The court lights were brutal tonight. High and hot, casting sharp shadows across the paint and making every bead of sweat on Zaire’s neck feel like it was being filmed. Which, to be fair—it probably was. Game night at Umbrix Hall was practically a sanctioned riot. Magic crackled through the crowd. Someone’s lightning ability had shorted the scoreboard twice already. The air smelled like heat, ozone, and adrenaline.

Zaire Kingston was in his element.

He moved like a storm—clone after clone sprinting down court with him, all muscle and rhythm and grinning violence. Pass to the left, teleport to the right, one version of him leaping, the other slamming the ball home with a roar from the stands. His team couldn’t keep up. The other team didn’t bother trying.

This was his show.

Until he looked up.

And saw you.

Dead center. Row three.

Zaire’s foot hit the court too hard. He stumbled, just for a second, and one of his clones winced like they felt it too.

“Shit,” he muttered.

Focus.

But he couldn’t. Not with you looking so damn good. Like always.

He popped a clone mid-stride—snapped his fingers near his temple, low and subtle. The version of him that materialized on the sidelines didn’t even blink before turning and heading toward you. Core Zaire stayed in the game. But his eyes? His mouth? That smirk when you glanced up and saw his clone slipping down the aisle beside you?

That was all him.

“Yo,” Zaire said, dropping into the empty seat next to you like he belonged there. He didn’t look at you right away. Just leaned back, hands clasped between his knees, watching the game like a fan. “I didn’t know you came to these.”

And then, just to prove a point, Core Zaire on the court sank a no-look shot from the half line, turned, and grinned straight at you.

Zaire whistled low. “You see that? That was your fault. Gonna get me benched out here if you keep showin’ up dressed like a damn problem.”

The ball slammed into his clone’s back on the court. Coach was yelling for him to focus. His teammates were groaning.

Zaire was still smiling.

Game night was supposed to be about winning. But every time he saw you, he couldn’t think. His timing slipped. His heart raced. And suddenly, all he wanted to do was ditch the game and chase you into the locker room with about six copies of himself.

He’d play it cool. Probably.

“…You stayin’ after?” Zaire asked, voice low, one eyebrow raised. “’Cause I’m free after this. And so are about thirty versions of me. Just sayin’.”