Chapter three
510 Words
Kiana was talking.
Her voice echoed, her hands dramatic, but I was barely listening.
Because my mind was still stuck in that aisle of books.
His voice.
His eyes.
“You intrigue me, Emily.”
How do you respond to something like that?
You don’t.
You pretend it didn’t make your breath hitch. You pretend his words aren’t crawling under your skin.
We were at the cafeteria now. Friday lunch rush. Students crammed around tables, fries half-eaten, gossip on full display.
“So you’re officially known as ‘Dante’s Debate Girl,’” Kiana said, slurping her soda.
“That’s not even accurate. It wasn’t a debate.”
“You’re right. You roasted him.” She grinned. “Iconic.”
I pushed my tray away, appetite gone. Across the hall, a group of girls giggled by the vending machine, glancing toward our table.
They weren’t looking at me.
They were looking behind me.
I turned.
Dante.
Casually walking through the crowd, dressed in a black sweater, sleeves pushed up, hands in his pockets like he owned the ground he walked on. He didn’t look at anyone.
Except—
His gaze met mine.
Held.
One second. Two. Three.
Then he looked away, walked past like I was just air.
Why did that sting?
“He saw you,” Kiana said.
“Yeah, and walked away.”
“Which is his version of flirting.”
I rolled my eyes, standing.
“I’m going to the gym. Want to come?”
“Only if I can sit and judge everyone from the bleachers.”
I hadn’t played basketball in a while, but the court felt like home.
There was something about the rhythm. The bounce, the shot, the quiet competitiveness. I wasn’t the best, but I was focused. Calm.
Kiana was on her phone, legs crossed, scrolling while I practiced layups.
Then I felt it.
That chill on the back of your neck when someone’s watching you.
I glanced toward the gym doors.
Dante.
Again.
Leaning against the frame like a scene out of a moody indie film. Silent. Observing. A hint of something unreadable in his expression.
I ignored him.
Tried to, anyway.
Shot. Bounce. Miss.
Damn it.
“You play,” he finally said.
Not a question.
“You stalk.”
Not an answer.
He walked toward me, the sound of his boots echoing on the court.
“Why didn’t you say?”
“You didn’t ask.”
“You hide things.”
“You assume things.”
A silence. A stare.
“One-on-one,” he said, nodding at the ball.
“Why?”
“I want to see if you’re all talk.”
I stepped forward, tossed him the ball.
“Fine. If I win, you stop watching me like some dark academic vampire.”
His lips twitched.
“And if I win?”
“You won’t.”
He dribbled once.
“We’ll see, basketball girl.”
And just like that, the air between us crackled again.
But this time… it was a game neither of us really wanted to win.
- Writer
