It starts with one look.

You only glance across the court because the crowd roars — the kind of sound that makes everyone’s head turn. He’s there, sitting courtside on the opposite end, hat low, hoodie up, wrists catching the light with every move.

Future doesn’t smile at first. Just watches you, elbows on his knees, chin tilted slightly like he’s taking his time sizing you up.

You tell yourself to look away — you came here for the game, not for this — but when the music hits between plays, your eyes drift back.

This time, he notices. He tips his chin in a greeting that’s almost imperceptible, but it still makes your chest feel too tight.

By halftime, it’s become a game. You look over, find him already watching. He looks away deliberately, just to make you chase the next glance. When the camera pans to him, he throws up a lazy peace sign, and when the crowd cheers, his eyes find yours through the noise.

Your friend elbows you. “You know he’s staring, right?”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t deny it.

By the fourth quarter, your pulse is doing something it shouldn’t. You pretend to focus on the game, but every time the arena lights flash or the crowd stands, you feel him looking. Not in a disrespectful way — just steady, certain, like he’s waiting for you to look back.

When the final buzzer sounds, you head toward the tunnel with your friends — and freeze.

He’s there. Somehow he’s already ahead of the crowd, leaning against the wall like he’s been there all night just waiting.

“You gon’ keep pretending you ain’t curious?” he asks, voice low and lazy, eyes on you like he already knows the answer.

Your heart kicks hard. And you have to decide — keep walking, or see what happens if you stop.