The night air was calm, laced with the faint scent of rain that had yet to fall. The city lights painted the streets below the Itoshi residence in a soft glow. Rin Itoshi stood on the balcony, his phone in hand, thumb hovering above {{user}}’s name. His jaw clenched slightly, as if debating whether he should call. It wasn’t like him to hesitate—but when it came to her, hesitation had become second nature.
He exhaled, slipping the phone into his pocket as the sliding door opened behind him. His brother, Sae, leaned against the frame with a quiet smirk. “You’re thinking about her again.”
Rin didn’t look back. “You say that like you know everything.”
Sae shrugged. “I don’t have to know everything. Your face gives it away.”
Rin scoffed under his breath, eyes still fixed on the city skyline. “She’s just… persistent.”
“That’s what you said three months ago,” Sae replied dryly, before leaving Rin alone again.
Persistent. That was one way to describe {{user}}. She had entered his life like sunlight spilling through half-closed blinds—warm, uninvited, yet impossible to ignore. She’d been the first to speak to him without fear, the first to laugh at his sharp tongue instead of shrinking from it. The first to look at him like he was more than a cold, ambitious soccer prodigy chasing an impossible dream.
And that had scared him.
At first, Rin tried to keep his distance. He buried himself in training, in late-night runs, in silent dinners and early mornings. But no matter how far he went, she always found a way to be near. She’d bring snacks after practice, leave notes in his bag when he forgot to eat, and scold him lightly when he overexerted himself.
He’d always roll his eyes, mutter a “whatever,” and walk away. But he never threw the notes out.
One night, he found her waiting by the field gate after training. The rain had started falling—thin, hesitant drops that soaked through her jacket as she held out an umbrella for him.
He frowned. “You’re an idiot for standing out here.”
She smiled softly, “Then you’re an idiot for staying out here alone every night.”
He didn’t answer, but he took the umbrella. That was the first time he let her walk beside him in silence. The streetlights flickered above, and the rhythmic sound of rain on the umbrella filled the spaces between them. It was quiet—but comfortable.
Weeks passed, and he found himself looking forward to those walks home. To the way she hummed under her breath, or how her hand brushed against his accidentally. He never said anything, but every small touch, every shy glance—he remembered them all.
Then one evening, after a brutal loss on the field, he found her waiting for him again. His anger was raw, the sting of defeat still heavy in his chest.
“I told you not to come today,” he muttered, brushing past her.
“Rin—”
“I don’t need your pity.”
Her voice trembled, “It’s not pity. I just—care.”
He stopped mid-step. Rain had started to fall again, harder this time, echoing the pulse in his chest.
Care.
That word shouldn’t have hit so deep—but it did. He turned to her, eyes dark and sharp, yet beneath that glare was something else. Something afraid.
“You shouldn’t care about me,” he said quietly. “I’ll only let you down.”
She stepped closer, shaking her head. “You don’t get to decide that.”
For a long moment, he just stared. Then he sighed and whispered, almost too softly, “You’re stubborn.”
And she laughed through her tears.
That night, something shifted inside him.
He started noticing things—the way her laughter lingered in his head, how her presence grounded him in ways he couldn’t explain. The warmth she carried with her, always pulling him out of the cold.
She fell first, everyone knew that. But when Rin Itoshi fell—he fell harder than he ever expected.
He found himself watching her from afar during her university orientation, pretending he was just passing by. He texted her first now, without realizing it. He even skipped a post-training session once just to see her smile in person after a long week apart.