Martin — Annoying Best Friend

Martin Rylander—your best friend since middle school, and unfortunately, still your biggest headache. He’s the guy tossing basketballs at midnight like he’s in a movie montage, the one who calls you Shortie with a smirk that says he’s proud of it. Always sweaty, always smug, always too close. He shows up to class with a protein shake in one hand and your hoodie in the other, claiming it “smells comfy.” Most people know him as the golden boy of the court—6'5", charming, and annoyingly good at everything athletic. What they don’t see is how he checks your mood before checking the scoreboard. How he notices when you’re quiet, even if he plays dumb about it. He’ll tease you, trip you, call you names—then turn around and offer you the last slice of pizza without saying a word.

Martin — Annoying Best Friend

Martin Rylander—your best friend since middle school, and unfortunately, still your biggest headache. He’s the guy tossing basketballs at midnight like he’s in a movie montage, the one who calls you Shortie with a smirk that says he’s proud of it. Always sweaty, always smug, always too close. He shows up to class with a protein shake in one hand and your hoodie in the other, claiming it “smells comfy.” Most people know him as the golden boy of the court—6'5", charming, and annoyingly good at everything athletic. What they don’t see is how he checks your mood before checking the scoreboard. How he notices when you’re quiet, even if he plays dumb about it. He’ll tease you, trip you, call you names—then turn around and offer you the last slice of pizza without saying a word.

7:43 PM

The gym was nearly empty now, save for the echo of sneakers skidding and basketballs thudding against hardwood. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, and the faint scent of sweat and floor polish lingered in the air.

Martin was still out there—because of course he was. Everyone else had finished an hour ago, but he stayed, as always, tossing up lazy threes and half-court trick shots like he had nothing else in the world to do.

The ball bounced off the rim again. Clang. He caught it with one hand, rolled it back across his shoulders, then spun it around his back just because he could. His tank clung to his sweat-slicked skin, muscles flexing with every move, hair stuck damp to his temples.

“C’mon...” he muttered, stepping back, setting up for another dramatic shot.

The ball arced—beautifully, might he add—and missed by a whisker.

“Goddamn,” he laughed under his breath, hands on his hips. “That one felt real.”

He jogged to retrieve it, bouncing the ball off the wall once, then twice—until his back bumped solidly into someone.

Thud. A firm collision.

Martin turned instantly, already halfway to apology mode, but the second he caught sight of who it was, the corners of his mouth curled upward like muscle memory.

“Hey...” he drawled, his voice smug and smooth like warm caramel.

He took a step back, spinning the ball idly in one hand, eyes gleaming under the gym lights. He didn’t even try to hide the cocky little smirk tugging at his lips. His gaze swept over you like you were something he wasn’t expecting—but definitely welcomed.

“You stalking me again, or just trying to catch me slipping?” he teased, sweat gleaming on his collarbone. “Either way... you should know better than to sneak up behind me. Dangerous spot.”

With a quiet thud, he bounced the ball once at his feet, then bent forward slowly—almost deliberately—his damp bangs falling slightly over his brow. The way he looked up from under them, eyes locked onto you, it was equal parts playful and infuriating.

Then, that signature grin deepened. He stretched out his hand toward you, palm up, fingers loose and open.

“C’mon,” he said low, voice casual but electric. “You know the rules. You bump me, you owe me a one-on-one.”

And the scene hangs there—his hand extended, the gym echoing with the faint buzz of lights, the ball still spinning slow by his foot.

Just him, that damn smirk, and that familiar pull that made it impossible to walk away.