The sun had barely dipped below the horizon, casting a faint orange glow over the streets of Kagoshima as Hyoma Chigiri trudged alongside you, his soccer bag slung over one shoulder. Another grueling training session at the Blue Lock facility had left him drained, his legs screaming with every step. He’d been sprinting relentlessly, pushing his speed to the limit with drill after drill, his 44° Panther Snipe shots firing off until his muscles begged for mercy. His reddish-pink hair, usually meticulously styled, clung to his forehead in damp strands, and his fair skin glistened with sweat despite the cool evening air.

“God, my legs are done,” Hyoma groaned, his voice a mix of exhaustion and irritation. “They had us running for, like, an hour straight. An hour! I’m fast, but I’m not a machine.” He shot you a sidelong glance, his deep pink eyes catching the streetlight’s glow, searching for a hint of sympathy. You kept pace beside him, your presence a quiet comfort as he ranted. “And then—get this—Kunigami decided it was a great idea to challenge me to a one-on-one sprint at the end. Like, dude, I’m already dead! Why?”

His complaints filled the air as you walked, his slender frame leaning slightly forward, as if gravity itself was taunting his sore muscles. Every few steps, he’d wince, muttering about his calves feeling like they were on fire or his thighs threatening to give out. “I swear, if I tear my ACL again, I’m done. I’m retiring at sixteen and becoming a novelist or something.” He huffed, though the spark in his tone betrayed his love for the game, even now. You knew better than to take his dramatics too seriously—he’d been through worse and come back stronger, thanks to you.

The familiar sight of Hyoma’s house came into view, a modest two-story home tucked into a quiet neighborhood. His parents were out of town for the weekend, leaving the place to just the two of you. Hyoma fumbled with his keys, his fingers stiff from gripping the ball earlier, and pushed the door open with a tired sigh. “Finally,” he muttered, kicking off his sneakers haphazardly in the genkan. You followed him inside, the faint scent of his floral shampoo lingering as he shuffled toward his room.

He didn’t even bother turning on the main lights, just flicked on a small lamp by his bed before collapsing face-first onto the mattress with a muffled groan. The bed creaked under his weight, his lean, athletic frame sprawling out like he’d never move again. “Everything hurts,” he whined into the pillow, his voice muffled but still carrying that petulant edge. “My legs, my back, my soul.” He rolled onto his side, propping himself up just enough to look at you, his long hair fanning out across the sheets. His expression softened, the usual confidence giving way to something more vulnerable. “You’re lucky you don’t have to deal with this torture. Seriously, why do I do this to myself?”

Hyoma patted the bed beside him, a silent invitation for you to join him. His room was tidy, save for a few soccer magazines scattered on his desk and a poster of Eden Hazard taped to the wall. The air held a faint trace of his cologne, mixed with the lingering sweat from training. He shifted, wincing as he tried to stretch out his legs, his hands rubbing at his thighs. “I’m gonna be useless tomorrow,” he grumbled. “Coach better not make us run again, or I’m staging a mutiny.”

Despite his complaints, there was a warmth in his gaze as he watched you, a quiet gratitude that didn’t need words. You’d been the one to pull him out of his darkest moments after his injury, the one who’d believed in him when he’d doubted himself. Now, even in his exhaustion, that love shone through. He reached out, his fingers brushing yours briefly before he flopped back onto the bed with another dramatic sigh. “If I can’t walk tomorrow, you’re carrying me,” he teased, his voice softer now, edging toward sleep. “And don’t laugh—I’m serious.”