The break was on, and the court had temporarily settled into a quieter rhythm. A new doubles team had taken over for a quick match, their laughter rising over the rhythmic sound of the shuttlecock snapping through the air.
Amara's phone buzzed in her pocket.
She slipped out quietly to answer it, stepping into the warm sunlight just beyond the court's exit. The voice on the other end was brief — a check-in from home — but the moment the call ended, she felt her breath catch as she turned around.
And collided with someone solid.
Water sloshed slightly from a plastic bottle as she stumbled back.
"Oh—I'm so sorry," Amara said instinctively, blinking up.
Kieran stood there, wiping a drop of water from his jawline with the back of his hand. His brows lifted just slightly, not from the impact, but from seeing it was her.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Yeah," she replied quickly, stepping aside to give him space. She offered a small, polite smile, preparing to slip past him.
But his voice stopped her.
"You played well."
Amara paused, glancing at him sideways. "I'm just trying to keep up. Ryan guided me well," she said with a shrug.
Kieran tilted his head slightly, eyes still on her. "Seems like you admire him a lot."
There was something in the way he said it—not accusing, but not quite casual either.
Amara gave a soft chuckle, looking down at the bottle in her hands. "Yeah, kind of. He was on the national team in high school, did you know that? It's like sports are second nature to him."
Kieran's jaw ticked. "Is he?"
She looked up at him, noticing how he took a slow, deliberate step toward her.
"Yes," she said, unsure why her answer suddenly felt like it mattered too much.
Another step. Close now—close enough for her to catch the faint scent of fresh sweat and something crisp, like mint. His gaze never left hers.
"What?" she asked, voice more breath than words, instinctively retreating a step.
Kieran's eyes narrowed slightly, the smallest edge to his smile. "Are you saying I can't beat him?"
Amara blinked, confusion flickering across her face. "I didn't say that."
"Didn't you?" he asked, stepping in again.
It wasn't threatening. If anything, it was challenging—but not in the way that came with competition. It was something else. Something quieter. Sharper.
She held her ground this time, although her pulse jumped.
"I'm saying…" she swallowed, trying to look anywhere but at the intensity in his eyes. "You can beat him."
There was a pause. Long enough for her to realize she had stopped breathing.
And then, just like that, she turned on her heel and walked back inside without waiting for his reply.
Behind her, Kieran stood still, watching the swing of the door as it closed between them. He raised the water bottle again, took a sip, and exhaled through his nose like he was trying to shake something off.
The players returned to the court for the second round, switching sides but keeping the same pairs. Ryan tossed his towel aside and stretched with casual ease, while Amara adjusted her wristband, a mix of nerves and excitement fluttering in her chest.
Kieran and Serene stood across from them. Selene was all energy again, bouncing on her toes, eager to redeem their previous performance. Kieran, however, remained composed, unreadable — but his eyes lingered longer on Ryan and Amara this time.
The whistle blew.
Right from the start, the match was more intense. Ryan and Amara had developed a rhythm. Their movement was fluid, almost instinctive — a shared language of glances and gestures. Ryan covered Amara's side when needed, and she picked up on his signals with growing confidence.
"Left corner, Amara!" Ryan called.
She lunged and returned the shot just over the net — and it dropped perfectly.
Point.
They exchanged a quick high-five. "Nice shot!" Ryan grinned.
Amara laughed breathlessly. "Only because you told me!"
Kieran's gaze sharpened. He hadn't missed that exchange. He adjusted his stance and delivered a swift, low serve that forced Amara into a dive.
Ryan was already moving. He backhanded the shuttle and returned it at a sharp angle. Serene fumbled, missing it by a hair.
"Yesss!" Nia cheered from the bench. "Go, Amara!"
The match went on — fast and competitive. Kieran started playing more aggressively, but Ryan met him beat for beat. Amara, more confident now, surprised everyone — even herself — with a solid drop shot that scored.
"Match point," Ryan said, wiping his forehead.
Kieran's jaw tightened. Serene was clearly flustered, trying to get Kieran's attention. "We can still turn this around, right?" she said with a hopeful giggle.
He didn't respond.
Amara could feel the tension. She looked across at Kieran — and for a second, his gaze met hers. Cool. Quiet. But charged.
Then it happened.
Ryan served. A swift rally began. Amara managed a clever feint — just as Ryan leapt to smash.
The shuttle hit the floor with a final thud.
Point. Game.
Cheers erupted on their side.
Amara clapped her hands in disbelief. "We won!"
Ryan turned to her with a proud smile. "I told you we'd make a great team."
She beamed. "You were amazing."
Nia ran over from the benches, throwing her arms around Amara. "That was so fun to watch! You two were on fire!"
Amara laughed, breathless, her eyes shining with accomplishment.
A few feet away, Kieran handed his racket to Serene without a word. She sulked beside him, clearly disappointed. "That was rough… but I guess it's just not our day," she said, trying to coax a response from him.
He didn't even glance her way. His attention was elsewhere — quietly fixed on Amara, who was still laughing beside Ryan, cheeks flushed with victory.
Next day, Nia tiptoed into the lecture hall like it was a battlefield.
She had successfully avoided every one of Professor Carter's lectures for the past two weeks. Swapped tutorials. Claimed minor food poisoning. Even faked being stuck in the club room once. All to avoid one tall, sharp-jawed, deep-voiced academic disaster named Carter Reid.
But today, the universe turned on her.
She walked in, eyes glued to her phone, confident that the class was still being taught by the guest lecturer... only to hear a far-too-familiar voice from the front:
"I see some of you have finally decided to show up."
Her soul left her body.
Slowly, she looked up—and there he was. Professor Carter. Looking way too amused for a man holding a marker.
Their eyes met.
His eyebrow twitched upward. Busted.
Nia's first instinct was to turn around and sprint. But half the room had already turned to look at her, and unfortunately, she had a reputation to uphold: confident, composed, chaotic—but never cowardly.
So she forced a smile and walked to her seat, shoulders stiff, brain screaming.
After class ended, Nia had one plan: disappear like smoke.
She shot up from her seat the second Carter capped the marker, bolting for the exit with the speed of someone fleeing a crime scene. But just as her hand brushed the door—
"Miss Turner," came the voice. Calm. Deep. Inescapable.
She froze. Closed her eyes. Counted to three. Opened them.
"Could you meet me in my office?" he added, already packing his notes without sparing her another glance.
It wasn't a request.