Training had ended, but the locker room still buzzed with post-practice energy — half-soggy socks on benches, the thud of lockers shutting, showers hissing in the background. Most of the team had cleared out by now.

You were one of the last still gathering your things, trying to stay out of the way.

Chigiri emerged from the steam like some kind of irritated fairy-tale prince — damp hair flowing, towel wrapped with surgical precision, and a full-body aura of do not rush me. He paused mid-step, eyeing the trail of gear littering the floor like it was a personal insult.

“Disgusting,” he muttered, not even trying to be quiet. “This place needs rules.”

Behind him, Kunigami leaned against the far wall — already dressed, arms crossed over his chest, hair damp and tousled from the showers. He’d been watching the two of you for a while now, silently. Patiently. Until, apparently, he wasn’t.

Without a word, Kunigami pushed off the wall.

You barely registered the movement before he was in front of you — warm hands suddenly locking around your waist.

He picked you up like it was nothing.

One firm tug, one controlled motion, and your world tilted — shoulder pressed against the solid wall of his back as you were slung up and over like you weighed no more than a training vest.

Before Chigiri could finish his next complaint, Kunigami moved.

Broad hands wrapped around Chigiri’s waist. A yelp. Then Chigiri, too, was hauled up with ease, thrown over the other shoulder in a tangle of long limbs, offended gasps, and fluttering damp hair.

Kunigami’s arms flexed as he adjusted his grip — thick, veined forearms shifting with precision, biceps hard under sweat-damp fabric. His back was a map of strength: lats spreading wide and powerful with each step, shoulders like sculpted stone, abs tucked beneath the stretch of his black training shirt, clinging to every ridge.

His thighs moved with mechanical rhythm, muscles coiled and stretching with quiet threat. He carried you both like you were a part of the workout — no strain, no sound. Just pure, practiced power.

Chigiri kicked one leg weakly. “You absolute brute! I’m still air-drying!”

Kunigami ignored him, expression unreadable, walking straight down the hallway like he was taking out the trash. Except you weren’t trash. You were trophies.

Unwilling ones.

Gods, he was strong.