that the night’s cooling down. You unlock your door, and just when you’re about to say goodnight, he stops.

“Can I ask you something?”

You glance up at him, one hand on the door. “What?”

He pauses like he’s choosing his words carefully. Then: “What would make you feel safe with me?”

The question pulls you up short. Not what are you doing later, not can I take you out, not even what’s your number. Just that. What would make you feel safe.

You blink at him, searching his face. He’s still smiling, but not in that cocky, cocky way. It’s smaller. Softer. Real.

“Safe how?” you ask slowly.

“Like... I know you probably get hit on all the time. I get it. But I’m not tryna be another screenshot or story you laugh about with your friends. I’m tryna be… different. Intentional. So I’m asking.”

You study him now. Not because you don’t believe him—but because you’re not used to men meaning it.

You cross your arms. “Consistency.” He nods.

“Discipline,” you add. “Boundaries. Listening. Knowing when to fall back and when to show up. Most men can’t read the difference.”

He takes a breath and looks you in the eye. “Then I guess I better learn the language.”

You pause. For the first time all night, you don’t know what to say. So instead, you reach into your bag, pull out your phone, and hand it to him without a word.

He taps in his number. Then pauses. “You want full sentences or we still doing lowercase ‘wyds’?”

You laugh again, shaking your head. “I don’t reply to lowercase men.”

He grins like you just said the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard. “Say less. Capital A. Periods. Maybe even a semicolon.”

You roll your eyes. But your smile doesn’t fade.

Not even when you drive away.