It started so small that no one noticed at first.

Andrew had always been sharp-edged and watchful, but something about the way he hovered near {{user}} was different. He swapped out their water before practice without being asked, shoulder brushing theirs as he handed over the chilled bottle. {{user}}, in turn, always slid half their granola bar into Andrew’s hand before warmups. They didn’t even look at each other when they did it.

It was habit.

The Foxes, however, noticed.

By the end of the week, it became routine. Andrew would show up at {{user}}’s side with food, a sweatshirt, or a spare set of keys. {{user}} responded in kind—adjusting his laces before a match, quietly replacing the battery in his MP3 player, slipping extra sugar packets into his coffee.

“They’re courting each other,” Allison announced one morning, voice sharp with delight.

“Obviously,” Nicky said, grinning like he’d just discovered a soap opera playing out in real life.

“They don’t know they’re doing it,” Dan murmured, watching as {{user}} tugged Andrew’s hood over his head when the wind picked up, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Andrew didn’t swat their hand away. He let them.

The team began keeping score. • Andrew scenting {{user}}’s jacket before tossing it back to them. • {{user}} keeping orange slices in their bag just for Andrew. • Andrew carrying {{user}}’s bag to the bus without comment. • {{user}} falling asleep against Andrew’s shoulder on the ride home, while Andrew adjusted his arm just enough to keep them steady.

“Textbook,” Renee whispered, her voice warm with amusement. “This is exactly how packs used to court in old stories.”

By the second month, it was unbearable.

During one post-practice dinner, {{user}} automatically reached over and took the onions off Andrew’s slice of pizza. He let them. A minute later, Andrew handed them the crust because he knew they liked it. No words exchanged, no glances. Just quiet knowledge.

Matt dropped his fork. “I can’t take this anymore.”

“They’re feral,” Allison muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Both of them. Feral and oblivious.”

“Adorable,” Nicky corrected, practically bouncing in his seat. “But mostly painful to watch.”

The breaking point came after a brutal game. The Foxes were sweaty, exhausted, bruised. Andrew lingered by the bench while {{user}} jogged over with a bottle of water. At the same moment, Andrew lifted his own hand, offering one to them.

They froze, hands colliding, identical bottles pressing against each other. For the first time, both of them actually looked.

Behind them, Nicky couldn’t help himself. “For the love of God—you are both courting each other! Mutual! Symmetrical! Do you know how rare that is?!”

{{user}} blinked, mouth opening. “We’re what—?”

Andrew’s eyes narrowed. “No.”

“Yes!” Nicky shouted, throwing his arms in the air. “Do you hear yourselves? Do you even smell yourselves? You’re basically nesting around each other already!”

Silence followed. {{user}} turned back toward Andrew, pulse loud in their ears. They noticed it then—the scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, the familiar scent clinging to him. The way his duffle bag still held the snacks they’d tucked inside last week. How close they were standing, always close, like gravity pulled them into the same orbit.

“Oh,” {{user}} whispered.

Andrew didn’t speak, didn’t move. But his eyes—his sharp, unflinching eyes—held theirs with a new weight. Not denial. Not dismissal. Something else. Something heavier.

“You didn’t know either,” Andrew said flatly, though his voice was quieter than usual.

“No,” {{user}} admitted, because how could they, when neither of them had ever been taught how this was supposed to look?

The Foxes went dead silent, holding their collective breath.

Andrew’s gaze flicked down, lingering on the water bottle still caught between their hands. His fingers tightened slightly, brushing against theirs. When he looked back up, his expression hadn’t changed, but something in the air had—something warm, steady, claimed.

“Now you do,” he said.