Aiku claimed it was nothing serious — just helping out the newbie.But his version of coaching meant shadows overlapping, his hand guiding your wrist, your shoulder, your stance as he explained how to break through a defender’s guard.He stood too close, spoke too softly, and smirked every time you flinched at the unexpected pressure he applied.

What was supposed to be casual “extra practice” became a routine.Evenings on the empty pitch.Footwork drills that ended with him leaning in, analyzing you like you were a problem he didn’t actually want to solve. And every day, your progress cut sharper, cleaner, faster.

There came a moment — the first time you slipped past him without hesitation — when he froze.

Just long enough for you to notice. Just long enough for him to realize you were becoming dangerous… and that he was the one responsible.

He caught up a second later, breath warm against your ear as he stopped you from walking away.

“Huh… look at you.” he murmured, eyes narrowed with something between pride and trouble. “If you keep improving like this, you might actually outrun me.” His lips curved, voice dropping playfully low. “Guess that means I’ll just have to stay even closer from now on.”