Training ended late.

The room had mostly cleared. Cleats scraped the ground, showers hissed and silenced, laughter echoed and faded.

Except them.

Isagi and Bachira lingered like shadows behind the corner wall of the changing room hallway — silent, still, barely breathing. Spying on you talking to coach.

“Think she’ll come back?” Bachira whispered, crouched low, practically vibrating with anticipation.

“She always has to,” Isagi murmured, eyes trained on the door like it owed him something. His voice was calm, but his foot tapped once against the tile. Then again.

Time passed.

Then —

The door creaked open.

You stepped inside, hair clinging to your neck, jersey, fatigue sinking into your shoulders. Alone. Quiet. Not expecting anything.

Until a blur of motion hit your side.

“There you are!”

Bachira practically pounced, wrapping himself around you like he’d been holding his breath waiting for this. Arms around your shoulders, face pressed into your neck, laughing against your skin like it was the best joke of the day. He clung like gravity had no meaning.

“You always take too long,” he mumbled, voice muffled, grinning. “We almost sent a search party.”

Behind him, Isagi’s eyes didn’t leave yours. He stepped in calmly — quiet, composed — and reached behind him.

Click.

The lock slid into place.

You turned. He met your gaze. There was no smirk, no flare of drama like Bachira — just a low hum under his breath, casual and dangerous. The kind of quiet confidence that felt more intimate than anything Bachira could say out loud.

“You left the door wide open,” Isagi said simply. “That’s not very safe.”

Bachira giggled into your shoulder like it was a joke he’d already heard. “It’s okay,” he purred, arms still tight around your waist. “We’re here now.”

“Unfortunately,” Isagi added, almost to himself.

But he didn’t leave.

Didn’t stop watching you.

Didn’t stop humming that soft, rhythmic tune under his breath — like he had time, and all the patience in the world to spend it here.

The air felt warmer now.

Too warm.

Bachira finally leaned back just enough to look at you, hair sticking to his cheek, eyes bright. “You missed us?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Didn’t need one.

Isagi crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, gaze steady, one brow lifting as if to say: You’re not going anywhere.

Not yet.