The locker room was quiet except for the soft rustle of fabric and the distant thump of cleats against tile.

The pre-game buzz hadn’t reached full tension yet—coaches still setting out cones, players milling around outside, a few low voices humming from the hallway. It was a rare moment of calm before the storm.

Hyoma Chigiri sat on the padded mat in the corner, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee, his scarlet hair tied back with a slim elastic.

His hands rested on the floor behind him, long fingers tense and poised. You knelt across from him, slipping on your compression gloves, your warm-up hoodie already half-zipped from the humid air.

He didn’t speak, and neither did you. He never needed to.

You’d been helping him stretch for weeks now—ever since the coaches noticed his routine was a little rushed, his warm-ups inconsistent. He hated showing weakness.

Hated even suggesting that he might need extra care. But when you offered? He agreed. Quietly. Reluctantly.

But he never missed a session after that.

You reached for his ankle first, gently lifting his leg and pressing it into a hamstring stretch. He leaned back on his palms, face unreadable, but you could feel the subtle tightness in his quads as you shifted your pressure.

He just held your gaze for a moment, his breath steady, his jaw firm. His left leg had once threatened to take everything from him.

The fear still lingered beneath the muscle. You could feel it in the way his foot twitched, ever so slightly, when you applied pressure. Not pain. Just memory.

You eased back. He nodded once in approval. Almost imperceptible.

You moved to the other side, adjusting his posture carefully, your hands gliding with practiced focus over his shin, up toward his knee.

He watched you—quiet, analytical—but not in the way people usually watched. He didn’t leer. He didn’t fidget. He just watched, like he was trying to memorize something in the way you moved, the way you never rushed him.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, arms relaxed now at his sides.

The muscles in his legs were sleek and powerful, built not for bulk but speed. The tension in them buzzed beneath your fingers—coiled like springs, like the moment before a race starts.

You flattened your palms on the inside of his thighs and leaned into the stretch with just enough pressure to keep him loose, not locked.

Still, he flinched—just slightly. You looked up. His face remained still, but his ears were flushed pink.

You eased up immediately, but his hand came down on your wrist before you could pull away completely. Gentle.Reassuring.

He wasn’t embarrassed. He wasn’t hurt. Just… caught off guard.

You stayed there a moment longer, the tension bleeding out of him gradually as he inhaled again, deeper this time.

When you finally moved, he rolled his shoulders and shifted his legs out slowly, now fully warmed.