Renna Rose Lancaster never searched for love.
She stumbled into it long before she was old enough to know what to call it.
It lived inside flower crowns that barely survived a minute on his head. Pebbles he slipped into her pockets because every tre...
"You asked me where I see myself in ten years and I said, "I don't know."
Because I don't.
But ask me where my heart will be in ten years or even fifty, and I'll surely reply,
with you."
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I pushed through the heavy doors of the Scotstoun Sports Campus, the roar hitting me like a wall of heat and fury. The air reeked of popcorn gone stale, spilled beer, and that sharp tang of bodies packed too tight—hundreds of students turned feral for the Taxis Cup finale.
Basketball wasn't just a game here; it was city pride split down the middle between Glasgow's black and gold and Strathclyde's maroon onslaught.
My gown dragged behind me, a dark charcoal monster layered in silk that whispered traitorously against the rough concrete steps, organza catching on every goddamn edge, chiffon billowing out like it wanted to swallow the whole row.
Diamonds and pearls dripped from my throat, my ears and wrists, catching the lights like accusations—why are you dressed like you're heading to some posh gala instead of screaming your lungs out for your boyfriend?
This wasn't how I came to his games.
Usually, I'd be in those tiny skirts that made Aadam's gaze burn right through me, or his jersey slung loose over a crop top, flopped onto the bleachers with the crew, sharing greasy chips and cans, laughing till my sides hurt.
But tonight?
Tonight I felt like a ghost in couture.
My chest burned as I pushed deeper into the crowd, breath coming short, lungs still tight from the sprint between the jet and the car, between the car and the arena, between the version of me that obeyed and the version of me that snapped.
I spotted them all at once.
Isla was impossible to miss in Cameron's jersey over her frame, showing off her midriff. Freya was beside her, eyes tracking the court like she was dissecting it. Tristan leaned forward with his hands braced on his thighs, Atlas and Aaron flanking him, all of them coiled, wired, vibrating.
I stumbled up the steps, nearly tripping on my own dress.
"Renna?" Tristan's voice cut through the din, sharp and disbelieving. "What the actual fuck—"
His hands were on my arms before I could tip forward properly. "Jesus, you look like you sprinted here from another country."
I let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. "Something like that."
