#wbb usc

she came off a ball screen in the second quarter and you picked her up at half-court, dropping into your stance, and she looked at you and really looked at you and smiled. 

not a trash-talk smile, not cocky just like she'd finally found something worth her attention your chest did something you didn't have language for. 

you told yourself it was adrenaline you stayed disciplined you stayed in your stance she scored anyway it didn't feel like it was about the points.

by the fourth quarter the galen center was loud in the way that only hostile venues get loud — not the organized cheering of your home crowd but something rawer, a sound that wanted something from you. 

usc was up six you had the ball at the top of the key and juju was on you, close enough that you could hear her breathing, and she said  quiet, not for anyone else you keep going left.

you went left she was there you threw it out before she could strip it and you heard her exhale, something almost like a laugh, and you set your jaw and ran back on defense because that was all you could do.

stanford lost by four you'd cut it to two with forty seconds left and then a turnover happened that wasn't your fault but lived in your body like it was. 

you were still in the tunnel, the locker room not yet reached, when you heard footsteps behind you and turned and juju was there, still in her warmups, her team thirty feet back at the court entrance as she looked at you for a second then she said “good game.”

not patronizing, not smug and you knew she meant it the way you only mean something when you've earned the right to say it.

you said “yeah” and walked away and spent forty-five minutes in the shower that night trying to figure out why it felt like losing even when you'd been the one she'd said it to.

she got your number from maya, who you would be having a very serious conversation with as soon as you figured out what to say the text came three days after the game you were in the stanford film room, watching your own footage with the lights off, and your phone lit up with a number you didn't have saved and a message that said

UNKNOWN: you had 22 and 7 assists. that turnover wasn't on you

UNKNOWN:  this is juju by the way

you stared at your phone for an embarrassingly long time. the film paused on your own face, mid-possession, eyes reading the defense. 

you looked tired in the freeze frame, you looked like someone who had not stopped thinking about the game even once in three days. you typed and deleted four things but you settled on. 

YOU: how did you get this number

JUJU: i have my ways

JUJU: also you're not going to say thank you?

YOU: thank you

YOU: why are you texting me?

JUJU: because i wanted to

JUJU: you play like you have something to prove. i like that

you saved her contact whereas you told yourself it was so you'd know not to block her you texted back at eleven-thirty that night and neither of you mentioned what team you played for.

it became a thing without either of you deciding it would be late nights mostly after practice, after film, after the particular exhaustion of being a division one athlete whose body was always slightly more depleted than she was willing to admit. 

she'd text something a clip she was studying, a question about read-and-react sets, something funny that happened at practice and you'd text back, and then somehow two hours had passed and you were lying in the dark in your stanford dorm room talking to juju watkins about whether zone defense was intellectually cowardly and you were laughing, actually laughing, at something she said.

you didn't talk about this to anyone not even maya, who had started giving you a very specific look whenever your phone went off after ten pm you ran into her at a tournament in february neutral site, a showcase event, and your teams weren't matched up but you were warming up on adjacent courts and you looked over and there she was, three lanes down, and she saw you at the same moment. 

she grinned when you looked away but first you made six three-pointers in warmups, which was two more than usual, and tried very hard to feel normal about that.

she texted you that night: six threes in warmups show-off.

you wrote back: you were watching.

she took four minutes to respond: obviously.

the thing you were refusing to name got louder after that the transfer decision had been building for a while you'd been honest with yourself about it before you were honest with anyone else stanford was extraordinary and you were grateful and it also wasn't quite right, the system, the fit, something you couldn't articulate clearly but felt every day in practice. 

you started making calls in march you told your parents first you told your coach with the kind of conversation that was professional and respectful and hurt anyway you told juju before you told most of your teammates. 

you didn't plan to, she'd texted you something about your upcoming schedule and you'd typed i'm transferring and then stared at it and then sent it before you could make a better decision.

YOU: i'm transferring

JUJU: what

JUJU: where

YOU: ucla

JUJU: ...

JUJU: you're going to be in my conference

YOU: yeah

JUJU: okay

JUJU: i mean you're still going to lose

YOU: keep telling yourself that

JUJU: ...i'm glad you're staying in la

you read that last message six times you put your phone face down you picked it up and read it 

again you didn't respond for twenty minutes and then you said; me too and that was the closest either of you came to saying it for a very long time.

ucla was good, it was the right call you knew it the first week of practice, the system clicking into something that felt like it was built around the way you saw the game, and your teammates were sharp and funny and welcoming in the way only a team that already knows what it wants can be los angeles was also the same city as usc, which you had known intellectually and which now lived in your body as a constant low-frequency awareness you couldn't fully explain to yourself.

you saw juju at a preseason event in october — a women's basketball media day at the staples center that both programs attended, separate tables, separate interview schedules, the whole thing very officially organized and entirely insufficient at keeping you on opposite sides of the room. 

she found you by the water station during a break between sessions she was in usc gear, hair back, exactly as composed as she always was, and she said you cut your hair and you said i did and she said it looks good and you said thank you and neither of you said anything for just a half-second too long.

she said: “how's the system?”

you said: “really good actually.”

she said: “good and she looked like she meant it and that was somehow worse than anything she could have said to be difficult.”

you texted each other after you kept texting each other after every time you were in the same room, like proximity recharged something that distance had been slowly depleting you had a conversation at two in the morning in late october about zone rotations that somehow became a conversation about what you wanted after college, what the league looked like from where you were standing, what you were afraid of, what you wouldn't say to anyone on your own team because it would cost something to say it. 

she told you things you got the sense she didn't tell many people. you told her things you'd barely told yourself you stopped pretending you didn't know what it was you just didn't do anything about it, because she was juju watkins and she was usc and you were ucla and the season was starting and the thing you had whatever it was felt too careful to risk on the wrong moment.

the film room incident happened on a tuesday it was a shared facility, one of the auxiliary buildings used by multiple programs, small, always slightly cold, the kind of room that felt designed to disappear you from the world for a few hours. you had a key card. you'd been using it late at night since october, after the main film sessions, just to sit alone with footage and think without anyone watching you think.

you came in at ten-thirty on a tuesday in november and juju was already there she was sitting in the second row, laptop open, headphones around her neck, footage paused on a half-court possession she looked up when the door opened and her expression did something complicated  surprise, and then something else that settled into careful neutrality before you could read it fully.

you said: “i didn't know you used this room.”

she said: “i didn't know you did either.”

you stood in the doorway for a second and she didn't tell you to leave and you didn't leave. you walked to the third row and sat down and pulled up your own footage and you sat in the dark together for a while in a silence that wasn't uncomfortable, which maybe should have told you something after a while she said, not looking away from her screen: your pull-up has gotten cleaner.

you looked at her as she was watching your footage she'd pulled it up on her own laptop sometime in the last hour without saying anything, and she was watching you play with her chin in her hand and her expression was the same one she got when she was genuinely studying something.

you said: “you're watching my tape.”

she said: “i watch everyone's tape.”

you said: “juju.”

she finally looked at you in the dark of the film room, with the blue light of the screen catching the side of her face, she looked — not careful, for once she looked like something she'd been holding was getting heavy.

she said: “yeah i'm watching your tape.”

neither of you said anything else. you turned back to your screen you stayed until almost midnight and when you left you both walked out at the same time and stood in the parking lot in the november air and she said same time thursday? like it was the most natural thing in the world.

you said yeah.

you came back thursday and the thursday after that. and the one after that.

the game was in december and usc won by three and you had a good game twenty-four points, six assists, played forty minutes and felt every one of them and it didn't matter because you lost and losing to juju's team was its own particular category of awful.

you were in the tunnel when she found you, you'd seen her scanning the court after the final whistle and you'd left before she could cross it because you did not have the capacity right now for whatever carefully composed thing she would say to you.

you needed to be somewhere without her face in it for approximately forty-five minutes and then you would be fine but she was fast and you'd stopped moving and now she was in the tunnel with you and she said your name and you turned around.

she looked like she'd been trying to get to you for several minutes and the relief of having done it was doing something to her composure whereas she was still in her uniform there was a fold of court chalk on her knee.

she said hey. you okay? and something about the gentleness of it cracked something open that you'd been managing very carefully and 

you said: “don't do that.”

she said: “do what?”

you said: “be nice to me right now i just lost to you i don't need you to be.”  and you stopped because you didn't know how to finish the sentence without it becoming something else, something shifted in juju's expression. 

not frustration — something rawer than that, something that had been living under the composure for a long time and was done being contained she said: “i'm not being nice to you because i feel sorry for you.”

you said: “then why—”

“because i like you,” she said, and her voice came out louder than she intended, sharp in the empty tunnel, and she looked almost startled by herself for a half second before her jaw set and she kept going. 

“because i have liked you since that first game and you know that, you have to know that, and you just — you keep acting like you don't feel it too and i don't understand it. i don't understand how you can be in that film room with me every week and text me at two in the morning and look at me the way you look at me and not”— she stopped.

her hands came up and she pressed her knuckles to her mouth for a moment like she was physically holding the rest of it in the tunnel was completely silent then she said, quieter “i'm not doing the nice thing because i beat you. i'm doing it because i care about you and i'm tired of pretending i don't and i just need to know if you”— she exhaled, sharp, and looked at the ceiling for one second “just tell me you don't feel the same and i'll leave you alone i mean it. i'll walk away and it'll be fine i just—”

“juju.”

she looked at you.

“i've been making you crazy on purpose,” you said a beat something moved through her face — confusion, then understanding, then something that wasn't quite fury but was adjacent to it you said “the going-left thing. first game i knew you were going to be there i wanted to see what you'd do. and the film room, and the texts — i know exactly what it is and yet i’ve known for a long time.”

she stared at you the sharpness in her face was still there but it was changing shape, becoming something else. so you do feel it.

you said “yeah” and she said “i cannot believe you,” and then she crossed the two feet between you and kissed you.

it wasn't soft it was the kiss of someone who had been holding something a long time and had finally decided the holding was no longer worth it her hand coming up to your jaw, her mouth certain, and you made a small helpless sound and kissed her back and the forty-five minutes you'd needed dissolved into nothing.

she pulled back just far enough to breathe her forehead dropped against yours. her hand was still on your face and her thumb traced the line of your cheekbone and you felt the careful thing you'd been protecting come loose entirely.

she said, very quietly “you are so annoying.” but you said “you like it.” she kissed you again instead of answering, which was an answer when she pulled away she looked at you for a moment and then said “come on.” but you said “where.” she said "film room” and when you raised an eyebrow she said “obviously not to watch film,” like you were being incredibly slow, and took your hand and you laughed and let her pull you forward into the rest of the night.

the film room was cold and dark and she sat down in the wide chair at the back row and pulled you into her lap before you'd finished closing the door behind you you settled against her and she looked up at you for a moment with her hands resting on your hips, like she was letting herself actually see you now that there was nothing in the way then she reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear and said “hi.” and you said “hi.”

she kissed you soft the first time — nothing like the tunnel, which had been all release and urgency. this was slower. intentional her hands moved to your face and she kissed your mouth and then the corner of it, the line of your jaw, the curve just below your ear, and you felt something loosen in your chest that you hadn't known was still held tight.

she said, against your cheek “i've been thinking about this since october.” and you said “just october?”

she said “okay fine, february,” and you laughed and she kissed the laugh off of you then she shifted and drew back and looked at you with something settled and certain in her expression, and she said “can i—” and you said yes before she'd finished asking, because you already knew and the answer had been yes for a long time.

she was methodical about it in the way she was methodical about everything that mattered she found the hem of your warmup jacket and pulled it off your shoulders and set it aside and then she pressed her lips to your collarbone, the base of your throat, the soft skin just below your shoulder — unhurried, like she had a plan and intended to execute every part of it. 

you had your hands in her hair and your head tipped back and she kissed every inch of you she could reach with the patience of someone who had been waiting and was no longer in any rush now that the waiting was over your shoulder the inside of your wrist when she lifted your arm the space behind your ear that made your breath catch she catalogued your reactions the way she catalogued everything, filed them away, came back to them.

she said, low, against your skin “you okay?” you said “yeah yes don't stop” she didn't stop later you were tangled together in the dark, her chin resting on your head, her fingers tracing absent patterns on your shoulder, and she said “you're still going to lose in february.” and you said “i'm already prepared.” she lifted her head to look at you “that's my line.” you said “i know. i've been studying you for a year.”

she looked at you for a moment and then she smiled the real one, the one she didn't deploy on the court, the one that made her look entirely like herself you thought about the first time you'd seen it, in that tunnel after the galen center game, and how far you'd traveled to arrive at this version of it: her arms around you in the dark, los angeles cold outside, nowhere else either of you needed to be.

she kissed your temple. you settled back against her “i like you,” she said simply like it was easy now that she'd said it once you said “i know i like you too.”

the pasta water sits there unhelpfully, not boiling, and you’re standing in a kitchen that smells like garlic and olive oil and the particular warmth of an apartment that has been lived in by two people long enough to stop feeling like either of their spaces separately and start feeling like a third thing entirely.

you’ve been together long enough for that long enough that you don’t clock it anymore, the way her stuff has migrated into your shelves, the way your coffee mug is always clean because she runs the dishwasher before you wake up, the way she moves through the apartment like she knows where everything is because she does.

long enough that waiting for her feels less like waiting and more like incomplete sentences that haven't finished yet you check your phone again as the time is now five-fifteen but you think that she’s probably on her way the water starts to boil right as you hear the key in the lock.

post-practice juju is a specific kind of person; she's quieter than usual, not subdued, just internal, like the day has used up the part of her that performs when she moves on autopilot she drops her bag by the door with a sound you’ve learned to identify specifically as long day rather than bad day, kicks off her slides, rolls her neck once, and then she finds you without looking.

that’s the thing about her, the thing you noticed early and never stopped noticing her body orientations toward you like it already knows where you are and has stopped asking permission to close the distance.

she wraps around you from behind, chin dropping onto your shoulder, and the full weight of her just settles all six feet of her, tired and warm, and you feel it happen in your own body too, the thing that happens when she’s close the loosening the sigh you didn’t know you were holding. “hey,” she says into the side of your neck. she means. i’m home. i missed you. i’m glad you’re here.

“hey,” you say back, and you mean all of those things too and for a moment neither of you move you stir the sauce she breathes the apartment smells like garlic and cedar — her body wash, the warm version of it that happens when she’s been active and then showered and then pressed herself against something and the lamp in the corner is already doing its evening thing, throwing everything gold, and it’s easy.

it’s the specific kind of ease that you spent a long time not believing was available to you and still sometimes catch yourself holding too carefully, like something you borrowed and haven’t been given permission to keep. “smells good,” she says. “it’s just pasta.”

“i know.” a pause, content. “smells good.” her arms tighten briefly around your waist. not asking for anything just contact just here you let yourself lean back into her, just slightly, just enough to answer you stay like that until the timer goes off.

dinner is an easy thing she’s tired in the way that makes her more herself somehow less filtered, more direct, all the social performance peeled back and just juju underneath it, talking with her fork and telling you about practice in the abbreviated way she has where you get maybe sixty percent of what happened and have to read the rest in her face.

coach ran a new set today, something they’ve been working toward for two weeks and it finally clicked, the whole thing snapping into place in the third hour, and the way her eyes go when she describes it bright and private, like she’s replaying it in real time makes your chest do something soft.

jazzy’s been different lately, she says locked in, locked in in that particular way that lifts the whole room’s ceiling the freshmen are starting to find the pace there were two plays in the afternoon session that felt like something, the kind of something that makes you feel it in your gut, like the team is becoming.

you listen you ask the right questions you watch her hands move and think about how there are people who have watched juju watkins play and felt something seismic and you get to see this version the version that comes home and eats pasta and tells you about practice with her shoes off, and somehow this feels more like the whole of her than any version on a court.

“you’re staring,” she says, without looking up from her plate. “i’m listening.”

“you’re doing both.”

“i can multitask.”

she looks up then, and something in her expression is caught between amused and soft, and she shakes her head slightly and goes back to her pasta, and you look down at your own plate and try not to smile.

after, she cleans up, that's the deal, you cook, she cleans and you migrate to the couch in the slow comfortable way of people who have nowhere to be and no performance left to give she pulls her hair back and tuck your legs under you.

the tv is on low, nothing either of you are actually watching, just the background hum of it, and the lamp is still doing the gold thing and the apartment is warm and quiet it’s a good night it’s the specific kind of good night that doesn’t have a story attached to it, that you could not explain to anyone else but that you know you’ll think about later when practice is hard or the distance is long or things feel complicated and use it to remember that this exists. that this is a thing that happens for you.

you pick up your phone, with no conscious muscle memory, apple music is open, the queue is still running from this morning, and it rolls into the next song without you making a choice.

mean what i say, say what i mean—

you recognize it immediately, the little piano thing at the beginning, the specific texture of ariana’s voice on this track dandelion you’ve been listening to for two weeks, which you are aware is a fact about yourself that says something, and you have not been examining what it says juju’s still at the sink you can hear the water.

you could skip it, it's a very easy thing to do, one tap queue moves on, different song, none of this happens you don’t skip it but what you do instead and this is a choice that reflects something about you that you also haven’t examined is start singing along quietly.

at a volume that is technically under your breath but is in no actual way inaudible in a studio apartment where the tv is at a low murmur and another person is ten feet away a joke you’re just vibing totally casual this means nothing.

i got what you need, i’m thinking you should plant this seed—

the water cuts off.

i get this sounds unserious, but baby boy, this is serious—

you are staring at your phone with intense focus.

“what are you playing?” she’s in the doorway dish towel over one shoulder looking at you with an expression you have a whole vocabulary for by now, head slightly tilted, one brow up, the particular quality of stillness that means she heard you the first time and is waiting to see how you’re going to play this.

“ariana,” you say very naturally.

“which song.”

“dandelion.” she looks at you just looks at you, for a long moment, not moving from the doorway then she comes and sits beside you closer than she needs to given the amount of couch available, close enough that her thigh is against yours and she doesn’t say anything, which is a specific kind of torture you’ve come to recognize the song keeps going in the space between you.

and yes i promise, if i’m being honest, you can get anything you’d like. you contemplate your phone screen with tremendous focus. can’t you see i bloom at night?

“so,” juju says.

“so.”

“dandelion.”

“it’s a good song.”

“yeah.” a beat, calibrated. “what’s it about.” and the thing is she knows what it’s about you know she knows the question isn’t a question, it’s an invitation to either walk through the door or pretend there isn’t one, and you both know which one you’ve been doing and you both know she’s not going to let you do it this time.

“it’s—” you gesture at nothing in particular. “you know. it’s an offering. like, here i am, here’s everything i have, make a wish. i’ll be your—”

“dandelion.”

“yeah.”

silence as the bridge comes in, ariana’s voice dropping quieter instead of going bigger, and it does the thing in your chest it always does the thing you haven’t been examining.

boy just don’t blow this—

juju turns her head. “were you singing that to me.” not a question, barely even an inflection but just the words, laid flat on the table.

“i was—” you laugh, and the laugh is a tell and you both know it, and you watch her register it— “i was just singing along. i wasn’t — it wasn’t directed at anyone specifically.”

“anyone.”

“anyone in the room.”

“anyone in—” she tilts her head slightly— “the room. that you’re sitting in. with me.”

“yes.”

“so you were singing it at—”

“the air,” you say. “into the void. at no one. as one does.”

“as one does,” she repeats.

“juju.”

“i’m just trying to understand,” she says, and the smile is starting now, not big, not mean, just that specific controlled thing she does when she has you and is in no hurry about it like she could sit here all night. “you were sitting here, next to me, singing a song about being someone’s dandelion. making them whatever they want. blooming at night.” a pause. “at the air.”

“at the air,” you confirm.

“into the void.”

“yes.”

“not at me.”

“correct.” she looks at you for a long moment you look back, or try to, and then look away first, which is information. “okay,” she says she doesn’t say anything else she just sits there, thigh still against yours, warm and unhurried, and lets the silence do its work.

you can feel her looking at you, that specific quality of juju’s attention, which has always felt like being studied by someone who has already reached their conclusion and is just enjoying confirming it when the song ends something else comes on it doesn’t matter dandelion is still in the room. “you know,” she says eventually, “you do that thing.”

“what thing.”

“where you get right up to the edge of saying something and then you make it a joke.” she’s not accusing she says it the way she says most things observationally, like she’s describing weather. “you’ve been doing it since we started. you’ll be right there, right at the thing, and then—” she clicks her tongue softly— “you slide out.”

“that’s not—” you start. “it’s okay,” she says. “i’m not saying it to make you feel bad. i’m just saying i see it. and i’m saying you don’t have to.”

the apartment is very quiet for a moment. “it’s embarrassing,” you say, which is the most honest thing you’ve said in the last ten minutes.

“why.”

“because—” you look at your hands— “because you’re you. and the song is—” you make a face— “really sincere. it doesn’t leave a lot of room for—”

“plausible deniability.”

“yeah.”

“and you like having an exit.”

“i like having an exit,” you agree, quietly juju is quiet, the lamp is still gold, her hand finds yours on the cushion between you and just rests there, not gripping, not doing anything, just present and something about that the not asking, the just landing makes your chest ache a little in a way you’re not going to say out loud.

“what if i told you,” she says, “that you don’t need one. with me.” she pauses. “not with me.” you look at her, she's already looking at you she almost always is, you’ve noticed like you’re a thing worth looking at, which you have never entirely been able to receive without deflecting.

“you were singing it to me,” she says. gently. not a trap, not a gotcha, just — naming it. “and i’m telling you that you can just say that.” the room is very still. “yeah,” you say, after a moment. quietly. “i was.”

something shifts in her face not surprise she knew, you both knew but something like relief, or like the specific tenderness of watching someone do something that costs them something. “yeah,” she says softly, like she’s receiving it carefully. “it made sense,” you say, once you’ve started. “the song. it kept coming on and it just — it’s what i’d say, if i could. i’m not good at the saying. but the song was—”

“the song said it.”

“the song said it.” she looks at you for a long moment then she says, soft and certain and with no performance in it whatsoever. “you’re my dandelion.”

“please never—”

“you are though.” she squeezes your hand once. “you make sure i eat when i forget. you know my schedule better than i do. you do that thing when i come home tired where you just make the room easy. you don’t need me to be on. you just—” she tilts her head— “you make space. you’ve been doing it since almost the beginning. like it’s natural. like you don’t even notice.”

“i notice,” you say. “i just — i like doing it. it’s not a sacrifice.”

“i know it’s not,” she says. “that’s the thing. that’s exactly the thing.” she looks at you. “you give because you want to. not because you’re keeping score. not because you want something back. do you know how rare that is?”

you don’t have anything to say to that not because you don’t believe her, but because being seen that clearly by another person does something to your ability to form sentences. “okay,” you say finally, which means nothing and everything. “okay,” she agrees and then she kisses you as this is not a small kiss.

this one has been sitting in the room all evening, patient, waiting for the conversation to clear space for it it’s warm and unhurried and she cups your jaw in one hand and angles you exactly where she wants you, and you feel it land in your chest the way her kisses always do, this particular one especially like being held still like being confirmed.

when she pulls back you’re leaning after her before you register it, and she sees it, and the look on her face does not help. “you were saying?” she says, soft.

“i’ve completely lost it.”

“mm.” her thumb traces your cheekbone, slow. “so. wish list.”

“juju.”

“you said whatever i want.”

“i said the song said—”

“same thing,” she says, voice dropping into that register that is specifically unfair, low and easy, and she is looking at you with the focused patience she usually reserves for the third hour of film study. “i want to know yours.”

“you,” you say, finally, helplessly. “just — you. that’s the whole list.”

something happens in her face, something that moves fast and then settles into warmth so complete it’s almost unbearable and she says, “that’s convenient,” and kisses you again, deeper this time, her hand sliding from your jaw into your hair her other hand finds the hem of your shirt fingers spread warm against your waist not pushing, just landing claiming.

you make a sound you weren’t planning on making. “yeah?” she says against your mouth. “yeah,” you manage.

she uses the hand at your waist to pull you closer, into her, and you go easily you always go easily, that’s always been the thing and she kisses you deeper and her thumb drags along the skin just above your waistband and your brain goes quiet in the best possible way. “i’ve been thinking about this since i got home,” she says, mouth at your jaw, your throat.

“the dandelion thing?”

she laughs low, breath warm against your pulse point. “no.” she pulls back just enough to look at you, dark-eyed and half-smiling, the wanting underneath it entirely real. “you, in that shirt, not looking at me like you weren’t thinking about it.”

“i wasn’t—”

“you were,” she says simply and yet so certain. “and i ate dinner and i waited.”

“for an opening.”

“the song was an opening.” her hand slides further under your shirt, palm flat against your stomach, and you feel your breath catch. “and now i’m done waiting.”

she kisses you again before you can respond, and her hands are moving now, sure and unhurried, and your shirt comes up and her mouth follows the hem and by the time she walks you to the bedroom your legs are not entirely reliable and she knows it, and the look on her face when she does is not smug exactly, just satisfied like everything is proceeding according to a plan she made hours ago.

the lamp in the bedroom is off, she doesn’t turn it on, city light comes faint through the curtains, enough to see by, and she undresses you the rest of the way slowly not as a tease, just as a fact, because this is how juju does this, thoroughly and without rushing.

she takes you in when she’s done. actually looks, unhurried, and you’ve been together long enough that you don’t try to fill the silence of it anymore you just let her look. “hi,” she says.

“hi,” you say back she laughs, warm and low, and pulls you onto the bed she starts slow that’s juju’s whole thing she starts slow and she means it, it’s not a performance of patience, it’s actual patience, the kind that comes from being genuinely interested in every stage of the thing.

her mouth finds your throat and drags down, unhurried, learning the sounds you make at each stop collarbone the curve of your shoulder. the soft skin just below your ear that makes you inhale sharply, which she notes and returns to.

her hands move with the same deliberateness, no wasted motion, no hesitation. she palms up your side, your ribcage, and you arch into it without meaning to. “still embarrassed?” she murmurs, mouth at your sternum. “about wanting.” she looks up at you dark-eyed and patient. “about saying it.”

“no,” you say, and you mean it all the way down you’re past the point of deflection, stripped down to just this wanting her, wanting this, not pretending otherwise. “not even a little.”

“good,” she says, and moving lower takes her time her hands hold your hips loosely, not rough, just grounding and she works you open with the focused patience she brings to everything she cares about.

you feel it build the way the song builds, patient and layered, quieter than you expect and then suddenly overwhelming you’re gripping the sheets inside of two minutes. “juju—” her name comes out unsteady. “mm.” not stopping.

“please—”

“please what.” her mouth, devastating and deliberate, pausing just long enough to make you aware of the absence.

“you know—”

“i want to hear it,” she says, and looks up at you, dark-eyed and certain. “no exits, remember?” and that lands exactly where she means it to the whole evening in two words.

so you say it clearly, specifically, with nothing held back and she smiles like you’ve given her something she’s been waiting for, and says there you go, low and close, and gives you everything you asked for.

she is meticulous in a way that dismantles you piece by piece she knows which things make you go still and which ones make you gasp and she uses both, alternating, building and pulling back and building again until you’re fisting the sheets and your thighs are shaking and her name is the only coherent thing left in you.

you come the first time with her name breaking in your throat and your hand gripping her hair and she works you through every wave of it, patient and steady, staying until you’ve gone loose and oversensitive and are pulling at her to come back up she does easy unhurried.

“hi,” she says again, settling over you.

“that was—” you don’t finish the sentence you pull her in instead, kiss her deep, and she makes a sound against your mouth soft and wanting and that’s what does it the sound of her wanting. that’s what tips it you roll her over.

she goes, which she doesn’t always juju has a center of gravity that’s hard to move but tonight she lets you, goes easy, lets you push her back into the pillows and looks up at you with an expression that’s fond and hungry and a little like it took you long enough. “hi,” you say.

“hey,” she says back, and smiles, the real one, the unguarded one and you feel it in your chest and then set it aside because you have things to do.

you take your time at her throat the way she took her time at yours her jaw, the long line of her neck, the place where her pulse is quick under your lips.

she’s quieter than you when she wants something that’s juju, always but you know her sounds by now the small ones, the sharp intake, the way her hand moves to find you when you hit something right. “there?” you say, against her collarbone.

“yeah,” she says. low. “there.” you stay there you feel her trying to hold her composure, feel the effort of it, and that, that specifically makes you want to take it from her.

you move lower she makes a sound she wasn’t planning on. “yeah?” you say. “don’t—” she starts.

“don’t what.” a pause her hand finds your hair. “don’t stop.” so you don’t juju lose her patience in pieces that’s the thing you’ve learned, the thing nobody else gets to know — she goes less steady and grips harder.

her breathing changes first, then her jaw, then the careful composure just — goes, fully, and underneath it is just her, wanting, not performing anything, just present and needing and yours.

you stay until her thighs are shaking and she’s stopped being quiet about it, until she’s saying your name the way you said hers like it’s the only word left and then you stay a little longer just because you can.

she comes with her hand in your hair and her back arched and your name in her mouth and you work her through every second of it, and after, and after that too.

when you come back up she pulls you in immediately you go for a moment you just breathe together, her heartbeat fast under your ear and slowing, both of you wrecked and warm and unhurried. “okay,” she says, eventually to the ceiling.

“okay,” you agree. “so,” she says.

“juju, i swear—”

“you’re definitely my dandelion.” you make a noise into her shoulder she laughs the full one, the whole-body one and holds you tighter through it, and you feel that laugh the way you feel everything about her, right in the center of you, like a frequency you’ve been permanently tuned to and stopped fighting.

“round two?” she says entirely casually that you lift your head and look at her.

“you’re insane,” you say. “is that a yes.”

round two is less tender the first time had all that weight behind it: the song, the conversation, the saying of the thing and this time that’s still there but underneath, and what’s on top is just heat just want the clean uncomplicated wanting that’s been between you since almost the beginning, the pull that doesn’t need a reason.

she pins your wrists above your head this time, easy and certain, and you don’t bother pretending you don’t love it she knows she’s always known. “still got your wish list?” she says, low, mouth at your ear. “juju—”

“because i’ve got mine,” she says, and tells you what’s on it, and your brain whites out a little at the specifics, and then she makes good on every item methodically and without mercy and you are loud in a way you’ll be privately embarrassed about tomorrow and she is thorough in a way that makes embarrassment feel like a distant concern.

at some point the city outside goes quieter, that deep late-night hush, and in here there’s just the two of you and the heat and the dark and her voice, low and close, asking you things and receiving answers.

you come apart again and she holds you through it, steady and certain and warm, and stays until you’ve gone fully loose and soft and somewhere entirely outside of language after, she pulls you in and you stay there both of you wrecked both of you home.

much later when the room has gone fully quiet and she’s mostly asleep, her breathing long and even and her arm thrown heavy across you she says it into the dark. “what’s your wish list.”

barely awake just keeping the lyric company you think about the kitchen the gold lamp her fork moving when she talks.

the way she found you without looking at all of it, all of tonight, all of every night that came before it and the ones that will come after. “don’t have one,” you say. “this is it.” she hums already almost gone. “me either,” she says. “everything’s already here.”

it settled into your bones in a way that felt natural, inevitable even, like it had always been waiting for you both to catch up to it, and the world around you loud and demanding and constantly shifting at university of southern california.

never quite managed to reach what you built together, not when it started in quiet glances across the court, in the rhythm of shared routines, in fingers brushing in narrow hallways like it didn’t mean everything when it did, like it wasn’t the only thing grounding you in a place that moved too fast, and people noticed, of course they did.

not because you told them, not because you ever labeled it out loud, but because the way she looked at you wasn’t subtle, wasn’t something you could fold up and tuck away, it lived in the open whether you wanted it to or not.

you got used to that kind of certainty, the kind that doesn’t ask questions, the kind that doesn’t make you doubt, the kind that lets you breathe without checking if the air will still be there in a few seconds.

it felt invincible in the beginning, not in a loud, reckless way, but in something quieter, steadier, like the two of you had carved out a space that belonged only to you in the middle of everything else, out of early morning lifts where your muscles burned and she’d nudge your shoulder just enough to make you laugh, out of film sessions that dragged on until your eyes blurred.

but she still found ways to lean close and whisper something that made it bearable, out of the weight of expectation that came with wearing usc across your chest and knowing people were watching, measuring, waiting, and yet somehow, in all of that.

you had each other in a way that felt untouched, like a constant you didn’t have to question, and it carried into the late nights, into empty gyms where the lights hummed overhead and the court stretched out endless and quiet.

her at the wing taking shot after shot while you rebounded without thinking, the ball hitting your hands, the floor, the net, over and over until it turned into something rhythmic, something grounding.

something that made it easy to talk about things you didn’t say anywhere else, and by the time you left, her hoodie would be draped over your shoulders like it belonged there, like it always had, warm and faintly hers, something you could keep even when she wasn’t right next to you.

as she used to look for you, every single time, in the stands, in the tunnel, across the court during warmups, her eyes finding yours like it was instinct, like it was the first thing she needed before anything else could start, and you got used to that.

to being seen like that, to being needed in a way that felt quiet but absolute, and maybe that’s where it began, not the breaking, but the shift, because nothing ever falls apart all at once, it leans first, it tilts so slightly you convince yourself it’s nothing, that it’ll settle back into place if you don’t look at it too closely.

her schedule gets heavier, and you expect that, you live in the same world even if it doesn’t press down on you the same way, more media, more people asking for her time, more moments where she’s surrounded even when she looks like she’s trying to be alone, and you understand it, you tell yourself you do, because you’re there too, you’re both part of something bigger than just the two of you.

but that means adjusting, it means missed calls sometimes, it means rescheduled plans, it means learning how to exist in the in-between without panicking, so you adapt, you tell yourself it’s temporary, that nothing real disappears just because things get busy, that love like yours doesn’t just fade because of a few missed moments.

you believe that, you hold onto it even when the small things start to feel different, even when the first signs show up in ways that are easy to dismiss, like her phone lighting up at 2:13 in the morning, the glow catching on her face while you lie there with your eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, her expression softening in a way you don’t recognize.

her thumb moving slower than it would if it didn’t matter, like she’s not in a hurry to end whatever conversation she’s in, and you don’t ask, you let it sit, you tell yourself it’s nothing, because it’s easier to believe that than to pull at something you’re not ready to unravel, and for a while, that works, it carries you through the days, through practices and games and everything in between, until it doesn’t anymore, until the small things start stacking in a way you can’t ignore.

it happens on a night that isn’t supposed to mean anything, one of those in-between nights where everything blurs together, and you see her, not in the way you always do, not as something familiar and known, but as something slightly out of reach, standing outside one of the campus buildings with a girl you’ve never seen before.

someone who doesn’t belong to the world you and juju usually move in, not a teammate, not someone from the tight circle that’s formed around the team, just someone from campus, leaning casually against the wall, laughing at something juju says like it’s already become familiar, like this isn’t new.

juju laughs back, and it’s not the laugh you know, not the one that comes easy when she’s with you, not the one that settles into something soft and unguarded, it’s lighter, a little sharper around the edges, like it’s reaching for something, like it’s trying, and you slow without meaning to, your steps faltering just enough to notice, just enough to feel it, and they don’t see you.

they stay in that moment without interruption, and you could walk over, you could close the distance and remind yourself there’s nothing to question, but something stops you, something quiet and unfamiliar, something that doesn’t have a name yet but sits heavy anyway, and later, when you ask, you keep it light, too light, like if you don’t press it won’t become real.

 “who was that you were with earlier,” and she barely looks up, “just someone from campus,” and it’s the just that sticks, the way it shrinks something that doesn’t feel small, the way it lands wrong even when you try to let it go, and you nod like it doesn’t matter, like it shouldn’t, like you’re not already turning it over in your head in a way you can’t stop.

it could’ve stayed nothing, something forgettable, something that passed without leaving anything behind, but it doesn’t, because she starts appearing in the edges of juju’s life more often, not where you are, not in the spaces you share, but in the parts you don’t see, the parts you used to fill without realizing it.

and you notice it in pieces, in the way a name almost gets said and then swallowed, in the way stories shift direction halfway through, in the way her phone pulls her attention more often than it used to, and it’s not physical.

not something clear you can point to and call a betrayal, it’s quieter, more complicated, because it’s emotional, because it’s the version of her that used to belong to you without question, the late-night conversations that stretched without end, the way she used to listen like there was nothing more important, the way her hand used to find yours without hesitation, and now those things feel less certain, less automatic, and you feel it slipping.

not in one moment, but across many, in the way her touch doesn’t linger, in the way conversations start to feel like summaries instead of something shared, in the way she says “you wouldn’t get it.” 

with a tone that creates distance where there wasn’t any before, like there are parts of her life you’re no longer allowed into, and you try to ignore what that means, you keep showing up, you keep being there in all the ways you know how, sitting in the same spot at her games, watching her move like something unstoppable, cheering even when your voice disappears into the noise, holding onto the idea that she’ll look for you like she always did.

she doesn't every time and when she does, it’s quicker, less certain, like it’s not instinct anymore, like it’s something she remembers to do instead of something she can’t help.

and that settles into something heavier than jealousy, something that doesn’t flare and fade but stays, low and constant, something closer to being replaced without anything ever being said out loud, and the first real crack comes quietly, on a night that doesn’t announce itself as important, practice running late, your body aching in that familiar, earned way.

as your thoughts already drifting toward her, toward the comfort of something that used to feel guaranteed, and you text her, something simple, something easy, you up? and there’s no answer, not right away.

but you tell yourself she’s busy, that it’s nothing, but you check your phone anyway, more than you want to admit, stretching time out longer than it needs to be, and when it finally lights up, it isn’t her, it’s a story, someone else’s, and there she is, sitting across from that girl in a place you don’t recognize, the lighting dim, the space unfamiliar, her head tilted in a way that feels too soft, her expression too open, and your chest tightens.

not sharply, not in a way that demands immediate reaction, but slowly, like something sinking into place, something you can’t ignore even if you want to.

you wait until she comes back, until she steps into your space like nothing has shifted, like everything is still where it should be, and you ask, softer than you mean to, “where were you?” and she shrugs, like it doesn’t matter, “out,” and you push, because now you have to, because not asking feels worse, “out with who?” and there’s a pause, small but undeniable, before she answers, “just some friends,” 

it lands the same way it did before, wrong in a way you can’t smooth over, “since when do you not tell me things,” and your voice tightens despite yourself, and she exhales like she’s already tired of this, like she’s already somewhere else entirely, “it’s not that deep.”

and it is, it is because you can feel the space between you widening even as you stand there, because you can see it in the way she won’t meet your eyes, in the way something that used to be easy now feels out of reach, “it feels like it is,” 

you say, and something shifts in her expression, something sharper, more defensive, something that wasn’t there before, “you’re overthinking, not everything has to be a problem,” and you look at her, really look at her, because you’re not asking for everything, you’re asking for her, for the version of her that used to meet you halfway without hesitation.

somehow that has become too much, and the argument stretches instead of breaking, low and tangled, words slipping out wrong, meaning twisting between what you feel and what she hears, you tell her she’s pulling away, she tells you you’re making something out of nothing.

but you ask when she stopped choosing you, and she doesn’t answer, and that silence settles heavier than anything else, because it says more than words could, because it confirms what you’ve been trying not to see.

you end up in the same bed that night, close enough to touch, far enough that it doesn’t happen, her back turned to yours, the space between you small but unmoving, and you lie there with your eyes open, listening to the uneven rhythm of her breathing, feeling something settle in your chest that you can’t push away anymore, something quiet and certain and impossible to ignore, the understanding that this isn’t a moment.

not something that will pass if you wait it out, but a shift that’s already happened, something that’s still happening, something that’s taking her further from you with every second you stay still, and you realize, in that slow, aching way that leaves no room for denial, that you are losing her, not in one clean break, not in something you can point to and name.

but piece by piece, in all the ways that matter most, and the worst part is knowing she might not even realize it’s happening at all, and that realization doesn’t come with anything loud or dramatic, it settles instead, heavy and quiet in your chest, something you carry with you the next morning when you wake up before her.

the light barely filtering through the blinds, her back still turned, the space between you unchanged, and for a second you let yourself look at her the way you used to, like this is still yours, like nothing has shifted beyond repair, but it doesn’t feel the same, not with the weight of everything you didn’t say sitting between you, not with the knowledge that even lying this close you don’t know where her mind drifts anymore.

you get up without waking her, moving through your routine on autopilot, brushing your teeth, pulling on practice gear, tying your shoes tighter than necessary like it might ground you in something solid, something certain, but everything feels slightly off, like the rhythm you’ve known for so long has slipped just enough to throw everything out of sync.

practice is louder than usual, or maybe it’s just you, every squeak of sneakers against the floor, every whistle, every call from the sideline cutting sharper than it should, and you throw yourself into it because that’s the only thing you know how to do when something feels out of control, you run harder, defend tighter, take shots you don’t normally take, anything to drown out the thoughts that keep circling back to her, to last night.

to the way she didn’t answer you, and you can feel it in the way your teammates look at you, like they know something’s off even if they don’t say it, like they can read the tension you’re trying to bury under movement and effort, and when practice finally slows, when everything starts to settle, you glance toward her without thinking.

like you always have, like some part of you still expects that instinct to be mutual, but she’s already looking somewhere else, already caught up in something that doesn’t include you, talking to someone near the sidelines, her expression lighter than it was with you, easier.

so when you recognize her before your brain fully catches up, the same girl from before, standing just outside the court like she belongs there now, like she’s been allowed into a space that used to feel reserved, and something twists in your chest, sharper this time, less easy to ignore.

you don’t go over.

you tell yourself it’s not your place to make a scene, not here, not with everyone watching, not when there’s still a part of you that wants to believe you’re overreacting, that this can still be explained in a way that doesn’t leave you standing on the outside of something you used to be at the center of, so you grab your water bottle instead, take a long drink even though your throat isn’t dry, and when you look back, she’s laughing again.

that same laugh that doesn’t quite belong to you anymore, and it stays with you longer than it should, follows you through the rest of the day, through classes you barely pay attention to, through texts you start and don’t send, through the slow, dragging hours until you’re back in your room and she isn’t there, and the silence feels different now, not peaceful, not comfortable, but stretched thin, like something waiting to snap.

she comes back late, later than usual.

you’re sitting on your bed when the door opens, your phone in your hand but your attention nowhere near it, and you don’t look up right away because you’re not sure what you’ll see if you do, not sure if you’re ready for it, but you feel her presence shift the room anyway, feel the way everything tightens just slightly.

 when you finally meet her eyes, there’s a flicker of something there, something that might’ve been guilt or hesitation or maybe nothing at all, gone too quickly to hold onto, and you hate that you’re searching for it, that you’re trying to read her like this instead of just knowing, like you used to.

“you’re back late.” you say, keeping your voice even whereas she shrugs, dropping her bag like it’s just another night. “lost track of time.”

“with her?”

the question comes out before you can soften it, before you can pretend you don’t care as she stills for a second, then looks at you properly, something guarded settling into her expression. “why does it matter?”

it hits harder than it should, the way she says it, like you’re asking something unreasonable, like you don’t have the right.

“because it does.” you answer, quieter now, but steadier, “because you don’t tell me anything anymore.”

she exhales, dragging a hand over her face, already frustrated. “i don’t have to report every little thing i do.”

“i’m not asking for every little thing,” you say, the words tightening in your chest, “i’m asking for basic honesty.”

“i am being honest.”

“then why does it feel like you’re not here anymore?”

that lands HARD.

you see it in the way her expression shifts, in the way something defensive sharpens again, like she’s bracing instead of listening.

“i’m right here.” she says, gesturing between you like that proves something.

“no,” you shake your head, the frustration slipping through now, harder to hold back, “you’re not, not really, you’re somewhere else even when you’re standing in front of me.”

“you’re making this bigger than it is.”

“and you’re pretending it’s nothing when it’s not.”

the silence that follows isn’t empty, it’s full of everything you’re both not saying, everything sitting just under the surface, and you can feel how close it is to spilling into something worse, something harder to come back from, but neither of you steps back, neither of you softens, and it stretches until it almost snaps.

“what do you want me to say,” she asks finally, her voice flatter now, tired in a way that doesn’t feel like it’s about practice or games or anything physical, “that i can’t have other people in my life?”

“that’s not what i’m saying.”

“then what are you saying?” you hesitate, because the truth feels too sharp, too final if you say it out loud, but it’s there anyway, sitting at the edge of your tongue, impossible to ignore.

“i’m saying it feels like you replaced me without telling me.” it hangs there between you, heavier than anything else you’ve said.

for a second, she doesn’t react, like she’s trying to decide how to take it, like she’s weighing something you can’t see, and when she finally speaks, it’s quieter, but not softer.

“that’s not fair.”

maybe it isn’t well, maybe it’s not entirely true, maybe it’s too simple for something this complicated, but it’s the closest you can get to explaining the way this feels, the way everything has shifted without warning, without permission.

“neither is this,” you reply, your voice breaking just slightly before you steady it again, “neither is feeling like i’m losing you and you don’t even notice.”

she looks at you then, really looks, but a moment you think you see it, the realization, the understanding, something that might bridge the gap that’s been widening between you, but it flickers, uncertain, like it doesn’t know where to land, and instead of stepping closer, she steps back, just enough to keep the distance in place.

“i can’t do this right now,” she says, shaking her head, retreating from it instead of into it, “i have too much going on to deal with…this.”

this like that’s what it is like: everything between you can be reduced to something small, something inconvenient.

you nod slowly, because pushing further feels pointless, because you can see the wall she’s putting up and you know from the way she stands there that you’re not getting through it tonight, maybe not anytime soon.

“yeah,” you say, quieter now, the fight draining out of you in a way that leaves something hollow behind, “i can tell.”

she doesn’t respond.

she moves around you instead, grabbing what she needs, avoiding your eyes, and the space between you feels wider than it has all day, wider than it should be in a room this small, and you sit there, watching it happen in real time.

watching her choose distance even when you’re right there, and it settles deeper this time, not just a realization but something closer to acceptance, something that hurts in a steadier.

more lasting way, because it’s not just that you’re losing her, it’s that she’s letting it happen, that she’s choosing not to see it, not to stop it, and you don’t know which part of that hurts more.

for a long moment you say nothing, you let the quiet stretch, let it press in around you both until it feels like it might swallow the room whole, because part of you is still waiting, still hoping she’ll turn around, that she’ll notice the weight of what’s happening, that she’ll say something anything that sounds like she’s still here with you.

but she doesn’t, she keeps moving like this is normal, like you’re not sitting there unraveling in front of her, and something in you finally gives, not loudly, not in a way that demands attention, but in a quiet, steady shift that feels final in a way you can’t undo once it’s started.

“juju.”

your voice stops her, but only barely, like she’s deciding whether or not to turn around at all, and when she does, it’s slow, guarded, like she already knows where this is going and doesn’t want to meet it head-on, and you hate that, you hate that she looks prepared for this, like she’s been expecting it, like she’s already made peace with something you’re still trying to hold together.

“we can’t keep doing this,” you say, and it comes out calmer than you feel, steadier than the way your chest tightens around every word, “whatever this is right now it’s not us.”

she doesn’t argue right away, and that’s worse than if she had, worse than if she’d pushed back or told you you were wrong, because the silence feels like agreement, like confirmation of everything you’ve been trying not to accept.

“so what are you saying?” she asks finally, her tone flat, careful.

you swallow, because saying it out loud makes it real in a way nothing else has yet, but it’s already there between you, already decided in all the ways that matter.

“i think we’re already over,” you admit, your voice quieter now, softer but no less certain, “we just haven’t said it yet.”

there’s a soft flicker in her expression then, something brief and unreadable, but it doesn’t turn into anything, doesn’t soften, doesn’t reach for you the way it used to, and you realize you’ve been waiting for that too, for some sign that this still matters enough to fight for.

“maybe,” she says, after a second, like she’s choosing the easiest answer instead of the truest one, like she’s stepping around it instead of through it.

maybe it shouldn’t be that simple, it shouldn't be something that can be reduced to a word like that after everything you’ve been to each other, after everything you’ve built, but that’s all she gives you, and you nod slowly because there’s nothing else to hold onto.

 nothing else she’s offering, and you feel it settle fully this time, not just the understanding, but the end of it, the point where there’s no more pretending, no more waiting for it to fix itself.

“okay,” you say, and it sounds distant even to you, like it’s coming from somewhere far away, “then we’re done.”

the words don’t echo, don’t crash into anything, they just exist, hanging there quietly, and she nods once, like it’s a decision already made, like you’ve both just caught up to something that’s been over for longer than either of you wanted to admit.

“okay.”

that’s it! no apology, no reaching for you, no hesitation that looks like regret, just acceptance in its simplest form, and it hurts more than anything else could have, because it means you were the only one still holding on, the only one still trying to keep something alive that had already slipped out of her hands.

you don’t cry.

not there, not in front of her, not while she’s still standing in the same room like none of this has changed anything, like you didn’t just break something that once felt unbreakable, you just stand up, your movements slower than usual, more deliberate, like you’re trying to hold yourself together through the act of it.

so you grab what you need without thinking too hard about it, because if you stop, if you let yourself feel it all at once, you’re not sure you’ll be able to move at all.

she watches you for a second, like she might say something, like there’s still time to undo this, but she doesn’t, and eventually she looks away, letting you leave without stopping you, without asking you to stay and that’s how it ends.

not with a fight, not with anything loud enough to match what it meant was just that two people standing in the same room, choosing to walk away.

the days after feel wrong in a way that’s hard to explain, like everything is slightly out of place, like the world kept moving but you didn’t quite catch up to it, and you throw yourself into everything you can control, into practice, into games, into anything that fills the space she used to occupy.

it works, sometimes, in small moments where you forget long enough to breathe normally again, but it never lasts, because she’s still there, still part of your world whether you want her to be or not, still on the same court, in the same spaces, close enough to see but no longer yours in any way that matters.

you avoid her at first or try to.

you keep your distance, keep your focus anywhere but where she is, but it’s impossible to ignore her completely, not when she’s still moving through the same routines, still laughing with the same ease, still existing in a way that feels unchanged, and that’s what gets to you the most, the way she seems fine, like this didn’t break something in her the way it did in you and then you see her.

really see her.

it’s after a game, the gym louder than usual, energy still lingering in the air, and you’re heading toward the locker room when something catches your attention, something familiar in a way that makes your chest tighten before you even fully register it, and you look, and there she is, juju standing just off to the side, her body angled toward someone in a way you know too well, in a way that used to belong to you.

as it takes half a second longer for your brain to catch up, to recognize the girl standing in front of her, the same one, the one she told you not to worry about without ever actually saying those words, the one who existed in the edges until she didn’t anymore.

they’re close too close and juju is smiling, soft and unguarded in a way you haven’t seen in weeks, maybe longer, her head tilted slightly, her attention fixed completely on her, and it hits you all at once, not as a suspicion, not as something you can still question, but as something solid, undeniable.

this is what replaced you not suddenly, not overnight, but slowly, in all the moments you felt slipping away you don’t stay to watch you can’t.

you turn before they can see you, before anything in your expression gives you away, before you have to face the reality of it any longer than you already have, and you keep walking, even when your chest feels tight.

even when your hands curl into fists at your sides without you meaning to, even when everything in you wants to go back, to demand something, an explanation, an apology, anything that makes this make sense.

voices blurred together inside, laughter rising and falling like waves, the occasional shout cutting through the music before dissolving again.

you didn’t even go here.

that thought kept floating through your mind like it had all night, a friend from high school had invited you down for the weekend—“you have to come, it’ll be fun, baton rouge parties are insane”—and somehow that had landed you in a packed house just off campus from louisiana state university, surrounded by people who all seemed to know each other.

everywhere you looked inside had been the same thing: familiar greetings, arms slung over shoulders, people yelling names across rooms meanwhile you were nursing the same drink you’d had for the past half hour and pretending you belonged.

the plastic cup felt slightly warm in your hand now, condensation long gone, you swirled the drink absentmindedly, watching the street below where cars were lined up bumper to bumper and groups of people drifted between houses like the entire neighborhood had turned into one giant party.

it wasn’t that you hated parties, it was just that being the only unfamiliar face in a room full of connected people made you feel like an extra in someone else’s movie as the balcony door slid open behind you.

“oh—sorry.”

you turned slightly the girl stepping outside paused when she saw you already there, one hand still on the door. tall, broad shoulders and dark hair pulled back messily like she’d tied it without a mirror.

there was something about the way she stood—steady, relaxed but grounded—that made your brain try to place her immediately she looked familiar in that vague way athletes sometimes did when you’d seen them somewhere before but couldn’t quite figure out where.

“no, you’re good,” you said, shifting a little to make space along the railing she stepped out anyway, letting the door slide closed behind her, the music muffling instantly like someone had turned the world down a few notches.

the quiet felt immediate, softer. “needed air?” she asked.

“desperately.” that earned a small laugh from her, not loud, just a quick breath of sound that warmed the air between you. “same.”

for a moment you both just stood there in the quiet that wasn’t really quiet—music vibrating through the walls, voices muffled inside, the night humming around you as a car passed slowly down the street below, headlights sweeping across the yard before disappearing.

she leaned her elbows on the railing a few feet away. “i don’t think i’ve seen you around before,” she said after a second. “probably because i don’t go here.”

“that’ll do it.” you smiled faintly. “i’m visiting a friend.”

she nodded like that made sense, glancing sideways at you now up close, you noticed the faint crease between her brows like she was always half concentrating on something there was a softness to her expression though, something calm and curious that balanced it out.

her presence felt oddly steady compared to the chaos happening inside. “i’m grace, by the way.”

“y/n.”

“nice to meet you.” as the words sat between you for a moment before she glanced back toward the door like she could still hear the chaos happening inside. “who dragged you here?” she asked. “my friend jamie. she knows…people here.”

“that’s vague.” you laughed softly, the sound slipping out easier than you expected. “because i don’t actually know how she knows them.” grace hummed like that was fair then she tilted her head slightly. “wait—jamie with the blonde hair?” as your eyebrows lifted. “yeah?”

“she’s friends with a couple girls on the team.”

“team?” grace blinked once then she gave a small, almost sheepish smile. “right. yeah. that probably sounds random if you don’t go here.” something clicked slowly in your brain.

“…what team?”

“women’s basketball.” you stared at her for half a second then realization hit all at once. “oh.” grace rubbed the back of her neck a little awkwardly. “yeah.”

“wait,” you said, pointing slightly toward her like the answer had suddenly rearranged your memory. “you play for lsu.”

“guilty.”

“that’s why you looked familiar.”

“hopefully for good reasons.” you laughed softly. “i’ve seen clips online.” she seemed oddly relieved by that, her shoulders loosening just a little. “good. at least it wasn’t something embarrassing.”

a comfortable quiet fell again inside the house, someone yelled loudly and the music switched songs, the bass shifting into a different rhythm that pulsed faintly through the floorboards as grace looked back toward you. “so,” she said, “visiting a friend. mystery connection to half the party. balcony escape artist.”

“that’s me.”

“and boyfriend abandoned you inside somewhere?”

you blinked. “what?” she gestured vaguely toward the house. “i saw you earlier. thought you were here with a guy.” you frowned, thinking back through the blur of introductions from when you’d first arrived then you remembered the random dude jamie had shoved next to you near the kitchen while explaining where the drinks were.

“oh my god,” you said, laughing under your breath. “no.” grace looked mildly confused. “no?”

“he’s literally just some guy jamie knows.”

“oh.” the word left her a little slower. “i thought—”

“that he was my boyfriend?”

“…yeah.” you shook your head, smiling slightly. “definitely not.” something shifted subtly in her posture, it was small, but you noticed it anyway—the way she straightened slightly, the tension in her shoulders easing like a quiet exhale she hadn’t realized she was holding. “good to know,” she said quietly.

you tilted your head. “why?”

grace hesitated then she huffed a small laugh, glancing down at the railing before looking back at you. “because i’ve been standing here trying very hard not to flirt with someone who i thought was taken.”

your stomach flipped in a way that caught you off guard. “have you?” her mouth curved just slightly. “trying.”

you looked back out over the dark street below the balcony, suddenly very aware of how close she was standing now the space between you didn’t feel awkward if anything, it felt like something slowly drawing tighter.

“you could’ve asked,” you said. “felt rude.”

“instead you just assumed i was straight and dating someone.” she glanced at you quickly. “…straight too?” you raised an eyebrow. “grace.”

“yeah?”

“i’m at a random college party with a girl who thinks flirting with me might be a bad idea.”

“…fair.” you smiled. “i’m very gay.” that got an actual laugh out of her, a warm one this time, fuller than before it made something in your chest loosen.

“okay,” she said, nodding slowly. “that clears up several things.”

“like?”

“like why i’m suddenly a lot less nervous.”

“you seemed nervous before?”

“internally.”

“good to know.” the balcony door slid open again briefly as someone stepped out, glanced at the two of you, and immediately decided to go back inside, neither of you moved as the night stretched around you quietly. “so,” grace said after a moment, leaning back against the railing now. “you don’t go to lsu.”

“nope.”

“where do you go?” you told her, she nodded slowly, processing it. “that’s…not exactly close.”

“no.”

“just visiting for the weekend?”

“yeah.”

“tragic timing,” she said under her breath as you glanced at her. “why tragic?” she shrugged lightly, but there was something honest in her expression now. “because i just met you.”

the words settled softly between you, not heavy, just real somewhere inside the party someone shouted again, followed by a burst of laughter you exhaled through a smile. “well,” you said, “it’s not like the weekend’s over yet.”

grace looked at you then really looked like she was weighing something quietly in her head, eyes flicking between your face and the street lights reflecting faintly off the railing. “true,” she said slowly.

you nudged her shoulder lightly with yours the contact was brief but grounding. “and apparently we have mutual friends.”

“apparently.”

“so it’s not exactly a one-time encounter.” her expression shifted again—something hopeful flickering there before she tried to hide it. “i like the sound of that.”

the door opened again and jamie’s head popped out. “there you are!” she said, pointing at you. then she looked at grace and immediately grinned like she’d just walked in on something extremely entertaining. “oh my god.”

grace groaned quietly under her breath. “don’t.”

“you two know each other already?”

“we just met,” you said jamie looked between you like she’d just witnessed a plot twist unfold in real time.

“this is incredible.”

“jamie,” grace warned.

“i leave for five minutes and you’re flirting with my friend on the balcony?”

“you invited her,” grace muttered, jamie gasped dramatically. “wait—you’re flirting?” you and grace both spoke at the same time.

“no.”

“maybe.” jamie clapped her hands once, delighted. “oh this is happening.” grace covered her face briefly and you laughed, the sound coming easier now than it had all night. 

the night air felt lighter somehow, the music from inside, less overwhelming the party suddenly felt like background noise instead of the entire reason you were there.

grace glanced at you again after jamie disappeared back inside. “so,” she said. “so?”

“i was trying not to flirt earlier.” you hummed thoughtfully. “how’s that going now?”

her smile returned, slower this time, eyes soft in the dim light spilling from the house.

“significantly worse.” as the words hung between you like something warm.

you felt it immediately—that quiet shift where a conversation stops being casual and starts becoming something else, something softer, something with weight behind it.

you leaned a little more into the railing, turning your body toward her now instead of the street below.

“that sounds like a serious problem.” you said as grace huffed out a small laugh. “yeah. terrible situation i’ve found myself in.”

“must be hard.”

“really struggling.” there was a teasing edge to her voice now, but her eyes stayed on you longer than someone joking usually would, it made your stomach twist in that strange, fluttering way that came with realizing someone was paying attention to you—not politely, not casually, but intentionally.

inside the house the music shifted again, something louder now, bass rattling faintly through the balcony floorboards so neither of you moved.

“so,” grace said after a second, resting her forearms against the railing again, “you’re just here for the weekend?”

“yeah.”

“when did you get in?”

“earlier today.”

“and this was the first thing jamie did with you?” you smiled slightly. “pretty much.” grace shook her head like she couldn’t believe it. “that’s rough.”

“i survived.”

“barely,” she said, glancing toward the house. “that place gets worse the longer the night goes on.”

“that explains why everyone inside looks progressively sweatier.” she laughed at that, a real one this time, shoulders shaking slightly.

“accurate.”

a small silence settled again but it didn’t feel awkward; it felt like both of you were just sitting inside the moment grace tapped the rim of your cup lightly with her finger. “what are you even drinking?”

you glanced down. “honestly? i’m not sure anymore.”

“that’s concerning.”

“jamie handed it to me and disappeared into the crowd.”

“bold move.”

“i’ve been pretending to sip it for thirty minutes.” grace’s eyebrows lifted. “you’re not even drinking it?”

“i don’t trust it.” that made her grin again. “fair.” she nudged the cup gently back toward you. “you’re smart for that.” and a moment she studied you again in that thoughtful way she had earlier, not intensely, just curious.

“so what do you do back home?” she asked as you told her a little about your school, your major, the city you lived in. as you talked, grace listened in that quiet way some people rarely did—actually paying attention, nodding slightly, occasionally asking small follow-up questions not just waiting for her turn to speak.

it surprised you how quickly the conversation settled into something natural like the two of you had skipped past the awkward first-meeting stage entirely. “that’s cool,” she said when you finished.

“what about you?” you asked. “besides basketball.” she shrugged slightly. “honestly? basketball takes up most of it.”

“figured.”

“practice, workouts, film, classes. repeat.”

“sounds exhausting.”

“sometimes.” she said it casually, but you caught the way her fingers tapped once against the railing like it was both something she loved and something that consumed most of her time. “but you like it,” you said.

it wasn’t really a question, grace looked at you then, a small smile pulling at her mouth. “yeah.”

a beat passed then she added quietly, “i really do.” you nodded something about the way she said it made it feel honest, real.

the balcony door slid open again, and two people stumbled out laughing, barely noticing the two of you standing nearby as they leaned against the opposite railing.

the moment shifted slightly not broken—just more public now.

grace leaned a little closer to you so she didn’t have to raise her voice, you noticed immediately the faint scent of laundry detergent and something citrusy “do you actually like parties?” she asked.

as you considered that. “sometimes.”

“this one doesn’t count?”

“this one feels like i accidentally walked into someone else’s reunion.” she laughed quietly. “yeah. that’s fair.”

“what about you?” grace glanced toward the house. “depends.”

“on?”

“who i’m with.” the answer landed softly you looked at her she was already looking back for a second neither of you spoke and the noise of the party—music, voices, laughter—faded into something distant and blurry.

then the door burst open again.

“GRACE!”

both of you turned one of the girls from inside leaned halfway out the door. “coach is gonna kill us if you show up tomorrow looking like you got hit by a truck!”

grace groaned. “i’m literally standing outside.”

“still counts!” the girl’s eyes flicked to you and she grinned. “oh.”

grace closed her eyes briefly. “don’t start.”

“hi,” the girl said brightly to you. “i’m not interrupting anything important, right?”

you tried not to laugh. “depends who you ask.”

“rude,” grace muttered as the girl smirked. “i’m going back inside before she threatens me.” then she disappeared again and the door shut quiet returned grace sighed.

“sorry about that.”

“it’s okay.” you smiled slightly. “fame is hard.” she snorted. “barely fame.”

“you’re literally recognizable at random parties.”

“unfortunate side effect.” you watched her for a moment then said softly, “i’m glad you came out here though.” grace looked at you again and really looked at the dim yellow light from inside the house caught the edges of her face, softening her features.

“yeah,” she said quietly. “me too.”

the words sat there gentle with the music inside swelled again, bass thumping through the floorboards somewhere down the street someone shouted but the balcony still felt like its own small pocket of calm.

grace tapped her fingers once against the railing again then she glanced at you. “so… hypothetically,” she said.

“hypothetically?”

“if someone wanted to see you again before the weekend ends.”

you raised an eyebrow. “someone?” she smiled slightly. “hypothetically.”

you pretended to think about it. “i guess it would depend.”

“on what?” you turned toward her fully now close enough that the space between you felt noticeably smaller than before. “on whether that someone is going to keep pretending they’re bad at flirting.”

grace laughed under her breath then shook her head. “i told you.”

“what?”

“i’m doing significantly worse at that now.”

you smiled at that, the kind that tugged at the corner of your mouth before you could stop it.

and for a moment neither of you moved, the air between you had shifted in that quiet, almost imperceptible way where conversation had stopped feeling like small talk and started feeling like something else.

something softer, something heavier from inside the house, jamie’s voice cut through the music again. “y/n! where did you disappear to?”

as you groaned quietly. “that’s my cue.” grace’s shoulders lifted slightly before falling again, like she was trying not to look disappointed and failing just a little.

“going back into the chaos?”

“unfortunately.” you pushed off the railing, standing straight again yet the music spilled louder through the balcony door as someone inside opened it briefly, then shut it again.

grace watched you, something thoughtful behind her expression. “you leaving tonight?” she asked.

“probably soon. jamie’s ride is heading back to her place.”

grace nodded slowly, eyes dropping to the floorboards for a moment before she looked back up, there was a pause not awkward, just unfinished.

you stepped toward the door then paused grace looked up again, confusion flickering briefly across her face when you didn’t immediately leave.

“what?” she asked you before you hesitate for half a second before stepping closer close enough that she straightened instinctively. “thanks for rescuing me from the party,” you said softly.

“i think we both rescued each other.”

“true.” another second passed then, before you could overthink it, you leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek.

soft, brief, warm grace froze not dramatically just enough that you felt it so when you pulled back, there was a faint flush spreading across the high point of her cheek where your lips had been.

“goodnight, grace.”

her brain clearly hadn’t caught up yet. “…goodnight,” she managed, as you gave her one last smile before pushing the balcony door open and slipping back inside.

the music swallowed you instantly.

voices, lights, movement but behind you, grace stayed standing on the balcony, one hand slowly lifting to touch the spot on her cheek like she wasn’t entirely convinced it had just happened. “you were gone forever,” jamie said the second you reached her.

“it was ten minutes.”

“it was thirty.”

“that’s dramatic.” jamie squinted at you suspiciously. “why are you smiling like that?”

“i’m not.”

“you absolutely are.” you grabbed a random chip from the table just to give yourself something to do with your hands. “did you find your ride yet?” you asked. “yep. they’re leaving in ten.”

she leaned closer. “did you kiss her?” you nearly choked on the chip. “jamie!”

 “YOU DID!!” half the kitchen turned to look. “keep your voice down!” jamie grinned like she’d just solved a mystery. “oh my god.”

“it was a cheek kiss.”

“that counts.” you tried to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck. “can we please leave before you announce this to the entire house?”

“too late,” she whispered dramatically, back on the balcony, grace was still standing exactly where you’d left her.

the party continued behind the door, muffled again now that it had slid closed she exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of her neck. “okay,” she muttered to herself.

“wow.” she wasn’t usually the kind of person who got flustered.

games with packed arenas? fine.

interviews? fine.

but somehow a random girl she’d just met leaning in and kissing her cheek had managed to completely short-circuit her brain, the balcony door opened again.

“why are you out here by yourself?”

grace turned to her teammate, zakiyah, stepped outside, glancing between her and the empty railing. “thought you were talking to someone.”

“i was.”

“where’d she go?” grace hesitated. “back inside.”

zakiyah blinked. “wow. very descriptive.” grace rolled her eyes. “shut up.” zakiyah leaned against the railing beside her, studying her face for a moment then her eyebrows lifted slowly.

“wait.”

“don’t.”

“…did she just kiss you?” grace groaned. “why does everyone know that already?” “because your face is red.” grace immediately touched her cheek again. “…it is not.”

“it absolutely is.” zakiyah grinned. “who is she?” grace glanced toward the balcony door like you might walk back through it. “her friend’s leaving soon.” zakiyah tilted her head. “that’s not what i asked.” grace sighed.

“her name’s y/n.” zakiyah watched her carefully for another second. “do we like her?” grace didn’t hesitate. “…yeah.”

you didn’t see grace again before you left the party, by the time jamie dragged you out the door and into the humid night air, the house was even  louder than before.

people crowded the lawn, as someone had started blasting music from a car down the street, you slid into the backseat of your friend’s car, the seat warm from the heat of the night, jamie immediately turning toward you with the energy of someone who had been waiting patiently to interrogate you.

“so.”

“no.”

“sooo—”

“jamie.”

“did you get her number?” you froze.

“well…no.” jamie stared at you like you’d just confessed to a crime. “you WHAT?”

“i forgot!”

“how do you forget that?!”

“i was leaving!” jamie buried her face in her hands. “unbelievable.”

“i thought i’d see her again!”

“you don’t even go here!” you groaned, sinking back into the seat. “please don’t make me regret everything right now.”

jamie sighed dramatically as then she slowly lifted her head.

“…actually.” you narrowed your eyes. “what?” she grinned. “remember how i said i know people on the team?”

your stomach flipped. “jamie.”

“i might know someone who knows someone.”

grace woke up the next morning still thinking about you, which was mildly annoying because she had practice in two hours and she was pretty sure she’d replayed the balcony conversation at least fifteen times since waking up.

the way you’d smiled, the way you’d leaned closer and the feeling of your lips brushing her cheek she was halfway through pouring coffee when her phone buzzed.

a new message from zakiyah.

zakiyah: did balcony girl ever come back

grace stared at the screen for a second.

grace: no

three dots appeared immediately.

zakiyah: tragic

grace: you’re very annoying

another message popped up a few seconds later.

zakiyah: btw jamie texted me

grace paused mid-sip.

grace: jamie?

zakiyah: blonde friend zakiyah: balcony girl’s friend

grace set the mug down slowly.

grace: and?

the typing bubble took an annoyingly long time.

zakiyah: she said balcony girl forgot to get your number

grace let out a quiet laugh.

of course you had.

grace: sounds about right

another pause, then.

zakiyah: she wants to know if you want it

grace didn’t even pretend to hesitate.

grace: yes

your phone buzzed that afternoon while you were sitting on jamie’s couch.

unknown number as you opened the message.

unknown: this is grace. apparently we both forgot something last night

you smiled immediately.

you: i blame the party

the reply came quickly.

grace: i blame the cheek kiss

you pressed your lips together, trying not to grin like an idiot.

you: fair

a moment passed then another message appeared.

grace: are you still in town

your heart skipped slightly.

you: yeah for the weekend

three dots appeared.

grace: good

a pause but then.

grace: want to go out tonight

you looked over at jamie, who was watching you with the intensity of someone invested in a live drama. “what,” she whispered.

you held up the phone as her jaw dropped silently but you looked back down at the screen.

you: yeah

that night, grace waited outside a small late-night diner just off campus from louisiana state university.

the parking lot lights cast everything in a soft yellow glow, the air still warm from the day she checked the time on her phone then looked up again just as a car pulled into the lot.

you stepped out a second later yet for a moment neither of you moved but seeing someone in daylight after meeting them at a party always felt strange but somehow, standing there under the streetlights, you looked exactly like she remembered.

maybe even better you walked over, smiling slightly.

“hi.”

grace smiled back immediately.

“hi.”

there was a beat ever so softly you tilted your head.

“so…this is our official non-balcony meeting.”

“much quieter location,” grace said.

“i appreciate that.” she held the diner door open for you.

“after you.”

you stepped inside together and as the door closed behind you, grace had the very distinct feeling that the balcony hadn’t been the end of the story at all.

before long, you’re singing full out, feeling the bass in your chest and the wind in your hair.

juju glances over at you, her eyebrows raising in that way that makes your stomach do flips. “who getting fucced tn?” she asks, her voice calm but low, deadly serious.

you freeze mid-line, and then the laughter spills out of you, bright and uncontainable. “what?” you manage through giggles, still shaking your head.

“i said—who?” she repeats, tone sharp enough to make you blush, but the way her eyes are on you—intense, dominant, owning—you can’t look away. your lips curl, half in mischief, half in embarrassment.

“nobody,” you finally admit, voice quiet, cheeks hot. your hands fidget in your lap, and juju notices. she doesn’t say anything at first, just gives you that smirk that’s part amused, part dangerous.

the car hums around you both, tires on asphalt, windows cracked, the wind pulling at your hoodie strings. juju reaches over without warning, tucking a stray curl behind your ear. her fingers linger, brushing your skin lightly, and you can’t stop the shiver that runs down your spine.

“you laughing at me or with me?” she asks, still serious, still controlling the air between you two.

“with you,” you lie smoothly, though your heart’s hammering so loud you’re pretty sure she can hear it.

“hm,” she hums, shaking her head like she’s amused by your little act of bravery. “you always act like you got the power, huh? passenger princess, sure. but you’re forgetting who’s driving.”

your laugh bubbles up again, nervous and full of thrill. “yeah, yeah. i know.”

she leans just a little closer, eyes not leaving the road, one hand on the wheel, the other brushing against yours, a ghost of dominance and affection all in one. “you better,” she mutters, and it’s soft but heavy, full of meaning.

the song keeps going, your voice joining in again, quieter now, eyes sneaking glances at her every few beats. you’re bold enough to tease, careful enough to respect the boundary she’s set. the dance of your dynamic—the fun, the teasing, the little push and pull—is what makes these drives, these moments, unforgettable.

you catch a glimpse of yourself in the rearview, hair wild, cheeks pink, grin too wide. you feel invincible here, even under her sharp gaze, because the dominance she carries isn’t overbearing—it’s a tether, a line that keeps you grounded, but lets you fly at the same time.

“you know,” she says suddenly, voice dipping, pulling you right back to reality, “if you keep singing like that, i might just pull over and make sure those lyrics make sense.”

your stomach does a full flip. “oh yeah? how would you even do that?” you tease back, voice lilting, trying to sound confident but failing in the best way.

juju just smirks, a knowing curl of her lips, eyes still locked on the road. “you’ll see,” she says, and you can’t help the blush that blooms hotter, your pulse rushing.

you lean back, letting the wind whip at your hoodie strings again, letting the thrill of her control mix with the freedom of the road. it’s a rhythm you’ve come to love: her dominance, your teasing, the laughs, the blushes, the constant tiny power shifts. it’s electric, and you’d ride shotgun like this forever if you could.

“so, passenger princess,” she says after a beat, voice teasing now, not quite threatening, “you think you can keep up with me tonight?”

you grin, hair wild, heart racing. “always,” you whisper, even though the truth is, you’re not sure who’s really in charge anymore—but you wouldn’t trade this feeling for anything.

the song fades into the next track, your voice humming along softly, and the car carries you both forward, wind in your hair, dominance and laughter tangled together, making this drive, this moment, perfect.

juju doesn’t answer you right away.

instead, the blinker clicks on—slow, deliberate. she eases the car off the road like she’s got all the time in the world, pulling into a quiet turnout where the city noise dulls and the night feels closer, heavier. the engine cuts. silence settles.

you turn toward her, mouth already open to tease—“don’t,” she says calmly. one word. low. steady. your breath catches.

juju finally looks at you then, really looks. the streetlight outside casts a soft glow over her face, sharpens the line of her jaw, catches in her eyes. she reaches over, fingers wrapping around your wrist—not rough, not gentle. intentional.

“come here,” she says. it’s not a question.

you hesitate just long enough for her eyebrow to lift, and that’s all it takes. you unbuckle, knees shifting awkwardly in the small space, and she guides you easily—like she’s done this a thousand times in her head—until you’re straddling her lap.

the seat creaks. your hands hover, unsure where to go.

juju’s hands settle on your hips immediately, grounding, firm. her thumbs press in just enough to remind you exactly where you are, exactly who you’re sitting on. you can feel her warmth through the denim, the steady rise and fall of her chest beneath you.

“comfortable?” she asks, voice softer now, but no less commanding. you nod, swallowing. “yeah.”

“words,” she murmurs. “yes,” you say quickly, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the way your heart is racing.

juju hums in approval. one of her hands slides up your back, slow, stopping right between your shoulder blades—right where it makes your posture straighten without her even asking.

“that song,” she says quietly. “you always sing like you’re trying to start something.” you laugh, breathless. “i was just vibing.”

“mm,” she replies, unconvinced. her forehead leans lightly against yours. close enough that you can feel her breath, smell her cologne. “you gotta be careful doing that with me.” your cheeks heat. “why?”

she tilts her head, lips brushing the corner of your mouth—not a kiss, not yet. just enough to make you freeze. “because i take you seriously,” she says. that shuts you up.

her thumb traces a slow circle at your hip, grounding you again, reminding you this is real, this is happening. you’re hyperaware of everything—the way the world outside the car feels miles away, the way the windows fog just slightly, the way juju’s presence fills every inch of space.

“you good?” she asks, quieter now, checking in without losing that edge. you nod again, resting your hands lightly on her shoulders this time. “i’m good.”

“yeah?” she murmurs, finally pressing a soft kiss to your lips. not rushed. not hungry. just intentional. “my passenger princess.”

you smile into the kiss, laughter bubbling up again because of course she’d say that—but you don’t pull away. you stay right there, grounded in her lap, letting the moment stretch.

outside, a car passes. inside, time feels suspended.

juju rests her forehead against yours once more, hands still steady on your hips. “next time you sing like that,” she says, amused now, “don’t act surprised when i pull over.”

you grin, heart full, body warm, completely unbothered by the fact that she absolutely means it.

juju doesn’t rush you.

you stay there on her lap for a while, breathing each other in, the quiet between you doing most of the talking. her thumb keeps that slow, grounding rhythm at your hip, like she’s reminding you you’re still right where she put you.

“you always get quiet when you’re thinking too much,” she murmurs. you blink. “how you know that?” she smiles, small and knowing. “because i pay attention.”

that does something to you. your shoulders relax, your forehead dropping to hers, laughter bubbling up soft and embarrassed. juju lets it happen, lets you settle, lets the moment stretch until it feels lived-in.

eventually, she taps your hip gently. “c’mon,” she says. “before i really get distracted.”

you climb back into the passenger seat, still warm, still smiling. juju starts the car again, engine humming back to life like nothing just happened—except everything did.

as she pulls back onto the road, her hand doesn’t return to the wheel right away. it finds your thigh instead. not moving. just there.

the music comes back on low, something slow and familiar. the city lights slide past the windows, and every now and then juju squeezes your leg when a lyric hits or when you glance over at her too long.

you catch her looking at you at a stoplight. “what?” you ask. “nothing,” she says, but her hand tightens slightly. “just like seeing you relaxed.”

you lean your head back, watching the lights change. “you did that.”

“yeah,” she admits easily. “i know.” the rest of the drive eases into something softer. windows down now, night air cool against your skin, wind catching your hair again. juju’s focus stays steady, one hand on the wheel, the other still resting on you like it belongs there.

no teasing now. no games. just presence. when she finally pulls into the driveway, she doesn’t turn the car off right away. you sit there together, quiet, comfortable, the music fading out naturally.

juju leans over, presses a gentle kiss to your temple. “you good, princess?” you smile, eyes half-closed. “yeah.”

“good,” she says, squeezing your thigh once more before letting go. “let’s go inside.” and as you step out into the night together, you already know—that drive is gonna live in your head for a long time.

you barely get a chance to respond before juju’s hand is at your waist again, guiding you toward the building. the night air feels cooler now, brushing against your skin, but her presence is steady and warm beside you.

you’re halfway to teasing her about the dramatics when she suddenly stops. “hold on,” she says. before you can ask what she means, her arms slide around you—secure, effortless—and suddenly you’re off the ground. bridal style. your laugh slips out, surprised and breathless, instinctively looping an arm around her neck.

“juju,” you whisper, half laughing, half stunned. “what?” she asks, amused, already walking. “you didn’t say no.” you shake your head, cheeks warm, heart pounding against your ribs. “i wasn’t ready.”

“you’re fine,” she murmurs, grip firm but gentle. “i got you.”

the elevator ride is quiet. close. your head rests against her shoulder, her heartbeat steady beneath your ear. she smells like your favorite thing—clean, familiar, comforting. when the doors open, she carries you straight into her apartment like this is the most natural thing in the world.

she doesn’t set you down right away.

instead, she walks you into her bedroom, the lights low, the space calm and lived-in. juju turns, carefully, and lowers you onto the bed like you’re something precious. like she’s making a point.

you barely have time to breathe before she’s leaning over you, one knee on the mattress, hands braced on either side of your head. “still good?” she asks quietly. you nod, eyes locked on hers. “yeah.” that’s all she needs.

her lips meet yours—slow at first, deliberate. not rushed. not messy. just warm and sure and grounding. you sigh into it without thinking, fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt, pulling her closer.

juju deepens the kiss gradually, like she’s testing the pace, like she’s paying attention to every tiny reaction. her hand slides to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, tilting your face just how she wants it.

you melt into it.

the bed shifts as she settles more fully above you, weight balanced, careful. the kiss grows softer, then stronger again, a quiet back-and-forth that leaves you a little breathless, a little dizzy.

when she finally pulls back, it’s only by inches. foreheads touching. noses brushing. “you okay?” she murmurs again. you smile, eyes half-lidded. “more than.”

she chuckles softly, presses another kiss to your lips—shorter this time, sweeter. then one to your cheek. your temple. juju rests there for a moment, just breathing with you, hand still warm at your jaw.

“told you,” she says quietly. “that drive wasn’t the end of it.” you laugh softly, heart full, hands still holding onto her like you don’t want her going anywhere. and she doesn’t. you stay like that for a while.

juju hovering above you, close enough that every breath feels shared. her thumb traces lazy lines along your jaw, your cheek, like she’s memorizing you all over again. the kisses come soft now—forehead, nose, the corner of your mouth—quiet pauses in between where neither of you feels the need to speak.

“you know you don’t have to be funny all the time,” she murmurs at some point, lips brushing yours. you smile. “you know you don’t have to be serious all the time.” she laughs softly at that, low and warm, then dips back down to kiss you again. slower. lingering. like she’s agreeing without saying it.

eventually, juju shifts her weight, rolling onto her side and tugging you with her effortlessly. you end up tucked against her chest, her arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you in until there’s no space left to wonder where you belong.

you fit there easily.

your head rests just under her chin, her breath brushing your hair. she presses a kiss there too, absentminded, affectionate. one hand stays firm at your back, the other tracing gentle patterns that make your body soften completely. “this okay?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper now.

“yeah,” you say, just as quiet. “more than.”

she hums, satisfied, holding you a little closer. the room is still, peaceful, like the world has finally slowed to match your breathing.

sleep comes gently. when you wake up, sunlight is spilling through the window, soft and warm. juju’s still there, eyes half-open, watching you like she’s been awake for a while.

“you staring?” you ask, voice sleepy. “maybe,” she says, smiling. “you cute like this.” you groan softly, hiding your face against her shoulder. “don’t start.” she laughs, squeezing you. “too late.”

the morning feels easy. teasing without edges. juju presses a lazy kiss to your temple, then your cheek. you stretch, tangling your legs with hers, completely unbothered.

“still my passenger princess?” she asks, amused. you grin up at her. “always.” she kisses you again—slow, unhurried, full of promise—then rests her forehead against yours.