𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾.𝗆𝗉³ @c-losed - Tumblr Blog

— riki nishimura must die

pairing: college basketball star! nishimura riki x reader

wc. 39.4k words YIKESSS longest fic i’ve written

cw. mutual pining, enemies to lovers to exes to lovers, rom-com-drama, a very charming riki, revenge plot (psychological sabotage, gaslighting, verbal degradation, mild obsession, public humiliation attempt, confrontations, manipulation of personal belongings, emotional manipulation), crying, accidental injury (basketball hit to face), sexual innuendo/locker-room misogyny, intense argument, swearing, another attempt of humor, banter, yearning ofc bc is it me if i didn't have the male lead down catastrophically?, morally grey characters and complex relationships, food and eating mention, college au (obvi)

synopsis: you never cared for athletes. but campus golden boy—riki nishimura—made ignoring him impossible. what begins as petty annoyance spirals into banter, tension, and a chemistry you can't help but acknowledge. until one overheard comment turns everything sour, sending you down a path of revenge, sabotage, and a clusterfuck of feelings you can't outrun anymore. and somewhere between revenge and regret, you and riki have to figure out whether you’re destined to destroy each other…or fall in love instead.

author's note: hi everyone!! literally everytime i'm about to post a fic i get extremely nervous bc i never know how it's going to be received. but please, have a little lenience. as some of you may know, i underwent an insane writer's block and do have frequent depressive episodes. this is me slowly but surely trying to get myself back together and trying new things. this is relatively rougher than my others and i'm not so confident in it but i love you guys regardless and how you've been supporting me. i will always say i am forever indebted and blessed to have such nice people on my blog!! so here's riki nishimura must die.

lightly based on but heavily inspired by: john tucker must die (2006)

disclaimer: i do not condone half of the shit happening in this fic. as you know, i always promote positive and safe relationship dynamics in my work but again, trying something new. reader's discretion is advised.

You didn’t understand sports.

For the life of you, you couldn’t wrap your brain around the hype that went into it. The screaming, the ragebaiting, the rioting, the gambling. None of it made sense to you. You’ve seen the animals it turns people into and it makes you not even want anything to do with that type of crowd. Though, you do respect athletes. The time, hard work, and discipline it takes to be that good at something is so profound and honestly, you can’t help but applaud. However, there was someone—rather, something—that respected athletes more than you. That was Decelis University. Your school, your university as a matter of fact.

Nationally ranked, Division I, Decelis University ran alongside heavy hitters in the college sports scene alongside schools such as UConn, Purdue, St. John’s, Florida, Duke, the like. Decelis didn’t just respect athletes, they built shrines for them. Kissed the ground they walked on and worshipped them like some sorts of heavenly figures. Nothing was bigger than sports. Not finals week, not homecoming, not even free weekly food trucks on the quad. Game nights shut the whole campus down—professors excused absences, the bookstore stocked special merch, and students camped outside the arena like it was Coachella. And at the center of it all was Mr. Riki Nishimura.

Six-foot nothing-but-trouble, starting point guard, baby-faced assassin with a highlight reel that ESPN couldn’t stop drooling over. The kind of guy who could miss class for two weeks straight and still have professors grinning at him when he finally walked in. Though his frame didn’t scream trouble, his game said otherwise. His playing style was all crossovers and footwork, the kind that had commentators whispering words like Kyrie Irving and generational talent. He didn’t just play basketball. He performed it.

If Riki were a heavenly figure, he’d be Christ.

To you, he was just a regular human being. Why exalt someone that did nothing to benefit you personally? Did he cure world hunger? Leak the cure for cancer—because you could promise one exists. Build homes for displaced families? Relieve students of crippling debt? Anything? The answer is no. So why? Why? Why do athletes make more than doctors? Teachers? Why do people that save the world and make positive contributions to society not get even a sixteenth of the recognition of those that run up and down a court or field for a living? That, you couldn’t find the answer to.

But besides that, Riki was everywhere. It was freaky, seeing his face plastered in various campaigns beside other college athletes. You couldn’t even walk into the dining hall without Riki’s face smirking at you from a Gatorade cutout. He was on billboards, a few campus shuttles, hell—probably someone’s phone wallpaper. You could almost see his New Balance campaign now, how many times you came across it. And the stupid slogan, hearing him say: “Nishimura. New Game. New Balance.”

Okay, while the line was kind of clean—it was just him that pissed you off.

And it was insane because you never even met this guy to judge him. While you were in proximity to him, your best friends being cheerleaders and sharing the terrifyingly large court with them—you really had nothing bad to say about his character. For all you knew, Riki could be an amazing guy with an even more amazing personality. But you never knew him, never spoke to him, never even locked eyes with this guy if it weren’t via an obnoxious billboard. You’d never seen this man play. Every time you stumbled on a highlight, you swiped away. He didn’t do shit to you, you simply hated the hype around athletes. Around sports in general.

Even in basketball, it was all so negative. All the commentators and fans did was discuss the past. ‘Jordan this. LeBron that.’ And if not that, they’d find some way to bash a player they claim to love. If you love this player so much, why say they’re washed up? At least you could respect football fans—they were delusional behind their teams.

Still, you didn’t hate Riki. Didn’t even dislike him.

Not until today.

—

Like most days, you sat in the Decelis Arena. Right on one of the bleachers in the student section. Your best friends, Yasmin and Bella, were cheerleaders and shared the arena with the basketball team most weekdays. So you hung out there, got some work done as you watched your girls from their side of the floor. The coach never said anything, it was an open practice as far as you were concerned. Plus you never gave them any issues. Never distracted, just stayed quiet and typed on your laptop—it was great. You got to be around your girls and be productive. The only downside was looking to the left and seeing the men’s basketball team.

But it wasn’t so bad to hear them get degraded while they were conditioning and running drills. The sound carried in the arena—sneakers squeaking, basketballs smacking the hardwood, coaches barking like drill sergeants. On the other end, your girls were bright and polished, high ponytails bouncing in perfect sync.

You sat tucked on the bleachers, typing away, invisible. As their practice came to an end, the men kept going. But Yasmin and Bella walked up to you and you felt them before you heard them. Thus, you closed your laptop as you peered up at them with a bright smile.

“You guys look dazzling as ever,” you teased, though Yasmin’s mascara was halfway down her cheek and Bella looked one toe cramp away from retirement. They stopped in front of you, grinning but panting in exhaustion as they simultaneously wiped sweat off their foreheads. “Dude,” Bella huffed as she plopped next to you. “I can’t do—” Yasmin pointed at her fiercely. “I don’t wanna hear that shit, Bells. I told you. ‘Can’t’ isn’t—” “In our vocabulary,” you and Bella chorused, laughing at the girl’s optimism.

Yasmin Alamilla was one of the kindest, most supportive women you’ve had the pleasure of meeting. Always cheery (no pun intended), wise, and to be honest, at times her optimism when you were feeling low was almost annoying. Because how can one person just be so happy all of the time? But you loved her from the moment you met her and wouldn’t trade her for the world.

Bella Powell was the opposite. Sharp-tongued, dramatic, and stubborn in a way that could make you want to strangle her one second and hug her the next. She complained more than anyone you knew, but she was also the first to show up at your door with fries and milkshakes when you weren’t feeling it. Loyal to the bone—even if she’d never admit it out loud.

“Yeah, yeah whatever,” Yasmin rolled her eyes with a smile. “You’ll be thanking me later.” She leaned her head back as she sipped from her purple water bottle. Bella groaned as she helped you pack your stuff, holding your backpack open as she looked at the girl still standing. “I will thank you, just right now my body’s not thanking me.”

“Did you stretch beforehand?” you asked. The answer was no. But before she could admit it, a freshly pumped basketball came beaming across the court. It wasn’t a throw; it was a bullet. A missile. Before anyone could yell “Heads!” or even “Duck!” it was already too late. The ball cracked against the side of your face, cheek first, the sting blooming hot and instant. The sound was sickening, a hollow thwack that echoed louder in your head than in the gym.

Your vision tilted for a split second, your cheekbone pulsing like it might’ve cracked under the pressure. The ball ricocheted to the floor, rolling harmlessly now, but your cheek burned like fire. Yasmin’s gasp came first, Bella’s curse second. Your pencil pouch slipped from your hands, pens scattering. The feeling was akin to when you’re taking something out of the toaster oven and you accidentally touch the hot rack—only this time the burn wasn’t a split second. It felt everlasting.

As shock rang through the arena, you could hear a pin drop. And that wasn’t even the most embarrassing part—it was the collective “Ooh…” from the people around you. “Yo—” a voice cut through the chaos, low and sharp. Sneakers squeaked across the court as Riki jogged over, sweat still glistening down his temple. He scooped the ball up in one fluid motion, spinning it on his finger before tucking it under his arm like he hadn’t just nearly concussed you.

“You good?” His eyes flicked to your face—quick, but not quick enough to hide the way he lingered on your cheek. “I’m fine,” you lied through gritted teeth, pressing your palm against the sting. “Doesn’t look fine.” He crouched slightly to your level, smirk tugging at his lips even though his brows pinched with something closer to guilt. “Bet you’ll have the Wilson logo on your face for the next hour.” Bella shot him a glare. “Not funny, Riki.”

Riki turned his head to Bella, amused, then looked back at you—smirk faltering as his gaze locked on you again. “Seriously, though. You want ice?” Maybe you were just reading into things. And as someone who tended to take up the observer role, you truly felt in your heart of hearts that this guy was the asshole you thought he was. To make a joke out of your pain—and no one’s saying he had to call the national guard—but to spin the ball like he was putting on a show? Rage bloomed hot in your stomach.

“I’ll get my own,” you muttered. Riki’s smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth, that same infuriating confidence he always carried. “Next time,” he said, tossing the ball up and catching it effortlessly, “don’t sit so close.” And just like that, he pivoted, jogging back to drills, sneakers squeaking against the hardwood, leaving you to gather your pens and seething pride. You pressed your palm harder against your cheek, the sting sharp, and glared after him. Unbelievable.

The girls bent down to pick up your scattered pens and highlighters. Bella scoffed, “He’s such a dick sometimes. I’m so sorry, babes.” Yasmin frowned, brows creasing in worry. “That ball hit you something serious.” She handed you your fully stocked pouch. Tears brimmed your eyes. “I’m solid, this shit just hurts—Ow.” You hissed, leaning forward. “Here. Take this.” Yasmin rushed to grab Bella’s frozen water bottle and gently rubbed your back.

Yasmin gave you a soft, sympathetic look. “You really should’ve sat farther back. That kid’s got rockets for hands.”

You groaned, wincing as the sting radiated through your jaw. “Yeah, thanks for the tip,” you muttered under your breath, still glaring toward the court. Sure enough, Riki was back at it, running drills, tossing the ball between his teammates with that infuriating ease, smirking every time someone fumbled a pass.

“Ugh,” Bella muttered, nudging you. “You hate him already, don’t you?”

You didn’t answer immediately, your fingers tightening around the strap of your backpack. Hate was a strong word. But there was no denying the wrath that had just been lit inside you. Something about the way he’d spun that ball, flashed that smirk, and then walked away like none of it mattered…it was aggravating. But you stood, your hand still glued to your cheek as you grabbed your bag. “I don’t hate. I detest. I resent. And I hold grudges because I’m childish.” You grit out, luckily the bottle gave you some relief. And as the two of you walked out of the arena, you moved the bottle from your face for the first time, the air hitting the stinging sensation and making you wince. “Does one side of my face look fatter than the other?” You stopped midway on the sidelines to give them space to inspect you. Bella squinted dramatically, tilting your chin this way and that like she was about to submit you to America’s Next Top Model. “Hmm. Honestly? You look like you just lost a round to Mike Tyson.”

“Bella!” Yasmin swatted her arm, glaring before softening as she leaned in. “It’s not that bad. A little rough, but the swelling isn’t obvious yet. Ice will help.”

“Yet?” you groaned, pressing the bottle back to your cheek like it was a lifeline. “Oh, fantastic. So tomorrow I’m gonna look like Quasimodo.”

Bella snorted, looping her arm through yours as you all started walking again. “A little bit, but at least you can brag that the Riki Nishimura was in your face and ice was involved.”

“Shut the hell up,” you laughed.

Yasmin shook her head, trying not to smile. “You’re impossible, Bella.”

“Impossible but not wrong,” Bella sing-songed, squeezing your arm. “Half the girls on campus would kill to have him that close, even if it meant getting smacked with a ball.”

Yasmin smiled, “yeah but those aren’t the balls they wanna be smacked with.”

You pointed to her with a dry look. “That’s disgusting.”

—

Next week

—

You returned to their practice despite debating even coming back to this place ever again. But this time you took the Head Huncho’s advice and did in fact sit a little higher up on the bleachers. The girls were getting changed and in the meantime, you got set up on the bleachers. Typical stuff. Laptop, cola, and your person—you. The arena was relatively silent as it was just you and the sound of you unzipping and settling into the spot you were gonna be occupying for the next hour or so. So you got to typing, chipping away at the Philosophy essay you had due in a week.

You heard footsteps coming your way and just assumed it was Yasmin—no one seemed to be as light on their feet as her.

“Forgot your water again?” you called without looking up, fingers still flying across your keyboard.

Except…no answer. Just the scrape of sneakers against the bleachers and a low chuckle that definitely didn’t belong to Yasmin.

Your head snapped up, and there he was—Riki Nishimura himself—standing two steps below you, spinning a basketball against his palm like he was born with it.

“Bold of you,” he said, smirk firmly in place, “to sit in the line of fire again. Thought you learned your lesson last week.” You narrowed your eyes, instinctively bringing a hand to your cheek even though the swelling was long gone. You opened your mouth to respond but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Your jaw clicked as you turned back to your computer.

He didn’t stop though, he just got closer. “How’s your face? I got you good didn’t I?”

“Fine,” you said robotically.

“Really?” He tilted his head, not seeming convinced.

“Really.”

“Hm…” He nodded, the same smirk planted on his face. “Did you sleep on your right side for a few days?” He tested, letting his words hang with a teasing undertone. You sucked in a breath, fingers hovering uselessly over the keyboard as you turned to glare at him. “Do you go around asking random girls about their sleeping positions, or am I just lucky?”

Riki’s grin widened, infuriatingly boyish. “You’re funny.” He let out a small laugh, taping his fingers mindlessly—like this was second nature. Because it was.

“You really are as insufferable as they say.”

“And you,” he said, pointing the ball at you like a teacher with a chalk stick, “sit through two hours of sweaty practices when you probably don’t even like basketball. Which, respectfully, makes you insufferable.” Your face was plagued with repulsion. “I’m here because my friends are cheerleaders. I’m here for them. There’s people whose world doesn’t revolve around you, you know?” You scoff. “Fuck off, seriously.” Going back to your laptop, you angrily type. Your keyboard one more click away from not having a letter F.

“Yes…Bella and Yasmin.” He hums as he points at you with a knowing look. “I like them. Both very beautiful girls.”

You ignored him because he hadn’t said anything untrue. But in any case, he needed to tread lightly when mentioning your friends.

“They are,” you said flatly, eyes glued to your screen.

Riki tilted his head, smirk tugging wider as if he’d caught a flicker of irritation in your tone. “Relax. I wasn’t hitting on them.” He spun the ball in his hands, the squeak of rubber filling the silence before he added, “Not my type.”

You arched a brow, finally glancing at him. “Oh, so you have a type?”

His grin was infuriating. “Don’t we all?”

“Careful,” you sing song. “New Balance wouldn’t want to know you’re out here objectifying women instead of selling sneakers.”

He huffed out a laugh, “cute, cute. You’re very cute.” Riki bounced the ball between his legs haphazardly, lifting a leg cavalierly as he looked at you. “You know, I really like girls like you. Girls that don’t like me. Turns me on.” “Oh my gosh, I never told you. But I write my name with yours in my notebook every single night before I go to sleep. I’m in love with you.” You deadpanned, saying this with no inflection whatsoever. For a second he actually froze, like you’d handed him an unexpected plot twist. Then the grin came back—slow, smug, all teeth. He bounced the ball twice before holding it steady in his hands. “Is that right? Interesting bedtime ritual.”

You felt your stomach do a stupid little flip and immediately hated it.

“You know what?” he continued, like he was considering the absolute worst and most entertaining idea. “I like a challenge.”

You raised a brow. “Do you now?”

“I do.” He tapped the ball once, twice. “Let’s see how long it takes me to make you say that without the sarcasm.”

“I’d sooner die.”

“That’s the only thing that keeps me going.” He moves back. “Keep that pretty face safe for me.” He waves, batting his eyes as he jogs to the other side of the court. Dribbling the ball and swiftly passing it to one of his teammates, laughing with them as they overhear his teasing. And still, that seething rage in your stomach hasn’t left in over a week.

It still persists. Even more so now.

—

Later that day

—

It was a nice, peachy evening. Clouds akin to cotton candy and the sun a cute lollipop in the sky. Bella and Yasmin were headed back to their dorms to get ready for bed. If they valued anything it was their beauty sleep. Which…real.

You, however, couldn’t enjoy your night. No. Not even in the slightest. In just twenty short minutes, you had a class. Never did you think you’d be one of the people taking an evening class, but your registration slot was less than favorable.

But some good music and walking off your heavy dinner was enough to keep your mood up. You zipped your hoodie up tighter as the evening breeze picked up, tugging at stray strands of hair that had escaped your ponytail. The sidewalks were practically empty, the campus bathed in that soft, peach-and-lollipop light that made everything look harmless. But you weren’t harmless. Not tonight. Not when every memory of Riki Nishimura—grinning, teasing, infuriating—was still pressed into your brain like a damn watermark.

You hated that he was everywhere. Again, in the dining hall right on the fountains—his jersey number—three—next to a Gatorade logo. Now, as you’re walking—a shuttle passes. He was unavoidable, his every being plagued your existence and before it was used to just be a ‘whatever, this is just annoying’ kind of way. But because he seemed to know you now, and target you in some way—it escalated from annoyance to near disdain.

But of course, it seemed like you couldn’t think about him without it costing you.

He smoothly stepped right in front of you—a smile as bright as the sun—cutting you off in your path. “Hey girl,” It honestly seemed like he came from nowhere and you stopped short, bumping right into his chest. He smelled like fresh laundry and faint cologne, the kind that lingered just enough. Worse, his chest was warm, solid—completely unfair. Head to toe in the signature New Balance sweats—grey—with the popular 530s to match. Very typical of him.

You looked up at him, and this was the first time you’d seen him really up close. Upright that is. He wasn’t as small as the camera, or as huge as the cutout—or even his ego—made him seem. Granted, he was tall. Standing a solid six foot one. Beside his teammates, he was shorter. Which made sense, you didn’t need to be extremely tall to be a point guard—you knew that much. He carried the duality of a superstar and a regular guy all at once. Nothing about him was special yet, every last thing about him is. But you didn’t dare fix your lips to say anything remotely positive about him. You pursed your lips and sighed in defeat, not even having the energy for this at the moment—you quietly brushed past him without another word. But you didn’t make it very far, he was much faster than you ever were.

“Ooh, not so fast, mama.” He quickly stepped in front of you, holding his hands up in defense as you bumped into him again.

So in response, you stepped to the left.

He also stepped to the left.

You stepped to the right.

He also stepped to your right.

You tapped your foot in frustration, nostrils flaring as you glared at him. Eyes narrowing when you saw the feign of ennui on his face. “I’m very good at this game…” He frowned, sighing as he waited for you to break. You lifted your non-dominant hand and checked your watch. You had less than fifteen minutes to get to your class and you didn’t have time to waste. With a groan, you looked back at him. “What the fuck do you want?”

The smile he greeted you with reappeared as he clasped his hands together. “Okay so…I wanted to apologize.”

“Apology accepted,” you nodded curtly as you brushed past him once more. He still reminded you that he wasn’t letting you go just yet. You sped walked in the direction of your class and he followed closely beside—his long legs eating up the space between you without another breath.

“Wait, I’m not done.” He matched your pace as he looked down at you. “Just let me get my shit off then I’ll leave you alone forever.”

“Why do I feel like I’m not the only girl that’s heard that before?” You peered up at him with a sarcastic smile.

Riki nodded slowly, accepting the jab. “Okay. Well, I just wanted to say I was sorry for being so rude to you. I should’ve been more careful—while my pass wasn’t terrible, my teammate didn’t catch it and it just happened to hit you—”

“Why’re you blaming others in the midst of your own apology?” You scoffed as you turned a corner to go to the lecture hall.

Before he could open his mouth, someone from afar shouted his name out. “Hey Riki!”

You instinctively turned your head the opposite direction. Not because you thought people would give a fuck—they most likely wouldn’t. It just seemed to be reflexive—you didn’t have much of an explanation for it. Almost like the one-off, fictitious bubble you thought you had with him burst and you couldn’t look at anything but the bushes to bring you back to reality.

Two people pulled up beside you two in a golf cart. Riki’s mood perked up as he greeted them. “Oh, hi guys,”

“Where you headed?”

Riki turned his head to you. “Where you going?” He said lowly, obviously taking your shyness into account.

Your eyes flit to the side then back to his gaze. “South Hall.”

He turned to the pair—two girls—with a bright smile on his face. “South Hall.”

The girls leaned over the steering wheel, beaming. “Hop in! We’ll give you a ride.”

Before you could wave them off, Riki’s hand landed lightly at the small of your back, steering you forward. “Perfect. We’re headed that way.”

Your head snapped up at him. We?

The girls brightened instantly, scooting their bags to make space on the back seat. “Yeah, climb in! Saves you the walk.”

You opened your mouth to protest—no way were you getting chauffeured across campus like his plus-one—but Riki was already sliding into the cart with that casual ease, patting the seat beside him like this was your cue.

“I’m fine walking—” you started.

The girl driving, her nametag reading Sydney—waved you off. “Girl, please. It’s nothing, we’re headed that way anyway.”

“Yeah, they’re already headed that way.” Riki smirked as he watched you step onto the cart. His hands up subconsciously to be ready to catch you if you slipped.

You settled into the tan leather seats. “Thank you, girls, I appreciate it.” You nodded with a small smile on your lips, clutching your bag tighter than necessary. Sydney grinned back at you in the rearview mirror, while her friend—Maya, judging by the lanyard swinging around her neck—twisted halfway in her seat to wave you off. “Of course! We know how far South Hall is. Nobody should have to trek that after dinner.” The cart kicks as you pull off, breezing past the landscape and contemporary architecture. Paid for courtesy of the money that the athletics teams brought in from various donors and student dollars.

“Especially not after getting smacked in the face with a ball,” Riki added, leaning back like he owned the whole cart.

You shot him a look so sharp it could’ve cut glass. “You love bringing that up, don’t you?”

“History’s important,” he replied smoothly. “If I don’t remind you, who will?”

Maya giggled like he’d just delivered the funniest punchline of the century. You swore half the school was under his spell.

“Honestly, Riki’s right,” Maya said. “That pass was crazy. You didn’t even cry though. Respect.”

You pressed your lips together, fighting the urge to explain yourself. Because the truth was, you had flinched—you just did it internally where no one could see. But now, thanks to Riki, your little moment of public humiliation had become folklore. “You saw it?” Maya nodded, “yeah, I’m the basketball coach’s assistant. Well I didn’t see it but I, for sure, heard it.”

“The smack heard around the world—” Riki laughed, curling into himself as you slapped his rock-solid arm. “Shut up,” you hissed, though the heat in your cheeks betrayed you.

Maya reassured you, “it’s okay. It’s contained. Only a few people saw it.” She shrugged, “the amount of times the guys on the team themselves have been hit is like…”

“Incalculable.” Sydney chimed in as she made a left turn, breezing past other walking students. You frowned at the sight, you wish you could fit them all in the vehicle.

“Totally,” Riki added. “You remember that game against Boston when Jay—”

“I’ve never seen any of the games.” You interjected, narrowly inspecting your nails—but as soon as you said that the cart almost jerked to a full stop.

Sydney’s head whipped around, eyes wide. “You what?”

Maya gasped, clutching her chest like you’d just told them you hated puppies. “You’ve never—ever?” The cart slowed as a group of students crossed, giving Riki the perfect stage to swivel toward you, brows lifted in mock offense. “Hold on.” His voice was calm, but his expression was all wounded pride. “You’ve been sitting in my arena, my practices, for how long—and you’ve never watched a single game?”

You blinked at him. “I’m there for the cheer practices. Riki—I’ve never even seen you do more than dribble the ball.”

“How is that possible?” He furrowed his brows.

You frowned in thought. “I just never paid any mind to your side of the floor. I just…look where the girls are or my laptop. Mostly my laptop.”

They finally pulled up to the lecture hall. Both you and Riki slid out—thanking Sydney and Maya as you did. “Good luck, girlie.” Sydney gave one last smile before speeding off ahead. It went by a lot faster than you thought. By this point, the two of you stood on the sidewalk right in front of South Hall. Taking in the silence for the moment as you both looked at the horizon. The sun melted behind the glass neuroscience building. Causing the both of you to turn your gaze to each other as the light reflected into your eyes. The moment Riki did, he grinned. “Okay. You can stop acting cool, no one’s around.” He whispered. “I know you’ve seen me play—one of my games at least.”

You slowly shook your head. “I swear I haven’t.”

He conceded, “Fine. Well…as I was saying before we were interrupted. I’m sorry for hitting you with the ball last week. It was an accident, and I also apologize for being a bit of a dick to you.”

You squinted up at him, arms crossed. “A bit of a dick?”

Riki laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “A little bit…” He pinched his fingers together. You gave him a look as you waited for him to take it back. Letting his words simmer. “Not even just the tip?”

You sighed, running your hands over your face. “Boy, if you don’t get the fuck out of my face—”

“I’m sorry, okay, okay!” He laughs as he waves his hands in front of your face. “I was joking…”

“Mmm…” you tilted your head at him, your heart beating a bit faster than it was before this conversation began.

He pursed his lips as he smiled down at you. A glint in his eyes that you don’t recognize. “I have an idea.”

“What?”

“As a token of my apology, I want to invite you to my next game.”

You stared at him like he’d just suggested a blood pact. “Absolutely not.”

“C’mon.” His grin widened, like he’d been expecting that answer. “Front row, VIP. I’ll even have your name on the pass list. You don’t even have to cheer for me.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Fine, then come and boo. Loud. Make a sign if you want—‘Down with Nishimura’ or something.” He mimed holding up a poster, his expression all faux-serious. “I’ll wave at you from the free throw line.”

You snorted despite yourself, quickly covering it with a cough. “Why would I waste my Friday night watching sweaty dudes run back and forth?”

“Because sweaty dudes running back and forth is basically my art form,” he shot back smoothly. Then he tilted his head, eyes narrowing just a little. “Besides…you owe me.”

Your brows furrowed. “For what?”

“For traumatizing me,” he said without hesitation. “Do you know how much it hurts when someone tells you they’ve never seen your masterpiece?”

“That’s something called ego.”

He leaned in, close enough that his voice dropped into something teasingly low. “Same difference.” For a beat, you just stared at him, pulse tripping traitorously. “Dream on, Riki.” You turned, reaching for the heavy doors of South Hall, but his voice caught you right before you slipped inside.

“One game,” he called out, tone softer now. “Just one. If you hate it, I’ll never bother you again.”

You froze, hand on the handle. He had to know you weren’t the type to fold under pressure—so why did his voice sound less like a challenge and more like a genuine ask?

Slowly, you glanced back. He was standing there with his hands shoved into his sweats, rocking back on his heels, watching you with a grin that wasn’t entirely smug.

You squinted. “You expect me to believe that? You’ll leave me alone?”

He pressed a hand over his heart, feigning sincerity. “Scout’s honor.”

“You’ve never been a scout in your life.”

“Exactly, so I’ve got nothing to lose,” he said easily. “C’mon. You sit in the bleachers twice a week anyway. This time, you get a show.”

You opened your mouth to shoot him down again—but the words got stuck. Maybe it was the sunset painting him in gold, maybe it was the echo of his laugh still buzzing in your chest, maybe it was the faint thrill of saying yes when every fiber of you wanted to say no. You saw why people liked him. When he wasn’t being a pompous, meat for brains, insipid asshole—Riki could be described in a very simple word: charismatic. Everything that he is, does, seems to rub people the right way. But the fact that it took over a week to get a full apology from him always rang in the back of your mind.

“C’mon mama, wherever you need to be, you only have five minutes.” He sang, as he glanced at his blue Superman watch.

You didn’t want to be bought by him, this was just some sick foreplay, if any. He said it himself, he likes people—girls—like you. The ones that despise him and aren’t so easily won. He probably thinks you two are flirting—he has been. You haven’t—not intentionally that is. The last week has shown you the type of person he is. He’s rude, careless, inconsiderate and for sure undeserving of your time. “Quick question.”

He looked up at you, lifting his brow. “Talk to me.”

“Those girls that drove us, Sydney and…Maya. How do you know Sydney?” You pulled the sleeves of your zip-up over your wrist.

Riki cocked his head to the side, “she’s Maya’s girlfriend. Why?”

Okay so, that didn’t exactly satisfy the answer you wanted.

But this is the problem, you wanted so badly to catch him in something. To see if someone was going to pop out of the bushes and tell you that you’ve been Punk’d. That you were a fool for even thinking that one of the most prolific basketball stars this university’s ever seen wanted your time and attention. But he seemed to. Or maybe it was his guilt. You couldn’t tell. And that was what was eating you alive. That you couldn’t tell. But curiosity was a bitch and maybe Friday night could’ve been for you.

As you looked at him again, he was already looking at you. “So?” He smiled gently, hopeful glints in his eyes.

You sighed, “how do I buy the ticket?” You throw up your hands in defeat as you look to the side and up at the nearly set sun.

“Yes!” He cheered, pumping a fist in the air like he’d just hit a buzzer beater. Opening his arms wide, “can I give you a hug?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, arms crossing tighter. “Absolutely not.”

“C’mon, mama, I earned it,” he pleaded, arms still spread like he was about to embrace the whole campus. “You just admitted you’re coming to see me.”

“I admitted nothing,” you corrected, stepping around him toward the South Hall doors. “All I said was I need a ticket.”

“That’s the same thing.” He jogged to keep up with you, a grin plastered across his face. “In fact, it’s even better—you asked me for one. That’s like—” He paused, holding his hands out like he was framing a painting. “—a confession of interest.”

You stopped, deadpan. “I’m not interested,”

“And yet, hater,” he said, tapping his temple as if he’d solved world hunger, “I’ll see you Friday.”

Before you could come up with a scathing comeback, the bell tower chimed the hour. You groaned, clutching your bag. “I’m late. Thanks for that.”

“Thank me later,” he called as you hurried inside. And when you risked one last glance over your shoulder, he was still standing on the steps—hands in his pockets, that infuriating grin aimed right at you like he’d already won.

And maybe, just maybe, a tiny part of you worried he had.

—

“Wait what?! Riki invited you to his game?!”

“Say that any louder would you?” You threw your hands up in irritation as Yasmin’s eyes bulged out of her skull at the news.

Bella covered her mouth, stifling a laugh as she flipped the waffle maker open. “Wait—hold on, hold on.” She pointed the spatula at you like it was a gavel. “You, you, the number-one Riki Nishimura hater on campus, got personally invited by the man himself, and you said yes?”

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “I didn’t say yes, I just…didn’t say no.”

“That’s a yes,” Yasmin gasped, and she quietly clapped her hands. “Oh my gosh, you’re going to a game! Our little cynic is finally embracing school spirit!”

The dining hall was typically bustling around this time. Early in the morning, people want to load up on breakfast and catch up with friends before the inundating life of college consumes them. You, Yasmin, and Bella met up at nine AM for breakfast every single morning, no exceptions. Ten on weekends.

“Fuck the school, fuck the spirit.” You groaned. “I’m going because he wouldn’t shut up about it. It’s a one-time thing. A pity acceptance.”

Bella raised a brow. “A pity acceptance is still an acceptance, babe.”

The waffle maker dinged. She lifted the lid and slid a perfect golden square onto her plate, smirking as she doused it in syrup. “Honestly? I’m proud. You’re about to see the campus cult leader in his natural habitat.” She immediately doubled back to put more mix in the press. You and Yasmin always split a waffle. The beautiful, olive skinned girl squealed again. Grabbing your hands and interlocking them. “This is huge! You’re gonna love it—the lights, the crowd, the energy—”

“The egos,” you cut in, tugging your hands back.

“The athleticism,” Yasmin countered, unfazed. “And hey, if you don’t like the game, at least the cheer squad will look amazing. I’ll even throw in a wink just for you.” You wrapped an arm around both girls’ shoulders, to which they rested their heads on yours. “At least I’m guaranteed some type of joy. Seeing my hot friends in their cute cheer outfits.”

Bella laughed, rubbing your tummy as she lifted herself up to check your waffle. “I’ll even give you a lap dance if you ask nicely.”

“Bella!” Yasmin swatted her with the back of her hand, laughing so hard her mascara almost smudged.

“What?” Bella grinned, cutting your shared waffle with surgical precision.

You snorted into your mango juice. “If Riki’s game is even half as entertaining as this breakfast, maybe I’ll survive.”

“Oh, you’ll more than survive,” Yasmin said confidently. “You’re gonna be converted.”

“Is this guy really that good?” You grabbed two plates for the two and slid them to Bella.

The two girls nodded in unison. “Putting all dickhead-ism aside, babes. He’s extremely good.” Bella said as she put the halves on both plates.

Yasmin nodded, as you both walked back to your table. “Yeah, it’s freaky. I don’t know, but you’ll see Friday.” She shrugged as you sat at your table.

Bella pointed her fork at you. “You’re gonna hate how much you agree with her.”

Before you could fire back, a shadow fell across the table.

“Agree with who?”

You nearly choked on your strawberry. Yasmin yelped so loud half the dining hall turned. And Bella? She smacked her fork down like she was about to get very violent.

Standing there, plate balanced casually in one hand, was Riki Nishimura himself. Grinning like the devil.

“Don’t do that!” Yasmin scolded, clutching her chest.

“Do what?” he asked innocently, setting his plate down at the table behind yours. He placed his hand on the back of your chair—something weirdly intimate. You couldn’t assess the feeling. But you felt his body heat radiate off of him.

Bella and Yasmin knew Riki in passing. The basketball team and their cheerleaders—the team that the girls were a part of—were familiar with one another. From the university standpoint, the cheerleaders would hype up the crowd, boost morale, the works. On the other end, a lot of them would date other athletes. Which sounds cliche in hindsight. Riki ‘dated’ many cheerleaders in his day, mostly during high school. Now, he’s calmed down—only having screwed around with three of them in his years at Decelis. Three in two years isn’t that terrible. But that was the thing with Riki, he screwed. That’s all he could do. Wanted to do, really. He knew the power he held here and what man wouldn’t enjoy the flock of women that threw themselves at his feet? Especially when his status was what it was. Riki would make it clear that he didn’t want anything more with them. Abundantly clear that it was just sex, nothing more or less. But of course, there would be a few that would try to change him. Claim him, go around saying things about him that weren’t true to scare other girls out of dating him. Once he started getting attention, sponsorships, ESPN coverage, he couldn’t risk his image being tainted at the hands of a one night stand. From his perspective, he’d rather get in trouble for things he did on his own than something someone else said. Especially if it weren’t true. Besides that, the girls and him essentially ran in the same circles. Plus, Yasmin and one of the other basketball guys had a one-off fling. Brief, fruitless, literally lasted three weeks. Bella was pretty and Riki was sort of eyeing her for a minute, but that crush died. Nothing that Bella did, he just saw you.

“Nothing. Do nothing, Riki.” You looked up at him with a sarcastic smile. “What do you want?”

“Oh, I love the welcome wagon.” He nodded curtly as he lightly, very playfully punched your arm. “Just wanted to remind you that Friday shall not be forgotten.” Yasmin smiles, “it’s not! We were just talking about yo—” Bella immediately kicked her leg, roughly—nearly leaving a bruise. Yasmin’s yelp turned into a strained laugh, way too high-pitched. “—yo, yogurt. We were just talking about yogurt.”

The blonde nodded affirmatively, slowly but going with what the girl writhing in pain said. “Uh-huh. Strawberry yogurt. Very…important conversation.”

Riki squinted, biting into his toast with suspicious slowness. “Yogurt. Right.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. “You guys know you’re terrible liars, right?” Bella shoved a piece of waffle into her mouth to avoid answering. Yasmin’s eyes darted everywhere but him. And you? You just stared back at him, unimpressed.

“Relax,” Riki grinned, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “If I wanted to eavesdrop, I’d sit at this table, not behind you. Though—” His knuckles rapped against the back of your chair again, teasing. “This seat has its perks.”

Bella groaned into her plate. Yasmin kicked her under the table this time.

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t you have a young woman’s life to ruin?”

He quirked his brows, stealing a slice of kiwi from your plate. “Who, like yours?”

Your jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

Riki just chewed the kiwi like he hadn’t just thrown a grenade on the table. “I’m saying—” he gestured vaguely with his fork, “—you’re acting like I’ve got a whole victim list when clearly…” His eyes slid to you, gleaming. “…you’re volunteering.”

Bella choked on her waffle. Yasmin slapped her back, sputtering. “Who do you think you are?”

“What? I’m clarifying,” he said innocently, though the corner of his mouth was doing that thing—the smug almost-smile that made your blood heat. Then, without another word, he grabs a chair and his plate from the table he had the food on. Getting comfy as he set himself up. “I’m so sorry I just love girl chat.” He squealed as he scooted inward and entirely too close to you.

Bella’s head snapped up. “Did…did you just squeal?”

“I did.” Riki leaned his elbow on the table, grinning like a cheshire cat. “I’m very in touch with my feminine side.”

Yasmin looks at you with a disappointed sigh, “I see what you were talking about.”

Your fork froze mid-air. “Wow. Betrayal this early in the morning?”

Yasmin just shrugged helplessly, sipping her coffee. “I’m sorry,”

Riki gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been mortally wounded. “You’ve been slandering me before I even sat down?”

Bella stabbed her waffle with unnecessary force. “We didn’t need to. You do it all yourself.”

He turned to you then, eyes glinting, completely ignoring the other two. “So that’s the verdict? I walk in here, innocent, just trying to enjoy my kiwi—”

“You mean my kiwi?” You gesture to your nearly cleared off plate of fruit.

“It’s not like you were eating the shit.” He reached in, going for the last few slices. But before he could, you turned the bowl—bringing it out of his reach. Riki froze mid-reach, his hand hovering in the air.

Without any effort, he reached down to the leg of your chair—pulling you closer into his side with the strength of a singular arm. Your heart skipped, and you yanked back slightly, more surprised than scared. “Hey! What—” Riki didn’t budge, just leaned forward to grab the bowl. “What?” His eyes flicked to the bowl of fruit, then back to you, unrepentant as he tested you. Dared you to speak again in a teasing way.

Bella and Yasmin froze mid-bite, their expressions somewhere between horror and fascination. Yasmin whispered, “Uh…maybe…maybe intervene?”

Bella just buried her face in her hands. “Nope. Not my problem.”

—

Friday came faster than you thought it ever could. Which is strange because any other week goes by excruciatingly slow for you. Greatly enough, you didn’t figure out why. Maybe it was the thought of seeing Riki on the court, all energy and mild aggression personified, or maybe it was the memory of him cornering you over a damn kiwi bowl. Either way, you found yourself walking across campus, purse slung over one shoulder, feeling a mix of dread and curiosity that you didn’t entirely understand. The arena loomed ahead, banners flapping in the evening breeze as crowds of people made their way inside. Your chest tightened, not from the usual anxiety of social situations, but from the knowing—knowing that he was here, somewhere in the midst of all that chaos, grinning like he owned the place. After the interactions you had with him, you wondered if Riki ever got nervous before games. If he did some bizarre ritual or had a good luck charm like a pair of socks he wears every game that he hasn’t washed since he was ten. Your lace-trimmed long sleeve was very cute and delicate, definitely not the “athlete-supportive” outfit anyone would expect at a basketball game—but somehow, it felt like armor. You tugged at the hem nervously, trying to ignore the flutter in your stomach. Inside, the arena buzzed with energy: the squeak of sneakers on the polished court, the rhythmic stomps and chants of the crowd, the banners waving overhead. Somewhere in the middle of it all, you knew Riki would appear larger than life, and honestly…the thought made your palms sweat.

He didn’t lie, there was a seat reserved right in the front row with your name on it.

You blinked at the small placard. Your name. Front row.

A mix of irritation and curiosity bubbled up. Who even does that? And yet…part of you couldn’t deny the thrill. Sliding into the seat, you felt the floor vibrate as the players warmed up, sneakers squeaking and balls thumping as the team warmed up. Then you saw him moving across the court, every motion effortless, commanding, magnetic. Even from a distance, you could feel the energy radiating off him, drawing your gaze like gravity. He caught your eye for a brief second, slyly winking at you as he chewed on a mouthguard. His attire was great. Yes, he wore the school colors—purple and white—on his uniform. A large number three at the center of both sides of his jersey. But on his right arm, he had a white arm sleeve. White finger tape decorating his fingers as on the opposite leg—his left—he had a leg sleeve. You’ve seen basketball players wear stuff like this, it seemed to be the style. Your eyes scanned the middle of the court and you spotted Bella and Yasmin—dolled up and looking as gorgeous as ever as they sat on the sidelines. You beamed and immediately took out your phone to snap a photo of them. Oh-so-inconspicuously sending that photo in the group chat. An ‘I’m watching your every step’ message. Nothing too weird, you know. The laugh in your throat bubbled as you broke out into a smile, and for a moment, the noise of the crowd faded into the background. Bella’s perfectly lined eyeliner, Yasmin’s gleaming hair, the way they leaned into each other as they whispered—you could practically hear the unspoken jokes.

Until it was time for tip-off.

—

The buzzer sounded, a sharp crack that made your chest skip a beat, and the ball soared into the air. Riki lunged with impossible timing, leaping higher than anyone else, his arm sleeve flexing with the motion. The crowd erupted as he slammed the ball down with a satisfying thunk, immediately taking control of the game.

From your front-row seat, every movement was mesmerizing: the pivot of his legs, the effortless bounce of the ball, the way his jersey clung just right when he twisted mid-air. And, of course, the occasional glance your way—a subtle lift of the brow, a tilt of the head—just enough to remind you he knew you were watching. Riki crouched low near half-court, dribbling the ball between his legs with that smooth, controlled rhythm that made it look effortless. His eyes flicked up, scanning the defense like a chess player anticipating every move. He didn’t rush—never all-out too early. Every feint, every subtle shift of his weight was calculated, teasing the defenders, building tension, like he was saving the real fireworks for the perfect moment. A defender lunged, trying to predict his next move, but Riki only stayed focused, spinning the ball through a precise between-the-legs crossover. He leaned forward, eyes locked on the basket, energy coiled and measured, every step deliberate. And then—explosion. He exploded past the defender, weaving through the chaos with that signature agility, rising for a perfect, graceful layup that made the crowd roar. Even in motion, his gaze flicked toward you, subtle and teasing, like he was daring you to blink.

—

He always took smart shots.

Surprisingly enough, Riki was far from a ball hog. He moved like a conductor through the chaos of the game, every dribble, pivot, and pass precise. He orchestrated plays, drawing defenders toward him and then slipping a perfect pass to a teammate cutting to the hoop—playing the point guard role perfectly. Every shot he took was calculated; every assist and pass, effortless. You watched, captivated, as he built the momentum of the game with a controlled fire that was both intimidating and magnetic. Halfway through the second quarter, he caught the ball just inside the three-point line, eyes scanning, defenders breathing down his neck. He dribbled, a subtle hesitation, then spun between his legs, pivoting with that signature agility. A defender tried to stop him, but his shoulder grazed Riki just enough to make him stumble—foul called immediately. He didn’t miss a beat. Rising for the layup, he absorbed the contact and still managed to sink it cleanly. The whistle blew—and one.

As he landed, he slapped his chest with that confident, masculine gesture, exhaling sharply, eyes glinting. The crowd clapped, teammates high-fiving him.Every move seemed designed to entertain as much as to dominate. He drew cheers from the crowd, coordinated plays with teammates, and every so often, that teasing glance toward you reminded you: this was also a show for you.

—

On defense, Riki was a pest. Annoying. The kind of player who never gave you room to breathe. He crouched low, arms wide, reading the offense like he had the playbook in his head before it even unfolded. Every time his opponent tried to drive, he cut them off with quick, sharp footwork, shadowing every step. And when he went for a steal? Ruthless. One second the ball was in his opponent’s hands, the next Riki had stripped it clean, darting down the court. He didn’t just defend—he got under skin. By the third quarter, you could see the frustration written across the faces of the guys stuck dealing with him. He thrived on it too. That sly grin crept back whenever a frustrated guard shoved into him a little too hard, trying to break free. He’d just shrug it off, tap his leg sleeve like try again, and lock back in.

Even from the front row, you could tell—he wasn’t just good. He was exhausting to play against.

—

There were a few times he should’ve got called for a technical foul but wasn’t. A few of the other guys on the team trash-talked. But Riki’s mouth was the worst. You could tell, just like the rest of them, that they got extremely competitive in the heat of the moment. Which was understandable, but you wondered. There have been many times you’ve seen women’s games and the refs have so much to say to them when they get snippy. But the guys are essentially having a dick swinging contest right before the entire country to see. He’d get in the defenders’ faces, bump their shoulders. Take out his mouthguard specifically just to shit talk right in their faces. Whispering foul words to intimidate the player that you couldn’t make out. The guilty part of you was sort of turned on by it, seeing Riki this way. This was the most masculine you saw him. Not the smug tease hovering over your shoulder in the dining hall. Not the boy grinning as he chased you up to class. Here, on the court, chest heaving, jaw tight, trash talk spilling easy—this was Riki in his rawest form. And you hated how much your stomach knotted watching it.

—

By the last thirty seconds, the gym was shaking. 126–126. Decelis ball. Everyone in the stands already knew where it was going—Riki. He dribbled up, face locked in that sharp, predator focus you’d never seen off the court. Two defenders closed in, practically climbing his back. The crowd roared, waiting for him to take the shot. Of course he would. He always did.

He didn’t.

At the last second, Riki snapped his wrist and swung the ball out to a teammate wide in the corner. Perfect pass. The kid launched it. Swish. Decelis up three. The arena exploded, bodies leaping, the bench clearing to scream. Riki didn’t even crack a smile—just hit his chest once, hard, and pointed at his teammate like that’s you.

The other team scrambled for a last shot, missed, and the buzzer went off in a storm of whistles and screams. Decelis: 129. Them: 126. Your ears rang as everyone flooded the court. Players crashing into each other, coaches losing their minds, fans pressed against the rails. And in the middle of it all was Riki, tall and shining and untouchable, sweat dripping down his jaw. While you covered your ears, trying to ensure you didn’t lose your hearing at the tail-end of this event—you got it now. More than anything did you understand why these things weren’t just games. They were spectacles. If people were like this for regular in-season games, imagine what the playoffs and (hopefully) championship games would be like. But besides that, you realized what made your pulse race wasn’t just the scoreboard or the roaring crowd—it was him. Riki, standing there like the center of gravity, chest rising and falling, teammates mobbing him in a blur of jerseys. He hadn’t even taken the final shot, but everyone knew he’d been the engine. The conductor. The spark.

He accepted the praise, but he immediately found the kid that he passed to—hitting his chest as he nodded. Smiling through his mouth guard as they both had some weird, guy conversation. Some celebratory music was playing from the arena speakers, as the fans cheered and stomped, the sound rattling through your bones. Players kept shoving Riki, grabbing his shoulders, hollering in his face like he’d just saved the world. He took it all with that cool, unbothered grin, dapping them up one by one. But then, as the noise stretched on, he peeled away. Sweat dripping down his temple, jersey clinging, he jogged over to the scorer’s table. You frowned, watching as he grabbed the ball from the official’s hands, spinning it once in his palm like it belonged to him.

And then—of course—his gaze cut straight to you.

Your stomach twisted as he looked at you, expectantly—waiting for your approval. Waiting for your okay. For you to tell him how great he already knew he was. But he wanted to hear it—see it—from you. Without a word, you nodded slowly—tipping your bag of sour gummies at him as you leaned back into your seat.

His grin widened around his mouth guard, sharp and almost childlike as he turned back to his teammates—doing cheesy celebratory dances as the arena cleared out. You shook your head, laughing softly as you cleaned up your area. Grabbing the wrappers and water bottles you went through—you hated leaving messes for people to pick up when you were fully capable of doing it yourself. As you walked to the trashcan that was about ten feet away, the girls wrapped their arms around you from either side. Bella’s perfume hit you first, sugary and strong, while Yasmin’s lip gloss smudged your cheek as she leaned in.

“Front row, huh?” Yasmin sing-songed, her grin wicked.

Bella gave you a look that said girl, explain, even as she pretended to focus on the giant foam finger she was waving.

“In my defense, I didn’t think I’d be put there.” You put your hands up, stepping back.

The blonde smiled, poking your arm. “Okay, WAG—”

“No!” You laughed, swatting her hand away. “Not WAG! I’m not—I didn’t—”

Yasmin’s grin widened, clearly loving your flustered flailing. “Relax, relax. We’re just saying, you know…front row. Big stage. Him.”

Bella snorted, waving the foam finger like a banner of proof. “Yeah, yeah, admit it—you enjoyed it.”

You rolled your eyes, tugging your bag higher on your shoulder. “I did. The game was good.” Nodding in thought, “y’all were right.”

Yasmin smiled, “see?! It’s so cute like, we all come together just to sit down and be in community and cheer and it just—” “Okay Miss Frizzle,” Bella placed her hand onto the girl’s shoulder as you all shared a laugh. Bella tugged you guys close, hugging you both tightly. “Okay, so are we ever gonna have the conversation where we cover the fact that Riki totally wants you?”

You froze mid-step, the weight of Bella’s words hitting like a surprise full-court press.

Yasmin snorted behind her hand, eyes sparkling. “Ooh, she’s gonna deny it. Watch.”

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, trying for casual, but your voice betrayed you anyway.

Bella rolled her eyes, smirking. “Uh-huh. Totally casual. Front row, him looking like a Greek statue on the court, and he somehow looked in your general direction for most of the game? Totally casual. So friendly.”

You nodded, brushing your curls behind your ear. “Mhm, you said it, not me.”

They both give you a look. Sharing one with each other as they both moved you out of the way as there were flocks of people still trying to make their ways out of the arena in one piece. But you somehow forgot about their existence, this has been happening a lot to you the last few hours. And most of your life. This sort of dissociation—only minding the people close to you. The ones you thought were special. Like today, you’d be in a sea of people and if you knew three—you kept them close to your chest. There’s been so many times where people would run into you, or come up to you and greet you and you’d not know who they were until they reminded you that you had your eleven-thirty history class with them and they sat right behind you. This is why Riki crashing into your life these last two weeks has been so surreal for you. And maybe, just maybe, this might be the reason for your subconscious rejection of him. You never actually hated him, you understood that. You simply didn’t like that you and the entire university were being forced to like him simply because he was good at a sport. By this point, the arena was empty sans for you three and some custodians that swept up the floor with pristine efficiency. Proving they’ve done this a thousand times over.

Yasmin opened her mouth to respond, yet she was interrupted by one of the girls calling from one of the double doors. “Bella! Yasmin! C’mon, Coach is making us take photos and we can’t go without you guys.”

The brunette nodded, “we’re coming!” She called out as she turned to look at you. “Be right back.” She whispered, hugging you tightly—kissing your cheek as she scampered off to the door.

Bella smiled as she watched Yasmin make a quick break for the doors. Turning back to you, she nodded to the door. “Wanna come?”

You shrugged a shoulder. “Sure I—” From the corner of your eye, you see a tall figure jogging toward you. The sound of sneakers squeaking against the polished floor pulled your attention, and before you could even finish your sentence, there he was. The man of the hour. Still in his jersey, dried sweat sticking to his skin, his hair damp at the edges. He had ditched his mouthguard somewhere between celebrating and now, flashing that unbothered grin that made your pulse do a somersault. The ball was tucked under one arm like an extension of himself, and his pace—quick, determined—made it obvious: he wasn’t jogging toward anyone. He was jogging toward you. Bella’s brows shot up, her lips curving into a slow, dangerous smile as she stepped aside like she knew she was witnessing a movie scene unfold. “Ohhh, this should be good,” she murmured, already backing toward the doors to “give you space” but absolutely intending to eavesdrop from ten feet away. She debated, but ultimately decided to go find the team before she had to run ten laps before next practice. “I’ll catch you later, love you.” She whispered, rubbing your shoulder before she scurried off. Your feet stayed planted, though your mind screamed at you to do literally anything else. Riki slowed to a stop in front of you, chest rising and falling, eyes locked onto yours like Bella, the arena, the custodians didn’t exist. “Hi.” Just that—soft, breathless, like he’d been holding it in all night and finally let it spill. He shifted the ball under his arm, free hand tugging at the hem of his jersey like it could keep him grounded. His eyes, though, weren’t grounded at all—they were skating across your face, memorizing, cataloguing, daring you to look away.

“Congrats,” you managed, your voice a little too high, a little too airy, like you hadn’t been practicing something cooler in your head since halftime. “Star of the game, huh?”

His grin returned, a little crooked now, more boy than legend. “Nah. Don’t start with all that.” He leaned in a fraction, enough for you to catch the lingering salt of sweat, the heat radiating off him. “Besides…wasn’t really playing for the crowd tonight.” You raised your brows in slight shock, your heart skipping a little at the flirtation. “Are you flirting with me, sir?” Stifling a laugh as you cock your head.

Riki laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he nodded. “Yeah. I am.”

Your stomach dipped like the floor had given out under you, though your face did its best to play it cool. Folding your arms, pretending his answer didn’t just rearrange your insides, you said, “Thank…you?” Riki’s laugh came again, low and disbelieving, like you’d just crossed him up on his own court. “Thank you?” He echoed, shaking his head as he adjusted his grip on the ball. “That’s your response?”

You shrugged, trying to look unfazed even as your pulse thudded in your throat. “Well, what do you want me to say?” That crooked grin tugged at his lips again, boyish and sharp all at once. He angled his chin at you, eyes flicking over your face like he was searching for the crack in your act. “I was hoping for something more like…‘finally.’”

That single word hung between you, heavier than the arena’s fading buzz. Your arms loosened, the folded front slipping without your permission. “Finally?” you repeated, soft, like you weren’t sure if you wanted to challenge him or dare him to keep going. “Yeah,” Riki said, voice quieter now, less bravado and more truth. “Been waiting for a shot. Figured tonight I’d stop warming the bench.” He let the ball go, letting it bounce. He tapped it gently, letting it come back to his hand. He extended it to you with one arm. “For you, beautiful.”

You blinked at the ball, then at him, like he’d just offered you his jersey, his sneakers, and possibly his firstborn all at once. “For me?”

Riki’s smirk tilted into something softer, more earnest. “Yeah. MVP keeps the ball. Tonight…” he shrugged, eyes never leaving yours, “that’s you.”

Without anything else coming to mind, you just take the ball hesitantly. Like it would explode if you were to handle it wrong. “Oh my gosh, Riki…” you smile brightly. “Thank you.”

He laughs softly, “you said that already, mama. You don’t have to thank me.” He waved off as he sighed shakily. “Look…I know…we got off to a rocky start—”

“Rocky?” You echoed, one brow arching as you hugged the ball tighter against your chest.

“Hostile’s the better word.”

You nodded curtly, “for sure.”

Riki chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck like he was taking the hit on purpose. “Yeah, I deserved that.”

You tilted your head, lips twitching. “Glad we agree.”

His grin softened into something a little less cocky, a little more boyish. “But…if hostile was the start, I’m hoping this—” he nodded toward the ball in your arms, “—can be, you know, the reset.”

“So you wanna be friends?” You bounced the ball, dribbling it as you stared down at it. Ensuring it didn’t go anywhere—zero hand-eye coordination on your end. Riki’s smile brightened as he watched you. “Friends is a good start, that’s not all I want though.” His eyes darted between you and the ball that you seem to have so much trouble dribbling but he just let you go.

Your dribble went sideways, the ball nearly escaping before you caught it with both hands, clutching it like a life preserver. “Not all you want?” you repeated, squinting at him. “You don’t even know if I can make a free throw.” Riki snorted, entertained at seeing you try this with zero grace. “But I do know you can’t dribble. I’m sorry but you are absolutely terrible.”

“Hey! It’s not even my job to be good at this shit. Sorry I’m not like what’s-his-name.” You switch hands and dribble the ball at an irregular rhythm.

“What is his name, sweetheart?” Riki pursed his lips as he watched you with his hands clasped behind his back.

You snapped your fingers as if it were able to trigger a thought. “Um…Allen Iverson! Yes! Allen Iverson.” Riki blinked, then burst out laughing, so loud one of the custodians looked over in confusion. “Allen Iverson?!” He bent forward, hands on his knees, grinning at you like you’d just told the funniest joke of the year. “Oh my God—nah, don’t do AI like that. He’s turning in his grave right now—”

“He’s not even dead!” you cut in, indignant, clutching the ball tighter.

Riki straightened, smirk pulling at his lips as he pointed at you. “Exactly. And you still killed him with that comparison.”

You gasped dramatically, eyes wide. “Wow. You’re mean.”

“Nah,” he shook his head, stepping closer again, grin softer now. “Just honest. And besides…” his gaze lingered on you, enough to make your heartbeat stumble, “…you’re way cuter than Iverson anyway.”

You got back to dribbling. “I don’t know…” you sang. “I used to have a crush on him when I was young.” You were focused, tongue sticking out in concentration as you played with the ball.

He blurted out. “Okay, I’m sorry, I can’t take this anymore.” He scratched his forehead. “You gotta keep your eyes up, mama.” Scrunching his nose a bit as he put his hand on his hip.

“No, Riki, I’m gonna lose it if I do!”

“Well I’m already losing it.” He laughs at your stubbornness. “You looking down isn’t helping you. If this were a game, I’d steal the ball from you.”

Your eyes stayed down, at this point, you were just pulling his leg.

He swiftly stole the ball from you. “Hey,” he said firmly, grabbing your chin gently and forcing you to look at him. He bounced the ball at a quick rhythm, “look at me.” Dribbling the ball between his legs as he leans down to your height.

Your breath caught, heat rushing to your cheeks at how close he suddenly was—his palm warm and steady on your chin, his eyes locked onto yours like he dared you to blink. The ball thudded against the hardwood in a perfect rhythm, the sound echoing in the empty arena. His smirk deepened, lips curling as if he’d just proven his point without saying another word. “See? Easy. You keep your eyes on me, and the ball takes care of itself.”

You scoffed, though it came out softer than intended, your voice a little shaky. “That’s…literally not how physics works.” “Sure it is,” he countered smoothly, still dribbling with one hand, chin tilted with that effortless confidence. “Ball control is focus. And right now, your focus…” he tapped your chin lightly before pulling his hand back, “…is exactly where I want it.” He stops dribbling and presses the ball into your chest.

“You’re such a showoff.” You crossed your arms over the ball, trying to reclaim some authority, though your heart betrayed you with a rapid thump. Riki tilted his head, grin sharpening just enough to be mischievous. “And you’re—

“Yo Riki!”

The both of you turn to see someone from behind you. Turns out it was three people, only one of them shouting out from across the floor. His teammates most likely. “You coming?!” Confusion coated your features. That and annoyance was on Riki’s as well until realization found him. “Wh—oh shit!” He quickly turned to you with a small smile. “The team’s having an afterparty at one of the frats, wanna come?”

Your eyes widened, “a frat party?” “Well, yes and no. One of the guys on the team, Maki—we have the same name, funnily enough. Whatever that’s not the point—the point is, he’s a part of Phi Gamma Theta. The party’s at his frat house and it’s his turn to buy the beer.” He nods with a shimmy of his shoulders.

You turn to his teammates that are eyeing you both expectantly, mainly him. At this moment, you really didn’t want to go. Like at all. And you were most certainly going to deny him! But you were so surprised that he was so quick to let you into his world in this way—so quickly. While you liked that he wanted you in the spaces that he occupied, you were weary of both him and the company he kept. You simply didn’t know him that well.

While it didn’t hurt to make new friends and take on new social scenes, you seriously debated how to spend your Friday night. Bella and Yasmin were going to their dorms right after this they said. They’d been putting in serious work this week and were taking every last day of their weekends to do nothing. You were just going to study for your Latin quiz on Monday—which you hardly did because you were too worried about the Philosophy paper due this afternoon. So either way, you lost. “Uh…I think I’m gonna stay in tonight. Latin quiz on Monday and I’ve hardly studied.”

Riki nodded, “for sure, that’s fine.” He waves off, looking to his teammates and holding up his index finger. Indicating that he wanted a second. They went back to where they came, most likely the locker room. “Text me when you get to your dorm?” You quirked a brow, that confusion making another appearance. “I don’t have your number, Riki.”

He tilts his head, “you for sure do.” His eyes fell to the basketball in your hands then your eyes again.

Your gaze followed where his once was, shifting the ball around in your hands until you come across a slip of paper taped securely to it. Reading: To my MVP. Then the digits followed. Laughing, your heart rate spiking more than you’d like it to. “You’re such a cornball.” “And I got your number from Yasmin already so…don’t even think about flaking on me.” He wagged a finger in your face. “I’m a little crazy too, I hope you know.” He teased.

“Too? As in, you think I’m crazy?” You narrow your eyes as you fold your hands over the ball. He smiled as he reminisced, “well, when one takes a fresh basketball to the face and doesn’t cry, I’d like to think there’s a little something in your wheelhouse.”

You stared at him blankly. “Goodnight, Riki.” Then lightly tossed the ball, watching it bounce right off his forehead before he could react. And funnily enough, it fell right back in your hands. “Huh, I guess ball control really does work.” Riki laughed, rubbing the spot as he stepped closer. “See? Never lied to you.” His hand hovered briefly at the back of your head before he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Thanks for coming. I mean it. Text me when you get in, okay? Actually—” his grin flickered back as he shook his head, “don’t even bother. I’ll text you in thirty minutes.”

And this might’ve been the very moment that he got you.

Him getting closer to you as he showed this affection felt like it was in slow motion. Did it last twenty seconds or twenty minutes, you couldn’t tell. As the faint scent of his sweat overtook your senses, you found yourself breathing him in. Taking in every ounce of the time you had with him in this arena. Despite the salty liquid, he smelled of something clean. Like linen, or some sort of fruit—citrus. More so an orange. His body was cooler now, but the heat from his body trying to cool itself down and instead it felt like the heat was all on you now.

You did this a lot. Taking him in. Soaking up every second despite his presence not wanting to admit how much you enjoyed it. That awareness lingered in your chest, heavy and sweet, like honey that refused to dissolve. You hugged the ball against your stomach, pretending it was the only anchor keeping you steady. Because if you didn’t, you might’ve reached out—might’ve let your fingers graze his jaw, might’ve leaned in just a little too much. He didn’t make it easier, either. Still so close, still looking at you like you were something more than just a distraction. His grin is softer now, less cocky. Like he was letting you see the part of him he didn’t hand out to just anyone.

—

The second you get to your dorm you don’t even text him. You immediately sit at your desk, prop your phone up and move all your books to the side. You felt like you just did ninety lines of cocaine, every bone in your body jittering, every nerve spiked. To be fully transparent, you hadn’t felt like this since Christmas when you were ten and your parents got you the entire Dork Diaries series after hearing you ask for it since December the year before. Fuck all the Bratz dolls, the Barbies, the dollhouses. Those be damned. Nothing mattered more to you than finally reading the book where Nikki actually didn’t say her comebacks in her head and when Mackenzie wasn’t finally the victim anymore. However, you didn’t get that far in the series anyway.

There had to be a day that you found your Brandon Roberts, and it might’ve not been today. But until then, you had to document every moment to your best friends. As you rang them on the group video call, they both popped in. Yasmin was perched at her desk with a face mask and a fluffy headband like she was running a skincare commercial. Bella was sprawled across her bed, the camera only showing her nose up like she couldn’t be bothered with life.

“Why you calling us like the world’s ending?” Bella groaned, her voice muffled by her pillow.

“Because it is,” you shot back immediately, tucking your legs under your desk chair. “Guys—I think Riki kissed me.”

So, both of them were gagged—full stop. Your screen sparks to life. Yasmin’s in a fluffy headband, cheeks already flushed. Bella’s camera is a nose-up drama shot and both of them look like they’ve seen a ghost and a dream at the same time.

“No way! Wait—what—dude! I thought you didn’t like him like that!” Bella beamed as she smiled into the camera. Holding her heart to keep it from bursting and oozing into the phone. You tilted your head, “I’m easy, I fear…” you bit your finger as you all giggled at your tone. Burying your face into the desk, you screamed into the hardwood. Yasmin asked. “Wait so…what do you mean ‘you think?’ I’m pretty sure you’d know if someone kissed you, girl.” She leaned back in the chair, smiling still as she smushed slime. Letting the glue mold in her hands as she popped some of the air bubbles.

You grabbed a stress ball from your drawer. “Long story short—”

“Hold up—sorry to interrupt but after I left how long did y’all talk for? Y’all stayed on the floor?” Bella nodded, trying to scope out the scene.

You nodded, “yeah, and we stayed for like…twenty minutes after?”

Yasmin squealed, holding her cheeks. “Ugh, I’m so happy for you! What did y’all talk about?” Shrugging, you shook your head in thought. “We just…talked. It wasn’t anything heavy. But he did say he wanted to be more than friends; and me coming to the game was a way for him to hopefully bridge the gap between us.” A smile spreads onto your face slowly. “It was nice…”

“So how did a kiss happen?” Bella hummed, fully sat for this debrief.

You clear your throat dramatically, adjusting yourself in your seat. “So basically, he gave me the game ball—” Both girls jumped up like you announced you just won the lottery. “Rejoice! Thank goodness, my girl is finally gonna get some dick!” Bella cried out to the popcorn ceiling, raising her hands in jubilation.

“But he taped his number to it—and Yas! You gave him my number?!”

Yasmin ducked lower in her chair, a guilty smile creeping across her face while her slime made a wet squelch. “...maybe. Don’t act like you’re mad, you’re literally glowing right now.”

You tossed the stress ball at the wall, rolling your eyes so hard they might’ve gotten stuck. “That’s beside the point!” Bella was already wheezing, halfway off her bed. “No, no, no, wait. He taped his number to the game ball? Like…actually taped it? That’s the most middle school-romance-movie shit I’ve ever heard. I live.”

“And it said ‘To my MVP,’” you admitted begrudgingly, dragging your hands down your face like confessing to a crime. Both of them lost it again. Yasmin fell sideways in her chair, face mask peeling at the edges, while Bella screamed into her pillow like you’d told her BTS showed up at your dorm.

“Oh my god,” Yasmin gasped between giggles. “He’s corny. He’s so corny. But in the best way. Like…cereal box prize corny. The kind you keep forever.” Bella sat up, eyes wild. “Nah, that’s husband behavior. Do you hear me? Husband.”

And despite yourself, you smiled so wide your cheeks hurt. “Then when we both parted—he and the team were going to a party at the Phi Gamma Theta house. He invited me but I didn’t wanna go—anyway—as we were leaving, he kissed my forehead—AH!” You screamed into the desk again. Not even caring if you got a noise complaint. You cleared your throat as you got back up. “Sorry.” They shook their heads, waving you off without a care.

“Anyway, he kissed my forehead, thanked me for coming, and said to text him when I got here—I haven’t yet.” You grabbed another toy, your slinky, and played with that. “And that if I didn’t he’d call me in thirty.”

Yasmin nodded, “so why didn’t you text him yet?”

Bella chimed in, “so she can see if he’s the type of guy to do what he says he’s gonna do, Yas.” She nodded with a smirk, tapping her temple in thought.

“Well, he should be calling any—”

Your phone buzzed as it rang from an unknown number—most likely Riki’s seeing as you hadn’t saved it yet. “Oh my gosh, fine shit is calling! What do I do?! Wait! He’s video calling me too!”

“Answer it, fuckface!” Bella laughed.

You yelped, fumbling for the green button as your hands shook. “I—I don’t know if I can!”

“Girl, are you serious?!” Yasmin screeched, squeezing her slime like it owed her money. “Just answer! He’s literally waiting to see your face!”

Bella was practically vibrating off her bed, one hand covering her mouth while the other waved frantically at the screen. “Do it! Pretend you’re calm, but like—you know just play it cool.”

“Okay, okay!” You took a breath and quickly clicked the green button. Then before you knew it, there stood Riki. Hair slightly damp from the shower and outside air drying, fresh faced, and a black tee that you could only see the neckline of. The streetlight and LEDs that the frat had up illuminated his face so warmly. It was so bizarre, from the neck downward, Riki was beyond what you could imagine an athlete’s physique being like. Lean, agile, cut, not even an ounce of fat on him—but even then, you realize that he was still so handsome anyway.

He smiled when he saw you. “Hope you didn’t forget about me.”

You waved, “no, I could never.” Opening your arms as you spread the slinky and let it fall back into your hands.

“How was the debrief?” He brushed his hair back, flashing his watch, laughing softly as he saw your shocked face. “What? I have sisters, ma. I know what you girls do.”

You sputter like a bad engine, “uh…I—it was fine?”

Riki chuckled, that low, easy laugh that made your chest feel way too tight. “That’s code for none of my damn business, I assume?”

“You’d assume correctly.” You nodded slowly as you gathered your books. Flipping to the right pages. “How’s the party, brochacho?” Saying absentmindedly as you grab your tablet to notetake. He laughed softly at the name as he wandered about the lawn. “It’s alright, not really feeling it tonight. Just wanted to make sure you were in one piece. That you didn’t walk into any balls on the way there.”

You rolled your eyes, “yeah I have some balls you can walk into.”

“Shut up,” he smiled as he sipped from his red cup.

Talking to him was calming, like talking to a friend you’ve known for years. Smooth, simple, easy. The nerves came and went with him. They never stuck.

“You been drinking?” You copied your important notes down from the textbook. Trying to pay attention to the material but your mind was obviously elsewhere. He shrugged, “some beer. Took like a pull of some weed but…” He trailed off with a little sigh, lips puckered in that half-pout that made him look younger than he was. The camera dipped slightly as he adjusted the phone, showing the glow of the house behind him, people laughing, voices spilling into the night. Sitting on the sidewalk, and on their phones as they nursed drinks. “Not really my scene right now.”

Your pen stalled over your tablet, notes forgotten. “Wow, the big campus star skipping out on free booze and bad music? What’s the world come to?”

“You must not know me,” he snorted, laughing at the irony. “I’m always a buzzkill at these shits. I feel like they only invite me just in case.”

Humming, you stood up and gathered your stuff for your shower. Not to take one now, but to prepare your clothes for when you did. “In case of?”

“Just for safety. I sort of…act as a buffer. If we’re caught drinking on campus, it’s a problem, blah blah. Coach is notified but we’re not gonna get real disciplinary action.” He shrugged a shoulder.

You nodded slowly, “oh to be a man.” Out of view, you bent down to your drawers to pull out your pajamas and fresh underwear.

“No, even the women’s teams do this. Any smart coach wouldn’t let it get to the Dean. We’d get punished internally for shit like that. Run laps, suicides, sacrificing a Saturday to wash his car, I don’t know. Looks bad on him if he benches starters.”

You laughed as you folded your pajamas. “Nah that would piss me off. Making you do suicides for one beer? I’d kill myself, actually.”

Riki shrugged, amused. “You’d be surprised. Guys hate it more than anything. Pride chips away at the sight of a whistle.” He nudged the camera so you could see a pair of teammates arguing over pizza in the background. “Anyway, I should probably go make sure no one’s starting a riot.” You tucked a loose curl behind your ear and grinned. “Go be the responsible one, then. I’ll be the one who aces Latin because I studied all night—” you said as you sat back down, deadpan, and he snorted.

“Mm. Sure you did,” he teased. “The dining halls are closed by now. If you get hungry just tell me. I’ll send you whatever you want, okay?” Your pen hovered over your tablet, heart hitching. He said it so simply, like it wasn’t a whole production, like sending food across campus at midnight was just so normal. “Aww, Riki. You taking care of me with that NIL money?”

“Hell yeah,” he said, furrowing his brows. “I worked hard for that shit.” Laughing as he sipped from his cup. “It’s hard out here.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you scribbled half a Latin conjugation that didn’t even make sense. “Oh my God. Not you acting like a single mom trying to stretch the paycheck.” “Don’t play with me, I am the single mom of this team.” He turned the camera toward the chaos of his teammates wrestling over the last pizza box. “Look at my damn kids. Do you see what I deal with?”

“Serving Reba McEntire realness.”

Riki rubbed his eyes, deadpanning. “Go study, sweetheart.”

“You should wear a red wi—”

“How about that Latin test!” He smiled happily—albeit mocking to shift topics.

Your laughter rang through the call, and for a second he just looked at you, the corner of his mouth tugging up like he couldn’t help it.

“Alright, go ace your Latin,” Riki said, softer now.

“You go wrangle your kids,” you shot back, smiling.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Night, Riki.”

The screen went dark, leaving you with the echo of his voice and a grin you couldn’t quite wipe off.

—

Two weeks later

—

They say the first high is the best. That once you get it, you spend the rest of your days trying to chase the one you got at the start.

You didn’t get high—at least not like that anyway.

In your situation, riding the high of Riki Nishimura’s attention felt like its own kind of intoxication. Every ping of your phone, every dumb meme he sent between classes, every “good morning” text when he was already at practice—it was steady, constant, addictive. And instead of chasing it, you were starting to wonder if he was raising the bar higher every time. And in retrospect, Bella was right. Why did it seem like once that buzzer hit, a switch flipped in your mind and you were just indoctrinated like the rest of the Decelis student body? Like he knew exactly what he needed to do to get you.

You couldn’t put your finger on it but you didn’t want to overthink anything. So many things that you couldn’t comprehend put you here in this very situation and you didn’t want to ruin it by reading too deeply into it. Needless to say, Riki has seamlessly made his way into your routine. You didn’t think he’d find a place within the days that are overtaken by your needs and wants, your best friends, and classes. But if he did anything, it was make your life easier.

Riki never asked you to ditch your friends to be with him. He understood that he only had you for lunch and dinner as you had breakfast with Bella and Yasmin everyday. He messaged you to check up in between classes, already having memorized your schedule. Ensuring that you had snacks so you didn’t lose stamina between lectures—he had successfully put you on to these protein bars, amazing. And they didn’t taste like chalk. Riki even went as far as to start waiting outside your lecture halls—never in a way that felt suffocating, just casual. Leaning against the wall with his hood up, earbuds in, scrolling on his phone until you stepped out. Like he wasn’t the six-foot star guard of Decelis basketball but just some guy, killing time until you showed up.

Sometimes he walked you to the dining hall, sometimes to the library, he always just carried your bag like it was second nature. It wasn’t grand gestures—no flowers, no flashy displays—it was little things. He made space for you without demanding it, and you couldn’t lie, it was disarming. The girls noticed, of course. Yasmin raised a brow every time your phone lit up with his name. Bella, never subtle, outright called him your “NBA boyfriend” and asked if she should start practicing her court-side wave. But kept reminding you that Riki was boyfriend stuff without the actual title.

And maybe you should’ve protested harder, maybe you should’ve insisted it wasn’t that serious. But deep down, some part of you was starting to like the way it sounded.

That conversation had rang in the back of your mind for the rest of the day. And you just kept hearing Yasmin’s “...boyfriend behavior without the title” line, over and over and over again.

Because was it really true? Were you in a situationship? Really, it’d only been two weeks, is that an appropriate time to get to know someone to further ask them on a date? In essence, the things that Riki did for you to show he cared, were indeed boyfriend things. Sending you food when you didn’t want to leave your dorm or the spots around campus were closed. Making sure you ate and drank enough water. Never demanded your time even though his life especially, always demanded a lot from him—he ensured that there was some time out of his day for you.

You knew he liked you and he let you know he did. But did he like you enough to take you seriously? Were you just something to do? Something to take his mind off the budding fame and popularity? Funnily enough, before you came to Decelis, one week before your first year, your parents had told you in harmony: don’t date athletes. Maybe your rejection of Riki at the beginning was just a subconscious effort to suppress your attraction to him from the very start. So that must be why it was so easy to come to terms with liking him.

Because you always did.

The girls had left your dorm room to go on about their evenings. You just chilled on your beanbag and looked pretty as you watched one of your favorite gamers fail at Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?

Besides the Riki stuff, you were at peace. Homework done for the rest of the week, you just showered, hair done, nails done. Two of your classes were cancelled tomorrow. Tomorrow was Friday. Life was great! Just as you were about to reach for your box of graham crackers, your phone buzzed. Lighting up and alerting you that it was indeed eight PM and someone texted you.

brochacho: hi pretty, you at your dorm?

you: good evening, and yes i am.

brachacho: good. i’m downstairs. come get me!

Your hand froze mid‑reach for the graham crackers, eyes darting from the notification to the door like he might magically materialize through it.

Downstairs? Now?

You quickly typed back, thumbs flying:

you: what do you mean you’re downstairs???

The three dots appeared almost instantly.

brochacho: literally downstairs. in the lobby. come get me.

Your pulse jumped. This wasn’t a text saying “hope you’re good” or “goodnight.” This was him—physically here—while you sat in pajama shorts with a crumb in your hand and a streamer yelling about measurements on your laptop. You scrambled up from the beanbag, nearly tripping over your blanket as you tried to get your bearings. Should you change? Brush your hair? Put on perfume? He hadn’t said why he was there. He hadn’t even asked if you were free.

Another buzz.

brochacho: don’t stress. i’m not kidnapping you. just wanted to see you before bed.

You swallowed, staring at the text like it might tell you what to do next. All you knew was your heart was hammering, and Riki Nishimura was in your lobby.

you: ok, give me a sec.

And without a second thought, you tidied your space. He’d never been here before, he only ever walked you to the building itself. You didn’t like surprise visits but shit, why not?

After folding your blankets and placing them on your bed, then spritzing some vanilla room spray, you held your racing heart. Taking deep breaths as you slipped on your baby pink crocs, grabbed your ID card, and deadbolted your door. You stepped into the hallway, the carpet soft under your feet, and exhaled slowly. The fluorescent lights above hummed faintly, casting long shadows along the walls. You could hear faint laughter echoing from down the hall; the muffled bass of music drifting up from somewhere in the building. Your heart was still hammering like a drumline, and every step toward the staircase made it beat faster.

Sliding your ID into your pocket, you gripped the railing as you descended the narrow steps two at a time. Normally, you’d take it slow, careful not to rush, but tonight, nerves and excitement propelled you forward. You peeked through the stairwell window down into the lobby, spotting him almost immediately. Riki was leaning casually against the front desk, arms crossed as he scrolled on his phone, hood down and hair a little tousled from the walk. The soft light from the lobby ceiling brushed over his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the way his eyes seemed to catch the gleam from the floor’s polished tiles.

He glanced up, and that small, knowing smile spread across his lips, the one that made your stomach twist and flip like it was auditioning for gymnastics. His eyes scanned the stairwell, catching yours as soon as you emerged, and a tiny spark of mischief danced in them. You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing pulse, adjusting the hem of your shirt like it would somehow make you appear composed instead of the jittery mess you felt like inside. The lobby seemed impossibly large all of a sudden, the echoes of your footsteps loud and exaggerated as you approached him. “What do you want?” You smiled as you reached in for a hug, how you always greeted each other.

He wrapped his arms around your shoulders, resting his cheek on the top of your head. “There’s that welcome wagon.” The vibrato of his voice rang through the lobby as it was muffled by your curls that always smelled like strawberries. “I come bearing gifts.” You hummed, pulling back but letting your hands linger on his thin waist that you were beyond envious of. “Isn’t that considered love-bombing at this stage?”

He snorted, “yes, but it’s not really a gift.” He reached behind him for a blue crocheted bag and held it up with a bright smile. “I brought dinner. I made some and didn’t wanna eat alone.”

“Nice,” you laughed softly. “But where’d you get the bag from? One of your other twenty girlfriends?” He rolled his eyes, “my baby sister likes to crochet and I stole it. Don’t tell her I said that.” He smirked, tucking the strap over his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world to stroll into your dorm with a handmade bag of food.

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head. “You made dinner? What, like, instant noodles level or are we talking chef Riki over here?”

He laughed, a low, warm sound that made your chest tighten. “I make a mean pasta salad.” You nod to the staircase door. “Good enough,” the door clicked as you swiped your ID card over the receiver. Riki followed behind you, reaching above your head to open the door for you as he closed it behind him. “You made that in your dorm kitchens?”

He shook his head but it wasn’t like you could see him. “Nah, I don’t live on campus. I thought you knew.”

You paused mid-step, turning on the landing to look at him. “Wait, what? You don’t live here?”

Riki tilted his head, a little amused at your wide-eyed reaction. “Nope. I’ve got an apartment off-campus. Closer to the gym, less noise. Plus, dorm showers? Couldn’t do it anymore.” He made a face like the very idea offended him. Your brows lifted as you kept climbing, crocs scraping against the concrete steps. “Hold on. You’ve been walking me back here all this time and then…what? Walking another fifteen minutes to your place?”

“Ten if I’m moving fast,” he corrected with a shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal. “It’s not that deep.”

Finally you both made it to your dorm—a place he hasn’t seen. Only little parts via video call. You hesitated at your door. The reality of it hit you—Riki Nishimura was about to see your room. Not the polished corners you’d shown him over FaceTime, not the carefully angled shots that hid the mess, but the whole thing. Every detail. Pushing the door open, you stepped aside to let him in first. He slipped past you without hesitation, and immediately the air felt heavier—his presence filling the small dorm like it was too much space for one person and not nearly enough for him.

His gaze roamed quickly but thoroughly. The string lights draped above your bed. The pile of books stacked on your desk. The blanket you’d folded too hastily, still a little crooked at the edges. He didn’t say anything at first, just kicked his shoes off by the door where he saw you had two other pairs lined up.

Riki had some manners.

“Finally, I get to see the whole thing.” He looked at you then back to the space, looking at the wall covered with photos by your bed. These he also hadn’t seen.

Some of these were photos of you and your family. Seemingly at your high school graduation. You had changed a lot since then, just by the looks of it. Your eyes were a little duller, but you looked happy to be out of there. “Who’s that?” He pointed to the tall boy that stood next to you in the photo. Darker skin, hair pulled back into cornrows as he was dressed in very casual wear. Shorts and t-shirt for the hot weather you graduated in.

You approached, leaning forward so you could see what he was referencing. “Oh!” You snorted, “that’s my little Bother.”

“Your who?” Riki smiled as he turned to you.

“Bother,” you repeated with a grin, shaking your head. “That’s Elijah, my little brother. So—brother, bother…it stuck when we were kids.” You nodded. “And he actually grew into it because he became the biggest pain in my ass.”

Riki laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he glanced back at the photo. “He doesn’t look little at all. Dude’s towering over you.”

“Tell me about it,” you groaned, folding your arms. “He hit his growth spurt at, like, thirteen and never stopped.”

“How tall is he now?”

You tilted your head in thought. “Huh…I couldn’t even tell you how old he is.” You shrugged, bursting out into laughter as you grabbed the crocheted bag and sat on the floor. “But he’s around your height? Maybe a little shorter.”

He followed you down to the rug, sitting parallel to you and crossing his legs into butterfly position.

Riki leaned back on his palms, studying you with that amused little glint in his eyes. “So what you’re telling me is there’s another version of me out there, just younger and genetically programmed to annoy you?” “Basically,” you said through a laugh, tugging the drawstrings of the bag open. “Except Elijah’s way louder, thinks he’s funnier than he is, and eats like he’s never seen food before.” You pulled out two plastic containers, setting them between you.

Riki snorted. “Sounds familiar. Pretty sure that’s just me with different branding.”

You shot him a look, biting back a grin. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself. He’s worse. But I think you two would get along, though.” “You think so?” he chuckled, reaching forward to help you peel off the lid of one container. A soft aroma of herbs and parmesan filled the air.

Laughing, you grabbed the two plastic forks he put in the bag. Someone came very prepared. “I know so, actually…” Pause. “Nevermind.”

“No, no, tell me.” He said softly, unzipping his hoodie and placing it next to him. “I’d love to hear about your family.” His tone made your stomach twist a little, but not enough for you to make him aware of the effect it had on you. “Elijah…” you snorted. “Actually wants to come to Decelis. You know…after he graduates high school?”

He nodded slowly, “okay? And that’s embarrassing?”

“Oh my gosh, no. No. Nothing about my brother is embarrassing, it’s just that…” You scrunched your nose as you twist your fork. “He’s a…big fan of yours.”

Riki blinked at you, mid-bite, his fork paused halfway to his mouth. “...A fan of mine?” His tone landed somewhere between amused and genuinely startled, his brows lifting as though he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or press you for details. You dragged your fork through the pasta salad, trying to play it off, but the heat was already creeping up your neck. “Yeah, like…he likes college basketball a lot already but he thinks that me attending school with and being in the same year as one of the top prospects is cool.”

He lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Man, your brother’s got way too much faith in me. But…that means a lot. More than I’d probably admit to his face.” He takes a bite of the pasta.

“Woah…” you furrow your brows. “Since when do you doubt your skills? He’s not saying anything different than anyone else does.” He chewed slowly, his gaze dropping to the plate as though your words weighed heavier than he expected. When he finally swallowed, his voice was softer, almost thoughtful. “It’s not that I don’t believe in what I can do,” he said, rolling his fork between his fingers. “I just…know how fast it can all go away. One bad game, one injury, and suddenly all that hype doesn’t mean anything.”

He lifted his eyes back to you, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a small smile that didn’t quite hide the seriousness in his tone. “So yeah, I guess I don’t let myself buy into it too much. Easier to laugh it off than start thinking I’m invincible, you know?” As grateful as you were that Riki was sharing a very vulnerable part of him for the very first time, you couldn’t help but think of yourself—as self absorbed as that is. You were beyond normal. Yes, you had your hobbies, friends, interests. But you never even realized the amount of pressure that Riki underwent each and every day.

His every move was watched by strangers. There wasn’t a moment that you walked beside him on campus and someone wasn’t greeting him or trying to get his attention. Some people even started doing the same for you seeing as you were now semi-associated with him. That alone bugged you. You let your fork rest against the edge of the container, your appetite forgotten for the moment. The realization pressed into you heavier than the warmth of the room—Riki didn’t just carry his own dreams; he carried the expectations of everyone watching him. And there were a lot of eyes.

It explained the careful way he handled himself, how even his jokes carried a twinge of deflection, how he managed to be approachable without ever letting people in too far. You’d brushed it off as confidence before, but now you saw the cracks. The weight of being Riki Nishimura wasn’t something you could ever fully understand, but sitting across from him, you suddenly wished you could take even a sliver of it off his shoulders. You shifted slightly closer, nudging the pasta container between you. “You know…” you started carefully, trying not to make your words sound like pity, “I may not be able to relate to that but I want you to know as…someone who genuinely cares about you…” You huffed, looking up as you picked your words carefully. “That you are so beyond talented. Like have you seen you play?” You laughed, reaching out to hold his free hand. “The Kyrie comparisons are not far-fetched.” For a moment, he just stared at your hand resting over his, fork frozen in mid-air again like he’d forgotten how to move. Then, slowly, the tension in his shoulders eased. His thumb brushed against your knuckles once, deliberate but subtle, almost as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to.

“I mean it. You’re absolutely undeniable and while I can only imagine how much pressure is on you, I never want you to forget to live in the moment. Nor forget who you are in the process.” For a beat, his gaze stayed locked on yours, the weight of your words hanging heavy in the air. The fork slipped quietly from his fingers, forgotten against the edge of the container. His hand stayed under yours though, warm and steady, like he was afraid to let go.

You gave his hand another squeeze, leaning in just a little closer. “Riki, you’re not just some highlight reel or a name on a scouting report. You’re…you. The guy who makes sure I eat, who shows up at my dorm with pasta salad in a crocheted bag, who can make me laugh even when I’m trying not to.” You smiled softly, your eyes searching his. “You’re already enough—more than enough—even without all the basketball.” His jaw tightened, like he was fighting something inside himself, but his eyes softened. That little spark of mischief you were used to seeing in him wasn’t there this time—just something vulnerable, raw. And a tinge of something you could only identify as guilt. But you didn’t see how that could apply to this situation. You didn’t pry further. Riki nodded, then smiled. It didn’t quite reach his eyes but he turned his hand beneath yours to grip it and brought it to his lips to press a kiss to your knuckles. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

Assuming this topic was just extremely touchy for him, you turned your hand to hold his cheek, lightly scratching his jaw. “No need for a ‘thank you.’” His eyes fluttered shut at the touch, like the simple act unraveled something tight in his chest. He leaned into your palm, faint stubble barely grazing your fingertips as his breath steadied against your skin. When he opened his eyes again, there was a quiet earnestness in them that made your stomach flip. “You make me sound so…saint-like.”

You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head. “Trust me, that’s the last word I’d use for your dumbass.”

—

As the night went on, you and Riki found yourself on your bed.

Nothing intense, nothing extreme. It was a twin XL, what could you really do? But despite that, you two both found some old movie that you’d seen a million times to watch on your projector.

The movie washed your walls in soft flickers of light, the dialogue barely audible under the quiet hum of the projector. Riki stretched out beside you, one arm folded behind his head, the other lazily draped near your side like he was claiming space without meaning to. The bed was laughably small for two people, every shift making the springs creak, but neither of you complained. At some point, you realized you weren’t even paying attention to the movie. Your cheek was pressed against his shoulder, his shirt soft under your skin, and his steady heartbeat beneath it was far more distracting than whatever was happening on screen.

“Hey,” Riki murmured after a while, his voice low, like even the characters on the screen didn’t need to hear. “Next time…you’re coming to my place. No offense to the twin XL, but it’s not exactly built for two.” You snorted, scooting closer as you wrapped your arm around his waist and leg over his hips. Riki stiffened for half a second at the sudden weight of you practically curling into him, then melted into it, his arm sliding instinctively around your shoulders. A grin tugged at his lips as he tilted his head down to look at you. “Oh, so you like being close, huh? You could’ve just said that instead of pretending the bed was the problem.”

You rolled your eyes, fighting the smile tugging at your own mouth. “Please. I’m just making the best out of limited square footage.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, pulling you tighter against his side, his fingers idly tracing circles into your upper arm. His free hand ran up and down your bare thigh—the warmth in his hand nothing compared to what was in the room.

The slow drag of his palm along your thigh sent a ripple of heat through you, his touch unhurried but deliberate, like he knew exactly what he was doing. The movie faded further into background noise, some distant murmur you couldn’t even pretend to follow. “You’re real quiet all of a sudden,” Riki teased, his breath brushing the top of your head. “What happened to all that smart talk about square footage?”

You tilted your chin up, lips twitching into a smirk despite the way your pulse betrayed you. “Maybe I’m conserving energy.” “Oh?” His thumb pressed lightly into your skin before trailing higher, testing the waters. His eyes flicked down to yours, the grin on his face softening just enough to make your chest tighten. “Energy for what, baby?”

The space between you felt paper-thin, your leg hooked over his hip pulling him closer with every breath. His shirt smelled faintly of laundry detergent and something undeniably him—the citrus smell you always caught a whiff of, and suddenly the twin XL didn’t feel too small at all—it felt like it was forcing you into a choice. His question lingered in the air, heavier than the blankets draped over you both. Your heart thudded against your ribs as if it were trying to answer for you. You tilted your face up toward him, close enough now that the glow of the projector painted his features in soft light—sharp jaw, lashes low but trained on you, lips just parted like he was waiting. For a beat, neither of you moved. The hum of the movie filled the silence, but you barely registered it. Then, like gravity had made the choice for you, you leaned in.

Riki met you halfway.

The kiss was unhurried at first, his lips brushing yours in the lightest graze, as though he was testing to see if you’d pull away. But you didn’t—you pressed back, your hand sliding up to curl into his shirt near his chest. That was all the confirmation he needed. His grip at your thigh tightened, pulling you closer, angling you so there was no space left between you. The kiss deepened almost naturally, like you’d both been holding your breath for weeks and finally let go. His hand slid higher on your thigh, steady but not rushed, while your fingers tugged lightly at the collar of his shirt, urging him closer. The twin bed creaked beneath the shifting weight, the closeness of it all making your pulse race.

Riki angled his head, mouth moving against yours with a hunger that surprised even him—like he’d been trying to starve this part of himself and finally gave in. Your hand brushed along his jaw, thumb grazing the faint stubble there, and he made a sound low in his throat that only pulled you deeper into him. He leaned up, turning to hover over you halfway, springs of the bed whining at the action. But then—just as the air between you turned sharp with heat—he stilled. His lips slowed, then parted from yours, lingering close enough that you could still feel his breath ghost across your mouth. His hand fell from your thigh to rest limply against the sheets, no longer holding you.

“Riki?” you whispered, confusion threading your tone.

He didn’t look away, though something flickered in his eyes—something heavy, almost mournful. He managed a small smile, the kind that didn’t reach as far as it should. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice rough around the edges. “Got a little carried away.” You searched his face, wanting to ask more, but the way his thumb brushed over your arm—gentle, reassuring—kept you quiet. He wasn’t shutting you out, not really, but whatever sat on his chest wasn’t something he was ready to spill. “Did something happ—”

Instead, he shook his head and pressed the lightest kiss to your temple, grounding, soft. “No, no, no, baby.” he said softly as the two of you were nearly nose-to-nose. “Nothing happened…” He smiled softly as he brushed a curl from your cheek, lightly letting his thumb brush on your lower lip. “Just…didn’t wanna ruin the moment, that’s all.” Your lips parted, ready to argue, to tell him he could never ruin a moment like this—but the way he looked at you stopped the words in your throat. There was a tenderness there, threaded with something heavier, something you didn’t dare press on in case it shattered the fragile quiet between you. So instead, you nodded faintly, your forehead brushing his as your breath mingled in the inch of space left between you. “You can…” you whispered, though your chest ached with the weight of everything unspoken. Riki’s hand left your lip to cup your cheek, his thumb smoothing over your skin like he was memorizing the shape of you. His smile lingered—gentle, almost apologetic—but his eyes softened in a way that made you feel like he saw you, really saw you, beneath all the noise.

He shifted, pressing another kiss to your hairline this time, lingering just long enough that you felt the sincerity tucked into it. “You want me to?” It seemed like every inch of you was melting into this old, creaky bed. That your literal bodily matter could act as a substitute for WD-40 if you both stayed like this. You’ve experienced intimate moments. Moments that made everything blur into background noise. And right now you heard nothing. Absolutely nothing despite the flickering projector and the soundtrack to the ending of 10 Things I Hate About You playing lightly. Yet all you heard was the pick up of your heart rate in your ears. And maybe your own breath. Despite that, you nodded without another word.

Riki leaned in slowly, kissing your cheek. Letting his pillowy lips get a different taste of you as his hand toys with your small hoop earring on your opposite ear. His touch was maddeningly careful, like he was savoring every second before it slipped away. His lips brushed along your jawline, feather-light, leaving a trail of warmth that had your breath hitching in your throat. You tilted your head instinctively, giving him more space, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as if anchoring yourself. Each kiss was deliberate, patient—not hungry like before, but reverent, like he was mapping you in a language only he knew. He lifts his head to look you in the eye. “Um…I was planning something for this but—” He let out a shaky laugh, his thumb brushing your cheek like he needed the grounding. “I feel like it’s something that I don’t want to hold out on anymore.” He cleared his throat, his eyes darting from yours to the pillow, then back again like the words were fighting him on the way out. “I was gonna do this all different—make it special, not, y’know, while we’re half-squished on a squeaky bed watching a rom-com—but…” His hand dropped from your earring to rest gently against your chest, right over your racing heartbeat. “But I can’t sit here and pretend I don’t already know what I want.” He paused, breath unsteady. “I want you. As my girlfriend.”

The room went impossibly still, the hum of the projector fading behind the weight of his words. His voice cracked a little on the last word, like even saying it out loud cost him something. His thumb slowed against your collarbone, tracing nothing in particular, a small, restless circle. He was still looking at you—not cocky, not teasing—just wide-eyed, waiting. The guy who could command a whole court with one look suddenly couldn’t seem to breathe until you spoke. “I’m not talking to anyone else,” he added softly, like a confession he’d been holding onto. “Haven’t been. Haven’t even wanted to. I just…don’t wanna assume anything about you. I don’t wanna ruin what we already have.” The way he said it was so un-Riki—tentative, careful—that it almost broke your heart. You could feel his pulse under your palm where you still held his hoodie, just as erratic as yours. You didn’t even realize you were smiling until you were; the kind of smile that cracked you open from the inside out. “Riki…” you murmured, sliding your hand up to the back of his neck, pulling him just a little closer. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

His brows pinched, nervous. “In a good way or…?”

“In a way where the answer’s already yes,” you said, your forehead brushing his. “Yes, I’ll be your girlfriend.” The tension bled out of him in an instant, his breath catching on a laugh that sounded like relief. He pressed his forehead fully to yours, eyes closing, and let out a long, shaky exhale before kissing you—slow this time, smiling against your mouth.

—

Four months later

—

Life has been very weird for you. Not weird, weird. Just different. Good different.

Your skin is clear, grades stellar, Yasmin, Bella, and Riki were in one piece and the weather has been decent.

Dating Riki hadn’t turned your life upside down the way you thought it might. It wasn’t all fireworks and Instagram-worthy grand gestures. Instead, it was quieter things—the way he reminded you to eat between classes, the way his hoodie always “accidentally” ended up in your laundry pile, the way his laugh sounded different when it was just for you. And somewhere between late-night study sessions and those walks across an ice-slick campus, you realized: this wasn’t weird at all. This was the new normal. And, surprisingly? You liked it.

A relationship with Riki was nothing like you thought it’d be. In some way he was right, you didn’t really know him. “Public, but private” wasn’t really the right phrase anymore. Riki made sure people knew—he held your hand in the quad, kissed you goodbye outside lecture halls, and didn’t even flinch when Yasmin pulled out her phone to record the two of you bickering like an old married couple. Everyone knew you were his, and he was yours. But still, the most meaningful parts weren’t the ones out loud. Sure, he’d tug you into his lap at parties without caring who saw, but it was the softer moments—the way he’d tie your scarf tighter against the cold, or slide his coffee across the table without asking because he knew you needed it—that stuck with you most. Dating Riki wasn’t about hiding or flaunting. It was about existing together, naturally, in public and in private, like there’d never been a time you weren’t in each other’s lives.

Obviously, your bond with him was different than that of yours with Yasmin and Bella’s. Of course because you weren’t romantic with the girls but the friendship aspect wasn’t the same. Yasmin and Bella were akin to sisters. Their love and friendship was unconditional, unwavering and greatly enough—you met them at freshman orientation and had been inseparable ever since. The funny little traditions you had. Getting breakfast together every day, even if it was just coffee and a bagel wolfed down before an eight AM class. Your group FaceTimes that always started as study sessions but somehow devolved into debating which professor was most likely to secretly live in the library. Movie nights in Yasmin’s dorm where Bella inevitably fell asleep twenty minutes in, curled up like it was her own personal bed. With Yasmin and Bella, it was easy, almost familial—like home in human form. With Riki, it was…different. Not better, not worse. Just its own kind of important. He didn’t fit into the category of “friend” or “family.” He was the exception. The outlier that made sense.

Riki was an exception. And you noticed that in almost every avenue he occupied that he was an exception. In anything he put effort toward, he had this sort of competitive spirit that he wanted to be a person that was remembered. Not in a loud, look-at-me way, but in the way he showed up, consistently, like he was determined to leave a mark. On the court, in class, even in the way he memorized the little things about you—your coffee order, your weird habit of doodling stars in the margins of your notes, the fact that you hated the word “moist” enough to dramatically gag every time someone said it. Being with him didn’t feel like you were keeping up with a storm or chasing after someone out of reach. It felt like he wanted you right there, beside him. Your mom called it the honeymoon phase and that very well may be true. But like everything with Riki, you tried to live in the moment. Which is bizarre seeing as you overthink everything else. Lately, the girls have been getting used to seeing him around a lot more. While Riki never wanted to overtake your life nor take time away from your friends, he at times found himself getting cool with them as well.

The girls and you stood at the waffle station like usual. Bella, as always, was overseeing the operation. Yasmin was yapping about something related to the bad Wattpad movie she watched last night.

“Dude,” you smiled. “What are you waffling about?” You nudge her with your elbow, snickering as you cover your mouth.

Yasmin froze, looking at you blankly. “You did not—”

“—yes, she did,” Bella cut in, shaking her head with mock disappointment. “Every morning, a new low.”

“Hey! Don’t hate me ‘cause I’m beautiful.” You snorted as you reached around her to grab the mini cups for the syrup. The pounds of syrup that Yasmin liked drenching her waffles in.

The brunette laughed, “we love you because you’re beautiful. But that shit just wasn’t funny.”

You sigh and wrap your arm around the girl, to which she instinctively rests her head on your shoulder, wrapping her arm around your waist. “You guys are fun-suckers.”

Bella snorted, already halfway through pouring batter into the waffle iron. “Please. We’re the only reason you’re tolerable before ten AM.”

You gasped dramatically, clutching your chest. “You wound me.”

“Good,” she said dryly, snapping the iron shut like she was sealing a deal. “Maybe it’ll stop the puns.”

Yasmin cackled at that, pulling back from your shoulder just enough to look you in the eye. “Nah, she thrives off this. You’d have to physically mute her.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Bella muttered, reaching for her coffee.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. The three of you moved like clockwork—Bella in charge of batter, you in charge of toppings, Yasmin handling the syrup like it was an Olympic sport. The waffle station wasn’t glamorous, but it was your spot. The one ritual you kept no matter how busy the semester got. That’s when you felt a familiar hand snake around your waist from behind. Riki leaned down, his breath warm against your ear. “Did I miss roll call, or are you guys planning breakfast without me again?”

Bella groaned without even looking up. “Speak of the devil.”

Riki gently turned you around to face him, taking the toppings from your grip as he leans in. “Hi baby,” placing his lips on yours gently as he moved a hand to rest on your jaw. His thumb grazing your cheek as you reciprocate. “Mm! I missed that.” You felt your cheeks warm instantly, caught off guard by how easily he could do that—just walk into your morning routine and make everything tilt a little. You tasted the faint sweetness of syrup on his lips, the smell of his cologne cutting through the waffle-station chaos.

“Riki,” you murmured against his mouth, a laugh caught in your throat. “You’re gonna make Yasmin drop the syrup.”

“I already did,” Yasmin deadpanned, though when you turned your head she was smirking. “Don’t mind me. Continue your public display of affection.”

Bella groaned dramatically, flipping a waffle with more force than necessary. “Please, at least let me finish cooking before you two start fucking next to the chocolate chips.”

Riki chuckled against your cheek, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “They’re jealous,” he whispered, his thumb still brushing your jaw. “Let them be jealous.”

You swatted at his chest lightly, though your grin betrayed you. “Please,”

And finally, the four of you sat at your usual corner table—Riki having tagged along like it was the most natural thing in the world. The dining hall buzzed with the Monday morning chaos of clinking trays and half-awake chatter, but somehow, your table felt like its own little bubble. Riki slid into the booth beside you, his knee brushing yours under the table, and immediately stole one of your strawberries without shame. You were used to it. Him stealing your food; like a tax, if you will.

“So what are y’all doing with your weekends?” You hum as you watch Riki cut your half of the waffle into pieces.

He perked up mid-cut, glancing at you with that spark in his eyes that always came out when basketball got brought up. “Ooh, we’re having an away game on Thursday,” he said, the words already carrying a hint of excitement. “It’s at Syracuse, so we’ll be gone for like…two nights, maybe three depending on how long Coach decides to torture us.”

Yasmin and Bella roll their eyes simultaneously. “Dude, ‘Cuse is the worst.” Bella sighed as she slumped back into her chair.

“You’re just a big ball of positivity this morning.” Riki hums as he feeds you a piece of waffle. Hovering his hand below it to catch any syrup that might’ve dripped onto his hand. You accept the food and nod, speaking through your chewing as you cover your mouth with your hand. “Yeah, what’s up with you? You’ve been acting like a buttmunch all morning.”

Bella groaned, stabbing at her strawberries like they’d personally wronged her. “I’m sorry guys, I just really don’t wanna go to that fucking game.” Riki wrapped his arm around your shoulder, pulling you close to his side as he leaned back into the cushiony seat. “‘Cuse is not that bad. They play dirty but that’s nothing we can’t get around.”

“Dirty?” You looked at him in confusion.

“Yeah,” Yasmin nodded as she sipped her apple juice. “Last season, they fouled one of the guys—Nicholas—so hard. He went for a layup and they shoved him. Fractured his wrist. It was crazy, I felt so bad.”

Your brows lifted, “no way. Did the ref even call it?”

“They did,” Riki sighed. “But at that point, what can you do? You suspend a player, he’s on the bench for the rest of the season—fine. But one of our players is benched indefinitely, has to go to PT for his wrist, he may not play the same, whatever—it was just so much worse for Nico.” He rolled his eyes as he recounted the events of the past. Stirring anger in his stomach as he remembers watching that happen. Bella shook her head. “Yeah, it was bad. It wasn’t like a life-altering injury or anything but it was so shitty on Syracuse’s part.”

“Well…what are you guys gonna do?” You sigh as you rested your hand on Riki’s muscly thigh and leaned your head on his shoulder.

Yasmin chimed in, “not much. There’s nothing we can do. I mean, their cheer team isn’t really a problem. They’re always super nice. It’s just the fuckass team that gives these guys issues.” She nods to Riki.

“So when do you guys leave?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Bella brought a raspberry to her mouth to chew, looking down at the threading of her skirt—her chewing halts suddenly. “Wait…”

Yasmin smiles brightly, “don’t. Because if we’re thinking the same thing then I’m for it.”

“Oh, we are thinking the same thing,” Bella said, setting her fork down with a little clink. “Babes, you should so come with us!”

You nearly choked on your drink. “Wait, what?” you coughed, slapping the table with your free hand. “You’re inviting me to Syracuse?”

Bella leaned forward, eyes sparkling with that dangerous “I have a terrible idea” kind of excitement. “Think about it. Road trip! We have to cheer anyway, eat gas station snacks, complain about hotel beds—”

“—get screamed at by Syracuse fans and possibly catch another stray basketball to the face,” You interrupted, waving her fork. “Yeah, super fun.”

Riki smacked his teeth. “Don’t even joke about shit like that.”

Bella laughed, flicking a crumb at him. “Relax, Captain Protective. She’s not gonna get decked by a ball again.”

“I’m not opposed to her coming.” Riki clarified, “obviously. But we all get to ride on the team bus, why would you waste your own gas?”

Yasmin grinned, already scheming. “Because we’re not on the team, genius. We’re with cheer, which means we have to take the spirit bus.”

Riki’s expression twisted. “The spirit bus? The one that smells like glitter and spray tan?”

You furrowed your brows as you leaned away from him, letting his arm fall back on the seat. “How do you know what the spirit bus smells like?” You ask him with suspicion—even mildly irritated.

Riki froze, eyes flicking toward you like a kid caught stealing snacks before dinner. “Huh?” he stalled, fork halfway to his mouth. “I mean…I’ve heard things.”

Bella immediately perked up, a wicked grin spreading across her face. “Heard things, huh? Or experienced things?”

Riki set his fork down, leaning forward defensively. “Okay, first of all, I was on there one time. One time. Coach made me grab the banner they left behind after homecoming, and it was like stepping into Candyland.”

You raised an unimpressed brow. “Mhm. So what you’re telling me is that you voluntarily stepped foot on the cheer bus, alone, to grab a banner.”

He pointed at you, shaking his head. “Don’t do that tone thing. It wasn’t like that.”

You squinted at him, “I’m not doing anything.”

“Ooh…” Yasmin murmured to Bella. “Boyfriend in trouble…” She sang as she shimmied her shoulders.

Riki smiled nervously, eyes darting between you and your two grinning friends. “No, no—don’t let her fool you. She’s trying to make this sound like some scandalous cheer bus rendezvous when I was literally in there for thirty seconds.”

Bella gasped dramatically. “Thirty seconds? That’s all it takes.” Yasmin nearly spit out her juice laughing. You pressed your lips together, trying to look serious but failing miserably as Riki’s ears started turning red. “Wow. I thought you’d last longer than that.”

Riki raised his brows in surprise. “Don’t get cute, baby.” He smiles as he feeds you a grape.

Yasmin and Bella gagged dramatically at the sight but decided to move on. The blonde grinned, leaning across the table. “Admit it, you were curious. You wanted to see how the other half lives.”

“The other half smells like hair spray and glitter glue!” Riki protested, groaning as you finally let out a giggle. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

You rested your chin on your palm, smirking up at him. “Maybe. It’s cute when you get defensive.”

“You,” He smiled as he pointed at you. “Are evil.”

You gasped in mock offense. “Evil? I prefer ‘charming,’ thank you very much.”

Riki leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms but fighting a smile. “Yes, mama—you are very charming but I’d rather you say like messing with me.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Maybe. But you make it so easy.”

Bella snorted. “Yeah, she’s got you wrapped around her finger, dude. It’s kind of embarrassing.”

Riki threw her a flat look. “You’re just mad ‘cause your waffles are hard as frisbees.”

“They were abstract,” Bella countered, stabbing one with her fork. “Fuck you, they’re still edible.”

Yasmin laughed so hard she nearly choked on her juice. “Yeah, okay, Picasso.”

You watched the three of them bicker, warmth flooding your chest. Riki didn’t just fit in with your friends anymore—he belonged there, like he’d always been part of the picture. The ease of it all made your heart do that stupid little flip it did whenever you realized how much you liked this boy.

—

Later that day

—

After some relenting, you decided to come with the girls to the game. It didn’t take much convincing.

But even then, something felt amiss.

Ironically, the day that Riki accidentally knocked you in the face with that ball—it unlocked some type of sixth sense. One where you could just feel, when your left cheek throbbed—that something was about to go left. Yasmin and Bella were making their way off the court and into the arena hallway. Practice was over and they were headed to the locker room to freshen up. As usual, Yasmin was buzzing, Bella was limping. How she hasn’t just quit the team yet, none of you know. As the girls guzzled water, they heard commotion coming from the men’s locker room. The sound was the usual post-practice banter. Laughter, some music echoing off the tile.

And for some reason, this was the one time the girls decided to be nosy. The guys were pumped after their own practice—adrenaline and testosterone running rapidly through the air. Towels were slung low on hips, sneakers squeaking against the wet tile, music blaring from someone’s speaker. The room smelled like victory and cheap body spray.

“Yo, Riki, be honest,” one of them called out through the steam, “you and that girl—what’s the deal?”

Riki, mid-laugh, froze with a water bottle halfway to his mouth. “What girl?” he asked, but the grin tugging at his lips already betrayed him.

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” another chimed in. “The one that’s always waiting after practice. The one with the big eyes. Cute face?”

The guys erupted into hollers and mock ‘oohs.’ Riki shook his head, trying—and failing—to bite back a smile.

Outside the door, Yasmin and Bella’s jaws practically hit the floor.

Yasmin whispered, “Oh, we are so not supposed to be hearing this,” but she leaned in closer anyway.

Bella, deadpan, muttered, “You mean you’re not supposed to. I’m locked in.”

You’d just arrived at the end of the hall when you saw them crouched near the door like undercover agents.

“...What are you guys doing?” you whispered.

Both girls whipped around, wide-eyed, trying and failing to look innocent. Yasmin gestured frantically. “Shh! He’s talking about you!” And just like that, your stomach dropped—and your left cheek started to throb again. You dropped your backpack to the floor as you crouched next to the girls. Stabling yourself against Yasmin as you held her shoulders.

Maki leaned against the opposite lockers, facing Riki with a smirk. “So you get any action yet?”

Riki scoffed, rolling his eyes as he turned to his locker—grabbing a clean towel to wipe his bare chest. “Is pussy all you guys think about?”

Some of the guys laughed, Maki included. “Well yeah, sometimes. Especially if I’ve got a girl and she hasn’t put out in the few months we’ve been together.” He whistles, antagonizing the point guard. “I hoped you’d score more than that.” Yasmin’s eyes widened so hard you thought they might fall out of her head. Bella smacked her arm, whisper-yelling, “Oh my god, he did not just say that—”

You didn’t even breathe. Every muscle in your body went rigid, eyes fixed on the thin crack of light between the door and the frame.

Inside, Riki let out a dry laugh, low and humorless. “You don’t know what I do, dumbass. Who do you think I am?”

If there was one thing that you knew about men, it was that it only took but so much to make them crack. They were easy. Toy with them, keep them on their toes. And you prided yourself on knowing Riki. His quirks like touching a doorframe before walking through. Scratching his jaw when he was irritated.

But you certainly knew his type: you. Because he told you. He made sure you knew through his words but action as well. He likes someone that he can upkeep a rapport with. A fun personality and a sharp mouth to match his. Someone who could keep up with him in a room full of noise, toss a jab back when he threw one first. You’d always joked that you were built to spar with him, not swoon over him. It amazed you, really. Because narrowing down the versions of Riki you saw, you knew that there was one side that you’d experienced up until this point wouldn’t make an appearance. The nasty, egotistical one.

Your cheek throbbed again.

“I think you’re better than this.” Maki laughed. “You’re whipped.” Snorting as he grabbed his towel to swipe Riki with it as the rest of the team followed. Spanking him with their towels as all of them shared laughs—Riki included. “Hey! Hey hey hey!” He straightened up as he shrunk into himself before. Laughing as he nudged the guys off. “I’m not whipped! Okay? You really think the Riki Nishimura, basketball extraordinaire is whipped?” He says dramatically, as if he’s some king giving a royal decree.

“Oh fuck…” Yasmin mumbled to herself in panic, hand feeling for yours as she gripped it tightly. But Riki kept going. “All these girls are the same, Maki.” He smiled—slickly, as he got closer to the shorter lowerclassmen. “Just another hole to fill and if you think I can’t get any then you’re as dumb as you look.” Riki’s eyes scanned the younger as he poked his forehead. “Let Big Bro show you something.”

You froze. Your stomach dropped into your shoes, and your left cheek throbbed—not just from the memory of the ball, but from the words echoing across the locker room. Yasmin’s grip on your hand tightened like she was trying to anchor both of you to reality. “Nope. Nope. Nope,” she whispered, her eyes wide.

Bella’s jaw had practically hit the floor, a mix of disbelief and shock frozen on her face. “What the fuck?” You didn’t even let yourself finish the thought. Riki’s swaggering smirk, the way he leaned over the younger guy, his words sliding out like they were rehearsed, hit you harder than any basketball ever could. This wasn’t the playful, teasing Riki you knew. This was calculated, confident, and…something darker. Something that felt like a stranger pretending to be the man you loved.

“Show me what? How to not get play?” Maki shook his head with a laugh. “You’re not that guy, trust me.”

“I’ll just keep doing what I’ve been doing.” Riki shrugged, “fucking around and winning.” Your stomach twisted. That laugh—the arrogance—it didn’t belong to the Riki you knew, the one who kissed and touched you like the prize you were, who stole your kiwi, who teased you just enough to make you laugh. This version was a performance. And part of you hated that you even recognized it, that it was still so convincingly him.

Yasmin leaned closer, whispering in your ear, “We should go…now.” Her hand squeezed yours like she was trying to pull both of you back to safety. You hesitated, eyes glued to Riki. He was laughing now, tossing the younger guy a smirk like it was all a game. The energy was intoxicating, magnetic, but it made your chest feel tight. You wanted to call him out, to make him stop—but at the same time, you were frozen, caught somewhere between anger, disbelief, and the part of you that still loved him fiercely. Yasmin’s voice broke through again, urgently. “Seriously, we’re leaving before this gets worse.” But how could it? You let her tug you gently, glancing back at Riki one last time. His grin was still there, but now it was softer, more familiar. And somehow, that made your chest ache even more, caught between relief and frustration.

—

The three ended up in Bella’s dorm, which was the closest to the arena. You knew you couldn’t make it all the way to your dorm without breaking down.

Once the door clicked shut behind you, the chaos of the arena felt miles away. The muffled sounds of the men’s locker room were replaced by the faint hum of the radiator and the soft creak of the dorm floorboards. Yasmin dropped onto Bella’s bed with a dramatic groan, clutching her water bottle like it was a life preserver. You sank onto the edge, hands pressed to your face as you tried to steady your breathing. The image of Riki—the conceited, dark version of him—kept flashing in your mind. It wasn’t that you doubted him. You knew him. You thought you did. But that side, that…performative dominance? It was a reminder that there were layers of him you hadn’t touched, weren’t sure you ever would. And then the floodgates came down.

Grabbing one of her pillows, you buried your face as sobs racked through your chest. Yasmin and Bella froze for a moment, exchanging a glance that said without words: do we intervene, or give her a second?

Yasmin was the first to react, gently kneeling beside you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Hey…hey, it’s okay,” she murmured, her voice soft but firm. “Breathe. Just breathe.” You couldn’t stop the shaking, couldn’t stop the tears that spilled into the pillow. “I…he’s…he’s not just…he’s…” Your words stumbled and fractured, barely audible. The part of you that tried to rationalize, to ground yourself in months of trust and tenderness with Riki, felt useless against the image of the stranger-like version of him.

Bella joined in, kneeling on the other side and grabbing your hands gently. “I got you,” she said simply. “We’ve got you. Nothing he did—or who he was being in there—changes the fact that we’re gonna be here for you every step of the way.” Your body trembled against them, the sobs coming in uneven waves. Yasmin rested her chin on your shoulder, humming softly like she had when you were a kid after a nightmare. Bella squeezed your hands, her eyes warm but steady. Together, they anchored you, a living reminder that the world wasn’t just Riki and his shadows.

After what felt like an eternity, the sobs slowed. Your chest heaved as you tried to suck in air, finally lifting your face from the pillow to see their concerned, gentle expressions. “I…thank you,” you whispered, your voice raw. “I just…I knew it, bro.” You punched your palm in frustration. “My parents fucking told me.” Your voice wavered as warm tears ran down your face. “I should’ve listened to my fucking gut!” Yasmin’s arms tightened around you, her voice steady despite the worry in her eyes. “Hey, hey…shh. No blaming yourself. None of this is on you.” She rubbed small circles into your shoulder, comforting you like she always did.

Bella nodded firmly, her grip on your hands unyielding. “Exactly. You’re not responsible for him being…whatever that was. You’ve been trusting, you’ve been patient—that’s all you could do. And yeah, maybe your gut had warnings, but you didn’t listen—so what? You’re a human being.” You pressed your face back into the pillow, muffling a sob, but the two of them stayed right there, unwavering. The warmth from Yasmin on one side, Bella on the other, felt like the only solid ground in a storm that had your world tilting.

“Hey.” Bella continues firmly, bringing your face up to look at her. Her blue eyes locking with your own eyes. “Fuck that guy. If he wants to speak about you in such a disgusting, deplorable way to stroke his own ego—by all means. But that doesn’t make or break you. It only says something—everything—about him.” You blinked through the tears, letting her words sink in, heavy and grounding all at once. The anger bubbling in your chest mingled with the ache, a strange but familiar cocktail. “Yeah…yeah, you’re right,” you murmured, your voice cracking slightly. “It’s not me. It’s…him.” Yasmin squeezed your shoulder, her grip firm, unyielding. “Exactly. And we’re not letting that bullshit stick to you. He can act like a fool all he wants—doesn’t change who you are, or what you deserve.” Bella gave a small, almost fierce smile, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. “You are not defined by what some guy tries to pull, okay? Not Riki, not Maki, not anyone. You’re solid. You’re smart. You’re funny. You’re a fucking—you’re absolutely stunning. A smoke show. And—fuck it—you’re ours. And we don’t let anyone talk down to our girl.”

You let out a shaky laugh, more release than humor, leaning into their warmth. “I—I just…God, I hate that it stings.” “And it will,” Yasmin said softly, but firmly. “For a second, for a day, maybe even a week. But that’s fine. You feel it, then we leave it there. You don’t have to deal with it alone. Not now, not ever.” The room fell quiet for a moment, save for your uneven breaths and the soft hum of the radiator. And in that silence, you realized something—this wasn’t just comfort. This was armor. Solid, unbreakable, built of friendship and love that no locker room bravado could ever touch. And instead of making you feel some sense of support, love, security—it sent the wrath of the devil through you.

The signs were there from the beginning, the chasing, the bombarding his way into your life. The hesitance during the first kiss. The trying so hard to make you like him then laying it on thick—it was all right in front of you. You let him encroach on your girl time—the fact that you even let him get close to the two most important people in your life felt like betrayal in itself. Like you handed him the keys to your sanctuary and he just stomped through it. Blows to your pride were something you didn’t take lightly and this was something you couldn’t just swallow. What about your feelings? What about the other, maybe, dozens of girls he’d used like a tissue and tossed to the bin?! You were sick and tired of seeing so many girls and women—people—fall victim to assholes like Riki Nishimura.

Just another hole? Fine. You need retribution. And you need it now.

Heat turned to ice in your veins and something in you snapped neat and clean—not a sob this time, not a plea. A cold, focused fury rose up, quiet and terrible. You didn’t want a meltdown anymore.

“I’m going to ruin his life.” You mumbled to yourself as your jaw clicked. “I’m going to make him wish he never met me.”

Yasmin and Bella froze, giving each other looks. Before Yasmin spoke up, “hey…” She cleared her throat. “Let’s ease up, okay? You’re upset and—”

You sit up straight, getting up from the bed as you angrily paced back and forth. “No. I’m fucking livid. I mean who does this dickhead think he is?! Me?! Nothing but a fucking hole to fuck when he’s the one that damn near—no—begged me to even talk to him?” As the two girls looked at you, both of their expressions differed. Yasmin, like always, led with her heart. Her gentle features framed by her curtain bangs, she was always the one to consider someone before anything. The friend that would give her last meal if it meant you ate. The person that would sit on the phone with you for hours just to hear you vent if it meant that it’d help you.

Bella led with her brain. Her wavy hair was out of her face, wearing her emotions for you to see plainly. She had such a knack for getting the both of you out of sticky, overthink-y situations. She’d tell you when you were being ridiculous but would dive in the deep end with you if you so chose. And yet, they looked at you just as one would expect. Yasmin was on the verge of tears herself, her eyes brimming as her lips pouted. Seeing you this unhinged was so beyond her and she shook her head, looking down at her own hands.

Bella was locked, though. Her sharp features rested calmly though her jaw was set. Which made sense. Someone does something outrageous, she’s upset. That makes sense. “Okay,” she said finally, her voice steady in that way that made you want to either hug her or throw something. “Then what’s the plan, genius? You gonna torch his car? Leak something? Because as much as I’d love to see that boy panic for once in his life, I think you want something smarter than that.”

Her calmness only made your pulse pound harder. You wanted movement. Consequence. You wanted Riki’s name to taste like ash in every mouth that said it. But even as the fury roared, Bella’s words dug in—she wasn’t dismissing you. She was challenging you to make it count. Yasmin stood, wiping under her eyes and grabbing your arm gently. “You’re hurt, dude. Like, badly. And that’s okay. But if you do something you can’t take back, you’ll regret it—and he’ll still win. You’re better than this. Don’t stoop to his level.”

“Or what, Yas? Just let him give me his ass to kiss?” You shrugged, laughing humorlessly. “I—”

“Dude, just break up with him! Call it quits. But you don’t have to try to ruin his entire—”

“Look,” Bella stood up as she chimed in. “In some way, Yas is right. While I’d love to see his life ruined—stooping lower doesn’t exactly do you any favors. Because then what? Guys get off easy, you know that. You’d just be the bitter, scorned lover and would have an entire fan base and university hate you. Is it worth that?” She said carefully.

You stared at her like she’d just said something in another language. “So I’m supposed to just…what? Move on? Pretend he didn’t just violate like that?”

Bella exhaled, pinching the bridge of her nose. “No. I’m saying—you play it smart. He wants you to be emotional. He wants drama because it makes him look composed. Don’t give him that. If you’re gonna do some shit then just know that I don’t condone it. But…” She pursed her lips as she cleared her throat. “I’m down. What are we doing?” Yasmin looks at Bella like she has three heads. “Are we being serious right now?” Then looking back at you. “Hello? Am I speaking a language you don’t understand? Just dump the guy, it’s not worth it—I’m telling you!” She held your arms as she looked at you—pleading. “You may be hot now but I’m telling you —mark my words—you will regret it.”

“Then let me,” you shrug, “look, I’m not gonna kill him or anything.”

Yasmin blinked, her nostrils flaring as she loosened her grip on your arms. Leaning back as she let out a breath. “…Fine. But I still vote you dump him and skip the theatrics. I do not want to be in a courtroom later.”

“Oh stop it, Yasmin.” Bella smacked her teeth as she waved her off. “She’s just going to fuck with him a little probably.”

“Exactly,” you nod. “I have ideas…but I’m not gonna break up with him.” You smiled deviously, “I’m just going to throw him off his game.”

—

“Are you sure you don’t wanna come, mama?” Riki frowned as he stood by his apartment door.

The Syracuse game was tomorrow and the basketball and cheer teams were leaving in t-minus one hour. Since both your friends and Riki invited you to come along, you figured you’d stay behind. For obvious reasons. “I’m sure, baby.” You sighed as you leaned against the door. “I have a presentation for my Ethics class that I’ve hardly started. I gotta lock in.”

The tall man nudged his suitcase away, “are you sure? You’re more than welcome to come.” He steps forward, grabbing your hands as he kisses them. Making his way up your wrists and it took everything in you not to vomit in your mouth. “You know I play better with you there.” “Sorry, but I really can’t. If I miss this deadline, I could fail. It’s a major assignment.” You shrug a shoulder. “You know how it is…”

Riki nods, “I do, mama, you know I do.” He pouts as he lets go of your arm and pulls you into a hug. “Well…” He exhales dramatically. “I’ll miss you. And I left you the key and my card on the counter. The place is yours.” He leaned down to peck your lips to which you reciprocated. Kissing Riki at this juncture contested your morals. Half of you felt bitter, the other sweet. That the recollection of his words then and now threw you for a loop. You battled with hating him with your brain but loving him with your body. You cupped his face as you tilted your head into the kiss. Lips gliding across his as smacking reverberated throughout the quiet pad. He hummed into the exchange as his hands rested on your ribcage, just below your breasts. Sliding down to your waist but you pulled back before he got any ideas.

“I’ll call you. I wanna hear all about your night, okay?” Riki kissed your knuckles again like he was sealing a promise and then he was gone—suitcase rolling, keys jangling, the door shutting with that small finality that suddenly made the apartment feel way too big. You stood there an extra beat, breathing out the sight of him walking away down the hall, feeling that weird cocktail of relief and venom fizz in your gut. You locked the door and immediately got to work. You started with something simple.

Going to the fridge, you shuffled through the fridge for his protein shakes and green juices. And without a second thought did you gather them all along the counter. You lined every bottle up like little soldiers about to meet their maker. Vanilla whey, chocolate whey, matcha greens, the ominous “superfuel” one that smelled like spinach and dirt. Every one of them—fuel for his precious pregame routine, the routine he swore by. The same routine he’d bragged about perfecting since middle school.

You grabbed the first bottle.

Twist, breaking the seal with a crack. Pour. Down the sink it went, a depressing brown waterfall glug-glug-glugging into the drain.

It felt like sex.

You didn’t stop there. One by one, you emptied every single drink. Protein? Gone. Greens? Gone. That weird probiotic mango kefir he always insisted “was life-changing?” Down the pipes like it was nothing.

By bottle five, you were humming. By bottle nine, you were laughing. By bottle thirteen, you were leaning your weight on the counter like, wow, I’m actually unwell. But oh, it felt good. When you were done, the counter looked like a crime scene. Caps everywhere. Empty bottles lined up like trophies. The sink foam-green from the mixture of whatever the hell he’d been consuming. You rinsed the sink out of the mess, gathered the bottles in a garbage bag to take out—not leaving a trace. You wiped your hands on a dish towel, chest rising and falling as the first hit of petty victory lit your veins.

Step one complete. Sabotage the routine.

Step two?

You opened the pantry. Protein powder. Pre-workout. Hydration packs. Then, you took the pre-workout and loosened the lid by half a turn. Just loose enough that, when he inevitably grabbed it in a rush, the powder would pop out in a satisfying puff—onto him, the counter, the floor.

Your phone buzzed.

angel: what’s the status, brittany snow?

You: all the bodily fluids GONEEE

pretty princess: girl PLEASE what does that even mean

You: his nasty ass shakes

pretty princess: EEEYUCK ???

angel: LMFAOOO

You smiled, pocketing your phone.

You walked into his bedroom next—the sanctum. Neat, annoyingly neat. Bed made. Shoes lined up. Posters straight. Laundry basket empty.

Perfect. You didn’t have to destroy anything. You just…shifted.

Nothing too far—just enough out of place that he’d be tearing the room apart in thirty minutes. His practice hoodie? You folded it and tucked it under the bed. His favorite beanie? Behind the headboard.

Small inconveniences. It’s all super silly, but throwing someone out of their rigid routine meant a lot more than one thought.

Then you opened his nightstand drawer and saw it.

The Polaroid of you he kept. The one from your second date. Crooked, sun-washed, you laughing with your face turned away from the camera. You simply flipped it faced down.

That was enough. He’d open the drawer and know something had shifted.

And then, for the finishing touch, you slid a sticky note onto his mirror. hi baby, did some cleaning up <3

You stepped back to survey the apartment—quiet, calm, meticulously disturbed.

A masterpiece of emotional warfare.

You dusted off your hands and whispered to yourself, almost sweetly:

Your cheek didn’t throb this time. It pulsed.

You weren’t done.

Not even close.

— Two days later

1 Missed Call from Riki

riki: baby what happened to all my shakes and juices…?

you: can’t call, in class rn what do you mean?

riki: sorry mama but i got back to the crib and i saw that all of my juices were gone did you clean?

you: yeah i left a note, sorry idk why i didn’t just text you that i cleaned up lmao ??

You stared at the blinking cursor, tongue poking into your cheek as you imagined him standing in front of his open fridge, hands on his hips like somebody’s stressed single mother. Perfect.

riki: ok but like all of my juices? every single one?

you: …why does that matter?

Three dots. Then none. Then the message bubble disappeared like he was pacing around his kitchen trying to form a coherent thought with no electrolytes in his bloodstream.

riki: i’m not mad, baby just confused they were FULL bottles did you throw them away??

You leaned back against the couch, laughing as you snuggled into your duvet.

you: yeah, they were old. dates looked weird. didn’t wanna risk expired protein diarrhea in my lover <3

Another long pause.

riki: babe those were bought THREE DAYS AGO like t h r e e d a y s a g o ??

you: oh. baby i’m so sorry.

There was something deeply satisfying about imagining him standing there, fridge light illuminating the disbelief on his face, probably blinking like he’d been smacked with a baguette.

riki: ok…it’s fine…it’s fine i’ll just get more in the morning before shootaround it’s cool

Liar. You could smell the stress through the phone.

you: you good? you seem stressed

riki: no i’m good i gotta go to team meetings rn but can i call u later? want ur voice before i sleep, or maybe u could sleepover

You stared at the message. You could almost feel the shift—like he was trying to recalibrate, shake off the unease creeping under his skin.

you: we’ll see. depends on my workload.

Saying that but you know damn well you’re going to sleepover.

riki: …ok i love you

You typed. Erased. Typed again.

you: love you too

You locked your phone, letting it drop onto your thigh as the familiar pulse flickered through your left cheek. That tiny, electric reminder of what started all this.

—

Later that day

—

“Goodnight, mama.”

“Night, baby.” You smiled as you leaned over, pressing a kiss to Riki’s lips as he sighed into it. He ran his hand down your back as he broke the kiss to press a smooch to your cheek. “I love you forever.” He mumbled against your cheek. “You love me?”

You rolled your eyes, chest burning with anguish and resentment. But you had to keep the ruse. “Mhm,” turning your face to peck his jaw as you found he looked at you. Resting his hand on your cheek as his chocolatey eyes melted at the sight of you under the warm light. And somehow, seeing him—seeing him look at you in this way almost entrapped you again. Made you remember who he was to you. The pop-ups with dinner, the random dates, the proud affection he gave you. But it was just that. Because what happened? What did you do? Where did you go wrong? And how was he just able to turn it on and off that way? You saw the glint in his eyes, the way he slightly towered over his junior in the locker room as he degraded you for tens of other people to hear. As humiliating as it is, he knew you’d have to be around those same people. Greeting them, sitting courtside and cheering them on. It was almost sociopathic.

“Good. Because I love you even more.” He leaned in to peck your lips repeatedly. “Push me off or I won’t leave these lips alone.” He purred, bringing his hand to your jaw.

You smiled, returning them before you pulled back and he let you. “Go to sleep, casanova.” Riki grinned—soft, lazy, stupidly in love—like the world outside that bedroom didn’t exist. Like he hadn’t gutted you less than a week ago without even knowing he held the knife. He lay back, tugging you down with him until your foreheads brushed and his thumb stroked your cheek with that reverent tenderness reserved for saints and girlfriends. Not holes.

“Mm…I’ll sleep if you kiss me one more time,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded, voice dipped in honey. “C’mon, mama…just one.”

He was so close you could feel every breath, warm and even, laced with trust so blind it felt like a dare. You huffed a soft laugh, leaning in, letting your lips graze his—barely there, feather-light. Just enough to sell it. Just enough to keep him wrapped in the version of you he thought he owned. His lids fluttered shut like it was instinct, like your touch was the last thing he needed to sleep.

He whispered it again, softer this time. “Love you. Forever.”

The words slid under your skin like ice.

You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the edge of his mouth as he nuzzled into your palm like a spoiled cat. You gave him your warmest smile—sweet, sleepy, harmless. “Goodnight, baby.” He sank into the pillow with a little satisfied exhale, reaching blindly for your hand like he couldn’t fall asleep without it. His fingers threaded through yours, grip loose and trusting. Within a minute, his breathing evened out, lashes still against his cheekbones, lips parted just a little.

Peaceful. Completely unaware.

You watched him for a long moment—watched the soft rise and fall of his chest, the slow flutter of his fingers as they loosened around yours, the way his features looked almost boyish in dream-light. The version of him he let you have. The one no one else got.

The one he weaponized behind your back.

Your smile faded the second his breathing confirmed he was fully under.

You slipped your hand from his, slow and soundless. Sat up. Watched him one last time—because you needed to—then stood.

His phone glowed faintly on the nightstand, screen half-lit from a notification.

You snuck over, bare feet silent on the floor. Up close he looked smaller, somehow—all that swagger folded into the slow rise and fall of sleep. Your hand hovered for a second, then moved without drama: you pulled the cable from the phone. The charger came free with a soft click that sounded way louder in the hush than it should have. The phone screen blinked, then dimmed to black as charging stopped. Then you quietly placed the phone on the floor between the bedside table and bed. So you could suggest that maybe just maybe, it fell while he was asleep.

There was no time for you to feel bad. No space for you to have any regard for him and his feelings. You slipped back into your side of the bed, lifting the comforter just enough to slide under without shifting the mattress. Riki didn’t even twitch—just mumbled something incoherent and rolled slightly toward your now-empty hand, searching for it in his sleep. The kind of soft instinct that once melted you.

Now it just hardened your resolve. You settled onto your pillow, facing him. His lashes brushed his cheeks, his dark hair fell messily over his forehead, and the corners of his mouth were relaxed—none of that locker-room arrogance, none of that cruel swagger. Just a boy sleeping.

Your cheek pulsed again. You breathed out slowly, quietly. No hesitation. No guilt. If anything, a sharp, wicked satisfaction bloomed low in your chest. He’d wake up groggy, confused, panicked from oversleeping, trip over his own excuses. Miss warmups. Piss off his coach. Maybe his whole rhythm would be off for the rest of the day. And it wouldn’t be traced back to you. Cute.

You turned your head on the pillow, watching the faint glow of the digital clock on the wall.

11:23 PM.

Plenty of time before he needed to wake up.

Plenty of time for his phone—now unplugged and hidden—to drain just enough.

You shifted slightly, the bedsprings creaking faintly. Riki moved too, instinctively throwing an arm over your waist, pulling you back into him with sleepy strength. His breath warmed the back of your neck.

If someone walked in, they’d think this was love.

But you stared straight ahead, eyes open, awake and focused, your mind already sketching the next domino to tip.

—

The morning was a quiet, serene one. The sun’s grace poured through the windowpane as it painted the bedding in gold, catching on the dust motes swirling lazily in the air. The apartment was warm, still, the way it only ever was when fall-winter sunlight decided to be nice for once. Riki shifted behind you with a soft groan, his arm tightening for a second before he blinked himself awake. You didn’t move—just breathed evenly, eyes half-closed like you’d been asleep, not wide awake planning the trajectory of his downfall. “Mmm…what time is it…?” he mumbled, voice low and raspy with sleep. One of those sounds that used to make your stomach turn to lava.

Now it curled your lip.

He reached over your waist, patting blindly along the nightstand until his hand hit nothing but wood. He frowned, still groggy, lifting his head to look. “Huh?”

Your lashes fluttered open just enough to watch him through the tiniest sliver.

He pushed himself up onto an elbow, hair sticking in every direction. “Where’s my phone…?”

You stretched slowly, selling the morning softness. “I don’t know,” you yawned, rubbing your eyes. “You tossed and turned like crazy.” He blinked, confused. “Did I?” He leaned over the edge of the bed, eyes widening slightly when he spotted the phone wedged between the table and frame—exactly where you left it.

“Oh. Damn.” He grabbed it, pressing the side button.

Nothing.

He held it down longer.

Still nothing.

“What the—” his brows furrowed. “Baby, it’s dead? It was charging.”

You sat up, pulling the blanket around your shoulders like you were just as confused as him. “Did the cable come out? You know that outlet is loose.”

Riki shoved the cord into the phone again and flipped it over—and the second he saw the blank battery symbol flash and disappear, panic lit his whole face. “Oh shit—what time is it?!” He scrambled, grabbing the digital clock on the nightstand like it held the secrets of the universe.

07:42 AM.

Workouts were at six.

Scrimmage started at seven-thirty.

His entire body went rigid. “Baby, baby—fuck, I’m late—Coach is gonna fuck me up—”

You let your expression twist into perfectly curated worry. “Oh my god, Riki—go! Hurry, go!” He shot out of bed, nearly tripping as he yanked on sweatpants with one leg still tangled. His heartbeat practically pulsed through the apartment as he raced around, grabbing his duffel, portable charger, shoving random shirts inside, searching frantically for his warmup jacket. Scrambling through his closet, throwing shirts and pants off the rack and onto the floor. “What the fuck?! Where’s my fucking sweater?”

“What sweater, baby?” You yawned as you stood up, your socks hitting the carpeted floor. “My purple Decelis fleece? The one—nevermind I don’t have time.” He turned back around to grab a random, black pullover. You padded into the kitchen with the blanket still around your shoulders, half-yawning, half-smirking into the fabric where he couldn’t see. Behind you, you heard the frantic gargling, toothbrush clattering into the sink, the thud of cabinet doors closing too hard.

You opened the fridge, all innocent-like, and pulled out the protein pancake mix he loved—the one he always made on game days for “optimal energy.” You set it on the counter on purpose, knowing damn well he wouldn’t have the time to use it, but the sight alone would salt the wound. “Baby—!” Riki called through toothpaste foam, stumbling out of the bathroom, hair a wild disaster. “Have you seen my arm sleeve? The black one with the—fuck—never mind—”

He barreled past you, nearly knocking into the counter as he tore through the drawers. You stepped aside, clutching your blanket tighter, doing a very convincing impression of a sleepy, supportive girlfriend instead of the overseer of operations. The puppet master. “You want me to make you a quick smoothie?” you asked sweetly, batting your lashes like breakfast was even possible.

He huffed, chest heaving. “No—I—shit—I don’t have time.” He dropped to his knees to search under the couch. “Coach is gonna kill me. He’s literally gonna kill me.”

You peeked over the edge of the counter. “Did you check the rack by the door?”

“For what?!” His voice cracked in panic as he scrambled back to his feet.

“Your arm sleeve.”

Riki sprinted to the entryway—and there it was. Right next to his shoes. Propped neatly. Like a little gift.

“Oh my god,” he gasped, shoving it into his duffel. “I love you—I literally love you—” You smiled softly, touching your chest like his words warmed you instead of making your stomach curdle. “I know, baby. Don’t forget your protein powder.” You hugged the blanket closer to you.

He groaned, “you’re right.” He brushed past you and to the cabinet. Opening it quickly and reaching for the tub by the lid. And before he could make another step, it was like it started snowing. With a clatter and thud, the tub hit the counter before its contents spilled all over the floor.

A cloud of chalky white billowed up like a blizzard in a snow globe someone had just punted across the room. Protein powder went everywhere—on the counter, the floor, his socks, your socks, the air itself. It was a crime scene. A lactose-based natural disaster. A winter wonderland from hell. Riki froze mid-motion, one hand still gripping the lid, the other suspended like he wasn’t sure whether to catch the explosion or just accept defeat. His pupils blew wide with pure, uncut panic.

“…No.” He whispered it like a prayer, a curse, and an obituary all at once. “No, no, no—bro, what the fuck—”

You gasped, covering your mouth with both hands. “Oh my god!” Your hands smothered your laugh, your chest caving in nearly gave you away.

“I don’t—shit—fuck—WHY IS IT SO FULL?!” He coughed violently as the powder puffed straight into his face, coating his lashes and settling in his hair like freshly fallen frost.

You rushed forward, blanket trailing behind you like a cape of sympathy. “Oh—don’t breathe, don’t breathe—okay, wait, no—do breathe—you need oxygen—” He spun in a frantic circle, slipping slightly on the powder-covered tile. “Coach is gonna kill me and I look like I just got baptized in whey protein! I can’t—baby, I can’t—”

“Riki,” you said softly, reaching out to brush some of the powder from his cheek. “It’s okay. Just…wipe it off. You still have time.”

“No I fucking don’t.” He grabbed the edge of the sink and leaned over it like he was about to weep. “I’m already late. I was meant to be there—” he squinted at the blinking oven clock through his snowstorm bangs, “—FIFTEEN minutes ago!”

“Don’t yell at me!” You brushed your socks off. “It’s not like I made you late for practice for the first time in—”

“Never! I’ve never been late.” He wiped his face aggressively with a dish towel, leaving streaks that made him look like he’d been lightly dusted by a pastry chef. Powder still clung to his hoodie, his sleeves, the entire front of his body like static made of sadness.

He gave one last distressed look around the kitchen, defeated. “I—fuck—okay—no shake today—I don’t need it—I’ll eat a banana or some shit—oh my god—”

You did your best wide-eyed, supportive girlfriend impression. “You’re gonna be okay. Just go! Talking to me about it does nothing.”

Riki nodded once—shaky, determined, a man on the brink—then darted back toward the door, leaving a trail of protein footprints behind him. Before he left, he popped back in, pressed a powder-scented kiss to your forehead, and whispered: “Love you—lock up when you leave—text you later—please pray for me. Leave the mess, I’ll clean when I get back.”

And then he was gone again, bolting down the hallway like a man fleeing a crime scene.

When the door shut, the powder finally settled.

And so did your laughter.

Pulling out your phone, you figured a group FaceTime was underway.

You wiped a tear from the corner of your eye—not from sadness, but from laughing so hard your ribs hurt. The kitchen looked like the inside of a snow globe that had been shaken by a toddler with vengeance issues. And the image of Riki sprinting out the door, looking like the Ghost of Christmas Past, would feed you for weeks. Still snickering, you reached for your phone, thumbing open FaceTime and tapping on the group chat with Yasmin and Bella: The Holy Trinity™.

It rang twice.

And then both girls appeared on your screen in chaotic split view—Yasmin in her bonnet, mascara smudged under her eyes like she’d just woken up or cried or both, and Bella with her hair clipped back, already slurping iced coffee like it was noon instead of seven-something in the morning. “Oh my gosh,” Bella groaned, squinting at your background. “Why does it look like you’re filming from inside a cocaine factory?”

“Bro,” Yasmin choked, leaning closer to the camera. “Is that snow? Did it snow in his kitchen? Why is there…why is there powder on your tits—”

You burst into another fit of laughter, nearly dropping the phone. “Guys—guys, wait—he dropped the tub of protein that I placed.”

Bella’s jaw dropped. “No. No, don’t lie to me. Tell me he looked stupid.”

“So fucking stupid,” you said proudly. “He looked like Frosty the Snowman on creatine.” You chuckled, flipping the camera to reveal the catastrophe. Bella screamed. Not yelled—not gasped—she let out the kind of shriek that could summon emergency services. Yasmin laughed so loud that the microphone didn’t even pick up the sound. They couldn’t see you laughing though the camera shook as you tried to get ahold of yourself. “Oh shit…this is way more fun than I thought.” You wiped a tear from your eye as you flipped the camera back to yourself. “Guys…he said ‘please pray for me’ before running out the door. Like he was going to war. Like he was going to send me letters from the trenches or something.”

“Ooh, what else is there?”

—

As a result of the last two weeks of torment you put Riki through, you’ve been nothing but happy to see him slowly become a fragmented, mildly skittish and paranoid shell of himself. And you didn’t even have to do anything to him. A lot of these things were self-inflicted. Whenever you approached him on campus, he would jump before you could make him aware that it was you.

When he showered, he somehow found that his shampoo was always nearly empty. Hardly enough to even lather up. And when he did have to replace it (now almost weekly), he always felt like there was a Nair-y stench to it. The protein powder remained in the cracks of the kitchen’s wooden floor. He felt that his hair was thinning even though it clearly wasn’t. Riki also discovered that he had a fish allergy—courtesy of the fried cod you made him. The reaction was very mild, just an antihistamine and it knocked him right out. You didn’t know he had this allergy.

You’re not that crazy.

Unfortunately, the only thing that the universe—with the interference of you—couldn’t seem to shake was that fucking basketball shit. No matter how many times you tried to curb his alarms (he set multiple and bought an alarm clock), hide stuff (he packs his bag the night before now), and secretly pray for his downfall—it just never happened. Riki’s stats still stayed the exact same. Averaging thirty points per game, seven rebounds, eight assists. He hardly called you after practice with weight on his voice. And that was the only thing that Riki did his best to protect. Basketball was his sanctuary and as vain as it sounded: he considered himself to be a seasoned vet already. If he learned anything from playing—enduring—this sport for his whole life it was two things: don’t be a selfish player—not just in game, but in life. And leave any and all personal shit off the court.

And that if he held both of these things close to his heart and led with love, then he was going to be alright.

But he was a human being. Most importantly, he was a man. An egomaniacal, self centered man. And just like any other human being, he made mistakes and with those two values he held tightly to his chest—if he slipped then he’d feel it. So everyday, for the last two weeks—he reflected. What exactly did he do to be so out of whack recently? He wasn’t selfish. He loves you, honors you, does everything that a boyfriend should right? Yeah, Coach yelled at him the day he was late. But he ultimately suffered no consequences as that was his first offense. But still, despite that—he ran three laps around the arena to be fair to his teammates. You and him haven’t argued yet. In the four months that you had been together, everything went swimmingly. Nothing that you’ve done has sincerely pissed him off. The closest thing might’ve been the day with his juices being gone. But it was an honest mistake. But besides that, everything that he felt for you from the start remained—if anything, it only intensified. There wasn’t a moment where he didn’t want to be in your skin. To hold you and tell you how breathtaking you were. How every conversation with you felt like talking to a friend. Like he’s known you his whole life. So what did he do? What did he do to be having such a tough time? What was he getting karma for?

—

You sat in your dorm, munching on a salad as you were working on an assignment that was ten days past due. But truthfully, it was already beyond late—you didn’t care about making it up anymore.

Your main concern was your next point of action: kill Riki Nishimura. Not like actually kill him or anything.

This was going to be your magnum opus: killing him socially. Bella and Yasmin didn’t think you could do it. More like they didn’t want you to. But you had it all mapped out. And your beloved boyfriend had no clue. Not one. He made it easy with how weird he was being. The best revenge comes from doing hardly nothing at all. Watching him feel like a stranger in his own skin brought you enough joy to last you three lifetimes.

But you were greedy.

—

The arena’s noise was thick. You could feel it in your ribs—the music from the above speakers, the chatter, the sharp whistle of sneakers on the waxed court. You sat front row, dead center. The perfect sightline. The perfect stage. Your fingers shook—not from nerves, but from the kind of adrenaline that comes before impact. You had the note written out. Printed. Folded once. Sitting like a loaded weapon in your lap. You could feel the weight of it pressing through your jeans. Bella had clocked it the second she saw you. Yasmin’s eyes darted to the paper, then to your face, then back again. They didn’t even need to say it out loud; the girl telepathy was loud enough to deafen. The blonde’s attention remained on you but she placed her hand on Yasmin’s arm. “What the fuck is she doing?”

“I don’t know!” The olive skinned girl shrugged as her doe eyes widened in fright. “She didn’t say anything about doing something public.”

Bella shook her head. “Oh fuck no, she’s lost her goddamn mind.” She stood, waving her arms to catch your attention. “Don’t,” she hissed, barely moving her lips.

But you were already standing.

The announcer’s voice bled into the air, “—and now, your starting five!”

You didn’t hear the cheers. Didn’t see the team running out. You only saw him. Riki, jogging onto the court, smiling easily, looking like he hadn’t spent the last two weeks unraveling.

He waved to the crowd, scanning briefly—just long enough for your eyes to catch. He froze. Blinked. His smile faltered for a second. Then returned, practiced and bright.

You unfolded the paper.

“Don’t you dare,” Yasmin whispered, gripping your arm so tightly her nails pressed crescents into your skin.

You shook her off. “He deserves this.”

Bella stood too, half-blocking you from view. “No, he doesn’t. Not like this. This is too fucking far!” But you didn’t even hear her. The mic was right there—abandoned on the sideline after the anthem. You could take three steps and it’d be in your hand. You could read the note, the one that started with ‘Three weeks ago, starting point guard, Riki Nishimura, had degraded me—’ It’d be over for him. You’d make sure of it.

And that’s when Yasmin, bless her, full-body tackled your arm and snatched the paper clean out of your hand. “You’re done,” she hissed, shaking her head. “This isn’t justice, this is suicide.”

“What—” you started, but then Bella’s voice cut through, low and warning. “He’s looking.”

And he was.

Riki had stopped dribbling during warmups, staring right at the three of you. His brows pulled together, confusion, worry. Then he started jogging toward you, calling your name.

The crowd noise dimmed into static in your ears.

He reached the sideline, cluelessly. “What’s going on?” Tilting his head as he raised his taped hand to brush your coils off your shoulder to toy with the ‘R’ pendant on the necklace he gave you. A habit, something he did as a means of soothing both you and him. “Everything okay?” Yasmin shook her head slightly. “This has gone entirely too far, dude.” She sniffled, dabbing her fallen tears in an effort to not ruin her makeup.

“You gotta tell him.” Bella said firmly.

Riki looked around, scanning the arena for any cameras that were on him. “What? Tell me what?” He squinted, genuinely baffled—like he was trying to fit the scene into a scoreboard in his head. You stayed silent, your eyes fiery and skin crawling at the feeling of his touch now. Your eyes fell right to the microphone where you could do your final bidding. Eyes watering and heart heavy, you crumpled the paper in your fist as you avoided Riki’s gaze.

Bella exhaled, all impatience and exactness. “Can we do this somewhere where there aren’t cameras?” Her eyes fell on the guy before you three. Riki’s expression hardened a little, glancing at the gigantic clock at the top of the stands. Twenty minutes til tip-off. Without another word, he nodded to the tunnel which led to the locker room. The only private area where he knew no one would be passing through. “Quickly.” He said lowly as he rubbed his forehead with a sigh. “Please.” You stayed planted where you were, your eyes glaring a hole into his. As if lasers would beam through if you tried hard enough. Yasmin grabbed you by the bicep, “come on.” She said shakily, which in any other case would’ve weighed you down with her.

The tunnel smelled like old sweat and floor cleaner—half of the arena’s life lived in a stale chemical cloud. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, turning everyone’s skin a little too pale. The noise from the court faded to a distant roar; here it was only your voices and the scrape of sneakers against concrete. Then squeaking as you entered the empty locker room. Riki kept his jacket half off, breath shallow, eyes darting between the three of you like he was trying to memorize which way the exits led. “Talk to me.”

You stayed silent, folding your arms to your chest as if it could keep your guts from spilling out. “Hello? Did you hear him? He’s speaking to you—” Bella tapped your shoulder.

Riki interjected sharply, brows furrowed in annoyance. “Don’t fucking speak to her like that—”

“No! This shit has gone way off the rails and now she’s acting like a fucking baby. Speak up, I’m not coddling you anymore!” The girl insisted. “Because if you don’t, I will.”

“Shut the fuck up, Bella.” You snapped, “don’t try to sit here and ‘tough love’ me now when you know you’re the one that held my hand through this in the first place.” Turning to her as you jabbed her shoulder with your finger.

Bella scoffed, “But I never told you to go this far! You—” “Why the fuck are we talking in code?! I have shit to do and y’all here playing!” Riki clapped his hands in urgency.

Yasmin blurted it out. “We heard you talking about her.” She huffed nervously.

Riki’s eyes flit to the side in confusion. “So? I talk about her and to her every single day.” “No.” You finally interjected, turning your attention to him as you were able to take your anger out. “When you stood in here and said to Maki that I was ‘just another hole to fill’ and how not whipped you are?” You squinted your eyes as your posture straightened. “That all girls are the same and how much play you’re gonna get—” You smiled bitterly at the memory as you spoke with your hands. “And how you’re just gonna keep ‘fucking around and winning? Huh?” You nodded. “Remember that, baby?”

Riki froze. Like someone had just yanked the oxygen straight out of his lungs. For a second, the world went completely soundless—even the hum of the fluorescent lights seemed to cut out. His jaw twitched once, twice, before he let out a shaky exhale and blinked at you, eyes wide, almost boyish in disbelief.

“Wait—” he said hoarsely, “you heard that?”

You laughed, sharp and humorless. “Oh, don’t tell me you didn’t mean it. That it was just locker room talk, right?”

He ran a hand over his face, backing up until he hit the edge of a locker with a dull thud. His expression twisted — confusion, panic, then shame flickering like a glitch he couldn’t smooth out. “No, that’s not—fuck, that’s not what I meant. It was a—Maki was—”

“Maki was what, Riki?” Bella snapped. “A part of your stand-up routine? Or your echo chamber?” “Bella, stop,” he hissed, voice cracking under strain. He turned back to you, hands slightly raised like he was pleading his case to a judge who’d already heard the verdict. “It wasn’t about you like that. It was—God, it was a joke. I was trying to sound cool, and—”

Your eyes narrowed. “Cool?” The word landed like poison.

“You think degrading me makes you cool?”

Riki’s lips parted, but no sound came out. He was crumbling in real time—his composure, that stupid practiced charm, the performative calm he always wore when things got ugly. He looked twenty different kinds of small now. “Say it again,” you whispered, stepping closer, voice shaking not from weakness but from the sheer weight of it all. “Say it to my face this time. Say I’m just another hole to fill.”

Riki’s throat bobbed. “Don’t—”

“Say it!”

“I didn’t mean it!” he exploded, voice ricocheting off the walls. The sound of it startled even him. “I swear to God, I didn’t—” He stopped himself, chest heaving, eyes flicking to Bella, then Yasmin, before finally settling on you again. His voice dropped. “You think I’d ever mean that? About you?” You blinked, your vision blurring with the beginnings of tears you didn’t want to shed—not here, not in front of him. “I don’t give a fuck what you meant. You deserved everything I fucking did to you and more of it!”

“What…?” His voice cracked. “Wh–what did you do?”

Yasmin spoke up. “Can I interject…?” She stepped forward from the corner to stand beside Bella, who was letting her ponytail down as she felt her head starting to throb. “Riki…we decided to—”

“No.” You kindly shut Yasmin down. “I—neither of them had any involvement in anything—decided to pay you back. I poured out your juices. Loosened your protein tub. Unplugged your phone—everything weird that’s been happening to you for the last two weeks was me fucking with you.” Riki blinked once. Then again. Like maybe if he gave his brain enough time to reboot, it’d spit out a version of this scene that made sense.

“You—” he breathed out, the word shaky and small. “You what?” He stared at you—searching, scanning, trying to find some hint that you were joking. But your face didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even twitch. “Everything weird that’s been—” he stopped, eyes darting back and forth as the puzzle pieces rearranged in his head. “My shampoo, the alarms, the fucking—my protein—” His voice rose an octave, breaking off in disbelief. “The fish?!”

You blinked. “Okay, that one wasn’t on purpose. And I didn’t do anything to your shampoo.” He laughed. But it wasn’t funny. It was breathless and sharp—half a gasp, half hysteria. “Oh my God,” he said, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh my fucking God.”

Bella winced. Yasmin quietly muttered something under her breath that sounded like a prayer.

Riki dropped his hand and looked back at you, eyes glossy—not with tears, but something worse. Something that looked like betrayal and heartbreak all twisted together. “You made me think I was losing my mind,” he said quietly. “For weeks.” You crossed your arms, defensive now. “You made me feel worthless.”

“So you poisoned me?”

You opened your mouth, but the words didn’t come.

“You unplugged my phone, you messed with my stuff, you—” he gestured wildly, like he couldn’t even pick which violation to name first. “You messed with my head, and for what? To even the score?”

“Don’t you dare make me the bad guy here,” you snapped, voice cracking on the edge of your fury. “You’re the one who said that shit about me.” “And I said I didn’t mean it!” he fired back, stepping closer. The sound of his voice filled the entire locker room—loud, raw, desperate. “You think I’m proud of that? You think I sleep easy knowing that came out of my mouth? I’ve been trying to figure out what I did to deserve all this—turns out, you were just—” He cut himself off, choking back whatever word was about to fall next.

“Just what?” you bit.

He stared at you. His throat bobbed. “Cruel.”

The word sliced clean through the air.

You flinched, but didn’t back down. “You talk about me like I’m replaceable and you think I’m cruel?”

“You tried to ruin me!”

“Oh, please,” you wave off. “You’d still be fine. You always land on your feet.”

Riki shook his head, eyes glazed. His eyes caught the folded loose leaf in your hand, gesturing to it. “What is that?”

Without a second guess, you shoved it into his chest. Not even causing him to stumble but he snatched it. Opening it and doing his best to make it out beneath the crinkles. And right then, was the angriest you’ve seen him up until this moment. The desperate, flabbergasted Riki that was before found new ground to stand on. His nostrils flared as he licked his bottom lip; fingers curling around the paper. “You were going to read this in front of people?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to—your silence was already too loud.

Riki’s laugh was low and humorless. “You were going to humiliate me.” He said it like he was testing the words out loud, like saying them would somehow make them less insane. “In front of my team? My coach? The entire nation, are you fucking crazy?”

“I was going to tell the truth,” you shot back, eyes glinting. “That’s all it was. The truth.”

“The truth?” He took a step closer, paper trembling in his fist. “No, no—you wanted revenge. You wanted blood, not closure.”

You rolled your eyes, though your pulse was slamming in your throat. “Don’t get poetic now, Riki. You said what you said.” “And I told you I didn’t mean it! How many times do I have to—” He held up the note like evidence in court. “This—this is you trying to destroy me because you’re hurt. You were really going to try to ruin my life’s work and career over this when you could’ve just fucking talked to me?! Or even dumped me?”

“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you called me just another hole to fill.”

He went still. The sound of sneakers squeaking from the court outside was a faint, haunting rhythm beneath the tension between you.

Riki lowered his head, voice dropping to something barely human. “You really hate me that much, huh?”

“I don’t hate you,” you said coldly. “I just wanted you to feel small for once.”

He let out a breathless, bitter laugh. “Congratulations. You did it.” He held up the crumpled paper like it was a white flag—like you’d already won the war you started. “You’ve made me feel smaller than I ever have in my entire life.”

You swallowed, your anger flickering like a dying candle. “Good.” Riki stared at you for a long, long moment—jaw tight, eyes glassy, chest rising with restrained fury and heartbreak. Then, quietly, he tore the note in half. Once, twice, until the pieces fluttered from his hands like ash. “Hope it was worth it,” he muttered, voice shaking. And when he walked past you toward the locker room exit, he didn’t look back.

The girls followed in his direction with shaking of their heads. But were interrupted by your voice. “Where are you guys going?” They stopped, turning around. Yasmin’s eyes sparkled from the overhead lighting as tears misted her eyes. “We also have shit to do.”

You threw your hands up, “oh so now I’m the bad guy?” You laughed humorlessly, “you guys—” “We didn’t tell you to do anything!” Bella waved her finger. “Yas was against this from the beginning. I said I was just gonna support you. We support each other! Right, wrong, or indifferent. But I didn’t think you would lose yourself like this?” She gestured to your frame. “I mean who even are you anymore?”

“I’m me. I’m still me, guys—” You stepped forward with your voice shaking. Smile vanished as you swallowed what seemed to be a knot of nervousness. “C’mon…don’t turn your backs on me too…” Yasmin sniffled, “if we did then we wouldn’t have saved you just now. This isn’t my best friend,” Yasmin whispered, shaking her head. Her voice cracked mid-sentence, soft but sharp enough to land. “My best friend doesn’t do shit like this.”

You froze. “Yas—”

“No,” she said, stepping back a little. Rubbing her temples as frustrated tears streaking down her cheeks. “You’re not even listening to yourself anymore.” Bella exhaled, crossing her arms. “You became the thing you swore you hated. You’re standing here, trying to justify ruining someone’s life just because he bruised your ego. That’s not love. That’s obsession.”

Your throat closed up. “You think I wanted to turn into this?”

Bella didn’t answer right away—she just blinked at you, disappointed. “No. I think you got hurt and didn’t know where to put it. But you don’t get to burn down someone else’s peace to feel better about your pain.” The silence that followed was unbearable. Only the muffled sound of the crowd bleeding in from the court—cheers, drums, whistles—made the moment real again.

Yasmin took a shaky breath, voice quiet. “You can still fix this. Maybe not with him, but with yourself.” You stared at them, every word hitting like shrapnel, and for the first time since the whole spiral began—you didn’t have anything to say. The weight of what you’d done, what almost happened, started to settle in your stomach like lead.

Bella grabbed Yasmin’s hand. “We’re going to go. You should go get some rest.” You watched them walk away through the tunnel lights, the sound of the game roaring back to life behind them. You stood there, still holding the blanket of your own rage and regret—realizing it was never warmth at all. And the walk back to your dorm was a cold one.

—

For three days, you disappeared. The campus kept spinning without you—the chatter of students, the clatter of cafeteria trays, the hum of a world that refused to pause—but your room stayed still. Curtains drawn, phone facedown, mind circling the same moment over and over until it felt like static. The guilt wasn’t sharp anymore; it was heavy, dragging. Every notification with his name felt like another bruise you didn’t remember getting.

Bella and Yasmin tried to reach you—knocks at the door, texts, calls—but nothing stuck. Riki was radio silent; as expected. On the fourth day, you sat up and climbed off your creaky twin XL. You walked up to your desk and removed the pillowcase covering it and for the first time in days, you were able to stomach looking at yourself. Your reflection in the dark monitor felt like a stranger. Eyes swollen, lips cracked from lack of hydration, skin dry and textured. And immediately you put your head down. Holding your stomach as you wept into yourself. It came out of you like a flood you’d been holding back too long—all the anger, the shame, the grief. You tried to breathe, but it only made the sobs louder. You pressed a hand to your mouth as if you could stuff it all back down, but it was useless. You cried until your ribs hurt, until your knees gave out and you sank onto the floor, arms wrapped around yourself like you were the only thing keeping from coming undone completely. “Oh God—” You held your chest as you heaved. “What have I done?”

—

By the fifth day, the silence became unbearable. You couldn’t stand the sound of your own thoughts anymore—the echoes of Riki’s voice, the look on Bella’s face, the way Yasmin’s eyes had glistened before she walked away. So for the first time in almost a week, you took positive first steps. You showered, scrubbing yourself to the point where you swore your skin was about to peel off. Brush your teeth, following your meticulous oral care routine. And you put on lotion, perfume, did your hair and finally…you felt you were halfway worth looking at again.

—

The campus air touched differently after a self-imposed exile—too bright, too loud, like the world had the audacity to move on. You found Bella and Yasmin outside on the quad, sprawled on the grass with open laptops and snacks, their laughter cutting short the second they saw you.

“Hey,” you said softly, voice half-stuck in your throat.

Bella shut her laptop, sitting up. Yasmin didn’t say anything yet—just watched you with that mix of worry and quiet anger that made you feel twelve years old again. “I know,” you started, rubbing the back of your neck. “I was a dick. To both of you. And you didn’t deserve that.” You looked between them, heart pounding. “You were just trying to look out for me, and I…I took it way too far. I wanted to hurt him so bad that I forgot who I was. And who you guys were to me. I’m sorry. But I just wanted to say thank you for gathering me before I inevitably got worse.”

Neither spoke for a beat. Then Bella sighed, resting her chin on her knee. “Yeah, you were a dick,” she said flatly, but there was the ghost of a smile there. Yasmin exhaled, eyes softening. “We were worried sick. You don’t just vanish like that, dude. We thought you—” she cut herself off, shaking her head. “Like at least an ‘I’m okay’ text would’ve been enough. Just…” She sighed, “don’t do that again.”

You nodded quickly, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “I won’t. I swear.” Bella patted the spot beside her. “Good. Then sit your dramatic ass down and eat something. We made sandwiches.”

Tears finally came down as you smiled. Sitting down between them as you hugged them to you. Both their heads on your shoulders as they squeezed you. “Are you guys still mad at me?” “Oh definitely,” Yasmin smiled as she nuzzled your shoulder. “You have some serious making up to do.” Huffing as she leaned up and let go.

You looked down at the blanket and your crossed legs, “Can I start by saying you were right and that you owe me an ‘I told you so?’” To which that elicited laughs from both girls on either side of you. “Forgiven!” Yasmin giggled as she clapped her hands excitedly. Like she wasn’t twenty but a little kid. And as you sat between them, the tension eased, the world didn’t feel quite as tilted anymore.

—

You were mid-laugh when it happened—Bella had just said something snarky about the “post-breakdown glow” you apparently had going on. And for a moment, things felt easy again. Like it always had with these two. The three of you were walking up the stone path toward the dining hall, the smell of pizza and fryer oil already drifting through the air, when a familiar voice froze you in your tracks.

“Hey!” He was coming down the opposite side of the path, still in his team jacket, backpack slung over his shoulders, hair a little messy like he’d just showered. His teammates had already gone ahead, but he stopped the moment he saw you.

Bella glanced between you two and sighed under her breath. “Well, this is awkward.”

“Yep,” Yasmin muttered. “Definitely our cue.”

They shared a look before Bella patted your arm. “We’ll, uh…grab our table. Take your time.”

And just like that, they slipped inside the dining hall, leaving you and Riki alone under the faint hum of campus noise.

For a second, neither of you spoke. You just stared at him, at how tired he looked—eyes a little red, hands balled up as he adjusted his sleeves.

“You look alive,” he said finally, a small half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Barely,” you replied, managing a smirk. “You?”

He shrugged. “Playing like I’m mad at the whole planet, but we’re winning, so…guess that counts for something.”

You nodded slowly, eyes dropping to the ground. “Riki, I—”

He shook his head before you could continue. “Don’t. It’s done.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I’m not mad anymore. I mean, I was. But now…I get it.”

You searched his face for bitterness and found none—just exhaustion, and something softer hiding under it. “It’s not an excuse.” Shaking your head, you pulled your hoodie sleeves over your hands as you balled your fists. “You hurt me and instead of being a good, mature girlfriend…I went to the extreme. I’m so sorry, Riki.” “I deserved it, mama.” He stepped closer, whispering as he reached his hands up to frame your face—not touch it. “What I said was inexcusable. Absolutely repulsive and inappropriate and no one should speak about a person—especially their girlfriend—like that. I’m sorry too.”

“I guess neither of us are perfect.” You sighed, as you gently brought his hands back down. The radiating warmth leaving your cheeks and replacing it with the evening chill.

His mouth curved, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, I think we both kinda nuked the moral high ground.”

A weak laugh slipped out of you. “That’s one way to put it.” For a moment, it was quiet—just the wind cutting through the trees and the sound of students laughing somewhere across the quad. You stared at the space between your sneakers, the weight of everything that happened hanging between you.

“I don’t hate you, you know,” you said softly. “Even after all that.”

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Good. ‘Cause I couldn’t even if I tried.”

That made you look up. His gaze was steady, not pleading, just…honest. The kind of look that made your stomach twist in ways you didn’t want to name yet. “Did you mean any of it? Like when you said you loved me?” His eyes searched yours, “I’m sorry, it’s just been driving me crazy and I need to know.” The look in his eyes was layered in desperation and heartbreak. Only half of what you encountered in the locker room that day. “Please. For my own sanity—” “I did.” You sniffled, dabbing your eyes with your sleeve to prevent tears from coming out. “It…”

Riki pulled you to a small bench, tucked away from possible prying eyes as this was becoming an intimate moment. The first one in what seemed like forever. He wiped the bench with his hands, getting any debris—branches, dirt, cigarette ashes—off and away. “It was that I loved you so much that I did what I did.” You sat down as he did beside you. “When I heard you saying those things about me, it…it just—a switch just flipped in my brain. Like…everything that I thought about you beforehand was just confirmed. That my parents were right…”

Riki’s eyes widened a bit, his heart dropping to the pit of his stomach as he gulped. “You—your parents?” You nodded, “they always said not to date athletes. That they’d either cheat, lie, or dog you. Maybe all three.” Fiddling with your manicured nails, clicking them slightly. “In a way, me getting revenge just felt like I was doing every single person that was wronged by every athlete, right. But I got greedy. Selfish. And really, I could’ve just spoken to you about it.” Riki leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the ground like it might offer him a manual on how to handle this conversation. “I wish you did,” he said quietly. “I would’ve told you the truth. That I was talking out of my ass, trying to look tough in front of the guys because I was scared of how much I actually loved you. I mean I’ve never felt like this before, y’know?”

You let out a small, humorless laugh. “That’s not an excuse.”

“I know,” he said, glancing at you. “But it’s the truth. I said those things because I thought if I made it sound like I didn’t care, then they’d just get off my dick about it. In actuality, I was never thinking about sex with you.”

You shot him a look.

He smiled, “okay, I was.” Laughing as you did, but he leaned up. “But it wasn’t at the front of my mind. I didn’t lead every interaction with you with the expectation that you’d let me have any.” The words hung between you like fog, dense and heavy. You looked up at him then, and the sharpness you’d carried for weeks softened. He looked older somehow. Not in a bad way—just like he’d been through something real. “But even with the four months that we were together, I didn’t even want to bring it up because I didn’t want to scare you.”

“The idea of sex with you didn’t scare me, Riki. But the fact that when I thought I could trust you to keep certain things of our relationship private, you fell through. And disrespected me at that.” You went on. “Because how did Maki even know that we hadn’t done anything? Were these things regular conversations and I just happened to catch one?” Riki’s jaw tightened, his knee bouncing slightly. “No,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “It wasn’t like that. I swear, I didn’t go around talking about our business. Maki was being an asshole that day, asking questions, making jokes and assumptions, and I—” He paused, running a hand over his face like he could erase what came next. “I took the bait. I wanted to sound cool. Like I wasn’t some lovesick loser.” You stared at him, the memory of that locker room replaying in your mind like a cruel film reel. “So you threw me under the bus to impress him?” His eyes flicked up to meet yours, guilt written across every line of his face. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “And the second it left my mouth, I wanted to take it back. It was just talk. It was just…I don’t know.”

You looked away, lips pressing together. The bench between you suddenly felt like a chasm. “I really thought you were different, Riki,” you said softly. “You made me believe it.” He winced like the words cut him. “I am different. Or at least I was trying to be. I just—” He exhaled, frustrated with himself. “I didn’t think about how much weight my words had. I didn’t think about how much they’d hurt you if you heard them. I was trying to protect my ego instead of the one person I actually gave a shit about.” The silence after that was long and brittle. You could hear students laughing in the distance, the scrape of skateboard wheels against pavement. Ordinary sounds in a world that felt anything but ordinary right now. And it only left one question: “So what now?”

Riki shook his head firmly, turning to you. “Look I love you. Still—”

You sighed, closing your eyes in distress but he insisted. “No, no, no. Just listen to me.” He hesitantly reached for your hands. “I know we both have work to do. But I don’t want anybody else. And I mean that. You’re everything to me and even after the bullshit and what you were going to do…I still look at you the same.” You stared at him, the ache in your chest twisting into something you couldn’t name. “You shouldn’t,” you said softly. “You should look at me differently.”

He shook his head, lips pressed into a thin line. “I can’t. I’ve tried.”

You wanted to laugh, or scream, or both. Instead, you just looked down at your intertwined hands—his fingers trembling slightly against yours. “Please don’t romanticize it, Riki. That was the ugliest I’ve seen myself in…ever. And I don’t know if I wanna be with someone that brings that out of me.” “But I do,” he smiled softly. “I want to be with someone that drives me crazy. That makes me feel every possible human emotion and that person was you.” He brought your hands to his lips to kiss them, like he always used to. “This is going to be what you want at the end of the day. But I won’t stop fighting for you. When I said I loved you forever, I meant it. As a friend, a lover. Anything. I just wanna be in your life.” For a split second, you could almost feel your heart stop. The rawest you’d ever seen Riki was in this moment—before you—as he practically begged to be in your world. A person who’s so used to the inverse. And he didn’t stop. “Since the day I saw you, I’ve not been able to get you off my mind. And I don’t wanna forget that feeling. Call me obsessed, desperate. But even then, I don’t care,” he finished, voice breaking slightly. “Because I’d rather be desperate for you than indifferent to anyone else.”

You swallowed hard, blinking fast. His eyes were glassy now, full of something that looked too much like the boy you fell for—reckless, sincere, and way too intense for his own good. “Riki…” “I know,” he said, shaking his head quickly, cutting you off before you could form the words. “You don’t have to say it. I just needed you to know. Even if you never look at me the same again, even if you find someone who actually deserves you—I needed to say it out loud once.”

You felt the world slow down around you, the hum of the dining hall muffling into static. His confession sat between you, too heavy to move around and too fragile to touch. “I think…I think it’s best that we be friends. For now…” He nodded immediately, “anything you want—wait, you said for now?” He tried to hide the way his lips curved, but failed.

You rolled your eyes, exhaling a shaky laugh. “Don’t push it.” And then, almost without thinking, you scooted forward. He met you halfway, arms slipping around your waist like muscle memory. You pressed your face into his shoulder, breathing him in—the faint trace of detergent, cologne, and something you couldn’t name but still remembered.

It wasn’t a reconciliation. It wasn’t a promise. It was just…quiet understanding. He melted into your arms, remembering the warmth he once felt there as it hadn’t ever gone away. Rubbing your back as the both of you fell into the comfort of each other again. “I won’t…I promise.” He said softly as he sniffled. You felt his breath hitch against your neck, the sound muffled but raw. His arms tightened just a little, like he was afraid that if he let go too soon, the moment would vanish. You rubbed slow circles into his back, grounding him, grounding yourself.

“I know,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes red but steady. “I just don’t ever want you to think I didn’t care,” he said quietly. “Not for a single second.”

You smiled faintly, brushing your thumb over the corner of his hand where it still held onto you. “I never did,” you admitted. “But time will tell.” For a moment, neither of you moved—just stayed there, breathing the same air, hearts syncing in that familiar rhythm you both tried so hard to forget. And when you finally stepped apart, it wasn’t out of anger or regret. It was because you both knew what this was.

Something that wasn’t over. Just paused.

— epilogue!

The semester was coming to an end and things were looking up! Spring was underway, you traded in your hoodies for tube tops and life wasn’t as hard as it was a month ago. Bella and Yasmin are the same: reliable, solid, harassing—typical. As for Riki…

You and him had stayed true to the “friends for now” thing…with a few cracks around the edges. You were doing pretty well with the whole “platonic equilibrium” mindset. Riki, though…was doing his best, which—coming from him—meant trying really hard not to accidentally flirt every five minutes. There was always a soft awkwardness in the air whenever he was near, a kind of gentle hesitation that felt new. Like he was relearning how to exist around you without crossing lines he used to dive over headfirst. Whenever you ran into him around campus, he’d light up—just a little, almost like he wished he didn’t. He’d start to reach for your hand out of habit, stopping mid-motion with a small, embarrassed laugh. Sometimes he’d call you “baby” without thinking, freeze like he’d just triggered a bomb, and mumble a panicked “sorry.” It was…cute. Annoyingly cute.

But here’s the thing—he didn’t push. Not once. He didn’t corner you, didn’t force conversations, didn’t try to speedrun your healing. He gave you space without disappearing, presence without pressure. It was the most mature thing you’d ever seen him do, and honestly? Kinda hotter than when he was your actual boyfriend. Slowly, the tension stopped feeling sharp and started feeling warm. The kind you notice on slow walks across campus or when you catch him staring from across a study lounge. The kind that makes your stomach dip but not in a painful way anymore.

He was still your Riki—loud, unserious, overwhelmingly athletic, always carrying a million and one snacks in his bag. But this version of him was steadier. Softer. Careful with you in ways he never had to think about before. Spring was blooming, and so were you. And somewhere in the mess of new beginnings, slow healing, and accidental almost-romantic moments…you could feel it.

You and Riki weren’t done. Not even close.

riki: hey girlieee

you: hi riki lmao

riki: rq, what are ur thoughts on selena gomez?

you: random?? LMAOO ??? but 10/10 no notes. she’s mother. omg i love her blushes too

riki: she sells makeup??

you: yeah…everyone knows that

riki: literally why would i know that but thanks, noted.

you: why tho? what happened?

riki: <3

you: …? that’s not an answer…?

riki: <33

you: ok

Riki left you on read after that last “ok,” which was suspicious behavior for him. Usually he double-texted entirely too often. But whatever—maybe he was in the gym…benching a car or some shit.

Two weeks rolled by in this weird limbo where he acted normal but also not normal. A week ago he’d shown up outside your lecture hall just to hand you a juice box because, quote, “You always look dehydrated after class.” Three days ago, he’d pretended to trip just so you’d laugh. Yesterday he’d sat next to you in the library, headphones in, sharing a pack of gummies and tapping your knee every time he thought of something funny. And you didn’t miss the shift in him—this boy was planning something. You could practically hear the cartoon gears grinding in that brain of his.

Then Friday came. A warm, breezy, stupidly pretty spring evening. You were chilling in your dorm, headphones in one ear as you reviewed for your microeconomics final. And that’s when you heard it.

“It’s been said and done…Every beautiful thought’s been already sung…”

And comedically, your head popped up. Brows furrowed as you turned your head to get a grip on the muffled, crackled noise coming from the outside. But you just figured it was the student union having one of their last hurrah’s before the year was finished and y’all were right back in three months.

“And I guess right now, here’s another one…So your melody will play on and on…With the rest of them…”

Your phone buzzed.

pretty princess: girl look tf out ur window rn.

You blinked at the notification, confusion already tugging at your face. Yasmin never texted like that unless something was either (A) horrifying or (B) gobsmacking. There was never an in-between with her. You shoved your chair back, nearly tripping over your backpack as you crossed the room. You pulled the blinds open—

And your stomach dropped to your ass.

Because there he was.

Riki. On the quad. Holding an actual boombox over his head like he was auditioning for an eighties rom-com.

The thing was massive, probably older than both of you, and blasting Selena Gomez’s “Love You Like a Love Song” at a volume that was definitely violating at least six campus rules. Students were recording him but he didn’t care. He spotted you instantly.

That stupid, boyish, heart-squeezing grin lit up his whole face the second your eyes met. He lifted the boombox even higher—like his arms weren’t already shaking—and he yelled up at your window: “HI!”

Just “hi.”

You slapped a hand over your mouth, partially to smother your gasp and partially to keep from laughing out loud like someone who lost any and all gumption. Heat crawled up your neck. “No he didn’t,” you whispered.

Oh, but he did. And he wasn’t stopping.

People started chanting his name—half because they loved drama and half because the acoustics were terrible and the song was starting to echo off the buildings like some kind of chaotic love anthem.

You opened the window. “RIKI!”

He perked up like a golden retriever hearing treats shake. “YEAH?”

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”

“I’M—” He paused, laughing. “I’M TRYING TO BE ROMANTIC BUT THIS THING IS REALLY HEAVY! AND LOUD!”

You nearly melted on the spot. Your brain was soup. Your heart? Gone.

He lowered the boombox slightly—possibly because his arms were probably about to give out—and yelled, “COME DOWN! PLEASE! I DON’T WANNA DROP THIS AND DIE. THAT WOULD BE EMBARRASSING.” He wasn’t struggling, his arms weren’t trembling. He wasn’t out of breath.

You squinted down at him, realization hitting you like a brick made of pure annoyance and affection. “Riki…are you faking struggling right now?”

He flashed you a guilty little half-smile, shrugging with one shoulder while still holding the boombox like it weighed absolutely nothing. “Uh…maybe. For dramatic effect. Gotta sell the moment, y’know?”

You groaned into your hands. “Oh my god.”

He adjusted his grip again—effortless, casual, absolutely not dying as previously advertised—and yelled, “C’MON! DON’T MAKE ME LOOK STUPID IN FRONT OF LIKE—” he glanced around, “—WAY TOO MANY PEOPLE!”

You rolled your eyes so hard you saw last semester. But you threw on your hoodie, shoved your feet into whatever shoes were closest, and bolted for the stairs.

By the time you reached the quad, people were still filming, still chanting his name, still acting like they were witnessing a Hallmark movie. Riki stood there proudly, boombox now resting against his shoulder as the chorus blasted:

“I-I-I love you like a love song, baby…”

He grinned the second he saw you and the crowd dissipated as they saw him put the boombox down to the grass and lower the music. “Hi…”

“Hi?” You laughed as you reached him. “What in the world is this?” You gestured to the boombox now at your feet.

“A…boombox—”

“I know what a boombox is, Riki!” You hold your hands up. “I mean…why?” You said softly.

He sighed. “Okay, look. I know you’ve said sorry before. And I did too. But I was saying it like…someone who wanted to fix a scratch, not someone that had the capability of ruining an entire relationship with words.” He frowned slightly as he reached out for your hands. Inhaling before he mustered up the courage to grasp them. “You don’t make it easy for me. You don’t worship me. You don’t pretend I’m a big deal. You roll your eyes and tell me when I’m being a dick—and that’s the first time in a long time I’ve actually had to listen.” He went on.

“When we stopped talking, I still couldn’t stop thinking about you. When you liked me for half a second, I didn’t know what to do with it. When you loved me…I felt like I was caught with my pants down.” The breeze blew at his dark locks, brushing his silky hair just right as the perfectly timed sunset kissed his tan skin. “You said once that you don’t understand why people lose their minds over athletes. I get it now. I’m the guy who people cheer for and I still don’t get it either. But when you look at me, it’s not because I made a basket—it’s because you actually see me. And I don’t want to lose that. And…” He huffed, eyes brimming with tears. “I’ve gone these last few months with an attempt to change everything about myself. But the one thing that I couldn’t seem to shake is that I really am selfish. Only when it comes to you.” He shakes his head as his lips quivered. “I love you, I kiss the ground you walk on and I can’t shake that. I just wanna be around you. All the time and it eats at me every waking moment that I fucked this up. That the idea of you being with someone else makes me irrationally angry. Seeing another guy even look your way makes me—and I’m so sorry. It’s so unfair.”

You felt something in your chest pull tight—like every word he spoke tugged a different thread you’d been trying so hard to knot back together. “Riki…” you whispered, but he wasn’t done. He stepped closer, eyes shining in that way that always made you feel like you were standing on the edge of something huge.

“I know it’s not healthy. I know I shouldn’t think like that,” he said, voice cracking as he blinked fast. “But I can’t help it. I’ve tried to get over you. I’ve tried to be chill, to be normal, to be the guy who just ‘moves on.’ I can’t. I can’t pretend I don’t still look for you every time I walk across campus or step into the dining hall or hear your stupid laugh echo in my apartment when I look back at old videos of us.”

You let out a quiet breath—a little shaky, a little overwhelmed. “And I know it sucks,” he added, softer now. “I know it’s messy. I know it’s not fair to you. But I’m standing here, blasting Selena Gomez like a psychopath, because I needed you to know that I love you in a way that makes me spend two hundred dollars on boomboxes. Getting scammed for old CDs online to look for them to put in the boombox.” He smiled, laughing softly. “And spending almost four hundred dollars on makeup because I couldn’t figure out which one you liked so I bought them all!” He bent down to open his backpack to pull out a black and white striped Sephora bag to hand it to you. Filled to the brim, all thirteen blushes. Simply because you mentioned liking it once.

You stared at the bag. Then at him. Then back at the bag—because there was no way. No way.

“Riki…” Your voice cracked.

He held both hands up like he was surrendering to the police. “I know. I know. It’s crazy. Please—”

You almost laughed. Almost. Riki rolled his eyes but stayed locked on you—smiling regretfully. “I’m not saying any of this to make you feel guilty. I’m saying it because I’m tired of pretending I don’t care when I care so much it makes me do…this.” He gestured around helplessly, as if the chaos wasn’t literally his own fault. “I’m a mess.” You swallowed. Hard. “Why now?”

“Because,” he said, stepping closer to the dorm entrance, “I realized something that night in the locker room.”

Your breath hitched. “That I would rather embarrass myself in front of everyone. Teammates, coaches, sports analysts, scouts—than let you think you weren’t worth fighting for. And you can nuke my protein and rig my alarms—”

You cut him off with a kiss. For half a second, he froze—eyes wide, breath caught somewhere between oh my god and ‘no way no way no way.’ Then he melted. Like actually melted. His shoulders dropped, his hands hovered in the air like he was terrified to touch you, and then very, very gently, they settled on your waist as you dropped the bag. Letting it thud into the grass.

He kissed you back like he’d been holding his breath for months and finally got oxygen. Pulling you into him as he gently cradled your head, tilting his own to deepen the kiss. You felt his breath hitch against your mouth, the kind that said finally with every exhale. His fingers threaded into your hair like he’d been memorizing the motion in his head for weeks, rehearsing it in private like some lovesick maniac. He kissed you again—slower this time, deeper, like he wanted to make sure you understood exactly how long he’d been waiting for this. His thumb swept the hinge of your jaw, gentle, reverent, like he was scared you’d disappear if he touched too roughly.

You pulled back just an inch, just enough to breathe, and he chased you a little—just a tiny lean forward, like he hadn’t meant to lose contact. His forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing too hard for a kiss that lasted maybe ten seconds.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. He cupped your cheek, brushing your skin with the back of his fingers like he couldn’t believe you were real. “I’m so in love with you,” he said—quiet, shaky, honest in a way that punched you right in the throat.

Your heart stuttered. “I love you too, Riki.” Leaning in to hug him tightly, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Oh…” He exhaled in relief as he picked you up and spun you around. “I missed you, baby. Oh I missed my baby so much!”

Your laugh broke against his shoulder, breathless and warm, and he clutched you like he was afraid gravity might snatch you away again. His hands slid under your thighs automatically, lifting you like you weighed nothing, and he buried his face into the crook of your neck with this completely unhinged, lovesick groan. “I missed you so much,” he repeated, voice muffled against your skin. “You have no idea—oh my god. I’m actually gonna pass out. I’m dizzy. Is this normal? Am I dying?”

You snorted. “Put me down, idiot.”

“No,” he said immediately, hugging you even tighter, rocking you side to side like a toddler with their favorite plush. “Absolutely not. You said you love me. That means you’re legally my emotional support human now.”

“Riki…”

“Shh,” he whispered dramatically, pressing an overly loud kiss to your cheek. “Let me have this.” Riki didn’t care. Zero shame. Negative shame even. He finally set you down but kept your waist locked in his hands like he didn’t trust reality to keep you there. He leaned back to look at you properly—eyes bright, hair messy from the wind, chest rising like he’d sprinted here from three counties over. “You love me,” he whispered again, like he was tasting the words, like they were cotton candy on his tongue. “Say it one more time.”

You raised a brow. “Riki—”

“Please,” he said, already smiling like he knew he was ridiculous and didn’t care. “Just one more. I need to hear it clearly, I’ve been hearing nothing but this fucked up speaker for the last hour.”

Your cheeks warmed as you whispered, “I love you, Riki.”

He shut his eyes like the words physically hit him. Head back, hand over his heart, dramatic and sincere at the same time. “Oh yeah,” he breathed. “That’s it. I feel like I just did ten lines. I’m never messing this up again.” Then, with a soft grin creeping up his face, he added: “Now c’mon, baby. Let’s go turn off my damn boombox before I get fined again.” You bent down to grab your Sephora bag and his backpack. Him with the boombox as he went two tracks over to put on ‘Who Says.’ You both laughed as you sang, “I wouldn’t wanna be anybody else!”

He twirled you with his hand as you both walked into the direction of his apartment. “You know my favorite Selena song is ‘Naturally.’ For future reference.”

Riki laughed as he wrapped his arm around your shoulder, bringing you close to him. “I’ll add that to the wedding playlist.”

“Woah, woah—”

He sang. “You wouldn’t wanna be a WAG?”