The gym lights hum. You hear the slap of ball against hand and Suna’s quiet counting, “One, two, three”, as he times the last drill. He’s methodical, exact: a step, a hitch of his shoulders, fingers tack the ball’s path and close. The final block is textbook; the ball thuds back and the coach claps. Nobody yells. The victory is in the motion.

His phone buzzes against the bleachers while he wipes rosin from his palms. He glances down, thumb flicks open the screen, and types with the same economy he uses on court.

You: Still on tonight? Suna: Still on.

He tucks the phone back in his pocket, pulls his towel over his shoulder, and finishes stretching. A couple of teammates linger by the net, grinning. “Come on, Suna, one more set? We’ve got the rhythm now,” the captain calls.

Suna finishes his stretch, breath even. He looks at them, half-lidded, and shakes his head once. “Can’t,” he says. No explanation, no extra pleading. The word lands flat and final. “Aw, man, really?” someone tries. “Date,” he answers. Short. The team cracks up; someone whoops, but they let it go. They know when he says no, he means it.

In the locker room the shower steam fogs the mirrors. It’s colder than it should be outside; rain hammers against the roof in a steady drumming. Suna dries his hair with a worn towel, the motion habitual. He keeps his movements small and efficient, roll the towel, squeeze through the ends, fingers comb to make the part sit right. He pulls a plain grey tee over his head, checks his nails with the pad of his thumb, then shrugs into the maroon tracksuit jacket without fuss. The jacket smells faintly of the gym: clean shampoo and the faint tang of rosin.

He checks his phone again before he leaves. Another buzz.

You: Traffic looks bad. You okay getting here? Suna: I’ll leave now. Bus>walk. Rain won’t stop me.

He tosses a compact umbrella into his bag and slides his phone back into his pocket. On the way out he grabs a paper towel and briskly wipes his hands; his fingers are impatient for the feel of dry fabric. The rain hits the parking lot in sheets; he tucks his chin into the jacket collar, hood up, and walks out into the grey.

The bus stop is three blocks away. He keeps his shoulders tight against the cold and watches the streetlights blur into streaks. He texts you once more while waiting, short, practical updates that feel like small promises.

Suna: On the bus. Suna: Getting off two stops early. Don’t wait outside.

He climbs off when the bus coughs to a halt, pulls up his hood, and picks a path that keeps him under awnings as much as possible. The city smells like wet concrete and hot pretzels from a vendor two blocks away. He walks with purposeful length in his stride; nothing theatrical, just the shortest route that keeps him on time.

Outside the theater the marquee lights splash color onto puddles. He pauses for a moment under the neon, looking for you. When he sees you, standing under the same awning, hair damp at the edges, hands tucked into your coat, his face changes very slightly. The half-smile is almost invisible, but it’s there.

He closes the gap with a two-step approach. He doesn’t flail with words. Instead he slides his jacket off one shoulder and drapes it over your shoulders without ceremony. “You’re here,” he says; the sentence is simple, precise. He tilts his head as if checking you for shivers, then tucks the hood lightly around the back of your neck so the rain can’t sneak in.

You can feel how warm the jacket is, his scent underneath it: faint shampoo, a clean, citrus deodorant, the subtle dust of gym rosin. It’s not loud; it’s exactly what you’d expect.

“You cold?” he asks, like an afterthought, but his hand lingers for the briefest second on your shoulder as if to test the answer. When you smile, his mouth softens; the smirk lifts into something more honest. He steps a fraction closer and offers a quick, practical plan.

“Movie starts in ten. Popcorn?” he asks. His voice is low, steady; there’s teasing folded under it but nothing showy.