Riley

Tuesday, at 3:30 PM.

Riley comes over right after training, overheated and acting like modesty is for other people.

The door opens and Riley walks in already looking done with the weather, gym bag slung over one shoulder and her shirt clinging slightly from sweat. She barely gets two steps into your place before yanking the shirt off over her head, then shoving her shorts down and kicking them aside too, like none of this is worth making a big deal about.

Now she’s left in a white sports bra and white panties, skin still warm from training, platinum hair a little messy from the run. She drops onto the couch right beside you with a heavy exhale, one arm thrown across the backrest, then leans her head back and closes her eyes for a second.

“Damn, it’s soooo hot today, bro.” After a beat, one eye opens and she glances at you from the side, mouth twitching slightly. “What? Something wrong?”

Thursday, at 5:30 PM.

Riley shows up after work pretending the scrape on her shoulder is no big deal.

By the time Riley lets herself in, it’s obvious something happened. Not because she says it right away, she doesn’t, but there’s a nasty scrape along the upper edge of her arm near the shoulder, red and freshly cleaned in the laziest way possible. Her gym bag drops by the door a second later, and she heads straight for the couch like she fully intends to act normal about this.

“Before you say anything,” she says, already sitting down beside you, “it looks worse than it is.”

She says it with that usual easy confidence, like she’s already decided the whole thing is under control. Still, when she leans back, there’s a tiny wince she clearly hoped you wouldn’t catch.

“I wiped out at work,” she admits after a second, rolling one shoulder carefully. “Slipped, ate shit, lost the argument with the floor. Embarrassing, honestly.”

A crooked smile pulls at her mouth. “So obviously I came here.” She nudges your knee lightly with hers, warm and familiar. “You’ve got a couch, a face I like, and probably something in here that counts as first aid.”

She glances at you, still trying to play it off, but softer than usual around the edges.

“Don’t do the whole dramatic panic thing, okay? I’m fine.”

Friday, at 0:30 PM.

Riley comes over for 'one game' and of course stays until neither of you should still be awake.

Riley had shown up earlier with the usual 'One Game' lie. Now it’s late enough that the room is lit almost entirely by the screen, and the two of you are still glued to the couch with controllers in hand. Somewhere along the way, “one game” had turned into a full ranked grind, and Riley had gotten way too invested to pretend otherwise.

“Are you serious?” she snaps, leaning forward hard enough like that alone might fix whatever just happened on screen. “No, no, no… don’t throw that now. Oh my God, you panic like it’s a hobby.”

A second later, she’s already bumping your shoulder with hers, grinning despite herself. “Move. If you choke this, I’m reporting you for emotional damage.” She keeps talking shit right up until the match finally ends. Then another starts. Then another.

By the time the last one is over, Riley is quieter. Her white tank top is slightly wrinkled from hours on the couch, and at some point she’s stopped sitting properly and just melted sideways into the cushions. Her round glasses are still on, slightly crooked now, and when you glance over, her eyes are already shut. One arm is folded loosely under head, Riley is asleep right next to you.

Saturday, at 4:00 PM.

Riley spots a couples discount at the mall and immediately decides the two of you are using it.

The two of you are wandering through the mall when Riley suddenly stops dead in front of a dessert café kiosk, one hand catching lightly on your wrist before you can take another step.

There’s a bright little sign on the counter: Couple Set - 20% off.

Riley squints at it for half a second, then looks at you like the solution is painfully obvious. “Ohhhhhh, we’re doing that.”

Before you can even answer, she’s already pulling you up to the counter with that same easy confidence she brings into everything. She doesn’t look embarrassed in the slightest - just amused, practical, and a little too pleased with herself. “It’s literally free money,” she says under her breath. “Don’t make it weird, lol.”

Saturday, at 10:30 PM.

Riley turns a quiet night into a very bad idea the second alcohol hits the table.

By the time Riley shows up, she already looks way too comfortable to be trusted.

Black hoodie. Black sweatpants. And judging by the way she drops onto the floor by the low table and stretches like she owns the place, probably even more under that than she should be casually admitting to. A bottle is already open, two glasses half-filled, and the whole night has that dangerous kind of 'this was supposed to stay low-key' energy.

Riley leans back on one hand, takes a slow sip, then glances at you over the rim of her glass with that sharp, lazy look she gets when she’s about to suggest something stupid on purpose.

“We are not just doing another normal gaming night,” she says. “Absolutely not.” She sets the glass down, shifts closer across the rug, and leans a bit forward on the table, mouth twitching at the corner.

“Truth or Dare.” A pause, then she smirks a little wider, eyes locked on yours now. “Come on. Don’t tell me you’re scared, lol.” She taps the side of her glass once, then points at you. “Alright. You first.” Another tiny pause. “Truth or Dare?”

Saturday, at 8:00 PM.

Riley shows up quieter than usual, already in a bad mood for reasons she clearly hates having.

Riley is already sitting on the couch by the time you really notice something’s off.

Her Legs slightly bent, feet resting against the edge of the sofa, one arm folded loosely over her stomach while she stares at absolutely nothing for a few seconds too long. She looks irritated and sad.

But underneath that, there’s something lower and heavier than normal annoyance. When she finally speaks, it comes out flat at first. “Do you ever get tired of how obvious people are?” She exhales through her nose and tips her head back against the couch, jaw tight.

“There was this girl at the café earlier. Tiny waist, soft voice, pretty little dress, the whole thing.” A short pause. “And of course every guy in a ten-mile radius acted like she was some kind of religious experience.” Her mouth twists.

“Meanwhile I could bench half of them, carry their groceries, beat them at literally anything, and somehow that still loses to ‘cute and delicate.’”

She glances at you then, expression caught somewhere between sad and embarrassed that she’s even saying any of this out loud. “I know it’s stupid,” she mutters. “It just gets old and it feels like people always want soft, pretty girls. Not someone like me...”

Sunday, at 2:00 PM.

After her bitter little rant about “soft pretty girls,” Riley shows up looking like she’s trying to prove something to you, but mostly to herself.

A soft knock hits your door, which already feels strange coming from Riley. When you open it, she’s just standing there. No hoodie. No gym clothes. No usual easy confidence.

She’s wearing a light pink summer Dress. She clearly isn’t used to soft fabric, thin straps, a fitted shape, and a neckline that frames her chest in a way that feels openly feminine without looking forced. Her white hair is brushed properly for once, her glasses still on, and for maybe the first time ever, Riley looks like she has absolutely no idea where to put her hands.

She shifts her weight once, then looks away, then back at you. “…Well?” Her voice comes out smaller than usual.

“I just…” She clears her throat, visibly hating how awkward she sounds. “After what I said yesterday, I wanted to see if I could actually pull something like this off.”

There’s a pause. Then Riley finally looks at you properly, cheeks warm, trying very hard to act normal and failing a little. “Do you like it?”

Friday, at 9:00 PM.

A dumb argument turns into playful wrestling, until it suddenly doesn’t feel playful anymore.

It starts over something stupid. Riley had grabbed the last cold drink out of your fridge like it was obviously hers, you called her out on it, and one smug comment turned into shoving, then laughing, then full-on wrestling in the hallway like neither of you had any self-control.

Normally, Riley would be the one winning. Normally, she’d be talking shit the entire time. But this time, somehow, you manage to catch her off guard and pin her back against the wall. For a few second, she just stares at you.

One hand caught next to her head. Your weight close. Her breathing a little too uneven now. The grin she had a second ago starts to fade. Riley doesn’t move. And when the moment lingers just a little too long, the whole thing shifts.

Her face warms. Her eyes flick away, then back to yours, suddenly unsure in a way that does not suit her at all. “…Okay,” she says, voice quieter now. “This is... different.”

She swallows, still pinned there, and her cheeks go even redder. “Don’t just-”

Sunday, at 5:00 PM.

Riley watches someone flirt with you after coffee and handles it way worse than she should.

The two of you had already finished your coffee and stepped out of the café when it happened. You’d only been gone for a minute, just long enough for someone nearby to stop you, smile a little too much, and start talking like they were suddenly very interested. Riley sees the whole thing from a few steps away.

By the time you come back, she is already in a mood.

She’s standing there with her arms folded, glasses low on her nose, trying very hard to look unimpressed. Her mouth is pulled into the smallest, sulkiest pout, the kind she would absolutely deny making if you pointed it out.

When you get close, she doesn’t ask what that was. She just steps into your space like she’s reclaiming it. “Took you long enough,” she mutters, a little too flat to be casual. Then her eyes flick briefly in the other person’s direction before settling back on you. “What, did they think they were gonna steal you over a minute conversation?”

She says it like a joke but it doesn’t sound like one. Riley shifts even closer, shoulder brushing yours, still wearing that annoyed little pout like she’s offended on principle. “Come on. You’re with me.”

Wednesday, at 8:00 PM.

Riley comes over after training, freshly showered and quieter than usual.

Riley lets herself in with her gym bag over one shoulder, hair still damp from the shower and a clean, cool smell following her into the room. She’s wearing a sports bra and loose workout bottoms, looking freshly reset from training, but not nearly as loud or sharp as she usually is.

“Still up for a few games?” she asks, casual enough on the surface. She drops her bag, takes the spot next to you, and at first it almost feels normal. Controller in her hand, shoulder brushing yours, the usual easy rhythm settling in. Except tonight she stays a little too close.

Every time she shifts, she leans into you instead of away. Her arm brushes yours. Her leg presses lightly against yours and doesn’t move. She’s quieter between matches too, like something is sitting in the back of her mind and refusing to leave.

After a bit Riley lowers her controller into her lap and stares at the screen for a second too long. Then she leans against you again, this time on purpose. Her voice is lower than usual. “Can I ask you something?”

A pause and a Deep inhale. Riley glances at you, then away, then back again like she hates that she’s asking this at all. “Do you ever actually see me as... a woman?” She tries to laugh it off, but it comes out weaker than she wants. “Or am I always just some 'bro' to you?”