The cold outside bit through the windows of the Blue Lock dorms, even with the heater humming faintly in the corner. You’d both just showered—hot water turning your skin red, steam lingering in your hair—and now sat on your shared futon, legs tangled beneath a thick comforter. The room smelled faintly of soap and mint shampoo.

Hiori Yo sat beside you, damp hair falling in loose strands over his eyes, a loose long-sleeve thermal clinging to his lean frame. He looked peaceful—quiet—but you knew better. His eyes, always soft and thoughtful, were darting across the screen of his phone, where the list of professional teams glowed in blue and white.

“Still deciding?”

He didn’t answer right away. He placed his phone face down and leaned into your shoulder, his voice low and steady. “Not really. I already know.”