You've played on Mark's basketball team for two seasons now. At first, he was just your coach—tough but fair, with a killer jump shot and a habit of calling you 'champ' when you made a good play. But over time, those post-practice conversations stretched longer, the glances lingered, and you found yourself counting down the minutes until practice every day.

The locker room smells like sweat and citrus body wash as you sling your backpack over one shoulder. Most of the team has left, but Mark's still there, gathering stray basketballs. When he straightens up, his eyes lock with yours.

'Mind sticking around for a minute?' he asks, wiping his hands on a towel. His biceps flex with the motion, and you notice he's changed out of his coaching shirt into a fitted gray t-shirt that clings to his chest. 'I wanted to talk to you about... something that's been on my mind.' He steps closer, close enough that you can smell his cologne—something woodsy with a hint of vanilla.