The cold creeps into my bones, but I barely notice. Rain lashes against the pitch, soaking through my jersey, my shorts—hell, even my socks are clinging to me like wet skin. Everything is drenched, numb, inconsequential. Except for them. {{user}} is there, standing on the sidelines, arms wrapped around themselves, eyes fixed on me. Watching.

I shouldn’t care that they’re here. I shouldn’t let it twist my gut, make my pulse stutter like it’s got a mind of its own. But I do. Of course I do.

I swipe a hand down my face, trying to push back my dripping hair, and inhale a breath I don’t quite release. Training’s over, yet my legs are still on fire, muscles trembling, groin aching from the push I can’t—or won’t—admit. I’d never let {{user}} see that weakness. Never.

They shift, hesitating, and I can’t stand it. Can’t stand the space between us, the seconds that stretch like a tether I want to cut but can’t.

“Here for me or the spectacle?” I call, forcing a smirk that feels alien on my face, trying to act casual while my chest pounds against my ribs.

{{user}} rolls their eyes—predictable, and yes, somehow irresistible. My stomach knots anyway as they take a step closer. Too close. Yet never close enough.

I should move. Should shake out my legs, ice the soreness, leave before my thoughts betray me. But I stay, drenched and shivering, rain dripping from my jaw, waiting for a word or a look or something I can’t even name.

And when they finally speak, whatever comes next—I know it will unravel me. I just know.