Between Midnight and You
Pairing: juju Watkins x volleyball player!Y/n
Fandom: USC WBB
Summary: A fav person , an annoying person, and a confession with a sandwich
A/N: its a juju ficccc
🏷️: @aubreygriffin , @authentic-girl03 , @atimelessheaven , @azziswrld , @buecker5s , @bueckersbucket , @cowboybueckers , @courtsidewithlani , @elalfywhore, @evry1luvzzae , @fairyblossomsav , @gabischeeseballs , @graceeeeeesblog , @iowahawkeyes22 , @intoblonde6ftwbbplayers , @issilovesherself , @italyyy , @jadasogay , @jupitermoonbaby , @kaliblazin , @kamspeaks , @latenighttalkinqwp , @lessi-lover , @let-zizi-yap , @lightsgore , @marleymarleymarleymarley ,@melpthatsme , @nicebellee , @paxaz535 , @paigeluvvr , @paigeshirleytemple , @private-but-not-a-secret , @runfor-roses , @sayurireidotcom ,@sitawita , @starfulani , @tenaciousglitternerd , @thatonesuschix , @unknowgirlypop , @vamptizm , @wbbszn , @yailtsv
It’s 12:17 a.m. when my phone rings; buzzing violently on my dorm desk like it has a personal vendetta against sleep.
Normally, I’d ignore it.
But the name flashing across the screen… JUJU 💛⭐️….makes something in my chest sit up and stretch like a cat.
I swipe before the second ring even finishes.
“Hello?” I mumble into the speaker, voice thick with sleep.
There’s a beat of silence, then that familiar low laugh washes through the phone and immediately dissolves the tension in my shoulders.
“I wake you?” Juju asks, smug and gentle at the same time; her specialty.
“No,” I lie. Badly.
“Uh-huh,” she says. “You sound like you got tranquilized mid-dream.”
“Can’t you go and bother someone else?”
“I could,” she says, then pauses. “But you’re my favorite person to annoy, so… not really.”
My face warms under the blanket even though she can’t see it.
“Juju,” I groan. “Some of us have morning lifts at 8.”
“Some of us have ACL rehab at 7:30,” she fires back.
“Which is why you should be asleep!”
“And yet,” she says, “here we are.”
Which means:
She couldn’t sleep again.
She’s been having a lot of those nights since the injury.
She says it’s not nightmares… just an itch under her skin that won’t let her rest. A buzzing. Restlessness that turns her ceiling into a battlefield.
So she calls.
And I answer.
Every time.
“Wanna hear something stupid?” she asks suddenly.
“That you called me instead of, I don’t know, literally anyone else with working brain cells?”
“That,” she says, “but also…. Team USA was today? Light workouts? They let me do some workouts but I mostly observed.’”
“That’s great, Juju!”
“No,” she says with a long exhale. “It freaked me out.”
My eyebrows knit.
“I don’t get it.”
“It’s like… if I’m healing, then I’m closer to getting back on the court. And if I’m closer to getting back on the court, then I’m closer to messing up again.”
My chest tightens.
There she goes, her voice dipping into that soft place she hides from the world but hands to me like something fragile.
“You’re not messing up again,” I say quietly. “You’re too stubborn.”
She laughs under her breath. “Stubborn doesn’t protect ligaments.”
“No,” I agree. “But it protects dreams.”
Silence. A warm kind.
“I wish you could see my face right now,” she murmurs.
“Why?”
“’Cause I’m smiling like an idiot.”
I swallow, heartbeat skipping.
Dangerously.
“Well good,” I say quickly. “Because clearly embarrassing you is the only thing I’m good at.”
“Not true,” she argues. “You’re good at volleyball. And pep talks. And being awake at midnight.”
“I wasn’t awake,” I remind her.
“Yeah,” she says softly. “But you stayed.”
I don’t have a response for that — at least, not one I’m brave enough to speak.
Which is probably why my eyelids start drooping mid-silence, and next thing I know, her voice sounds far away, like she’s talking down a long hallway.
“Hey,” she says. “Hey, don’t fall asleep on me.”
“M’not,” I murmur.
(This is, in fact, a lie.)
“You definitely are.”
“No,” I protest, drifting.
“Y/N.”
“Hm?”
“If you’re gonna fall asleep, at least tell me goodnight—”
Her voice fades out as everything softens.
I think I mumble something about pancakes.
Or maybe forks.
Definitely something stupid.
And then I’m gone.
I wake up to a vibration.
Then another.
Then—**
My phone rings again.
Same caller ID.
Same contact emoji.
Same sudden, intense jolt of alertness.
I scramble upright, hair everywhere.
“Hello?” I blurt out, much too loudly.
Finally, I’m greeted by a breathy laugh.
“You really knocked out on me,” Juju teases, voice warm, lighter than earlier. “I hung up ‘cause someone was done talking. But guess who wasn’t?”
I rub my eyes. “You called back?”
“Well,” she says, “I wasn’t done talkin’, yet.”
My entire face heats.
“You can’t say things like that,” I whisper.
“Why not?”
“Because,” I mumble, “I’m—awake now.”
“Perfect,” she says. “Keep me company.”
Decision-making? Gone.
Impulse control? Who is she? Never met her.
Suddenly, I’m starving.
I pad into the tiny USC apartment kitchen and start grabbing bread, peanut butter, Nutella, a banana — sleep be damned.
“What are you doing?” she asks, hearing the rustling.
“Making a sandwich,” I say. “A toasted Nutella, peanut butter, and banana masterpiece.”
A beat.
Then Juju groans dramatically.
“Oh my god. I want one.”
“Well…” I say, smirking even though she can’t see me, “that sounds like a personal problem.”
“Nope. It sounds like your problem,” she counters. “Because I’m coming over.”
“Juju—”
“The door better be unlocked,” she says. “I’ll be there in ten.”
I blink at my phone.
“You’re not serious.”
“So serious I’m putting on sweatpants.”
There’s shuffling. Keys. A determined huff.
“You think after teasing me with a toasted Nutella-PB-banana sandwich you can just hang up?”
“I didn’t tease you, I—”
“Baby,” she interrupts.
I freeze.
Baby.
She said it so casually, like she’s been calling me that for years.
Then I let out a soft yet nervous “hm, ju?”
“You left the door unlocked, right?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I manage. “Whatever. It’s open.”
“Good,” she says, voice low, playful. “Stay on the phone with me til I get there.”
About ten minutes later…
My kitchen smells like toasted bread and warm sugar. I cut the sandwich diagonally and set half on a plate, taking a tiny bite of the other half.
Ans then, the front door clicks open.
“Y/N?” her voice calls out, closer than the phone now.
“In the kitchen!”
She rounds the corner, hoodie half-zipped, curls in a messy bun, keys hooked on her finger. Her phone is still pressed to her ear even though she sees me.
Then her eyes drop to the plate.
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“Is that—”
“Yes.”
“Half?”
“Yes.”
“You saved me half?”
I shrug. “Wanted you to taste it while it’s warm.”
Her smile hits me right in the stomach.
She walks over, plucks the sandwich half off the plate, and takes a bite without permission.
A big bite.
“Juju!”
She chews slowly on purpose, eyes never leaving mine.
“Mmm,” she hums, “tastes like you love me.”
My heart stutters.
“You’re so annoying,” I mutter.
“You love it,” she fires back, nudging my shoulder with hers as she leans against the counter, chewing contentedly.
We share the sandwich, literally passing the last pieces back and forth like it’s a movie cliché we’re too sleepy to avoid.
When it’s gone, Juju licks a smear of peanut butter off her thumb and says, softer:
“Can I tell you something?”
My pulse jumps. “Always.”
She meets my eyes, and her voice loses all teasing.
“When I got hurt… everything felt like it stopped. Like the whole world kept moving but I couldn’t.”
She inhales.
“And you—you were the only thing that kept feeling steady.”
My throat tightens.
“Juju…”
“I’m serious, Y/N,” she says. “Every phone call. Every stupid joke. Every time you told me it wasn’t my fault even when I didn’t believe you…”
She steps closer.
“I think I started falling for you somewhere in all that.”
The room spins; slow, warm, dizzying.
I swallow.
Hard.
“You’re not just saying that ‘cause it’s 1 a.m. and you’re emotional, right?”
“No,” she whispers. “I’m saying it because it’s 1 a.m. and I’m finally brave enough.”
I feel every hair on my body stand on end.
I take a breath.
Another.
And then…
“I started falling for you freshman year,” I admit, voice shaking. “But then you became… you. Juju Watkins. Superstar. National name. And I didn’t wanna be distracting or clingy or—”
She presses her forehead to mine.
Close enough I can feel her breath.
“You’ve never been a distraction,” she murmurs. “You’re the only thing that makes me feel normal.”
My lips part, heartbeat in my throat.
“And also,” she adds softly, “you make really good sandwiches.”
I laugh.
Like the breathless and shaky kind of laugh, and she smiles like she’s memorizing it.
“So…” she says, thumb brushing the back of my hand, “what do we do now?”
I lift her hand, threading our fingers together.
“We eat,” I say.
“We talk.”
“And then maybe…”
I look up into her eyes.
“…you kiss me?”
Her cheeks flush.
“Oh,” she whispers. “I can definitely do that.”
And then she does.
Gentle.
Warm.
Slow, like she has all night.
Like she’s waited three years.
When she pulls back, she presses her forehead to mine again.
“This okay?” she breathes.
“This is perfect.”
She exhales, relieved, and nudges me back toward the counter.
“Good,” she whispers. “’Cause I’m staying. At least until the sun comes up.”
“Fine by me,” I say.
“Good.”
“Good,” I echo.
“Good,” she repeats, grinning.
We’re both smiling like idiots.
And somewhere between shared sandwiches, stupid jokes, late-night confessions, and a healing knee that doesn’t define her anymore
We finally, finally get it right.
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-Thank You For Reading!💚💙
-prettygirl-gabi✨️💗x)37 s