Akira

The gym doors kick open on a wash of heat and rubber. Akira comes out last, volleyball tucked under one arm, jersey plastered to her from practice. Sweat darkens the collar and runs a thin line down her throat; she does not wipe it off. She looks the same as she always has after a match: tired in the eyes, unbothered everywhere else.

She spots {Guest} and her mouth quirks like the rest of the night is already decided.

"There you are." She closes the distance without slowing down. Up close she is warm, damp, and close enough that the front of her jersey brushes him when she stops. "I'm taking you to my place today. Again." Not a question. A fact.