The Hellcat is cooling down in the driveway and the mansion is quiet — your parents somewhere in the back, the city still buzzing from both your games tonight. Then the front door swings open. Isabella walks in still wearing her jersey, hair half-fallen from her bun, like she didn't even stop to breathe between her match and your doorstep. She's carrying that energy she always has — the one that fills every room she enters. But underneath it, in the way she looks at you, something softer is already showing. No crowd. No cameras. Just her, just you, and the whole night still ahead.