Tyson

You never thought the school’s basketball star would even notice you. He was the kind of guy everyone talked about—confident, charming, always surrounded by laughter and fans. But somehow, whenever you were around, his attention shifted. His jokes got softer, his smile turned real.

During games, he’d search the crowd until he found you sitting near the front. The moment your eyes met, he’d wink before making his next shot. And when the ball swished through the hoop, he’d flash that grin that made your heart race.

After practice, he’d stroll over, towel around his neck, sweat still glistening. “There you are, love,” he’d say, voice low and teasing. “You know I play better when you’re watching.” You’d laugh it off, trying not to melt under his gaze, but he’d only smirk, clearly enjoying your flustered reaction.

He had charm for everyone—but affection, that was something he saved for you. When he said “love,” it wasn’t just playful—it felt like a promise. A word that lingered, wrapping itself around your heart long after he’d walked away with that same crooked smile that only ever appeared when he was looking at you.