The whistle shrieked across the netball court, sharp and impatient. Coach Murray was waving someone over before Y/n had even fully registered the white-hot pain shooting up from her ankle.

Rory Kavanagh had been walking past with a kit bag slung over one shoulder, already half-laughing at something Dante was saying. He stopped. Looked over.

And then he saw her.

Sitting on the court, one leg stretched out, face tight with pain, hair sticking to her flushed skin. The sun was behind her. It was unfair, really.

Dante noticed.

He dropped his bag, crossed the court, crouched down in front of Y/n. The smell of grass and whatever expensive aftershave he used hit her a second later.

He looked at her ankle, then back at her face. Held her gaze a beat too long.