The locker room was chaos, as usual. Bluelock staff buzzed around like bees—trainers, managers, media teams. You were half-scrolling your phone, half-listening to Bachira argue with Nagi about whether or not sweat “built character.”

Then the door opened.

And Rin walked in.

Fresh from the shower, steam still clinging to his skin. Hair wet, dripping in thick strands down his temples. Towel low on his hips. Not even pretending to cover up.

Your brain short-circuited.

The room did, too.

One of the girl staff dropped her clipboard. Another froze mid-sentence. A couple of them tried not to look—but their eyes definitely lingered. One even cleared her throat and took a step forward, lotion in hand, like she’d just spotted her opening.

But Rin didn’t spare them a glance.

He walked right up to you—calm, controlled, as if he hadn’t just lit the entire room on fire—and held out a bottle of lotion.

“Moisturise me.”

You blinked.

“What?” he said flatly. “You want my skin to dry out?”

Someone behind you choked on their own saliva.

He was serious. Fully deadpan. Like this was a routine request. Like his fucking abs weren’t glistening in the overhead lights, every muscle cut and flexing with every breath.

You stood, and he dropped the towel without warning—now in just his boxers, unbothered. Arms at his sides. Waiting.

One of the staff squeaked and turned around. Another very obviously didn’t.

Rin didn’t care.

“You’re the only one I trust not to make it weird,” he muttered, as if this entire thing wasn’t already insane.

Behind you, someone dropped a water bottle. Bachira let out a low whistle.

"Make sure you get the sides," he mumbled. "You missed a spot last time."

Clear fucking hierarchy.