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You know you are better than this. Better than the other girls—the ones who stare, gawking at her—you actually had standards. Or, so you think.
But here you are, sitting on the bleachers in the second auxiliary gym located on the campus of your school. The main indoor gym was reserved for the court-based sports: basketball, pickleball, tennis, badminton, etc. Much to your dismay, the primary aux gym is under maintenance until further notice, so you have no choice but to practice here. You don’t mind the change of scenery much, but you don’t appreciate the fact that you have to share the space with the boxing team. You sit with the rest of your team as you wait for your turn to use the shared space. As the captain of the wrestling team, your players look up to you; they feed off of your energy and mood. You get up from your seat and stand there, arms folded over your chest, sucking your teeth in frustration.
The wrestling mat is laid out onto the waxed floor, already taped down and set for your practice. But, unfortunately, the boxing gear is also out. The punching bags are lowered down, hanging from a mechanized machine bolted to the ceiling. One is set in the center of the wrestling mat’s inner ring. You sigh as you watch it swing with every forceful punch it absorbs. Your gaze narrows at the quick shuffling of the feet belonging to the person landing the blows. You look up, taking in their form. Their black shoes are laced tightly around their ankles, stabilizing their movements. You let out a scoff as you watch the rubber soles leave scuffs along the blue mat. Boxing shoes aren’t made for wrestling mats; that’s for sure. The person has to make an effort to keep from slipping out of their stance as they shuffle around the bag. You continue to watch them, taking note of the way their calf muscles flex as they move. The hems of their shorts land around the middle of their thigh, where toned muscles threaten to bust the seams. A thin tank top covers their upper half, a Nike sports bra peeking from underneath. You eye a single drop of sweat that drips from their jaw and down their neck, following the trail upward to where another is beginning to form at the tips of their pink hair.
“Vi! Wrap it up!” a voice calls out from near the door. You glance over, the raspiness of the voice pulls you from the trance the pink-haired girl has put you under. Vi lands a few more punches, her stance beginning to relax. Heavy footsteps close in on her.
“I said wrap it up. Let’s go.” This time the words come out more as a snarl than anything else. You watch the interaction from afar. The voice belongs to a tan-skinned woman, her hair cut in a choppy, dark bob. She narrows her gaze down on Vi, her height allowing her to tower over her by a few inches, adding the menace of her persona.
She stands with her arms crossed. From this angle, you can see the bulging muscles of her biceps glistening under the fluorescent lights, highlighting the intricate sleeve tattooed onto the skin of her left arm. Drawings of wires, circuits, and gears are etched into her skin, giving the illusion of a bionic arm. Damn, that had to have taken forever, you think as you note where the tattoo fades into the smooth skin of her wrist and disappears under the cropped sleeve of her muscle tee.
Vi finally backs away from the bag. She spreads her fingers, stretching out the cramps, then runs a hand through her damp hair. She shakes her head, shaking off the sweat. Even in the blur of the action, you see small inked lines on her cheek. Is that her name tattooed on her cheek…? You roll your eyes and let out an annoyed huff before turning back to face your team. Mel stands up and walks to your side, noticing the shift in your demeanor.
“I know the circumstances aren't ideal, but at least we still have a space to practice.” She smiles softly, offering some reassurance. She turns away and begins to walk the length of the bleachers, heading toward the utility closet to grab the disinfectant spray and sweeper. You stare at her back, focusing on the gold thread embroidered into the fabric of her jacket that reads ‘PU Women’s Wrestling Manager’. Her locs are twisted up on the top of her head, golden clips scattered sporadically throughout the updo. Your shoulders fall as you try to calm yourself before looking back at the group of girls in front of you.
“Alright. Mel is grabbing the supplies to clean off the mats, so while we wait, let’s start laps.” You send out the order with a clap of your hands, attempting to bring back a more motivating energy. The girls finish lacing and taping down their shoes before getting up from their seats. Soon, the sound of rhythmic feet hitting the floor fills the gym. You get ready to join the group, but as you step your foot out to launch yourself into a jog, you feel something off. You glance down and see you have completely forgotten to change into your own wrestling shoes. You drag your feet over to the bottom row of the bleachers and plop yourself down. You reach over to grab your bag, digging through the contents to pull out your shoes.
“Oh, shit.” Vi mutters. You glance up and watch as she tries to push through the stampede of the girls running around the mat. A smirk forms on her lips as one of the girls from your team slows down to create an escape route for Vi to step through. “Thanks, doll.” She flashes the girl a grin, getting ready to take the open path before the taller woman behind her shoves her shoulder, causing her to stumble past.
“The fuck, Sevika!” Vi snaps, looking over her shoulder.
While the exchange unfolds, you finally yank your wrestling shoes onto your feet, threading the laces with practiced, aggressive tugs. You double-knot them quickly before wrapping the tape securing around the thread, eyes never leaving the confrontation. The girl from your team—flushed, though not from running—glances between the two before finding her pace and jogging away. Other girls from the wrestling team send glares their way.
“Would you two knock it off for once,” a lower voice calls out. You follow the voice and side-eye the man sitting a few feet away. He stands up and walks over to the pair. You’ve seen him around, usually hanging out with Mel or the boy from sports med, Viktor. Your brows furrow as you try to place a name to his face.
Vi rolls her eyes and Sevika lets out a barely audible scoff.
“Back off, Jayce,” Vi mutters under her breath as she walks toward the bleachers across the gym, opposite you.
Jayce’s shoulders fall in defeat as he turns on his heel. You look to your left and are greeted by Mel, who is holding the supplies she just retrieved. You move to stand next to her. Jayce’s eyes almost glimmer at the sight of her. He strides over, grabbing the sweeper from her hands. He looks over at you, offering a sympathetic smile.
“You’re Y/N, right?” he asks. You nod hesitantly, not having been formally introduced. He adjusts his one-handed grip on the handle of the sweeper and extends the open one towards you. You look down at his hand before taking it into your own, shaking it politely.
“I’m Jayce. The manager of the boxing team,” he introduces himself. “Sorry about having to share the space. Hopefully, we can all make the most of it!”
You smile softly, feeling Mel’s eyes on you. You look over at her, meeting her gaze. She has so much love for her friends and enjoys seeing them get along. She reaches out, squeezing your arm affectionately just as you pull your hand away from Jayce.
“I also apologize that our coach, Vander, couldn’t be here either,” Jayce adds on. “It’s a weekend practice, so it’s out of his paid hours, and he still works outside of his job here.”
You nod in understanding. “Yeah, same here. Coach Ambessa refuses to work on weekends.” Mel grimaces slightly.
“She tolerates her job as our coach but finds her other hobbies more entertaining.” She sighs softly, eyes fluttering shut as if she’s blinking away the hurt. “Though, I think being a mother is on the bottom of her priorities list.”
You place your hand on her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. You glance down at your watch. Shit. We’re running out of time. You pat her back gently before stepping away from the duo, striding over to the mats where your team is still running laps. You clap your hands, redirecting their attention to you. You stand before the edge of the mat, looking at the punching bag that still hangs low above the mat and mutter a curse under your breath. Looking over your shoulder, you catch Jayce’s attention.
“Could you take care of that, please? I need to get my practice going and it’s in the way.” Your asking interrupts what seems to be a silent but intimate moment between Mel and him. He looks at you and nods. He pulls Mel into a quick embrace before heading toward the control panel on the far side of the wall.
Mel walks toward the mats and swiftly disinfects and sweeps them clean for the team, having to avoid the bag in the process. Meanwhile, Jayce opens the metal door, the hinges squeaking as it moves. He presses the button that controls the mechanism, but no luck; the bag stays still in front of you. This catches the attention of Vi. She walks toward Jayce, stopping at the halfway point between you and him.
Jayce turns over his shoulder. “Vi, call your sister. It’s jammed again.” He sighs, looking over at you with yet another apologetic smile. You let out a frustrated groan, running your hands over your face. Fuck. “Okay... uhh—” You recollect your thoughts and try to come up with a backup plan. Your team looks at you in anticipation. You finally meet their eyes.
“Okay, here’s what we’ll do.” You step onto the mat. You stop in front of the bag and nudge it slightly, the gentle force only causing a mild sway. You can feel Vi’s eyes burning into you—actually, you can feel everyone staring at you. Great. You turn back, focusing only on your team.
“We’re just gonna have to work around this big-ass bag until it gets fixed.”
You move to the edge of the mat, keeping one foot on the blue vinyl and the other on the waxed floor—effectively bridging the gap between your team and the remainder of the boxing team; the others had left after Sevika and Vi’s outburst. With your arms folded over your chest, balling up the fabric of your warm-ups, you stand firm as the two groups merge into an awkward semi-circle. Vi joins the huddle, giving you a look you can’t quite decipher. Sevika and Mel take their perches next to their familiar peers, creating a wall of bodies around you.
“So, who are we calling to fix the machine?” you mutter, directed at the group but with your eyes scanning the girls currently running laps. You don’t wait for an answer before cupping your hands around your mouth. “Keep the pace, ladies! High knees!”
Suddenly, the gym doors fly open and in comes a bouncy, blue-haired girl.
“What did you break this time, sis?” the shorter girl accuses, sending a sharp glare toward Vi.
“It wasn’t my fault, Powder.”
“For once.” The girl confidently strides over to the group, pushing past Jayce to reach the panel. She looks it over and rolls her eyes. “Which one of you dumbos jammed the button?” She glares at the people around her, narrowing her gaze on Jayce. “Ah, yes. The man. Figures.”
You can’t help but giggle. Your action earns some looks your way, and the sound seems to have reminded Vi of your presence. She steps closer to you.
“Just get it fixed for Your Highness over here,” Vi says, side-eyeing you with a smirk. Your blood runs cold. Your Highness…? The comment leaves an unfamiliar feeling creeping along your skin.
Powder lands an aggressive slam to the side of the panel, knocking the button back into place. “There we go. All fixed!” She swiftly turns on her heels, her bubble-braided hair swinging behind her as she comes to a halt on your other side, mirroring Vi. You can’t help but feel cornered—even in such an open space. Powder leans over, almost crossing the line of your personal space. You feel small under her gaze. You, a wrestler—a good one at that—feel intimidated by a petite woman. How ironic.
“Who are you?” She pokes.
“Y/N. The wrestling captain,” you say, forcing your voice to stay steady. You glance over your shoulder at your team, who are slowing down to listen in on the conversation. “Laps aren’t over! Don’t make me add time to practice!”
The team scrambles back into motion. Powder finally leans back, the energy easing. “Oh,” she hums, fidgeting with her fingers as she puts two-and-two together.
“You’re Powder?” You force the words from your throat. She only nods in response.
“Yeah, she’s my younger sister,” Vi chimes in. “She built the contraption that controls the ‘big-ass bag.’” Contempt is laced in her words as she quotes your earlier statement, emphasizing it with air-quotes. This time, your blood runs hot. Your blunt fingernails dig into the skin of your palms as you clench your fists.
Just as you were about to bite back, Mel speaks up. “Yes. We appreciate your hard work and skill, Powder.” She places a friendly hand on Powder’s shoulder. The girl glances at it before shrugging it off.
“No biggie.” She grumbles. “Your boyfriend keeps fucking it up, though.”
Mel flushes, looking at Jayce with embarrassment. “Oh, he isn’t—” Everyone in the group, even Sevika, shoots her a glare that silently calls “bullshit” on her words.
“Well, you must be Vi,” you turn your body toward her, extending your hand. She looks down at it, questioning the gesture. She takes your hand in a style that feels more like a grab than a grasp. “It’s nice to meet—unh—you.” Your sentence breaks as she shakes your hand with a rough motion, pulling you toward her slightly.
“Yeah. You too, princess.” You yank your hand back. A devilish smirk pulls at her lips, spotlighting the scar that pairs with the one chiseled into her eyebrow. “Your girls are looking a little lost over there.” She gestures toward the mat where the bag has finally begun to retract with a mechanical hum.
You scoff, glaring at her in annoyance. “Go home. Your practice is over.” You push past her, shoulder-checking her as you fully commit to the mat.
“Alright, ladies!” you yell, your voice echoing off the walls. “The bag is up! Let’s go— circle the mat. Stretches, then tumbling. Get ready to practice blast-doubles into a takedown!”
You circle the girls on the mat, helping pairs when needed. You stand in front of a duo who look to be moving like fish out of water. You watch as one of the girls lowers herself to her knee and moves through the steps of the skill. She rotates her shoulder awkwardly as it makes contact with her partner’s hip bone. She pushes through into a takedown. You move to grab her before she and her partner hit the mat.
“That’s how you dislocate your shoulder,” you state. “Jesus,” you mutter under your breath. You take her place and demonstrate the movements, gracefully taking her partner down and moving into a pinning position. The girl nods in understanding as you stand up to let her try again.
You look over your shoulder and make eye contact with Vi. She looks at you, impressed, and you smirk at her. The tension is severed as Vi comes back to her senses, rolling her eyes at your prideful expression.
You look down at your watch; only an hour left of practice. You sigh softly. Mel walks over to you, not stepping onto the mat due to her wearing her sneakers.
“Hey. We’re all going to go to the food hall to grab something to eat. Is that okay?”
You only nod, not bothering to face her fully. Your focus stays on the moving bodies in front of you. You see a girl lose her footing and yell out a correction to her form.
“Can I get you anything?”
You finally turn to acknowledge her properly, walking off the mat to meet her. Your shoulders fall, your structured demeanor finally faltering. You ponder for a moment but ultimately shake your head.
“No, I need to get my shit together. We’re running out of time and I’m still in my warm-ups,” you mutter, mostly to yourself. You pull your hoodie over your head and slide your sweatpants down your legs, kicking them off. You leave the set in a heap by the mat. “You can go ahead. I have to get drills going.”
Mel nods before retreating to the group. You glance over, seeing how Vi seems to be taking in your newly exposed figure. You stand there in your compression shirt and matching leggings, the fabric form-fitting. You tug at the long-sleeves, adjusting them to line up the seams. She watches your every move, and you let her. Her eyes linger on your chest until you snap, grabbing her attention. You make a gesture for her to focus on your eyes. Vi flushes as you wink playfully, slightly in disbelief of her shameless behavior.
Powder stands next to her, her gaze narrowing with a disgusted look on her face. She grimaces, mimicking a vomiting motion. Sevika walks behind Vi, patting her shoulder and signalling her to join the group as they leave. You watch as they file out of the gym. Mel looks back to give you one last warm smile before the door shuts behind her.
You sigh deeply and turn to your team. You yell out directions before stepping onto the mat, spending the rest of practice assisting with moves and drills, helping your teammates perfect their skills.
Practice finishes, and your team has already left, eager to spend the rest of their Saturday night however they please. You look down at your phone: 5:37 PM. You wipe a bead of sweat from your brow, your chest heaving as you sit on the bleachers. You set your phone down before reaching down to tear the tape from your laces. You pause for a moment and look up at the mat a few feet away. The space is wide and empty, the punching bag tucked safely against the ceiling. You glance at the time again. Some extra practice couldn’t hurt… could it?
You push yourself from your seat and walk over to the mat. Standing in the inner ring, you stretch your arms and shake out your legs before taking the bottom position. You run through the motions of snapping up to your right knee, planting your left foot, and swinging around to stand before dropping into a wrestling stance. You repeat the sequence until you exhaustedly collapse onto the mat, sitting on your heels. You press your hand to your chest as you catch your breath. Your hearing is fuzzy, the muffled hum of the lights bouncing around in your head. You are so engrossed in the pounding of your heart that you fail to see or hear the gym doors creak open.
“Exhausted from wrestling all the ghosts?” A soft chuckle reverberates through your entire being. You look up through half-closed eyes.
“And yet you’re the only haunting presence here, Vi,” you mumble with a frown. This earns another chuckle from deep within her chest. She leans down and unlaces her boots and slides them off before stepping onto the mat, walking toward you. She sits in front of you, lounging casually.
“What do you want, Vi?” You plant the hand that was on your chest onto the mat, trying to ground yourself as you shift your weight to sit with your legs stretched out. Vi shrugs.
“Teach me.”
“Teach you what?” Your brow quirks and you tilt your head at her. She kicks her own legs out, nudging your shoe with her socked foot.
“Teach me how to wrestle, and I’ll teach you how to box,” she states simply, offering a small smirk to go with the cool stare she’s leveled at you.
You roll your eyes and scoff. “Not a chance in hell.” You push yourself off the mat and walk toward the bleachers to grab your water. Vi scrambles to her feet, following close behind you like an eager puppy.
“Oh, come on. It would be fun!” she argues, plopping herself down onto the bleachers in front of you. You stand there, sipping on your water.
“Still no. Even if I did, I would never do it sober.”
“Okay… then let me buy you a drink,” she says, placing her hands on her knees, leaning toward you, looking up with hooded eyes. You practically choke on your water, pulling the bottle from your mouth as you cough.
“You—” You continue to cough, eyes watering in the process. You grasp your chest as you swallow thickly, processing her words. “—are fucking hilarious,” you deadpan, your expression a harsh contrast to your words. Her eyes widen at your response, thick brows furrowing.
“You are not buying me a drink, Violet. Not a fucking chance.”
She stands up now, invading your space. She grabs the bottle that you’re still holding. “Okay, and what if I take this from you? You’ll need a drink, won’t you? I can provide that for you.” She sets the bottle down behind her. She looks at you intently, a small grin on her lips.
“God, you are insufferable.” You roll your eyes. You shift your gaze from her to the floor, blinking as you think for a moment. You finally cave in, but not without a fight.
“Give me your hands.” You look at her, your face not giving away any telling expression. She cocks her head, confused by the shift in tone. You grab her wrists and fold her fingers inward, you feel for the length of her fingernails. Too sharp. You look at her; she’s watching you with curiosity. A pink flush decorates her freckled face. You let go of her hands and step around her to reach into your bag. You dig out your keychain, which has nail clippers hanging from it. You unclip the tool and toss the rest of the keychain back into your bag before handing the tool to her.
Her demeanor shifts; she stands with her arms crossed and a hip popped out. She takes the tool from you with a wide grin painted on her lips. “You are such a little freak for having those on hand.”
You stare at her blankly. "Excuse me?” you mutter, utterly confused by her statement. “A what?”
Vi shrugs as she begins to trim her nails. “You know,” she says as she clips each nail, feeling them over to check for rigid edges. “You’re always prepared.”
You laugh loudly, clutching your core as you hunch over. “Dude!” You gasp for air, laughter still flowing from you. “I’m a wrestler. It’s a regulation to have short nails.” You finally catch your breath, wiping your eyes. “Get your head out of the gutter.”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, you play a sport where you get on top—” she pauses, clipping her last nail, “—or under,” she mutters incoherently as she looks over her hands one last time. “But you basically pin girls down to a mat for fun.”
You shrug, trying to conceal the blush that’s forming on the apples of your cheeks by wiping sweat from your hairline.
“So what?” You quirk a brow as she hands you back the clippers, your fingers touching in the process. You shudder at the contact.
She pulls her hand back, gesturing to your reaction with a smirk. “My point exactly— it’s very likely you are a freak.”
You roll your eyes, tucking the clippers back into your bag. You glance down at the socks on her feet; she notices.
She picks up on the thoughts swimming through your head. “I can wear my boxing shoes—”
You instantly hold up your hand, stopping her. “No!” You sigh. “You’ve scuffed up the mat enough already.”
She rolls her eyes as you turn to dig through your bag, pulling out an extra pair of wrestling shoes. “Here. These should work for now.” You hand the shoes to her.
“Thank you,” she mutters, grabbing the pair and sitting down next to you. You watch as her slim fingers loosen the laces before she leans down to shove her foot into the shoe. She finishes lacing the shoes and you then hand her the roll of tape. You gesture to your own taped laces and she nods. She copies the taped wrapping from your laces onto her own. You wait for her to finish up before you direct her next moves.
“Get on the mat.” You stand up and walk toward the mat; she’s already there. She jumps up and down, shaking out her nerves with a wide grin.
“I’m excited.” She’s practically beaming as you stretch out your muscles. She does the same, mimicking your actions.
You chuckle softly, and her cheeks flush at the sound. “Top or bottom?” you ask with a serious expression, readying yourself for either position.
Her grin falters. “W-what?” She stares at you blankly, not sure if you’re serious. Her face flushes, a blush the color of her hair dusting her cheeks as explicit images likely develop in her mind. A smirk slowly forms on her lips. “Top.” she dares. The connotation of her word is clearly different from yours—she is pushing your buttons, and she knows it.
“Ew! Violet, get your mind out of the gutter.” You groan loudly as you pick up on the thoughts crossing her mind. “They’re wrestling positions,” you insist. “So, seriously: top or bottom?” You reiterate yourself with a sterner tone.
She looks at you and shrugs. “You tell me.”
You let out a frustrated huff. “Okay—” You step closer, simplifying it. “Do you want to pin me, or do you want me to pin you?”
Her eyes dart toward the space between you, she thinks for a moment before glancing back up. “I want you to pin me.”
“So, bottom position. Okay,” you restate, the mentality of being captain taking over. You fall to your knees and sit back on your heels. You place your hands in front of you, hunching over as you demonstrate the position for her to move into. “This is the bottom position.” You wait for her to recreate your movements before you stand on your knees.
She looks back at you over her shoulder. “So, basically pretend to wrestle the ghosts like you were earlier?” she teases with a smile. You roll your eyes and nod briefly.
“Yep. This time, I’m the ghost,” you remark as you move in front of her, giving her some distance. “You remember the snap movements I was doing? How I snapped up to my right knee, planted my left foot, and swung around to stand before dropping into a wrestling stance?” You emphasize each move by acting it out as you speak. She nods and clumsily moves through the motions. “Okay. Let’s see how this goes,” you sigh tiredly, moving behind her.
“I’m gonna have to touch you—is that okay?” you mutter from behind her, wanting to make sure you have her verbal consent before taking your position on top.
“Do your worst, princess.”
“Okay—” A light pink dusts your cheeks; you’re grateful she can’t see how her words affect you. You place your hand on her shoulder and you swear she shivers at the contact. You bite your lip and swallow the lump climbing up your throat. Get yourself together, Y/N. You coach girls all day. Vi isn’t any different. Rationality claws at your brain, leaving a burning sensation in between your brows.
“So, being in the top position, I am going to stand on my left knee and plant my right foot behind you. Then I’m going to place my left hand on your left wrist—” You move forward, your chest pressing against her back as you take a loose hold on her wrist. “I’ll put my right hand in a fist and put it on your stomach, resting it under your ribs,” you explain, acting through it. Your cheek rests against her back, just below the base of her neck. “Then I’ll put my weight onto you.” You move your right foot enough to stabilize yourself as you lay about sixty percent of your weight onto her.
“Oh, come on. Don’t go easy on me. I can handle it, princess,” she chuckles from under you. You let out a scoff and lay the rest of your weight onto her out of spite. She jolts forward and lets out a quick breath. She squirms to settle back into position, and you give her the room to do so.
“Better?” you sass, smirking at how she collected herself after the change in pressure. She mumbles something incoherent, and your smirk widens. She readjusts one last time.
“What next?” she asks, readying to move forward.
“The snap movements from before, but now you have to take into account my weight,” you explain. “I’m only putting pressure for now; I’m not going to try to pin you yet.”
A few seconds pass as she plays the scenario through her head. She lifts her head, and you sense the determination settling in her demeanor.
“Ready?” you ask.
She nods in response and lets out a quick breath before moving into the practiced sequence of movements. She snaps up to her right knee and plants her left foot as she was told, but her movements are clumsy. You press your weight into her and follow her lead, pushing off your knee as you both move upward. As she attempts to swing around and into the wrestling stance, she loses her footing and begins to fall backward.
You act fast, cupping your hand on the back of her head before it can slam into the dense material of the mat. Her back hits the floor, knocking the wind out of her. Her eyes squeeze shut as your fingers soften the blow. You catch yourself with your other hand, bracing it next to her head. This was semi-normal to you—new recruits always start somewhere—and you move with rehearsed caution, but your body is pressed flush against hers. Your brows tie together in panic. Her eyes fly open, and you look at them closely, taking in the dusty blue irises that frame her normally dilated pupils. You sigh in relief, letting out a shaky breath.
“Geez, princess,” Vi mutters from underneath you. “I’m fine. I can handle a little tumble.” Her voice drops off as her gaze drifts to your lips. Your breath hitches, fingers tightening in her pink hair. Her hands move to hold your hips, her movements slow and hesitant. You instinctively move closer; your breaths mingle into one. Her lashes flutter as her eyelids droop, and she leans up until your noses practically touch.
Suddenly, it all becomes too real. You gasp, yanking your hand from her hair and pushing yourself off her, scrambling to your feet. You back up, tripping over your own feet as heat crawls across your skin. Your hair sticks to your forehead, and you swallow dryly. You can’t form a single word. No witty banter, no quip back—nothing.
Vi pushes herself up, sitting back on her elbows. “What the hell was that?” she puzzles. Her expression shows just as much shock as yours. She has a point—what the hell was that?
You run a clammy hand through your hair, placing your palms on the back of your neck and interlocking your fingers. Your lips part as heavy, shallow breaths escape past your teeth. You blink at her. She stays on the mat in front of you, her chest heaving. Her skin is slick with sweat and colored with a hue similar to that of her hair. Speaking of—pink strands fall in front of her face, and she brushes them back, catching your eyes as she does.
This sight of her so disheveled, so caught off guard—you can’t look away. But you have to. You can’t let these images of her blur into the fantasies blooming in the back of your mind. You can’t let the thought of her coming apart beneath you fester into a malignant being meant to gnaw at your conscience.
You turn on your heel, practically speed-walking off the mat and towards the bleachers where your stuff sits. You rush to rip the tape and unlace your shoes, yanking them off your feet roughly. Your senses shut down—all you know in this moment is Vi, Vi, Vi. You hear the scuffling of shoes and hurried footsteps.
“What are you doing?” Vi is standing in front of you now. Her words come out in sharp syllables. She knows you’re running.
“I’m leaving—” You grunt as you throw your shoes into your bag haphazardly, the mangled tape still dangling from the laces. “This little teaching session, or whatever, is over. Go home.” You can’t bear to look at her, knowing all you’ll see are the lips you wish had kissed you. This was wrong, all wrong. Your bones itch with a need for her. It is unfamiliar—this unsettling desire. It sits deep in your stomach, bubbling and boiling in anticipation. Your whole body feels hot, and all you want to do is either drench yourself in ice water or peel your skin off. There’s no in-between.
“Are you kidding me?” Vi snorts, her tone harsh. “You’re really just gonna leave and ignore what just happened?”
You spin around to face her, your expression cold. You point a finger at her. “What almost just happened,” you correct. She scoffs and crosses her arms over her chest, building back up that wall you somehow managed to crack previously.
Your blood bubbles under your skin; heat radiates from your body as she dares to step closer. You step back, your calves hitting the bleachers. You stumble slightly, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. You sidestep her, not even bothering to put on your regular shoes. You just want out. You need to be away from her—away from the temptations that swarm her like a heavy storm cloud. She stares at you in disbelief.
You storm out of the gym. The loud slam of your hand on the old wood drowns out the call of your name. You turn the corner of the corridor that leads down the sports hall, find a bench, and toss your bag onto it before reaching in to grab your tennis shoes. You plop down on the seat and begin to slide the shoes onto your feet. You lace them up and lean back against the wall. Your throat feels dry and your eyes sting, the discomfort a companion to the rhythmic thumping of your head.
Your phone buzzes from the bottom of your bag. You groan and move to retrieve the device. Mel’s name is displayed on the screen, a photo of the two of you peering back as you stare at the incoming call. You sigh and accept it, putting the phone to your ear.
“What’s up?” you mumble. The microphone easily picks up on the discomfort in your voice.
“Why are you still at the gym?” Mel asks, concern decorates her delicate voice.
“How—” You’re confused at first, but then you remember that the two of you share your locations. “Don’t stalk me, weirdo.”
Mel lets out a huff, the gust of air crackling in the receiver. “I’m worried about you,” she admits.
“I’m fine—” you begin, but she cuts you off before you can repeat yourself more convincingly.
“No. I don’t like the way things were between you and Vi during practice. I fear you two won’t get along.”
You want to tell her that she’s partially right—tell her about the events that have happened in the past hour or so.
“She left the food hall before any of us. Not even Powder knew where she went,” Mel explains, recounting the details. She always makes sure to collect every relevant fact.
“She came to the gym.” You sigh and Mel goes silent. You wait a beat, curious if she’ll butt in. She doesn’t. “She somehow convinced me to teach her some wrestling moves.”
Shuffling can be heard coming from her end of the call. You hear muffled protests from Mel as the phone is handed off to someone you recognize as Jayce. His deeper voice rings out, causing you to turn the volume down on your phone. “She left us to be with you?” he questions. You can practically picture the bewilderment on his face by the tone of his voice.
You shrug your shoulders as you mutter, “I guess so.”
Jayce starts to pour questions onto you before Mel snatches her phone back. You smile softly as you listen to the quick bickering the two share. Mel focuses back on you.
“What are your plans for the night?” she inquires. You pull the phone from your ear to glance at the small clock in the corner of the screen: 7:56 PM.
You put the phone back to your ear. “Uh— I don’t think I’m doing anything, really. I need to shower, though.”
“Okay, how about we meet up at The Last Drop around 9:30?”
You open your mouth to give some lame excuse, but she beats you to it.
“Please?” Her voice is soft and convincing. A second passes and you give in. You mumble something close to a confirmation before the two of you share your goodbyes.
You place your phone down next to you, letting out a long exhale. You try to regain your composure, but it’s cut short as you hear the echo of the gym door closing. This is your sign to get going in hopes of avoiding a run-in with Vi. You’re quick on your feet, guiding yourself down the rest of the hall to the exit doors. You weave through the parked cars in the lot, pull your keys from the side pocket of your bag, and unlock your car. You toss your bag onto the leather of the back seat before sliding into the driver’s side. You pull out of the spot and head toward your apartment—a newer building on the nicer side of Piltover, just a few miles from the University.
You are considered well off financially; your parents are a big part of that. Your mother was a commissioner for the Council, specifically working with Councilwoman Kirraman. Your father is a merchant who made his living in the dark alleys of the Undercity. The two of them met when your mother was stationed in Zaun for research to help improve conditions of those less fortunate. Your father found her wandering the streets, blissfully unaware of the danger lurking in the shadows. Your mother was kind-hearted, always seeing the good in those around her. Your father means well, but he has his faults.
You recall the stories shared about their fairytale-esque love story, but the details have become foggy as you’ve grown older. After having you, your parents settled in the comfort of Piltover, your mother setting up a steady job at an antiques and gadgets shop for your father. He still works there now—having taken ownership of the company a few years ago. He travels often, venturing to foreign countries to sell valuable items, the money fueling you and your passions alongside his. He’s all you have left.
Your mother passed during your adolescence. Shortly after, Councilwoman Kirraman announced her departure from the Council and was named Dean of Piltover University. You remember your mother expressing her dreams of you attending the school; it leaves a hole in your heart that she isn’t here to see you make that dream a reality.
You arrive at your building, parking and getting out of your car to head toward the stairs leading up to your unit. You lock the door behind you and place your bag onto the table flush with the entry hallway’s wall.
You walk past the kitchenette and the living room, heading down the hall to your room. You pull your shoes off and kick them carelessly into your closet; a problem for later. You leave your room and push the bathroom door open, flicking on the lights as you walk in. The tile is cold, soothing the acute burning of your sore feet.
You stare at your reflection in the mirror. You’ve looked better. Your hair is messy, strands pulled out of the style it was held in for practice. You note how flushed your skin is and the faint dark tracks running down your cheeks from leftover mascara. A soft sigh leaves your lips as you move to turn on the shower, letting the water warm as you undress.
Your shower is short-lived but you got done what needs to be done. The feeling of the mat is free from your skin, and you let out a content hum as you wrap yourself in a plush towel. You run your fingers through your damp hair, looking at it through the mirror as you ponder how to style it. You tap the screen of your phone that’s sitting on the counter. The time reads: 8:48 PM. You decide that you have time for a blowout.
About twenty minutes later, you exit the bathroom with freshly styled hair and walk over to your closet. You thumb through the clothes on the hangers, searching for something appealing. Your gaze lands on a simple dress—sleek black fabric that hangs off one shoulder and tailors to the curve of your waist. It’s nothing special, but it’s clean and cute. You pull it from the hanger, tossing it behind you onto the bed. You kneel down to sort through the shoes organized in the cubby shelves. You hook your fingers on the strap of your black, studded sling-back flats. Again—nothing special, but comfortable and cute.
You stand back up and bring the shoes over the edge of your bed, setting them on the floor. You step over toward your dresser and pick out the appropriate underwear for your outfit. You slip into your bra and panties before shimmying into the dress. You sit on your bed to put on your shoes, standing back up to make sure they fit comfortably before walking into your bathroom.
You fluff up your hair and tug at your dress so the silhouette fits properly. You brush on a few strokes of mascara and apply tinted chapstick. You deem yourself presentable and turn on your heel; you’re heading out the door, keys in hand, ready for the night.
You pull into a spot in the lot outside of the bar, killing the engine before stepping out. The early March breeze blows around you, decorating your skin with goosebumps. You sling your bag over your shoulder as you lock your car. You approach the entrance, the thumping bass of the music leaving an odd hum on the door handle as you push it open, being fully consumed by the lively atmosphere as you step through the threshold. Bodies are pushed up against one another—some intentional and some not so much. You squeeze through, navigating the labyrinth of intoxicated individuals, craning your neck as you look around in hopes of seeing a familiar face.
“Y/N! Over here!” You can hardly make out the call of our name, but the sound directs your gaze toward a booth near a more secluded corner of the venue.
Mel is perched on the worn seat; Jayce has an arm slung over her shoulders while he is sitting snug beside whom you assume to be Viktor. You stumble toward the group, grabbing a hold of the round tabletop that centers the semi-circular seating. You pull your hand back, grimacing at the sticky residue of some mysterious substance that is now on your palm. You toss your bag onto the seat before sliding into the booth across from Mel. You let out an exasperated sigh, tossing your head back.
“You okay?” Jayce’s brows furrow as he takes in your uneasy presence. You lift your head and glare at him. “Guess not,” he mutters, and it earns a jab to the side from Mel. He winces and holds his hand up in mock surrender. He mumbles an apology, and Mel turns back to you.
“Would a drink help?” She smiles softly, trying to do what she can to show her support without being too overbearing.
“More like a whole bottle,” you grumble dramatically, running a hand through your hair. You feel around for a clean spot on the table before placing your elbow upon the wood, resting your chin in your palm. You glance over at Viktor, who looks to be as unamused as you.
“Good to see you, Viktor.” You offer him a small but nonetheless forced smile.
He nods in acknowledgment. “You as well, Y/N. Safe to assume you’re well?” There was depth to his question, far beyond the surface of your evident despair. During freshman year the shift into the new environment and training schedule stress had caused the concern of a minor tear in the labrum of your hip, and as a sports medicine intern, he was there for all of your physical therapy and rehabilitation. You nod sharply, not wanting to dwell on the thought.
The four of you sit in a dense cloud of unrhythmic small talk—the majority of conversation being initiated by Mel. You tap your fingers on the table absentmindedly, thinking of your next move. I am way too sober to survive this, you think to yourself as you watch the numerous stares shared by the trio in front of you, each glance proving a different consequence of every emotion that hovers in the air around them. You grunt as you slide off the booth, the leather catching the bare flesh of your thighs. You stand up straight and tuck your card into your bra, not wanting to lug your entire bag up to the bar top.
You inform the group of your intention to get a drink and are only met with a swift nod from Mel. You maneuver through the crowd and find your way to the bar top. You brace yourself on the edge of the counter, leaning forward as you look for the bartender. You see them on the opposite end, attending to a customer. You rock back on your heels, your eyes darting around, taking in the scenery of the lively environment as you wait patiently. You glance at the shelves built into the interior of the bartop. Your eyes narrow as your gaze catches something familiar. A pair of shoes are tucked into the corner of one of the shelves. Are those…my shoes? You wonder. It’s hard to tell for sure, the dark lighting not allowing much detail to be seen. You continue to stare at the shoes, different scenarios playing through your head. You fail to notice that the bartender has moved toward you, ready for your order.
“What can I get you, miss?” The voice was deep, raspy, matured with age. You look at him, still trying to regain your thoughts. He looks at you; a gentle patience paints his wrinkled features. His hair was messy but not dirty, his beard sprinkled with grey patches. Just as you were about to respond, a voice chips in. You glance over and frown immediately.
“I’ve got this one, Vander.” Vi steps toward the man, placing a hand on his bulky arm, urging him to back away.
“You have got to be kidding me!” You roll your eyes hard enough to give yourself a headache. You let out an annoyed grunt. “You work here?” Vander gives her a look, shaking his head as Vi nods smugly.
“Something like that,” she shrugs and twirls a dirty glass in her hand before placing it in the sink next to her.
“Can I just get a shot, please? Vodka.” You sigh, doing all you can to avoid her gaze. She stays persistent, eyeing you closely. She can only see your upper half due to the height of the bartop, but it still doesn’t stop her imagination from filling in the rest.
“Surprised you didn’t run from the sight of me,” she lets out a humorless laugh, grabbing two shot glasses from a shelf behind her and setting the glasses down on the counter. Your brows cinch at the presence of the second glass, but you ignore; there’s better things to worry about.
“Yeah, believe me, I wanted to,” you mutter with an unamused tone. “But you still have my shoes.” You blink at her with a glint in your eyes that makes her skin crawl. You were on the precipice of walking out of the damn bar and stomping home. But, she’s determined to keep you teetering.
“Just wanted an excuse to see you again, princess.” She sends you a wink, grinning as your face scrunches in contempt. She finishes pouring your shot, along with filling the extra glass, and places both in front of you.
You frown. “I only wanted one, Violet,” you repeat from earlier. She nods, moving swiftly around the bar to stand by your side. You watch her closely. She looks different in this light. Like she’s in her element, thriving and glowing. You suck in a breath, trying to swallow down the attraction you feel for the way her clothes cling to her body. She’s dressed in a black tank top; no bra. Blue jeans hang low on her hips, the waistband of her boxers sit higher than her jeans.
“I’m not deaf.” She rolls her eyes, finding an open space next to you. She leans back on the bartop, holding her body up with her elbows. “The other is for me.” She looks at you, smirking slightly.
“Drinking on the job?” You tease, quirking a brow as a small smile pulls at your lips. She shrugs and laughs softly.
“Did I say I worked here? Hm, don’t recall.” She mutters before turning to grab one of the shot glasses. She swings the liquid back and swallows it in one motion. She grimaces at the taste as it burns down her throat. She speaks, the alcohol leaving a raspy tone in her voice. You gawk at her, watching the way her throat bobbed as she swallowed. Oh, how you wish you could feel that movement with your fingertips, how you wish you could just wrap your hand around—
“Hey, princess,” She snaps in your face, pulling you out of your thoughts. She’s closer now. You can feel the heat from her body, it feels all too familiar. Reminiscent of the tension you faced on the mat. “You good?” She laughs, nearly mocking you. You grunt, regaining your composure before reaching for your own glass. You toss your head back as the liquid flows past your lips and leaves a tingling sensation in its wake. This earns another, more confident, laugh from Vi.
“So, why are you here?” She moves to rest her side on the bar. She cocks her head, eyeing you once more. You feel hot under her gaze, shifting your weight between each foot as you stand there silently. You swallow thickly, averting your gaze from the subtle impressions of barbells that are noticeable through her top. Her brows furrow, “You a lightweight or something? Why are you so quiet? You always have some random shit to say—this whole silence thing is kinda creepy.”
You roll your eyes and groan, “Oh just fuck off.” This earns a grin from the woman in front of you. She reaches out, shoving your shoulder playfully. Your gaze falls onto her hand as its presence lingers on your forearm. “There she is.” She muses, tracing shapes onto the skin of your wrist with the tip of her finger. You pull back, standing your ground.
“Nope.” You mutter, holding your hands up in defense before wrapping them around yourself, as if to stop yourself from reaching out to her. You back up, stumbling over a barstool in an attempt to create the much needed distance. “Not doing this. I came here to have fun—” you begin to rant, your volume rises above the music thumping through the speakers. “—came here to forget about you, don’t make this any harder for me, Vi.”
You watch as Vi’s expression grows cold. She shifts her weight to stand up properly, straightening her back. Tension falls into her shoulders, holding them in place as she glares at you. “Fine. Be that way.” She scoffs, the lingering vodka on her tongue letting the words fall out with little hesitation. “But trust me, Y/N—” She steps closer to you, “I will make everything harder for you.”
Your eyes widen at her words. On the surface it’s a cold, frozen statement but deep down you know that there’s more to it. You reach out to grip the back of the nearest empty barstool, you lean on it casually, popping your hip out in a way that pulls her eyes toward your torso.
“Is that a threat, Violet—” You narrow a gaze on her, confidence growing as you feel her eyes dragging up toward your face. “Or a promise?”
She finally meets your eyes, a challenging spark gleaming in the low light of the bar. “Definitely a promise, princess.”
You let out a huff and push off the stool before straightening your posture. You turn on your heel, looking over your shoulder as you mutter, “Then don’t let me down.”
You give her one last look before making your way back toward your group.
Vi slams a hand onto the bartop and throws her head back in frustration. “God! What is her fucking deal?” She groans as she moves to face the bar fully, gripping the counter tightly. Vander looks over at her, a cocktail shaker moving violently in his hands as he mixes up a drink.
“Haven’t seen you this worked up in awhile.” Vi looks up at Vander, lips curling into a frown. “Who is she?”
Vi pulls an empty barstool out and slides onto the cushioned leather, sitting across from the man. “Y/N Y/L/N. Wrestling captain and properly the bane of my existence.” she grumbles, glancing over at where you’re seating and chatting with your friends.
Vander nods, straining and pouring the freshly mixed concoction into a tall glass. “So, she’s one of Ambessa’s girls?” Vi nods, her gaze still lingering on you. “Makes sense—” Vi looks at Vander. “She seems to be a spit fire.”
She rolls her eyes and mumbles a string of curses under her breath. She sits up and leans over the counter to grab the bottle of vodka from earlier and pours herself another shot. She downs it swiftly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “She’s gonna teach me how to wrestle—”
Vander quirks a brow, glancing at her questionably. “Really think that’s a good idea, kid?” Vi shrugs and pours herself another shot before Vander reaches over and grabs the bottle from her hand. He sets it next to him on the counter, away from her. Vi shoots him an annoyed glare but he shrugs it off. “Hey, I may be your coach and what not, but a dad still has to dad.”
Vi groans dramatically and slumps into the stool. She runs her hands over her face, pressing her fingers into her temples.
-
You sit comfortably at the booth, engaging in conversation as drinks are passed around. You settled on sipping a drink Mel had rejected—she had complained that it was too sour for her taste. The glass is cold in your hand, condensation dripping onto your fingers as you hold it tightly.
“Vi’s here.” You mutter around the straw that’s settled between your lips. All eyes are on you now.
“Oh? I mean, it makes sense. This is Vander’s place.” Jayce explains as he twirls a cork coaster with his fingers. Mel nods in agreement while Viktor just looks between the two.
“Hmm, it’s just annoying. I didn’t want to see her.” You hum, taking another sip from your drink before setting it down.
Jayce’s brow furrow as a thought comes to mind, “What’s going on between you two?”
Mel glances at him and then to you. Her head tilts as she awaits your answer. You just shrug and let out a superficial sigh.
“Who knows—” you feel the weight of the alcohol on your shoulders, pressing further onto your exhausted body. You want to put up a fight, you want to defend yourself and say there’s nothing going on but it takes energy to lie. Energy you don’t have.
“She just took a liking to me I guess.” You mutter as you rub your tired eyes, careful enough to not smudge your mascara. You plant your elbow on the table and rest your chin on your palm. “That’s all there is to it.”
“So, you’re friends?” Jayce inquires, raising a brow skeptically.
“Something like that.” You mumble before sipping the rest of your drink through its straw. You push your empty glass to the edge of the table as you slide off the booth. You rest the strap of your bag on your shoulder, gripping the back of the booth to stabilize yourself.
“I kinda just want to go home.” You slur, the numerous drinks have left a soft blur in the edge of your peripheral. Mel watches as you stumble, frowning at your obvious intoxication.
“Let me drive you—” She begins, already grabbing her purse and reaching for your keys. Jayce places a hand on her shoulder as he gets up, following after her.
He nods, looking over at Viktor who is following suit. “Yeah, it’s getting late. I can follow you and take Mel back home.”
Mel has moved to your side, holding her arm around your shoulders to make sure you stay up right as the four of you weave through the crowd towards the door.
Jayce steps back from the group, falling behind to go pay the tab. As the rest of you file out into the file toward your designated vehicles, he stands at the bar. Vander greets him kindly, accepting the card Jayce had pulled from the wallet in his hand.
“Do you have her number?” A voice asks from beside him. Jayce looks over, met with the flushed face of a familiar pinkette.
“What?”
“You heard me—” Vi’s words fell off, an obvious indication that the glass in front of her was not her first. “What’s her number?”
Jayce sighs, briefly thanking Vander as he hands back his card. He looks back at Vi, his shoulders fall as he reaches for his phone from his back pocket. He scrolls through his messages with Mel to where she had shared your number with him. He copies the number and sends it to Vi before slipping his phone back into his pocket.
“Not a word about this, Lanes.” He mutters, stepping away from the bar and heading for the exit, patting Vi on the shoulder as he passes her. She nods swiftly, muttering an incoherent thank you.
-
The glass feels cold on your skin as you rest your forehead on the window. Your hands are wrapped around yourself in an attempt to aid in the warming of your skin, most of the alcohol in your system already doing the bulk of the work. Mel’s eyes are pulled to the road in front of her, hands steady on the wheel.
“I feel like an idiot for drinking that much,” you groan, knitting your brows together as you wrap your arms tighter. Mel glances over, frowning slightly.
“It’s alright. That’s why I stopped at two. I wanted to make sure you had fun and could still get a safe ride home.” She smiles softly, reaching a hand over to lay a palm on your knee, squeezing assuringly. You lift your head just enough to look at her from the side, giving her a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
The drive is short, traffic being light due to the late hour. Mel has an arm slung over your shoulder, helping you up the stairs as you grip the railing next to you. She gets you to your door, pulling your keys from her pocket and unlocking the door. She leads you inside, closing the door behind her before guiding you to your room. You push off of her once you get through the door of your bedroom. You stumble as you move towards the bed, flopping down onto the comforter with a huff. You roll onto your stomach, groaning into the feathery blanket.
“I’ll go grab you some water,” Mel says before she leaves to go to the kitchen. You sit up, kicking your shoes off and crawling further onto the bed. Exhaustion fills your limbs, leaving them a heavy weight that presses into the bed, keeping you from wanting to get up and get undressed. You stare up at the ceiling, eyelids heavy and dropping. Mel comes back shortly, setting the water glass down onto your nightstand. You let a content sigh, a sign of your appreciation.
Mel’s phone vibrates and she glances at the screen. “Alright, Jayce is here. I’m gonna head out. Love you, Y/N. Take care of yourself.”
You give her a floppy wave, mumbling a goodbye. You hear her footsteps retreating before the door shutting behind her. You roll onto your side groaning as the simmering ache in your head comes to a boil. You close your eyes, squeezing them shut in an attempt to dull the ache. Suddenly, a ringing moves throughout the room. You don’t bother opening your eyes, just moving your arm around haphazardly, trying to feel for your phone. Once you feel the device in your hand you grab it, finally opening your eyes. Unknown Caller…huh? You stare at the screen, wondering who could be calling.
“Hello, who is this—” You manage to say before being cut off by the voice on the other end.
“Hey, princess.”
Your eyes widen as the nickname registers in your head. You immediately sit up, holding yourself up with your elbow. “Oh, fuck no.”
“Oh, fuck yeah.” Vi parrots through the microphone. She chuckles darkly as you let out a loud groan into your phone, making sure the volume of it leaves a small ringing in Vi's ears. “Miss me?”
“I hate you.”
You can only imagine the fake pout curled onto the pinkette’s lips, “Aw, so mean to me. And yet, you don’t even know me—”
“Yeah, I have no intention of it either.”
“Oh. keep telling yourself that, cupcake.” She laughs, her confidence pushing past its normal capacity as the drinks still remain in her system.
A short silence falls between you two. You stare up at your ceiling, phone still held against your ear.
“I hope you know that our little training sessions aren’t over.”
Your cheeks flush as her voice cuts through the speaker, breaking up the silence. The thought of her under you on the mat fills your brain. Vi is smiling on the other end, practically ear to ear.
“Please spare me the hindrance and just don’t show up.” You grumble before swiping your thumb over the end-call button. Your room falls silent, lacking the volume of Vi’s voice. You stare at the phone screen, a small smile forming as a notification pops up.
Unknown Contact: Really? How mature of you to hang up mid conversation.
You roll your eyes, fingerings moving clumsily as you type a response.
You: Not much of a conversation when it’s only you talking.
Vi continues to sit at the bar, nipping at the blunt tip of her fingernail as she watches the chat bubble move in anticipation of your reply.
You: Goodnight, Violet.
Vi hearts the message before she types out her goodbye—but you’re already gone and fast asleep.
Vi: Goodnight, Princess.
A grin stays plastered on Vi’s face as she sets her phone down. Powder comes from the door leading into the employee’s only hallway.
“Ew. Why do you look like that?” The blue-haired girl says as she moves to dry off the glasses stacked in front of her. Vi shrugs.
“Just happy I guess.”