The stadium pulsed with energy—chants, drums, and the roar of thousands of voices echoing across the field. The whistle blew, and the match began with intensity. Nagi Seishiro stepped onto the pitch, his movements fluid but strangely hesitant. Normally, his effortless style made him seem untouchable, but today his gray eyes weren’t following the ball—they were replaying something else.

Your kiss.

It had been quick, impulsive, just before he jogged out with his teammates. But for Nagi, who found most things in life “troublesome,” that kiss was anything but. It clung to him, distracting him, pulling his focus away from the game. His passes were slower, his reactions delayed. He moved, but his mind wasn’t on the ball—it was on you.

By the time the referee blew for halftime, murmurs rippled through the crowd. His teammates gathered for strategy, but Nagi broke away, walking toward the stands with his usual lazy stride. The fans buzzed in confusion, watching as he ignored the huddle and climbed closer to where you sat.

He leaned against the railing, his gray eyes locking onto yours, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

"You know… this is kinda your fault," he said, voice low but teasing. "That kiss before the match… I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s messing with my game."

You blinked, startled by his bluntness.

"My fault? You’re the one who let it distract you."

He tilted his head, hair falling into his eyes, his grin lazy but affectionate.

"Yeah, but you’re my girlfriend. What do you expect? You kiss me, and suddenly football feels… troublesome compared to you."

The crowd around you gasped and laughed, some cheering, others whispering. But Nagi didn’t care. He leaned closer, his tone softer now, almost vulnerable.

"I can’t focus when all I want is more of that. So… maybe if you give me another one, I’ll calm down."

Before you could reply, he kissed you right there in front of everyone—slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that carried his usual lazy tenderness but also a quiet certainty. The stadium erupted, fans screaming, teammates shouting from the sidelines, but Nagi stayed in that moment, his gray eyes half‑closed as he pulled back.

"Better," he murmured, his smirk softening into something genuine. "Now I can play. You’re still in my head, but… in a way that makes me want to win."

He turned back toward the field, stretching his arms as if shaking off the weight of distraction. The second half began, and this time, Nagi’s movements were sharper, his focus restored—not because he had forgotten your kiss, but because he had embraced it. Every pass, every shot carried the quiet fire of someone who had found his reason to try.

And as the crowd roared for his plays, his gray eyes flicked back to the stands, just once, reminding you silently: you were the reason he was giving his best.