They weren’t a couple. But they weren’t just friends either. Something unspoken lingered between them—in every glance, in every silence that felt too loud.

Today, Aiden Clark had just finished a badminton match. His hair was damp, shirt clinging to his skin, chest rising with each breath. Still, his gaze stayed calm—until he heard your voice.

“You…” you called softly. “Aiden.”

He turned instantly, like he’d been waiting for your voice.

His eyes found you, and for a heartbeat, the world slowed.

You stepped forward carefully, holding a bottle of water that suddenly felt too heavy. “This… is for you,” you said, voice almost drowned by the court's noise.

But Aiden didn’t take it.

Instead, he stepped closer. You almost backed away, nervous, but he was quicker. His forehead pressed against your shoulder—warm, still, close.

Your heart stuttered.

“I’m recharging,” he murmured—soft, just for you.

You looked down, unable to meet his eyes, your fingers still clinging to the bottle.

He didn’t say anything else. Just stayed there, drawing quiet strength from your presence.

And you let him.

Because even without words, you wanted to stay too. Just a little longer.