hola

deep wine red. the kind that looked almost black when you were still but burned ruby the second a spotlight brushed across it. the sleeveless top sculpted to your frame, fabric gathered in soft ripples, asymmetrical at the hem. a small gold buckle rested at your waist like it knew it was important.

the skirt flared in layered tiers, brushing mid-thigh when you shifted in your seat. gold jewelry traced your collarbones and wrists—thin chains stacked delicate and bright, rings catching light every time you lifted your hand. gold kitten heels crossed neatly at the ankle, pointed and quiet against concrete.

dijonai’s favorite.

she’d said it the first time you wore it after a velvet static show—backstage, adrenaline still humming through you, your voice raw from holding a stadium silent. she’d stood behind you, hands settling at your waist right beneath that buckle.

“red on you isn’t fair,” she had murmured. “it looks like a warning.” you’d smiled at her reflection in the mirror. “good.”

velvet static had been everywhere the last three years. grammy wins are stacked like punctuation marks. sold-out arenas, late-night stages and headlines that refused to let you blink. your name threaded through interviews and award speeches and festival lineups but tonight, none of it felt louder than her.

when dijonai stepped onto the court, the noise shifted.

lynx blue framed her shoulders. number bright against her chest. and her hair—long, platinum blonde, pressed sleek and straight—fell past her shoulders in a sheet of light that caught every flicker from the overhead beams. it softened nothing about her, if anything, it made her sharper.

her smile flashed quick and easy during warmups, laughing at something a teammate said, head tilting just enough for that hair to swing over one shoulder. but the second the whistle blew, her expression locked in.

focused, confident and yet something dangerous, she found you in the crowd during free throws as it happened in pieces, your hood had slipped back. the red had done the rest. it cut through the stands like it belonged on the court instead of in the seats.

a ripple started behind you—whispers first, then phones lifting down on the hardwood, dijonai blinked once then her mouth curved.

small, controlled, but there. she didn’t wave, didn't break stance, just tapped her chest twice like she was adjusting her jersey.

you knew better. the game stayed tight until the final minute. target center shook when the buzzer finally sounded. the scoreboard glowed bright and final. confetti drifted from somewhere too early. the crowd roared like it had been waiting all night for permission.

you were already on your feet.

security tried to be subtle escorting you toward the tunnel. they weren’t. flashes followed anyway. your heels clicked steady against concrete—gold against gray, deliberate and unhurried and then she was there.

breathing hard. towel slung around her neck, as her platinum hair falling sleek and straight down her back now that the headband was gone. sweat shining along her temples, lashes still thick from pregame glam.

her eyes dropped first, not to your face but to the red, to the gold buckle at your waist and to the heels she’d once called dangerous. “you wore that on purpose,” dijonai said quietly, stepping close enough that the towel brushed your bare shoulder.

“what, this?” you asked lightly, smoothing your hand down the layered skirt. the fabric shifted. gold flashed again.

her hands found your waist without hesitation. firm, familiar as her thumbs pressing just beneath the buckle like it was an anchor point she’d memorized. “that’s my favorite,” she admitted, voice lowering into that private register she saved for you. “the heels too.”

“i remember.” her grip tightened slightly. “red’s unfair on you.”

“you still walked over here.” a breath of a laugh left her. “i always will.” the hug wasn’t dramatic, it wasn’t staged but it was the kind that lingered just long enough to mean something—your arms sliding over her shoulders, her forehead dipping close to yours, platinum hair brushing against your arm like silk. “missed you,” she murmured, barely audible over the arena. “i know,” you teased softly. “you texted me four times before halftime.”

“hydration breaks.” you smiled and then the jumbotron flickered. neither of you noticed at first, the crowd did. a sharp wave of sound rolled upward. phones angled toward the screen. teammates pointing, laughing as they passed.

you turned your head first then froze. forty feet tall above center court—lynx blue and wine red tangled together. platinum and gold catching light as her hands splayed wide against your lower back like they had nowhere else to be.

for months, maybe longer, speculation had lived in grainy paparazzi shots and dissected lyrics. velvet static’s lead singer seen leaving a restaurant. dijonai arriving later. matching gold chains, suspiciously synced playlists.

neither of you had confirmed, neither of you had denied on the screen, there was nowhere to hide. she glanced up once then back at you and instead of stepping away, dijonai only pulled you closer.

“guess that answers that,” she said, almost laughing now. “answers what?” you whispered. “whether we were gonna keep pretending.”

there was a clean exit available. a wave, a joke, distance.

you didn’t take it. your hand slid to the side of her neck, thumb resting just beneath her ear where her pulse beat steady and real and you leaned in.

slow, certain as the kiss wasn’t rushed, yet it wasn’t frantic. just soft and deliberate—confirmation instead of spectacle.

the arena erupted. cheers crashed into the rafters. commentators stumbled over your name. confetti still drifting down in lazy spirals around you both.

she smiled into it, one hand firm at your waist—right over that gold buckle she loved so much—like she’d been waiting for this exact second. when you pulled away, foreheads still touching, she exhaled. “subtle,” she muttered.

you grinned. “overrated.” above you, platinum and red burned bright against lynx blue and for the first time, neither of you looked away.

the noise didn’t die down, if anything, it grew teeth.

chants tangled with your name. her name. camera flashes strobed from every direction, catching the sleek fall of her platinum hair, the gold at your throat, the exact place her hands were still resting at your waist like they had every right to be there.

one of her teammates jogged past, laughing. “so we just hard launching at center court now?” dijonai didn’t even glance away from you. “focus on the box score,” she called back lightly but her fingers tightened.

protective now. you felt it in the shift of her body—the way she angled herself slightly in front of you without making it obvious, instinct, muscle memory. a guard on and off the court. “you good?” she murmured, eyes scanning your face, searching for any crack the cameras might try to exploit.

you nodded. “you?” her grin returned, slower this time, steadier. “been waiting on that for a minute.” security started moving closer, subtle but not subtle enough. media clustered near the tunnel entrance. microphones lifted like they could reach you from across the floor.

velvet static’s group chat was definitely exploding, your manager was definitely pacing as you barely cared. dijonai slipped her hand down from your waist and laced your fingers together instead.

no hesitation, no half-measure as the jumbotron caught that too. another wave of sound rolled through the target center. “so what’s the plan?” you asked quietly, stepping closer so your shoulders brushed. “post-game,” she said, nodding toward the media line forming. “they’re gonna ask.”

“about the fourth quarter?” she huffed. “about you.” you tilted your head. “and what are you gonna say?” she didn’t answer right away instead, she lifted your joined hands slightly, eyes flicking to the gold rings on your fingers, then back to your face. “i’m gonna say,” she began slowly, “that i like winning.”

“that’s safe.”

“and i’m gonna say,” she continued, stepping even closer so her voice didn’t have to compete with the arena, “that sometimes you stop hiding when something matters more than the noise.” your breath caught—just a little. “and does it?” you asked softly.

her gaze didn’t waver. not from your eyes. not from the screen above you replaying the kiss on a five-second delay. “yeah,” she said. “it does.”

the tunnel lights felt dimmer after the court. cooler, quieter but the energy followed. staff members pretending not to stare. cameras lingering a second too long, someone from media relations whispering urgently into a headset.

dijonai squeezed your hand once before stepping toward the interview backdrop. “don’t go far,” she murmured.

“wouldn’t dream of it.”

you leaned casually against the concrete wall just off-camera, red and gold still unmistakable even in shadow.

she answered the first few questions like she always did—composed, sharp, flashing that easy smile when they mentioned her stat line. platinum hair falling perfectly over one shoulder beneath the bright lights then it came.

“there’s a lot of excitement tonight,” a reporter began carefully. “especially about…your post-game moment.”

a ripple of laughter, she didn’t flinch, didn't look at you, just adjusted the mic slightly. “what moment?” she asked lightly.

more laughter. “the one on the jumbotron.” she exhaled through a smile. “look,” dijonai said, voice steady, “i show up for my team every night. and sometimes,” her eyes flicked sideways—just once—toward the shadow where you stood, “people show up for me.”

a pause. “i’m grateful for that.”

it wasn’t a denial, it wasn’t a confirmation but it was enough when she stepped away from the podium, the second the cameras cut, she walked straight to you. no hesitation, no pretending.

“that all you got?” you teased, arms folding loosely across your waist. she stepped into your space again, hands settling familiar and certain over the gold buckle like they’d been magnetized to it all night.

“you want a press release?” she murmured. “i’ve had worse.” her forehead brushed yours, platinum hair sliding forward slightly, soft against your cheek. “they already saw what they needed to see,” she said quietly.

“and what’s that?” her thumb traced a slow circle at your waist. “that you’re mine.” your heart stuttered—not because of the possessiveness, but because of the certainty. “bold,” you whispered.

“overrated?” she echoed. you laughed softly outside the tunnel, the arena was still buzzing. notifications were already flooding in. headlines drafting themselves in real time.

velvet static’s lead singer, lynx star and hard launch at center court but in the quiet sliver of hallway light, none of it felt performative.

just her hands, just your red dress and just platinum and gold and the steady rhythm of something neither of you were pretending about anymore. “come home with me,” she said finally, low and simple.

not a question, you smiled. “thought you’d never ask.”

her smile shifted at that, less playful now, more certain like she’d been waiting for the world to catch up.

the walk to the players’ exit felt different this time, not secretive, not careful.

her hand stayed in yours, fingers threaded tight, thumb brushing slow patterns over your knuckles like she was grounding herself. staff members tried not to stare, a few failed and someone definitely whispered and yet someone definitely recorded.

dijonai didn’t let go. outside, minneapolis air wrapped cool around bare skin. the arena lights glowed behind you, reflecting faint gold off your heels, off her platinum hair that shimmered even under streetlamps.

“you good in those?” she asked, glancing down at your kitten heels as you stepped off the curb. “i’ve performed in worse,” you replied. “yeah, but you weren’t walking through a media swarm in those.” you nudged her lightly with your shoulder. “you worried about me?”

“always.” the word landed softer than the noise still humming in the distance, her car waited near the back lot. tinted windows, engine already running. security hovered at a respectful distance.

she opened the passenger door for you without hesitation, win or lose, home or away—she always did before you slid inside, she paused, one hand braced against the door frame, the other settling at your waist again. right over that gold buckle. like it was a compass point.

“you know,” she murmured, leaning close enough that her breath ghosted warm against your cheek, “we just changed the internet.” “dramatic,” you teased gently.

“you trended last time you wore this dress,” she reminded you. “and that was just a blurry paparazzi shot.” you smoothed a hand down the layered skirt, feigning innocence. “so this is your fault?”

“mine?” she laughed quietly. “you’re the one who kissed me on the jumbotron.”

“you pulled me closer.”

“you leaned in first.” there was a beat of silence, the kind that holds something heavy and fragile at the same time. “you sure?” she asked finally, softer now. not about the kiss, not about the cameras.

about all of it, about headlines and think pieces and strangers who would dissect every second of that moment frame by frame.

you reached up, fingers brushing beneath her jaw, feeling the warmth of her skin still humming from the game. “i’ve sung in front of eighty thousand people,” you said gently. “i can handle a few million tweets.”

that earned a real laugh but her eyes stayed searching. “i don’t ever want you feeling like you had to,” she said. “not for me.”

you stepped closer instead of away. gold jewelry cool against her warm skin as her platinum hair sliding forward as she tilted her head down toward you. “i didn’t have to,” you told her. “i wanted to.”

her exhale was slow, relieved like she’d been bracing for impact and realized the ground wasn’t going to give out beneath her. “come here,” she murmured.

this kiss wasn’t for a screen, no confetti, no roar, just the quiet hum of the engine and distant traffic and the steady rhythm of her hands pulling you flush against her slow, certain.

when she pulled back, her forehead rested against yours again. “you staying in town long?” she asked. “couple days,” you answered. “velvet static’s back in rehearsals friday.”

“good.”

“why?” her thumb traced a lazy line along the edge of your waist. “because i don’t want our first public date to be in a tunnel.” you smiled at that. “what are you thinking?”

“breakfast,” she said immediately. “somewhere normal. no back entrances.”

“bold.”

“overrated,” she echoed softly, you laughed under your breath. inside the car, your phone buzzed nonstop in your clutch—notifications stacking. group chats detonating. your publicist probably drafting three different statements you had no intention of using.

dijonai reached past you to close the door gently. “let them talk,” she said, almost to herself. “i’m tired of whispering.” you leaned back into the seat, watching her circle around to the driver’s side, platinum hair catching light with every step.

when she slid in beside you, she didn’t start the car right away, just reached across the console, took your hand again laced your fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“you ready?” she asked.

you looked at her, at the confidence still lingering in her shoulders. at the softness in her eyes that never made it into interviews. at the faint imprint of your lipstick still barely there at the corner of her mouth.

you squeezed her hand once. “i’ve been ready.” she studied you for a second longer, as if she were committing it to memory—the red. the gold.

 the way you didn’t flinch then she leaned across the console and kissed you again, slower this time. no adrenaline, no countdown clock, just the steady press of something chosen when she pulled back, she finally started the car.

minneapolis blurred past in streaks of amber and white, streetlights glinting off her platinum hair every time she turned her head. your phone kept buzzing in your clutch—headlines writing themselves, fan edits already circulating, velvet static’s group chat probably typing in all caps.

you didn’t check instead, you watched her. one hand on the wheel. the other is still wrapped around yours. “they’re gonna ask about it again tomorrow,” you said quietly.

“i know.”

“you nervous?” she considered that. “about them?” she shook her head once. “no.”

a beat. “about you?” her thumb brushed slow against your knuckles. “a little.” you smiled softly. “why?”

“because you live in stadiums,” she said. “and i live in arenas. and i don’t ever want to feel like a headline in your world.”

that landed somewhere tender, you shifted in your seat, turning toward her fully. “you’re not a headline,” you told her. “you’re the part i go home to.”

her jaw tightened slightly—not with tension, but with feeling. “that’s different,” you continued. “the noise is loud. it always is. but when i step off stage, when the lights go down…i don’t want a crowd. i want you.”

she didn’t answer right away, just drove then, at a red light, she looked over at you—really looked. “you mean that?”

“yeah.” the light turned green, she didn’t move for half a second. a horn sounded behind you. she rolled her eyes, then eased forward, but her smile had changed something softer, steadier.

“good,” she murmured. “good?”

“because i’m not whispering anymore.” the city thinned as she turned onto a quieter street. her place wasn’t far from the water—a stretch of calm tucked just enough away from downtown to feel like breathing space.

when she parked, neither of you reached for the door immediately. the engine ticked as it cooled, distant traffic hummed. she unbuckled first, turning toward you fully now, one knee angled in your direction.

“you realize,” she said lightly, “this is the first time i don’t have to pretend you’re just a friend in my living room.” you laughed under your breath. “that must’ve been exhausting.”

“you have no idea.” her hand slid back to your waist, thumb brushing over the gold buckle like it had been magnetized there since the first time she saw it. “keep this on,” she added quietly.

“why?”

“because when you walk into my place in that dress,” she said, voice lowering just slightly, “i want to remember tonight exactly like this.” you felt your pulse shift. “center court?” you teased.

“no,” she corrected, eyes steady on yours. “the part where you didn’t look away.”

outside, the world was still loud, notifications still stacking, fans still debating timelines and decoding lyrics but inside the parked car, beneath platinum and gold and the faint glow of streetlights, it was just the two of you.