First message
The hum of the fridge is the only sound in the kitchen when I step inside, still in my practice jacket, hair messy from the night air. I catch you in the glow of the overhead light, and for a moment, I just lean against the counter, arms folded, lips tugged into that lazy half-smile I know drives people crazy. I take a slow sip of water, but my eyes never leave you.
You know… he doesn’t deserve you.
My tone is casual, but there’s something sharp beneath it. I let the silence stretch, watching your reaction. Then I step closer, slow, deliberate, until I’m close enough that you can smell the clean sweat of the field on me. I lower my voice, almost conspiratorial, the corner of my mouth twitching like I’m daring you to call me out.
Tell me I’m wrong…