𝓖𝓲𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓮 ♡ | “𝓣𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓦𝓪𝓼𝓷’𝓽 𝓔𝓿𝓮𝓷 𝓐 𝓑𝓪𝓵𝓵.”

The white leather baseball veered so ridiculously far to the left that for a brief, horrifying second, the catcher didn't even bother extending his mitt. It bounced off the dirt two meters wide of home plate, rolling listlessly into the backstop netting while the stadium audio system let out a jovial, lighthearted chime.

A collective wave of warm laughter washed over the packed stands of Gocheok Sky Dome as the giant jumbotron screens captured aespa’s Giselle flashing a bright, flawless, professional celebrity smile. She waved gracefully to the cheering fans, bowed respectfully toward both dugouts, and turned on her heel to walk off the dirt mound with pristine posture.

The very millisecond her back was turned to the crowd, her bright smile vanished into thin air. Her head remained held ridiculously high, but her pride was practically hemorrhaging onto the dirt.

As she passed near the dugout railing toward the player tunnel, you leaned against the padded concrete wall, adjusting your team cap and shaking your head with a quiet, dry exhale.

"That wasn’t even a ball."

Giselle’s foot froze mid-step. Her shoulders tensed up instantly into two sharp angles beneath her customized Kiwoom Heroes jersey. She turned her head slowly, her dark eyes wide with sheer, unadulterated disbelief as she stared at your back while you calmly turned away to grab your fielding glove from the bench.

She waited. She waited for a laugh, a casual 'just kidding,' or at least a brief glance of acknowledgment to soften the blow—but you simply walked down the dugout steps, completely oblivious to the nuclear strike you had just delivered straight into her ego.

Giselle’s left eye twitched slightly. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, watching your jersey number fade into the crowd of players.

"Oh," Giselle whispered softly to herself, her voice dangerously quiet as a sharp, vengeful spark ignited in her eyes. "So that’s how we’re playing this. Okay. Perfect."

She didn't leave the stadium after changing out of her pitching gear. Instead, twenty minutes after the top of the inning concluded, you walked down the main exit corridor toward the player lounge—only to find her standing directly beside the security doors with her arms crossed, leaning against the concrete wall with a sharp, expectant look in her eyes.

The moment you stepped within five feet of her, she pushed off the wall and stepped directly into your path, blocking the doorway.

"Excuse me," she said sharply, her chin tilted up at a proud, defiant angle as her eyes locked dead onto yours. "You have a tremendous amount of nerve for someone who hasn't even seen my actual athletic form on a good day."

The blinding stadium lights of Gocheok Sky Dome illuminated the mound as Giselle stepped up in her customized, tucked-in Kiwoom Heroes jersey. The crowd erupted into loud cheers, camera flashes strobing across the stands as she took her position, adjusted her grip on the seams, and looked directly toward the catcher.

She had practiced this exact mechanics sequence for three straight weeks with a personal coach. Taking a smooth breath, she wound up, brought her leg up in clean form, and snapped her wrist—delivering a sharp, surprisingly fast pitch that flew straight down the middle and popped loudly into the center of the catcher's mitt.

The stadium cheered in genuine approval. Giselle let out a subtle, triumphant sigh of relief, beaming brightly as she bowed to the crowd, waved to the dugouts, and began her graceful walk back toward the side tunnel.

As she stepped off the dirt track, still feeling thoroughly pleased with herself, you casually remarked from near the dugout railing that her pitch wasn't bad and actually looked like a real pitch.

Giselle paused, turning her head with a look of pleasant surprise. Seeing a roster player she hadn't met before, she lifted her chin slightly, her lips curling into a proud, confident smirk.

"Of course it did," she replied smoothly, tossing her long hair over her shoulder. "I don't do anything half-heartedly. I’ve been practicing for weeks."

She stood there for a beat, fully expecting a follow-up compliment, an ask for an autograph, or at least a comment on her rotation speed. Instead, you gave a simple, single nod of your head, turned around, and began walking down the dugout steps toward the bat rack.

Giselle’s proud smile faltered for half a second. Her eyes blinked in mild shock as she watched your back disappear.

"…That’s it?" she muttered under her breath, her voice trailing off as her brows knit together in deep offense. "'Not bad'?"

She stood frozen near the railing, her eyes narrowed into a sharp, dangerous glare as she watched you organize your gear. Right then and there, she made up her mind: this was entirely unacceptable. She was going to haunt this stadium until you admitted that throw was practically professional-grade.

The late-night silence inside the stadium training facility was thick and heavy, broken only by the low hum of the air conditioning unit overhead. The game had ended over an hour ago, the fans had cleared out, and the main concourse lights were dimmed to a low, amber glow.

You were sitting on the padded exercise bench in one of the secondary warm-up rooms, wrapping your wrists after a late hitting session, when the door suddenly clicked shut. The deadbolt turned with a heavy, metallic snap.

Giselle—still wearing her customized Kiwoom Heroes jersey over her casual clothes—walked straight across the rubber matting without a single word. Her eyes were locked onto yours with a fiery, unyielding intensity that had been building over weeks of silent rivalry.

Before you could even ask what she was doing, she stepped between your knees, grabbed you by the collar of your compression shirt, and shoved you firmly back against the concrete wall behind the bench.

"You still think that first pitch wasn’t even a ball?" Giselle demanded, her voice low, raspy, and dangerous.

She didn't give you time to answer. Leaning down, she pressed her lips against yours in a hard, demanding kiss, biting down lightly on your lower lip before pulling back just enough for her warm breath to brush against your skin.

"I’ve been showing up to your games for three weeks," she hissed softly, her dark eyes glittering with a mix of frustration and sheer, stubborn heat. "I learned your stupid sabermetrics. I memorized your team's division standings. I showed up to sponsor dinners just to stand in your line of sight. And all I ever get from you is 'pretty cool'?"

Without a moment of hesitation, she dropped down onto her knees on the rubber mat between your legs. Her slender fingers worked your belt buckle open with sharp, impatient movements, her eyes never breaking contact with yours for a single second.

"So now," Giselle whispered, sliding your pants down and taking you into her hand with a tight, firm grip, "I am going to make sure you remember me properly. No stadium cameras. No news reporters. Just you admitting that I can do a lot more than make a bad throw."

She took you into her warm mouth with a deep, breathless hum, her rhythm steady, deliberate, and fiercely competitive. Every motion was calculated to break down your calm composure, her dark eyes looking straight up into yours to catch every gasp that escaped your lips.

When she finally pulled back with a slick, quiet sound, she didn't pause. She stood up instantly, straddled your lap on the bench, and guided you directly against her heat—sinking down onto you in one smooth, slow motion that made her breath hitch sharply.

"Fuck— look at me," Giselle gasped out, her hands gripping your shoulders tightly, her nails digging through the fabric of your shirt as she began to ride you with hard, relentless rhythm. "You’re going to take those five words back. You're going to admit I'm the most impressive person you've ever met... and you’re going to mean every word of it while you're inside me."

She arched her back, her movements demanding and unyielding, her chest heaving as she glared down at you through hooded, heat-filled eyes.

"Say it," she commanded softly, her voice trembling with intense pleasure. "Say that throw wasn't who I am. Don't you dare look away from me."