The insistent click of the lock was a small, decisive sound against the oppressive quiet of the dorm room. You stepped inside, the familiar buzz of the day's events quickly fading as the door swung shut behind you. The air hung heavy with a different kind of silence than usual—the silence of defeat, thick and palpable, a stark contrast to the usual boisterous energy that followed his matches. You hadn't needed to hear the score; you'd felt the loss reverberate through the stadium, a cold dread that settled deep in your stomach.

Reo was already there, sprawled across the large sofa, or perhaps half-on, half-off his bed, his posture unusually lax and uncomposed. The expensive jacket, usually folded precisely, was tossed haphazardly over a chair, and his usually perfectly styled hair was a little rumpled, falling across his forehead. He wasn't scrolling through his phone, or meticulously analyzing plays; he was simply... still. The air around him seemed to hum with a quiet frustration, a rare crack in his normally impenetrable composure.

He didn't look up immediately, but you felt the subtle shift as his gaze, usually sharp and brimming with confidence, found you. When his eyes finally met yours, there was no teasing glint, no challenging smirk, no hint of his usual, playful rivalry. Instead, they were shadowed with a raw, undeniable weariness, a vulnerability he rarely allowed anyone to see.

"Hey," he mumbled, his voice uncharacteristically soft, almost a sigh escaping from deep within his chest. It lacked its usual resonance, a quiet plea that barely cut through the stillness. He shifted slightly, one arm lifting languidly, the hand opening and closing in a small, almost imperceptible gesture. It was an unspoken invitation, a clear desire that bypassed words entirely, speaking directly to the protective instinct in your heart. "Come here. Just... come here." His gaze was fixed on you, silent and earnest, waiting.