One Touch from Family to Fantasy

Nash rubbed his mouth with the side of his forearm, like he was trying to wipe the tension off his face.

Zayela kept her eyes low, arms folded under her chest, pressing against the thin fabric of her clingy top, not for modesty, but for stability.

Neither of them said it out loud, but they both knew.

Something broke.

One massage. That's all it took.

Ten years of coexistence. Mutual respect as cousins. Boundary lines etched in silence and familiarity.

Gone.

Now? They couldn't even look at each other without heat bleeding in. Every glance carried context. Every breath had weight.

The air between them was different now, charged, fragile, and one brush away from being unrecoverable.

Nash slowed, glancing toward the alley entrance as a pair of shopkeepers passed in the distance.

"People are starting to come," he muttered, voice low. "We should go back in."

Zayela nodded hesitantly.

"I… I need to open the shop anyway."

She started to turn, wiping her palms on her shorts.

But Nash called her name.

"Zayela."

She paused.

He walked back to where he'd left his water bottle, beside a small black bag she hadn't noticed earlier.

He crouched, unzipped it, and pulled out a wad of cash thick and stacked.

She held her breath.

He stood and walked to her, peeling bills off the roll.

"This is 450 creds," he said, as casually as if he were talking about groceries.

She stared at it like it was a hallucination.

"What?" she whispered. "Where did... what the hell, Nash?"

"I hit a cash terminal earlier," he said. "Pulled it from my account. Breakball money, don't worry."

She just stood there.

Breakball?

They used to scrape by on fifteen C a week. Some weeks, they didn't even make that. One time, they split a two-day ration bar and pretended they were on a diet.

This was a miracle.

But Nash didn't treat it like one. He looked calmly.

"I want us to move," he said. "This spot isn't safe anymore. Not with those loan sharks knowing where we sleep. With this, we can get a place with proper air, better locks, an actual bath. I'll go out again after bathing, try to make more."

Zayela's lips parted, eyes darting between the bills and his face.

He pressed a smaller stack into her hand.

"Take this, 100C. Buy yourself something. Anything. No food, no supplies. Just clothes. Or shoes. Or perfume. Something you want. I'll get everything else we need."

She looked down at the money in her hands.

It didn't feel real.

"You're serious," she said. It wasn't a question. It was disbelief barely hiding behind tears.

"I promised I'd get us out of this shit," Nash said. "And I will."

That's when it hit her.

It wasn't just the money.

It was the way he said us.

Like he still meant it. Like he planned for them. Like she wasn't baggage, or a leftover, or a sister figure to protect out of duty.

He looked at her like a man who'd decided.

And he was a man now. That much was obvious.

Standing close, she could see it with painful clarity, he was taller. Stronger, his scent still clung faintly in the hallway. His torso looked broader from this angle, even under the loose tension of his posture.

She felt her heart slip.

Just for a second.

She wasn't supposed to look at him like this.

But she did.

And it was bad.

They stepped inside together. He went toward the bathroom. She stayed behind, still holding the cash, her fingers gripping it too tightly.

The curtain pulled shut behind him.

She sat.

Didn't move.

Just stared at the door. At the cloth that barely muffled the sound of water splashing. Her eyes didn't blink. Her legs pressed together.

She remembered him when he was pathetic.

Waking up late. Begging his ex not to block him. Limp, passive, small.

That Nash was dead.

The Nash behind that curtain now?

He woke up before her. He ran the household. He protected her from men twice his size. He brought money. He brought escape.

He took care of her… more than anyone ever had.

And now, he could take care of her in ways she hadn't even dared fantasize.

Her heart pounded, loud, arrhythmic.

She pressed her knees tighter.

That massage hadn't been an accident.

It was the door.

And now it was wide open.

She stared at the curtain, eyes twitching, chest rising unevenly.

Don't go there, she thought.

Don't imagine him naked.

Don't imagine what it would feel like to grab his hips and lower yourself onto him while he's still wet from the shower.

Her breath trembled.

Too late.

The thoughts were already there.

And the scariest part?

They felt right... and she liked them.

She clutched the bills tighter and realized something terrible.

She wasn't falling for him.

She already had.

After his bath, Nash slipped through the back alleys with his hoodie half-zipped, morning heat creeping in beneath the fabric as the city exhaled its usual mix of dust, oil, and cigarette smoke.

The artificial light hadn't fully scorched the pavement yet, perfect time to grind.

He had hours before Lina and Sarra showed up. Hours to do his second daily quest.

He hit the court like a ghost, sliding in without fanfare, and got to work.

Shot after shot. Movement drills. Wall pass. Timing. The kind of practice that left a burn in your shoulder and a rhythm in your spine.

He liked that pain. Liked feeling the exact moment his body shifted to fit his ambition.

[QUEST COMPLETE – BASKETBALL CATEGORY x5]

+5 SP

→ Allocated: Short Shot 47 → 52

By the time he wiped the sweat from his brow, his jumper was tighter, his arms twitching from repetition, and the court was no longer empty.

Smoke. Low conversation. Heat gathering, not just from the sun.

He heard it before he saw it.

A murmur. Voices with too much edge. He turned toward the ring and spotted a small knot of people clustered near the outer fence. Local regulars.

He drifted toward the noise, curiosity growing in him.

Then he saw them.

Five strangers.

And in the middle of them...

Her.

She didn't stand out. She devoured the space around her.

A towering woman, maybe 190 cm, skin deep gold from years under a sun inexistant in this part of the world, short pale yellow hair clinging to her temples in jagged, perfect chaos.

Her body was built like a weapon, a high-performance machine that had been tuned to seduce and crush at the same time.

Thick thighs, wide hips, waist narrow but grounded. She was heavy with power, but not clunky.

But that wasn't what made Nash stop breathing for a second.

It was her chest.

No, her weapons.

Massive. Round. High. At least 120 centimeters of pure insanity. And somehow... perfectly held. No sag, no bounce out of place.

Just gravity-defying volume shaped by athletic tension and dark sportswear that looked like it was custom-built to contain divine punishment.

His throat went dry.

God damn.

Those tits didn't just jiggle, they were an ecosystem on their own.

It wasn't sexual. It was another evolution of humanity.

If she dunked on him, he might suffocate before the ball even hit the ground.

She hadn't even looked at him yet.

Then her eyes flicked sideways. Amber and sharp.

He looked away before she could notice him.

Shit, she's huge.

And he was what? 171 cm? He'd drown in that cleavage and never be found again.

Still… not a bad way to go.

Next to her stood a flashy boy with bleach-yellow hair gelled into a high-styled comb, chewing gum with too much jaw motion and wearing a smirk like it came standard. He was dressed like he was sponsored, talking with his hands, constantly shifting, flash and no roots.

But it was the girl that really stole his focus next.

She stood just behind them, arms crossed under her chest, one hip cocked lazily like she had no reason to try.

Long blue hair tied in a high ponytail that dropped down to her ass, swaying like a metronome.

Maybe 162 cm, tight frame, legs for days, soft lips parted slightly as she smirked at something one of the guys said.

Her crop top was too snug not to notice, and the slow way she stretched her arms overhead made her chest arch forward like an invitation.

Not desperate, but calculated.

She moved like she liked being watched. Like turning people on was a side quest she could do in her sleep.

And then…

Two guys.

That was all Nash could say.

One with a plain face and acne scars. The other looked like someone's backup cousin, forgettable face, brown buzzcut, maybe sixty kilos soaking wet.

Disposable.

Nash drifted closer to the fence.

A guy was leaning on it, chewing slow with a bored look.

"Axx," Nash said. "What's this?"

The man didn't look at him.

"They rolled up this morning," he said, voice flat. "Said the court's theirs now."

Nash blinked. His eyes fell on the black and gold uniforms. Matching, logoed, tight. Way to say professional.

Not just some crew. It was a breakball team.