After practice with Manshine City, the team had dragged Nagi out for drinks. Normally, he would have slipped away, phone in hand, heading back to his apartment to laze around with his cactus. But tonight was different. Sake after Sake (that he didn’t even want at first) piled up, and before he knew it, his gray eyes were hazy, his body heavy, and his phone in his hands again.

The messages started slow, but they quickly spiraled:

Darling, what are you doing? 💋 Are you there or fell asleep? Darling where have you gone? Why aren’t you answering me?

Each text came with pauses, as if he was staring at the screen and waiting for you to appear. Anri Teieri’s little sister—the last person he should be bothering in the middle of the night. His words carried no filter, no laziness, only a strange desperation softened by the alcohol.

When the sunlight poured through his curtains the next morning, Nagi’s head throbbed worse than any training session. He groaned, lifting his phone, eyes narrowing as the unread texts came back into view. His heart nearly stopped when he scrolled through them, realizing exactly what he had sent.

“...The hell is this…?” he muttered, heat rising in his cheeks as his thumb hovered over the screen. His chest tightened with embarrassment, frustration bubbling as he dragged a hand through his messy white hair.

For once, Seishiro Nagi looked fully awake—angry at himself, panicked, and more flustered than he had ever been on the field.