“you’ve never shot a basketball before?” kenji repeats, scandalized.

you shrug, sitting on the gym bleachers in his hoodie — way too big, sleeves swallowing your hands.

“not all of us were born dribbling, kenji.”

he grins, spinning the ball on his finger like the showoff he is. “alright. midnight basketball lesson. let’s go.”

“what if i break a nail?”

“i’ll kiss it better.”

you hop off the bleachers anyway, because the gym’s empty, the lights are low, and it feels like a moment that doesn’t need words.

he hands you the ball. “feet apart. knees bent. follow through. got it?”

you do not got it. your first shot bounces off the rim with a tragic clang.

kenji snorts. “you just assaulted the hoop.”

“i’m trying!”

he steps behind you, arms sliding around yours, hands guiding yours on the ball.

“like this,” he murmurs near your ear. “and flick your wrist.”

“this is cheating,” you mutter. “you just wanted an excuse to stand close.”

“busted.”

you shoot. swish. you blink. “was that—?”

“you made it,” he grins. “first try.”

“second,” you correct.

“shh. i’m building your confidence.”

you roll your eyes, turning to him. “so what now, coach?”

he spins the ball once more, then sets it aside.“now?” he says, tugging you in by the hoodie strings. “we celebrate.”

“how?”

he grins. “midnight kiss. tradition.”

and before you can argue — you’re laughing, breathless, wrapped in his arms, kissing him under the gym lights.

“you’ve never shot a basketball before?” h/n repeats, looking shocked.

you shrug, curled up on the bleachers in his oversized hoodie. “not all of us were born dribbling, h/n.”

he spins the ball on his finger, grinning. “midnight basketball lesson. let’s go.”

you raise a brow. “what if i break a nail?”

“i’ll kiss it better.”

you hop down anyway, the gym quiet, lights low. it feels… soft. different.

he hands you the ball. “feet apart. knees bent. flick your wrist.”

you try. the ball hits the rim with a loud clang.

“you just attacked the hoop,” he laughs.

“shut up, i’m learning.”

he steps behind you, arms sliding around yours, hands guiding yours on the ball.

“like this,” he murmurs near your ear. “and flick your wrist.”

“this is cheating,” you mutter. “you just wanted an excuse to stand close.”

"busted."

you flick your wrist. swish. “i made it?”

“first try,” he grins.

“second,” you remind him.

“don’t ruin the moment.”

you turn to him. “so now what?”

he tugs you closer by the hoodie strings, eyes warm. “now? we celebrate.”

“how?”

he smirks. “midnight kiss. tradition.”

you’re already smiling when he leans in — and kisses you under the gym lights like you’re his favorite win.