STEPHANIE
...

Work is work, except it doesn’t feel as insufferable anymore. Maybe it’s because I don’t dread coming over to Melody’s house now.

Not entirely, at least. Something about being around her—despite the constant teasing and the way she finds joy in pushing all my buttons—has started to grow on me. Which is alarming. But manageable. Probably.

Today, I decide we’re skipping the exercises. Honestly, I need a break from barking orders and trying to guilt her into doing basic stretches. Plus, I feel like I’ve earned the right to veto the deal for a day.

When I tell her, though, she lights up like I just handed her courtside tickets to a game.

“You’re serious?” she says, her voice full of suspicion. “No lunges? No torture?”

“Not today,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But don’t get used to it.”

“Fine,” she says, grinning. “But the deal’s still on, Steph. You have to do something I say.”

Steph? She usually addresses me formally. Are we besties now?

I sigh. “Alright. What ridiculous task do you have in mind today?”

Her grin widens and I immediately regret asking.

“I want you to draw me.”

I blink. “What?”

“You heard me. Make me look like the Mona Lisa.”

“I don’t even know how to draw!”

“Exactly,” she says, grabbing my wrist to lead me to her room. “That’s the fun part.”

Fun for her, maybe.

She figs around in her drawers until she finds a pencil and a notebook. Then she limps her way to the huge window in her bedroom.

She’s perched in the windowsill like some kind of goddess, the sunlight hitting her just right. She’s even arranged her hair over her shoulder like this is a Vogue cover shoot.

“You’re dramatic,” I mutter.

“I know, now draw me,” she says, resting her chin on her hand.

I do my best, which is to say, I try not to laugh at how horrendous this is going to turn out. Every line feels wrong, and the more I try to fix it, the worse it gets.

“I swear, you’re going to frame this when I’m done,” I say, not looking up from the page.

“Oh, totally,” she says. “Right next to my awards and family photos. This masterpiece is going to be the centerpiece of my room.”

I'm laughing and so is she and try not to get used to it.

Somehow, the banter shifts as I keep sketching. I don’t even know how we get there, but suddenly, Mel is talking about basketball.

“I don’t think I’ll ever play again,” she says quietly.

My pencil stills on the paper. “What?”

She shrugs, but it’s not casual. It’s the kind of shrug people do when they’re trying to pretend they’re fine but are actually anything but.

“My leg’s messed up, Steph. Even if it heals, what if I’m not as good as I was? What if I can’t keep up anymore?”

Her voice is softer now, and I realize this isn’t the usual sarcastic, quick-witted Melody. This is the version of her she doesn’t show people.

Vulnerable.

Scared.

“You don’t know that,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “You’re not even healed yet. You can’t write yourself off before you’ve even tried.”

“I just…” She sighs, fiddling with her sweatshirt. “Basketball’s all I’ve ever been good at. If I lose that, what’s left?”

I don’t know where the words come from, but they spill out before I can stop them.

“You’re more than basketball, Mel. You know that, right? You’re... funny. And smart. And incredibly annoying. People like you for you, not just because you’re good at some sport.”

She looks at me like she wasn’t expecting me to actually say something comforting. To be fair, I wasn’t expecting it either.

“Thanks,” she says after a moment, her voice low.

I nod, going back to my terrible drawing. The moment hangs between us, quiet but not awkward.

When I finally finish the sketch, I hold it up proudly. “Behold,” I say. “Your portrait.”

Mel bursts out laughing the second she sees it. “Oh my god, what is that?”

“It’s you,” I say, trying to keep a straight face. “I captured your essence perfectly.”

“I look like a haunted potato,” she says, doubling over with laughter.

“That’s just your natural vibe,” I shoot back, but I can’t help laughing too.

We spend a solid five minutes just making fun of my art skills, and it feels like everything is easy. Like we’re just two people hanging out.

The laughter dies down but I notice Mel won't stop looking at me.

“Can I braid your hair?”

The question catches me off guard. It's so random. 

“What?”

“Your hair,” she says, reaching out like she’s already decided. “Mind if I braid it?”

“I—” I don’t even know what to say. Part of me wants to laugh it off, but another part—the part that feels a little too aware of how close she'll be—can’t seem to find the words.

“Relax,” she says, rolling her eyes. “It’s just hair. I’m not proposing.”

“Fine,” I say, mostly because I can’t think of a reason to say no.

I sit on the floor, and she moves behind me, her fingers threading through my hair. It’s quiet for a while, just the sound of her breathing and the occasional rustle of strands as she works.

“This is so weird,” I mutter, mostly to fill the silence.

“It’s not weird,” she says. “People braid hair all the time.”

“Yeah, but not us. We’re not... that.”

“Well, now we are,” she says simply.

Her fingers are surprisingly gentle, and I hate how much I notice. How soft her touch is. How it sends tiny sparks across my scalp. This isn’t supposed to be happening.

I'm actually starting to get sleepy and comfortable.

“There,” she says finally, sitting back. “All done.”

I reach up to feel the braid, and it’s... good.

“Not bad,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant.

She grins. “I know. I’m a woman of many talents.”

The moment feels heavy but then she laughs, and the spell breaks.

When it’s time to leave, I linger by the door longer than I should.

“See you tomorrow?” I say, and for some reason, the thought makes my chest ache.

“See you,” she says with a tiny smile.

I walk out and for the first time in forever, I wish I could stay longer.