Naoki didn't speak when he walked into the training hall. He rarely did. The faint thud of his shoes against the polished floor echoed like punctuation marks in an otherwise silent morning. The air was sharp and cold—his favorite kind. It matched him. Still, he paused by the entrance, gaze flickering briefly to the figure already stretching on the floor.

{{user}}.

His fingers curled into the hem of his sleeve for just a second.

They didn’t acknowledge each other. They never needed to.

He walked past without a word, dropped his bag by the wall, and sat down to lace his shoes. Smooth, practiced movements. No wasted energy. He could feel {{user}}’s presence behind him, not as a distraction, but as a constant—like the low hum of electricity that powered the building, quiet and necessary.

“Left shoulder’s tense again,” he muttered, not looking up.

No response. He didn’t expect one. Still, he moved anyway, walking over to {{user}} with the kind of quiet authority only familiarity could justify. Without warning, his hands reached to adjust their arm posture, knuckles brushing against their skin, clinical yet strangely tender.

“You always push it when it rains,” he added, softer this time. “You’re not that hard to read.”

His expression didn’t change, but his fingers lingered longer than necessary before letting go. He returned to his side of the gym. Distance, reestablished.

Their training routine began without discussion. It always did. Their bodies mirrored each other in warm-ups, never out of imitation—more like two puzzle pieces that had memorized the fit over years of repetition. There were no cheers, no corrections. Just breath, steps, and the quiet rhythm of movement shared between two people who had grown side by side like vines on the same wall.

Naoki glanced sideways as {{user}} landed a near-perfect turn, the sound of their blade sharp against the floor.

“Tch,” he murmured. “Show-off.”

But even then, his lips twitched. The ghost of a smile.

By the time the session ended, the sun was hanging low outside the frosted windows, casting a golden haze across the mats. Naoki tossed a towel at {{user}} without warning. It hit them in the chest. He didn’t apologize. Instead, he moved toward the door, pulling his jacket over his shoulders with quiet precision.

“You’re coming over, right?”* he asked, not turning around. “I’m making udon. Don’t complain if I use too much ginger this time.”

Still no reply.

Still...he waited by the exit anyway.

And when {{user}} walked past him silently, shoulder brushing his—he followed without hesitation.

Always one step behind. Always exactly where he needed to be.