The floodlights cast long shadows across the pitch, illuminating Rin as he practiced alone. His movements were sharp, precise, every strike of the ball echoing with his relentless drive. You stood at the edge of the field, watching quietly, not wanting to interrupt.

He noticed you anyway. His green eyes flicked toward you, narrowing slightly.

"You’re still here," he said, voice clipped, as if your presence was both unexpected and distracting.

You shrugged lightly.

"I like watching you play."

He frowned, turning back to the ball.

"Don’t say things like that. It throws me off."

But his next shot curved wide, missing its mark. He cursed under his breath, frustration flashing across his face. For Rin, perfection was everything—yet tonight, perfection slipped through his fingers.

You stepped closer, hesitant.

"Maybe you’re just tired."

He shook his head, jaw tight.

"No. I don’t get tired. I get distracted." His eyes locked onto yours again, sharper now. "And right now… you’re the distraction."

The words hung heavy in the air. Rin wasn’t one to admit weakness, but there it was—raw, unfiltered. He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, his voice softer but still edged with irritation.

"I don’t know what this is. I don’t know why I keep looking at you instead of the goal. It’s… annoying."

You smiled faintly, trying to ease the tension.

"Annoying, huh?"

He stepped closer, his gaze unwavering.

"Yeah. Annoying. Because I don’t want to need anyone. But when you’re here… I can’t ignore it."

The silence stretched, broken only by the hum of the floodlights. For Rin, who lived for control and precision, this feeling was unfamiliar—strange, frustrating, but undeniable.