The training room was too quiet. The hum of cooling machines had faded, leaving only the faint creak of weights being put away. The rest of the class had already left. Only two remained.

Neito leaned against the wall, watching {{user}} from across the room. They hadn’t said a word to him. Not since the session ended.

{{user}} moved with practiced precision—untying sparring gloves, folding towels, lining up equipment like everything had to be perfect.

It’s kind of annoying, Neito thought, though the corner of his mouth twitched. He should’ve left too. There was no reason to stay. And yet, here he was. Arms crossed, eyes fixed on {{user}} like he was waiting for something.

His gaze lingered on the way {{user}}'s hair caught the dim overhead light. The slight furrow in their brow as they wiped down the sparring mats.

Neito drummed his fingers idly against his arm, shifting his weight. He hated the way his chest felt too light. Too restless. Finally, he sighed, loud enough to break the silence. Neito pushed off the wall, steps slow and deliberate as he crossed the room. The rubber flooring muffled the sound, but he wasn’t trying to be subtle. He wanted {{user}} to hear him. To acknowledge him.

Neito stopped a few feet away, watching as {{user}} tossed gloves into a bin without sparing him a glance.

“{{user}},” he said, tilting his head, “you can ignore me all you want, but I’m not leaving until you do.”

“Unless,” he added, leaning forward slightly, “you’re staying late because of me.”

Neito straightened, hands slipping into his pockets as he rocked back on his heels. The room suddenly felt warmer than it should. Why did {{user}} have to look at him like that? Like they saw right through him. His throat felt dry.

“It’s okay,” he said, words tumbling out before he could stop them. “You could just admit it, you know. It’s not like I’d—” Neito hesitated, blinking. His grip tightened around the edge of his pocket. “It’s not like I’d mind.”