I woke up already restless.
That was the first thing I noticed was how alert I felt, how unnervingly awake, like something had wired itself beneath my skin while I slept. The ceiling of my room felt too close. The expensive, minimalist furniture seemed suffocating. My thoughts were a cacophony I couldn't silence.
Yesterday clung to me in fragments. Isabelle's voice. The specific way her expression shifted when I teased her. That flash of genuine, unpolished irritation she tried and failed to hide. I had replayed the moment the teacher sent us into the hallway more times than I was willing to admit. It was a loop, a reel of film that refused to burn out.
I rolled out of bed before my alarm could chime. It was the weekend, practice day. Normally, that meant routine, discipline, and the absolute maintenance of my own control. Today, it felt like anticipation.
I showered quickly, letting the ice-cold water bite into my shoulders, trying to shock her out of my system. It didn't work. When I stepped into my closet, I didn't deliberate over my clothes. Black sleeveless training hoodie. Compression gear. High socks. Sneakers I'd broken in through a thousand sprints. Basketball gear was more than just clothing to me; it was armor. It was the only time I felt like I could be as aggressive as I truly felt.
I headed down the corridor toward Adrien's room. The top floor of the dorms was tomb-quiet. Only the core team stayed behind during the weekends, and they were likely still dreaming of easy wins. Adrien answered his door almost immediately, already laced up.
"You're up early," he noted, snapping his wristbands into place.
"You're one to talk," I replied, my voice raspy from disuse.
He smirked, that knowing, annoying look back in his eyes. "Big scrimmage coming up. Coach wants intensity."
"Coach always wants intensity."
We headed downstairs together, our footsteps echoing like drumbeats in the hollow stairwell. In the kitchen, the morning sunlight spilled through the tall arched windows, illuminating dust motes that floated lazily in the air. Adrien went straight for the counter. "You want eggs or a sandwich?"
"Sandwich," I said, opening the refrigerator. I grabbed two energy drinks and tossed one his way.
He caught it one-handed. "You're really leaning into these lately, Dmitri. Jittery?"
"Just focused."
He hummed in agreement as he assembled breakfast with practiced ease. "You think we should run full drills today? Or just conditioning?"
"Full drills," I answered automatically. "We need cohesion. The team is getting sloppy."
Adrien glanced at me over his shoulder. "You're unusually focused this morning. Even for you."
I took a long sip of the energy drink, feeling the caffeine hit my bloodstream like a spark to gasoline. "Is that a complaint, Adrien?"
"No," he said lightly, wrapping the sandwiches in foil. "Just an observation. You look like you're ready to hunt something."
We ate quickly, the conversation drifting back to plays, rotations, and upcoming scrimmages. It was normal. It was safe. It was the world I understood. Afterward, I grabbed extra bottles of water, slung my gym bag over my shoulder, and we headed out toward the court.
The campus felt different on weekends. Quieter. More exposed. Fewer eyes meant more room to breathe, but I found myself scanning the stone paths without meaning to. I didn't even realize I was doing it until Adrien slowed his pace.
"What are you looking for, Dmitri?"
"Nothing."
He raised a brow, stopping in his tracks. "You've checked the library windows and the courtyard paths twice already."
I shot him a look that would have withered a weaker man. "You imagining things now?"
He chuckled, bumping his fist against my shoulder. "Relax. It would take a miracle to see her anywhere near the athletic wing. She probably sleeps with her violin case."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said flatly, though my heart rate had spiked at the mention of her.
"Sure you don't," he said, grinning. "Now come on. I'm in the mood to destroy someone today."
The court was empty when we arrived. At first.
We warmed up, the sound of sneakers squeaking against the polished wood filling the cavernous space. I ran my drills with a violence that made the other team members keep their distance. Sweat gathered at my temples, my body finally slipping into that rhythmic, mindless state where I didn't have to think.
Then... I felt it. A shift in the room's pressure.
I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. My focus fractured instantly. She was standing near the edge of the court, arms folded loosely over a light sweater, her red hair pulled back in a high tail. The sun through the high windows caught the copper strands, making them look like literal fire.
For one reckless second, something bright and terrifyingly warm surged through my chest. She was here. Watching me.
And then she laughed.
The sound wasn't loud. It wasn't dramatic. But in the silence of the court, it hit me like a physical strike to the ribs. I stopped mid-dribble. The ball bounced away, a hollow, echoing thud that announced my loss of control.
Time slowed. My gaze locked onto her. Her face was open, unguarded, something rare and unfiltered softening her sharp features. She wasn't laughing alone.
Julien stood beside her.
He leaned in, his head close to hers, whispering something low. Whatever stupid, "golden boy" sentiment fell from his mouth, it made her smile wider, her laughter spilling out again, freer than I had ever seen it.
My jaw tightened until I felt a tooth might crack. Something sharp twisted in my gut, ugly, jagged, and entirely unfamiliar. My hands curled into fists, my nails biting into my palms.
Why was she laughing like that? With him?
She looked up then. Our eyes met across the vast expanse of the hardwood floor. That look…the one that always unsettled me crossed her face. Confusion. Immediate awareness. A flicker of a "ghost" I couldn't name.
Julien noticed the shift too. I saw his body language change, his shoulders squaring as he followed her gaze to find me standing there, breathless and sweating, staring at them like a predator.
"Is something wrong, Isabelle?" he asked, his voice carrying just enough to reach me.
Adrien's voice cut through the haze. "Dmitri."
I didn't respond. I couldn't.
"Dmitri," he said again, louder this time, grabbing my arm. "Why'd you stop? You nearly tripped the point guard."
I forced myself to breathe, to break the stare that was surely burning a hole through Julien's head. Adrien followed my line of sight, then exhaled a long, weary breath.
"Oh," he said softly. "She's here. And she brought the backup." He glanced at me, his eyes full of warning. "Guess miracles do happen. They just happen to come with complications."
"Call a break," I muttered, my voice sounding like gravel.
Adrien studied me for a beat longer than necessary, then turned to the court. "Alright, five minutes! Hydrate and stay loose!"
I walked straight to the bench, grabbed a bottle of water, and drained half of it in one go. My pulse refused to settle. It was hammering a frantic rhythm against my eardrums. When I looked up again, she was leaving. Alone.
Julien stayed behind, watching her go before turning his gaze back to me. His expression was no longer kind. It was protective. It was an invitation to a war I had already declared.
I stood up, dripping sweat, and walked toward the exit.
"Where are you going?" Adrien called out, his voice sharp with concern.
"I'll be back," I said shortly.
I followed her out of the court and into the stone hallway. My footsteps were measured, controlled, though I felt like I was vibrating with a kinetic energy I didn't know how to discharge. She didn't hear me at first. She was humming a melody, something light, something she probably shared with Julien.
"Enjoying yourself?" I asked, the words cutting through her hum.
She turned sharply, her eyes wide. "What?"
"I asked if you were enjoying yourself," I said, stopping a few feet from her. "The court is for athletes, Isabelle. Not for… social calls."
She stared at me for a second, her expression hardening into that wall of ice she used against me. She sighed and turned away. "What do you want, Dmitri? I was just walking through."
I stepped forward, blocking her path with my body. I was a foot taller than her, sweaty, and surely intimidating, but she didn't flinch.
"I'm not in the mood today," she said flatly. "Move."
"Or what?" I asked quietly. I stepped closer, until she had to tilt her head back to look at me. "What happens if I don't?"
Her eyes flashed with a silver fire. "Please. Don't start."
I tilted my head, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous drawl. "Your usual escort isn't here. Julien stayed behind. Did he finally get tired of playing the knight?"
That did it. The mask cracked. She frowned, sharp, furious, and beautifully alive.
"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," she said, trying to step around me.
I blocked her again. Once. Twice. Each time I moved, she grew more exasperated, her breath coming in short, ragged hitches. Finally, she stopped, her chest heaving.
"What do you want from me, Dmitri? Honestly. What is it?" she snapped.
I shrugged, leaning against the cold stone wall, trying to appear unbothered even as my heart threatened to burst from my chest. "Nothing important. I just find you… entertaining."
She laughed once, a dry, humorless sound. "Is that what this is to you? Entertainment? You break my things, you ruin my classes, you follow me around like a shadow just for a laugh?"
"You're different when you're angry," I said, leaning closer until I could see the golden flecks in her silver eyes. "The 'perfect student' is boring. This version of you? This one is worth watching."
Her breath hitched. For a second, the anger softened into something else, a terrifying, raw awareness. "You did this yesterday. Now today. I don't understand what game you're playing, Dmitri Volkov."
"I told you," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "I'd take responsibility for you."
"Responsibility for what, exactly?"
The voice came from the end of the hall, cool, steady, and fundamentally unwelcome.
I turned slowly. Julien was standing there, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his expression uncharacteristically cold. The "Golden Boy" had followed us. He stood in the shadows of the arched doorway, his silhouette blocking the light, looking like he had finally found his backbone.
The air in the hallway turned to ice. My hands curled into fists at my sides, the sweat on my skin turning cold.
The game had just changed.