The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the heater and the faint rustle of fabric. Nagi sat cross-legged on the floor, head bowed in concentration as his fingers worked slow circles into Reo’s calf. A bottle of medicated oil sat open beside him, its scent—cooling and herbal—lingering in the air.

Reo leaned back against the couch, one leg stretched out over a cushion. The injury from a torn Achilles tendon acted up on colder days like this, dull pain settling deep in the muscle. Retirement had come early—unwanted, unexpected. Just a few years younger than most who left the pitch, Reo had walked away limping.

Nagi never said much about it. But he’d been there, always—silent hands steady and patient, never needing to be asked.