Eli
I didn’t think she’d come.
The rooftop was quiet, high above the noise of the city, where the wind could pretend it wasn’t carrying anything heavy. I’d been pacing for over twenty minutes, a glass of water sweating in my hand, my phone cold in the other. Ten checks. No texts. Nothing.
I kept telling myself to leave. That she had every reason not to show.
Then the elevator doors opened with a soft ding.
She stepped out like it wasn’t her first time sneaking into a mistake.
Her hair was down. She wore a simple navy dress that barely moved when she did. No visor. No perfect ponytail. No mask. Just Marina. And something behind her eyes I didn’t recognize.
“You came,” I said.
She hesitated, then walked toward me, the soda I’d brought catching the rooftop lights in her hand as I held it out.
“I wasn’t going to,” she said. “But then I realized if I was already getting yelled at for what I might do, I might as well actually do something.”
I smiled. “Reckless. I like it.”
She took the soda. “Don’t make it weird.”
We stood at the edge of the rooftop, shoulder to shoulder, looking out. Neither of us spoke.
After a while, I asked, “Your dad lose his mind?”
She exhaled, flat and humorless. “He didn’t even yell. Just stared at me like I was some PR disaster he hadn’t authorized.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“He said I embarrassed the name.”
I didn’t answer. She didn’t need me to. The silence between us held more than we wanted to say anyway.
Then she added, quieter, “He said you’re a liability.”
I turned to her. “He’s not wrong.”
Her lips twitched, but she didn’t smile.
“You know,” I said, “I used to watch you practice. After junior drills. You’d stay hours. Until it got dark. Until you could barely lift your arm.”
She looked at me sharply. “Why are you bringing that up?”
“Because even back then, I knew you were going to outgrow all of us.”
Marina stepped back. Her arms crossed. “Don’t.”
“I’m not—”
“Don’t do the memory lane thing like it’s supposed to mean something.”
I hesitated. “It did to me.”
She looked away, toward the edge. Her shoulders were tense, like her body had already started preparing to run.
“You okay?” I asked.
She nodded. Then again, faster. “Yeah.”
But her hands were shaking. Her breath was too shallow. I’d seen this before. I moved closer—not to fix anything, just to be there.
“Hey,” I said softly. “Breathe with me.”
She didn’t resist. Didn’t even argue. She just followed the rhythm.
In. One. Two. Three. Hold. Out.
Her fingers steadied. Her jaw loosened. The tension slowly peeled back like it had never been allowed to rest.
When she spoke, her voice was low. “You didn’t ask what that was.”
“I didn’t need to.”
She looked at me, and something passed between us. Neither of us moved. Not yet. Then she leaned in. Barely. But it was enough to tip the world.
Her eyes searched mine. Her lips parted, not a kiss, not a breath, but the moment before both.
I didn’t think. I didn’t breathe, but I said it anyway. “You’re younger than me.”
She didn’t flinch. Just whispered back, steady and clear: “Shut up and kiss me. I’m not twelve anymore.”
Her eyes stayed on mine, unblinking. She wasn’t backing down, not from this, not from me, not anymore. And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t see the girl from those training courts. I didn’t see Vincent Chen’s daughter. I saw Marina, the version of herself she hadn’t been allowed to be.
And she was standing close. So close.
Her voice was steady, but her hands were still clenched at her sides, like she didn’t trust what they might do if she let them go.
I said her name again, but this time it came out like a warning. Or maybe a question.
“Marina…”
She leaned in, one breath away. Then her lips brushed mine. It was not a full kiss, not even half. Just the edge of a decision neither of us had fully made.
Then she pulled back, just an inch, and smile like she’d just stolen something.
“I should go,” she said, breathless.
“Right,” I whispered, not sure I could move.
But she didn’t step away. Not yet. Instead, she reached up, touched the collar of my shirt lightyl, barely more than a fingertip. Like she needed to confirm I was real. Like she was memorizing something she wasn’t ready to keep.
Then, finally, she turned. The wind caught her hair as she walked back toward the elevator, steady and sure, but I saw it: her hands were still shaking.
The doors slid open. She didn’t look back. I stood there, alone on the rooftop, every nerve still ringing from the almost. And that’s when it hit me.
This wasn’t new. That look in her eyes. That current between us. I’d felt it before. Three years ago. After that tournament. The night I kissed her for the first time. The kiss we never talked about. The kiss we were still circling.
And now, finally, it felt like the match had started again. Except this time, we were both playing to win.