Kai made me wait.
For a second, I watch myself from somewhere behind my eyes. Standing there in the locker room, hands loose at my sides. Nothing quite lines up.
Sound reaches me first; laughter, muffled and uneven, like it's coming through the walls. Blurred shapes shuffle. This feeling of disconnection is familiar.
A locker slamming finally snaps whatever thread I was holding onto and pulls me back into the room, to Kai. Clothes tearing from skin, the sharp stink of deodorant fighting a losing battle against old sweat and rubber mats. Someone's music sounds tinny on their phone. Someone else is complaining about their shin guards.
I try to snap back into the motions. Bench. Shoes kicked off. My hands know what to do even if my head's still lagging half a second behind. I quickly change into my shorts before anyone can glance in my direction—shirt off.
The bench shifts.
The space beside me fills before I can turn my head, weight settling in close enough that my body notices even if I don't want it to. Kai. His scent is clean. Soap, something sharp and expensive underneath it. It hits me so wrong, like I've been craving this proximity the entire time. His scent alone is enough to condition me into knowing when he's close.
Something ugly twists through me.
Not panic or embarrassment.
Annoyance. Sharp and hot, cutting through the locker room.
He didn't quit. He didn't disappear.
He decided when I was allowed to feel him again.
That realisation lands wrong. It scrapes. I don't like the way it settles in my chest, heavy and stubborn, like I swallowed something I can't cough back up. My jaw tightens before I notice it happening. I force my hands to stay loose at my sides.
I don't care. This isn't anything. Whatever happened over the weekend was just noise. Boredom dressed up as tension.
My body doesn't buy it.
Somewhere under the irritation is the wanting, still there, still loud, and that makes me angrier. At him. At myself. At the fact that I'm standing here pretending I wasn't waiting for a look that never came.
I hate that he gets to do that.
I hate that it works.
I don't look. Looking would mean acknowledging how suddenly aware I am of my own hands, my posture, the fact that I'm sitting too stiffly. I keep my gaze fixed forward, counting the steady, ordinary noises around us.
I feel him moving around. A bag opens. The quiet impact of something heavy hitting the floor.
He reaches past me.
His arm brushes mine, brief and unremarkable, the kind of contact that shouldn't mean anything. My reaction comes late, like everything else today, after the moment's already passed, a sharp awareness blooming where his skin touched mine.
Kai doesn't pause.
He doesn't check my face. Doesn't smirk. Doesn't give me anything to hold onto. Please.
He keeps moving, contained, distant, as if I'm not part of the equation at all.
And that's when it sinks in, slow and unpleasant.
Whatever this is, I'm the only one bleeding from it.
Fabric rustles as I reach for my jersey, mostly light blue with a white collar. Clean lines. 7 printed boldly against the back in orange, still stiff with newness. I tug it over my head, and for a second, the world narrows to polyester and my own breath, the familiar sensation drags against my skin. When I pull it down, something in me settles. Not calm, focused. Like snapping a blade in place.
Yuujin lets out a low whistle. "Damn," he says lightly. "Seven really does suit you. You look... intense."
He glances at my face again, brow creasing. "You okay, man? You look cold. Like you're about to kill someone." There's no accusation in it. No concern, really. An observation, like he's commenting on the weather.
"Just ready," I say. My voice comes out flat, sharper than I meant it to.
Yuujin grins, apparently satisfied. "That's what I like to hear." He snaps his own number 8 jersey into place and starts adjusting his shin guards. "Try not to actually murder anyone, yeah? It's just practice."
Behind me, I can feel him.
I still don't want to give him the satisfaction of catching me looking.
Kai's shirt comes off.
The sound is quiet; cotton peeling away from skin, but my body registers it anyway, an immediate, visceral awareness. The locker room air feels warmer all of a sudden. My jaw clenches reflexively.
I can see him without looking. The broad line of his shoulders. The way his muscles move when he reaches for his jersey. The faint sheen of sweat still clinging to him from wherever he came from, like he brought the outside heat with him and dumped it right here between us.
It's not fair how effortless he is. How little it seems to cost him.
I stare hard at the floor, at the scuffed tile by my feet, and tell myself not to catalogue it. Not to remember the exact slope of his back, the way his skin tightens when he pulls his arms overhead.
I fail.
The 9 slides down over him, final and unhurried. He tugs it straight, smoothing the shirt as if he's sealing something in place. When he shifts, I catch the number in my peripheral vision, stark and deliberate.
Yuujin leans forward to tie his boots, voice filling the space like he's unaware it's doing any work at all. "So—" he says to me. "You gonna run them into the ground or what?"
"Something like that," I mutter.
Kai says nothing.
His presence presses in anyway, solid and unyielding, like he's decided this is where he stands, and the rest of us can adapt.
That anger flares again, hot and sharp. Not explosive. Controlled. The kind that sits low and patient.
He made me wait.
I rise from the bench, rolling my shoulders once, feeling the weight of the 7 settle properly against my back. Yuujin bumps my arm as he stands too, all easy camaraderie and forward motion.
"Let's go," he says.
We file out together: 8, 7, 9, and as the locker room noise fades behind us, I realise something unpleasant and undeniable.
If this is a game to him, then fine.
I'll play.
Not that I have a choice. The illusion of choice is barely enough to keep me from falling apart.
The springtime air hits my face the second we step outside. The pitch stretches out in front of us, green, orderly and indifferent.
Warm-ups start immediately. Jogging laps, dynamic stretches, studs biting into turf. My body falls into rhythm. Breathe in. Breathe out. The familiar burn in my calves grounds me better than anything else has all day. Naturally, the coach calls on Kai, Yuujin, and me to run drills and set pieces together: free kicks, corner kicks, and attacking scenarios.
Riku joins us without being called.
He's the team captain and a centre-back. He's loud in the group chat and even more deafening in person. He treats the pitch like a proving ground and sees everyone else as an obstacle. He stands almost as tall as Kai, with broad shoulders squared like he's ready for anything.
His grin is already there; casual, confident, and faintly amused.
I recognise it. Not because I know him well, but because I've seen that look before. It measures people without asking and decides how much space you can take up before you even speak.
He doesn't acknowledge me directly. He doesn't need to.
We practice the corner kick. The midfielder passes the ball short to me on the wing. I focus on my feet. On the ball. My pace. My right foot anchors into the turf, and my left pulls back before hitting the ball into the box for a cross to Kai. Before I can register if the ball reaches him, I can feel a shoulder barge into my side; a challenge that came way too late, and it sends me thudding into the ground.
"Watch yourself." Riku taunts while standing over me. Fucking fool. Is he trying to make sure I get injured before I've even had a chance to play a match? I wanted to call him out, tell him that his challenge was late, that the ball wasn't even at my feet by the time he barged into me. Instead, I grit my teeth.
"Yeah. Will do." I mutter before Riku extends his arm to help me up. I accept. He grips onto my wrist but doesn't let go when I'm back on my feet. He lifts my hand, turning it knuckles-up like he's inspecting something mundane. My black nail polish flashes in the light, chipped slightly at the edges.
"Oh—wow," Riku mutters, like something's clicked. "I knew you reminded me of someone."
"Do I?" I try to pull my arm away, but his grip on my wrist tightens as he keeps inspecting my nail polish. He's not rough; that's almost worse.
"There was this guy," Riku continues, still holding my hand, thumb brushing my knuckles nonchalantly. "Back in my friend's high school, he played soccer too. Short. Pretty, like you." He chuckles. "They caught him with a homo manga in his bag. Can you imagine?"
For half a second, I can't move. Heat floods my face, my arm useless where he's holding it. A dozen responses crowd my throat, and none of them make it out.
I suddenly notice how many people are around us. The pitch feels too open and too exposed. Laughter comes from the other end of the field. Someone shouts encouragement while another person curses a bad touch. Life keeps going while I'm stuck here, my hand caught in Riku's grip like he found it lying around and hasn't decided what to do with it yet.
I should say something.
I know that. I can feel the words lining up in my throat; sarcasm, anger, something sharp enough to fight back. But they don't come out. My mouth feels dry. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning everything else out.
Riku's thumb brushes my knuckles again, absent-minded and casual. It feels like he's not fully aware of what he's doing, or worse, like he is and doesn't think it matters. I tug at my arm. Not hard. Enough to test the space between us.
He doesn't let go.
Something ugly twists low in my stomach. It isn't fear. It's more like a hot, crawling resentment that he stands this close, touching me, saying things he knows will hit wrong, and everyone else can look away. They can pretend this is nothing—just banter. Boys will be boys.
I swallow, my jaw tightening. I won't look small. I won't give him that.
Then, pressure shifts at my side.
It's subtle at first. A presence enters the space like a shadow before you notice what's casting it. The grip on my wrist loosens only a little; not because Riku chose to let go, but because something else has captured his attention.
Kai.
He doesn't announce himself. He doesn't raise his voice. He steps in close enough that the air changes, like the space shifts around him. I feel it before I see it; the heat of him, solid and unyielding at my shoulder.
"Enough."
His voice is level. Not loud enough to draw attention, but not quiet enough to be private either. It cuts clean through the space between us.
"Relax. It's a joke." Riku laughs, short and dismissive, like he's already won.
Then Kai speaks.
"You touch your teammates like that a lot?"
Riku stills.
Kai's gaze drops, not to my face, but to Riku's hand around my wrist. The pause stretches.
"Or just him?" Kai mutters through gritted teeth.
Something shifts. It's minuscule, but I feel it. The air closes in. Riku's thumb stops moving. A couple of heads turn without meaning to. The moment rewinds itself in my mind, replaying with a new context.
Riku lets go of my wrist.
Not quickly. Not like he's startled.
Like he's realised he's standing too close to something he doesn't want examined.
Kai turns his gaze back to Riku then, shoulders squared, voice level. "Focus on the drill," he says. Not a suggestion.
"Tch." Riku walks away, cursing under his breath.
I keep my gaze locked to the ground. I stare at the scuffed grass on the turf. I don't want to look at Kai right away. I'm too focused on my breathing, on how fast my heart is racing, and on the slight shake in my fingers now that they're free. My hand instinctively curls in on itself, as if it needs somewhere to go.
Kai shifts again, only a bit, and suddenly he's in front of me. He's not blocking my view or shielding me in any obvious way, but he's close enough that my line of sight is filled with him whether I want it to be or not.
I feel it before I register it.
Kai's finger hooks gently under my chin.
Not rough. Not forceful. Almost feather-light pressure to guide, to insist.
"Eyes up."
Quiet enough, only for me to be able to hear.
My breath catches before I can stop it.
The touch sends a jolt straight through me, sharp and electric, lighting something up under my skin that I've been trying very hard to keep buried. My head tilts up on instinct, like my body already knows how to respond to him, like it's memorised this without asking.
For a heartbeat, I meet his eyes.
Something dark flickers there; controlled, restrained, held back with effort. His jaw is tight. His gaze doesn't soften, but it stays on me, steady and unwavering, like he's making sure I'm still here and still standing.
Still his problem.
The contact lasts barely a second before he drops his hand, the absence of it somehow louder than the touch itself. My skin feels too warm where his fingers were, like the imprint lingers longer than it should.
When he finally walks away, the space he leaves feels wrong. It is too empty and too exposed. My heart races, and my thoughts are jumbled and uncooperative. I flex my fingers, trying to centre myself. I want to remember how to be in my body without overthinking every sensation.
I hate how safe I felt for that brief moment.
I'm already replaying it, noting the tone of his voice, the weight of his touch, and the way he stepped in without asking if I wanted him to. And maybe worst of all, I hate that I wanted him to. I hate myself for wishing his touch lingered longer.
Practice concludes quietly. No final whistle that matters. Players peel away in clusters, laughing, arguing, bantering, and replaying moments that already feel smaller than they did five minutes ago.
And yet, I'm still watching Kai. Someone claps him on the shoulder as they pass him. Yuujin calls my name back to the locker room, but it doesn't stick. It reaches me, then slides off like I'm covered in something slick.
I'm too tired to hold onto anything that isn't directly in front of me, like Kai, who's now sat on the bench next to me, scrolling on his phone.
By the time I've peeled off my shin guards and taken my jersey off, it dawns on me. Showers. Fuck. That familiar feeling of dread forms in my stomach, rising to my chest. The locker room is louder now than it was before practice. Steam clings to the ceiling. Lockers slam open and shut.
Yuujin has already claimed a stall for himself, stripping without a single care for lingering eyes. And I suppose I'm the weird one for being so jealous of how comfortable he feels.
I pretend to adjust my bag, check my phone, even though there's nothing there. I feel sick, like the room itself is watching me. Locker rooms have always done this to me. Too many bodies. Too much skin. Too many places for eyes to land.
I take my time folding my slacks and my sweater, rolling my towel into a perfect cylinder—anything to prolong the inevitability of having to shower around my teammates.
I wait until the crowd thins, people peel off toward the showers before I move.
When I finally do, I keep my head down. I hold my folded clothes and towel tightly to my chest, trying to hide how exposed I feel, even with just my shirt being off. I move fast and efficiently; if I don't hesitate, it won't have time to get bad.
The showers are already running.
Water hits the tile in uneven rhythms, echoing in the space. Steam rolls in thick, damp clouds, making the stalls look vague. I choose one without much thought and step inside, pulling the curtain closed with a soft scrape.
I hear the curtain scrape in the stall next to mine, the rustling of clothes and then a soft grunt that I instantly recognise.
Unmistakably Kai.
I tell myself it doesn't matter. It's just proximity. Bodies doing what bodies do after practice. I strip quickly, movements precise, like speed will save me from overthinking it.
The water hits my shoulders, hot enough to sting at first. I brace my hands against the tile and let my head drop forward, breathing through the initial rush of sensation. The noise of it fills my ears, drowns out the room—almost.
Not quite.
I become aware of him in fragments. The shift in movement next door. The sound of water changing pitch when he steps closer to the spray. A brief, quiet exhale that doesn't belong to me.
I tell myself not to listen. I shouldn't be acting like a creep. It feels intrusive. I should focus on rinsing the sweat from my hair and the burn on my muscles.
My brain completely ignores me.
Every sound seems louder due to the thin wall between us. I see him in my mind even though I don't want to. His broad shoulders are under the spray, his head tilted back, and water is running down his skin. I press my forehead harder against the tile, hoping that will make it go away.
I close my eyes.
The vulnerability creeps in then. That old, sharp awareness of being exposed. Of being seen even when no one is looking. My shoulders tense. My breath goes shallow.
Next door, the water cuts off for a moment.
My heart jumps stupidly.
I freeze, listening despite myself. There's the faint sound of fabric shifting. A step back. Then the water starts again, as steady as before.
I let out a breath I didn't realise I was holding.
I wash quickly after that. No lingering. No indulgence. Enough to be clean. When I finally turn the water off, the silence feels too loud.
I don't pull the curtain back until I'm dry enough and dressed. I wouldn't be seen dead in only a towel around anyone, let alone these taller, well-built guys on the team and especially Kai.
By the time I glance up, his stall is empty. The curtain sways slightly, settling back into place.
Relief hits first.
Then something sharper follows right after it, disappointment, uninvited and unwelcome.
I shove it down and tell myself it doesn't mean anything.
It never does.
By the time I'm grabbing my bag and scanning, the locker room is quieter. I can hear Yuujin still showering, singing to himself.
I edge closer to his stall. "Yuyu? Are you gonna be much longer? I kinda wanna get home."
"Shit, sorry, Ace. I'm probably going to be a while. I've got a date in about an hour, so I'm taking my time, then I'm going to meet her right after. You can go ahead."
"Hmph—yeah, yeah—good luck," I mutter before walking away.
I pause with my hand on the strap of my bag, listening to the water run and Yuujin's off-key singing echo faintly down the tile. It sounds easy. Everything about him always does.
A date. An hour from now. Like it's nothing.
It must be nice. Moving through the world with that kind of certainty. Liking someone, asking them out, and meeting them without it feeling like a risk assessment. Without every interaction turning into a question you don't know how to answer.
I try not to linger on it, but the thought follows me anyway as I step out into the hall.
I've never had that. Not really. No relationships to half-remember or laugh about later. No blurry stories that start with we met at— and trail off into something warm. A series of almosts and maybes and moments I didn't know how to step into without flinching.
No first kiss to look back on and cringe at. No hands tangled in mine because they wanted to be there, no easy closeness. I don't even know what I'd do with it if it showed up unannounced.
It isn't that I've never wanted it.
It's that wanting has always felt like standing too close to the edge of something I wasn't allowed to fall into.
I adjust my grip on the bag and head toward the exit, telling myself not to be stupid about it. Yuujin isn't doing anything wrong. He's just living. Comfortable in his skin. Comfortable being seen.
I wish, not for the first time, that it came that easily to me.
I keep walking, hands shoved into the pockets of my slacks, trying to shake the tight feeling in my chest.
I tell myself it doesn't matter.
But the thought lingers anyway, quiet and persistent.
It must be nice.
The sky has gone that dull, washed-out colour by the time I step outside; orange thinning into grey, the day already loosening its grip. The stretch ahead of the Hongo Campus, half-empty now, students scattering in a hurry.
I fumble with my playlists on my phone and start moving toward the gate.
I don't get far.
"You're not walking."
The words land behind me, close enough that I feel them more than hear them. I stop without thinking and turn.
Kai stands a few feet away, waving his car keys in my direction. He looks exactly like he did on the pitch: composed, contained, but there's something tight in his posture, shoulders drawn a fraction too high.
"I always walk," I say, automatically.
He doesn't argue. He doesn't smile.
He turns and starts toward the gate, like the decision's been made and my agreement is a formality he doesn't need.
For a moment, I stay where I am.
I consider pushing back and saying something sharp out of habit. This would be the point where I say no, where I insist. Where I prove I don't need anything from him.
Instead, I fall into step beside him.
The ginkgo trees line the path ahead, their leaves a soft green, thick enough to cast shade during the day but glowing against streetlamps in the evening. Everything feels filtered, as if the day's been turned down a notch.
We walk.
The path is longer than it looks; it always is.
I keep my hands in my pockets, so I don't have to think about what they're doing. Our shoulders are close without touching. Too close to be accidental. Far enough that it's still safe.
Students pass us in clusters. Two girls walking arm in arm, sharing earbuds. A few guys from the team up ahead—Riku's voice cuts through the air behind me, loud and sharp, and my spine tightens before I can see him.
Kai moves.
It's subtle. If I wasn't paying too much attention to him, I might've missed it. He steps half a pace closer to me, his shoulder almost brushing my arm now. When Riku passes ahead of us to catch up with his friends, Kai doesn't look at him. He doesn't acknowledge.
But Riku looks over his shoulder at us.
I feel it like a pressure change. The way his eyes linger like he's filed something away for later.
I don't say anything. Neither does Kai. We keep walking.
I hate how aware I am of the fact that his stride matches mine, even though he's taller, even though he could be moving faster if he wanted to.
A breeze moves through the trees overhead. Leaves rustle, soft and constant, like the ginkgo trees are breathing. Lights glow across the path and catch on the side of Kai's face—his jaw, the line of his mouth. He looks straight ahead, expression locked down, eyes focused on nothing I can see.
Has he always been this handsome? No, it's just the light. It's just the way he carries himself.
I force my glance away from Kai and back to the path ahead. The main gate is finally in sight.
We pass through and then another intersection. The campus stretches, suddenly too open. The walk is taking forever, and I can't tell if it actually is or if my sense of time has warped around the fact that I'm acutely aware of every inch between us.
Before I can stop myself, I inch a fraction closer to his side.
My arm brushes his.
It's barely anything. Fabric against fabric. The sleeve of my sweater against his shirt.
He reacts instantly.
His whole body goes rigid for half a second, like I've tripped an alarm. Then he adjusts—slows, gives me space without fully stepping away.
I pretend not to notice.
My heart doesn't.
We don't talk. The silence presses in, but it doesn't feel empty. It's full of things that don't have words yet. I don't know how to ask questions without breaking whatever this fragile balance is.
Why? So many whys.
Kai's car is parked at the farthest end of a commercial parking lot. I almost wanted to scoff. He'd never make this easy.
"You know... it'd be cheaper to take the train." I couldn't help myself.
Kai actually rolls his eyes.
"I don't see you using public transport." He shoots back.
Another group passes us, too engaged in their own conversation to notice us. Someone carelessly bumps into my shoulder from behind, and before I can react, Kai's hand is there.
Not grabbing.
There and precise—flat against my upper back, guiding me forward a step, away from the collision. His fingers spread for the briefest moment before he seems to realise what he's doing.
He drops his hand like my back is on fire.
I don't look at him again. If I do, I think I might crack.
My skin remembers the touch anyway, a ghost of pressure between my shoulder blades. Memorising the shape of his touch in case it doesn't get another chance.
I'm suddenly aware of how close we are to the car, and at the same time, how much I don't want this to end.
Which is stupid.
It's a walk. He's just a teammate who wants to escort me home for some reason.
The car comes into full view at last; black, polished, absurdly out of place among the bikes and compact sedans. Kai slows and then stops beside it. He reaches into his pocket and unlocks it without looking at me.
He holds the passenger side door open. I hesitate for a moment but slide into the passenger seat. The interior smells faintly like leather and him. The door shuts, sealing the space around me tight.
Kai rounds the car to the driver's side, gets in and closes his door.
He doesn't start the engine.
The silence hits harder than I expect. No music. No small talk. Merely the hum of the cooling air outside and the faint tick of the car settling. I can hear my own breathing, suddenly too loud. I keep my eyes forward, hands resting uselessly on my thighs.
Kai's hands are on the steering wheel. His jaw is set. He looks... tense. Irritated, maybe. Like he regrets this already.
The thought taunts unpleasantly in my chest.
Then he moves.
His hand leaves the wheel and comes toward me, slow enough that I see it happening and still don't stop it. He takes my hand where it rests, fingers closing around my wrist; not tight, but deliberate.
My pulse jumps.
He turns my hand knuckles-up, careful, controlled. The gesture is almost identical to Riku's, and my heart is in my throat before I can stop it—but Kai doesn't touch me the same way. His thumb doesn't trace or linger. He doesn't crowd my space.
He looks at my nails.
The black polish is chipped now, edges roughened from practice. Under the fading light, it looks duller than it did this morning.
He tilts my hand slightly, inspecting it like he's assessing damage.
"Hm," he murmurs.
That's all.
The sound settles low in the car, heavier than a complete sentence. My throat feels tight.
"They notice things like this," he says after a moment. His voice is even. Neutral. "People like him."
My chest tightens. "Is that... bad?"
He doesn't answer right away. His jaw flexes once.
"No," he says finally. "It's just information."
A pause.
"A variable."
The word sticks with me in a way I don't like.
He releases my hand, withdrawing like he's reached some internal limit. The absence of his touch feels louder than the contact ever did. He returns his hand to the wheel and exhales slowly, in control, as if steadying himself.
The engine turns over.
Kai pulls up his phone and sets it on a mount.
"What district?" He mutters, still fiddling with the GPS on his phone.
"Sendagi—as I said, I usually walk..." I try to sound blunt, but my voice comes out soft.
"Hmph—" Kai cuts himself off before starting the route on his phone.
I bet you're starting to think this was pointless now, don't you? The Sendagi building is only 15 minutes by car at worst.
"—Shame." He finishes as he steps on the gas.
We pull out of the lot. The car rolls forward smoothly, the world outside sliding past in muted colours. I steal a glance at him from the corner of my eye.
He doesn't look at me.
His focus stays fixed on the road, shoulders tense, hands tight on the wheel. He looks angry. Or annoyed. Or like something is grinding under his skin, demanding attention he refuses to give.
I tell myself it doesn't matter.
I tell myself this is just a ride.
But my body hasn't caught up to that logic yet. My hand still feels warm where he held it. My chest feels too full, like I've taken in something I didn't know I needed until it was there.
I should feel embarrassed. Or angry. Or relieved.
Instead, I feel something quieter and more dangerous settle in.
I needed this.
The proximity. The silence. Even the tension.
And the worst part is, I know I'll take it again; however he wants to give it to me.
The car slows outside my building. The residential area of Sendagi feels claustrophobic. The engine idles, low and steady.
Kai pulls the handbrake and finally lets out a breath.
We stay there for a second too long.
"Thanks," I say, because I don't know what else to call this.
He nods once.
I reach for the door. Open it.
I have one foot out of the car when he stops me.
It's sudden enough that I stumble—my weight pulled back before I can react. My shoulder twists, my knee knocks the console, and then I'm not leaving anymore. The door stays half-open, cold air spilling in, but Kai has me—his hand firm around my arm, a touch above the elbow, like he's keeping me from falling.
Only... he doesn't let go.
His grip loosens. Shifts. Slides.
Slowly—like he's testing where it's allowed to end.
Down my arm. Down the sleeve of my sweater. To my wrist. His fingers skim the oversized fabric hanging over my hand—barely there, but enough that my brain short-circuits and everything else drops away.
He's been close before. Teased me.
The cafeteria, with him standing behind me. The soccer bulletin board, his body pressing in barely enough to register. Always subtle. Always deniable.
My head is spinning so hard I almost miss it—his fingers nudging up my sleeve, slipping through the arm hole. Unmistakably deliberate.
His thumb circles my knuckles. His fingers are rough, calloused, but the touch itself is careful. Gentle. I can't tell if my skin is still warm from practice or if it's this.
I stop breathing.
I don't look at him. I don't think I could if I tried. The space between us feels wrong, charged, stretched thin like it might snap if either of us moves. He's too close. Skin to skin contact—heat, presence, the way his body is angled like the door isn't actually open anymore.
Something is happening.
Or something almost is.
My chest tightens. My heart is doing something stupid and frantic, and I hate how badly I need this—whatever this is—to last just a second longer.
Kai exhales slowly and in control, as if steadying himself.
Then, quietly, too quietly for how close we are, he says, "You should stop assuming I don't notice."
It doesn't sound angry. It doesn't sound gentle either. It sounds careful. Like every word is being chosen instead of what he actually wants to say.
Before I can ask what that means—before I can say anything at all—his hand is gone.
The loss hits harder than the touch did. Cold rushes back in where he was, the car suddenly too big, too empty. He leans away, just enough to give me space again, like he didn't just have me pinned there a second ago.
"Go," he says.
I scramble for the door, pulse roaring in my ears. I don't trust my voice. I don't trust myself to stay.
When I get out, Kai doesn't say anything else.
The door closes. The engine hums behind me.
I walk to my building with my hands clenched at my sides, telling myself he was probably only messing around. Probably tense from practice. Probably bored.
It's easier than admitting how badly I wanted him to pull me back again.
I tell myself I don't need it, that this isn't anything. That I've gone longer without being touched, without being seen like that, and survived just fine.
But my hands are still shaking.
It's not about him almost stopping me. It's not even about the way his fingers lingered like they were memorising something they weren't allowed to keep. It's the fact that for a moment, I existed there—anchored, chosen, held in place by someone who noticed. Someone who didn't look at me like I was a problem to solve or a joke to land.
I don't want to need that. I don't want to be the kind of person who folds under a glance, a pause, a hand that doesn't even fully touch. But my chest feels hollow without it, like something essential slipped out when the door shut.
I step through the door to the elevator.
Because wanting something this badly—wanting him this badly—feels dangerous. And I'm not sure I'd survive finding out what happens if I ask for it and he lets me have it.