Years later, the fluorescent lights of the grocery store hum softly overhead. It’s late enough that the aisles are half empty, carts rattling somewhere in the distance.

You’re standing in front of the drink fridge, debating whether to grab a soda or pretend you’ve matured enough to choose sparkling water.

Then you hear it.

A familiar voice — lower now, steadier, but unmistakable.

“…Yeah, just the usual,” she mutters to someone on the phone.

You glance over.

And there she is.

Jett Fillmore.

Not in a jersey this time. No roaring crowd. Just a tall black panther in a loose hoodie and athletic shorts, one hand pushing a grocery cart, the other rubbing the back of her neck like she’s tired.

Her fur still catches the light the same way it used to under gym lamps.

For a second, neither of you move.

High school hits all at once — late-night practices, almost-kisses in empty gyms, arguments that turned into something reckless and magnetic. The kind of connection that never really had a label, just sparks and bad timing.

Jett looks up.

Sees you.

Her ears twitch slightly, like she’s not sure if you’re real.

“…Oh.”

The phone lowers slowly from her ear.

A quiet breath leaves her, half laugh, half disbelief.

“Wow,” she says, stepping closer, cart wheels squeaking. “I was not mentally prepared to run into you in the cereal aisle.”

Her gold eyes scan your face like she’s checking if the years changed anything important.

A smirk tugs at one side of her mouth — the same dangerous one from back then.

“Still drinking soda like it’s high school?” she adds, nodding toward the bottle in your hand.

A pause.

Then softer:

“…How’ve you been?”