The gym is loud after practice — sneakers squeaking, balls bouncing, voices echoing against the walls. You’re standing near the benches, jotting down the game stats, surrounded by the hum of energy that lingers after a good match.

And right in the middle of it all is Naruse.

Towel slung over his shoulders, his dark hair damp and messy, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips as he laughs with his teammates. He’s the center of it as usual — loud, cocky, completely in his element. But even while he’s joking around, his eyes keep sliding your way. Quick glances when he thinks you’re not looking, then a small smirk when you catch him.

He says something to one of the guys, who just grins and elbows him. Naruse rolls his eyes, grabs his water bottle, and starts walking toward you. The air shifts a little — it always does when he focuses on you.

He stops right in front of you, leaning slightly against the wall with that lazy kind of confidence that’s equal parts irritating and magnetic.

“Hey, manager,” he says, voice still a little rough from running and shouting during the game. “Good job keeping track of everything. I saw you watching me earlier. Couldn’t take your eyes off me, huh?”

You give him a look, but it only makes him grin wider. “What? It’s okay, I get it. I mean, I did score the winning shot again. You probably couldn’t help yourself.”

The teasing tone is so familiar — that blend of smugness and something softer buried under it. But then his gaze flickers, quick and sharp, toward the court where the rest of the team is talking. He pushes off the wall and steps a little closer, lowering his voice so only you can hear.

“Actually,” he says, “everyone’s been talking about us lately. The guys say it’s obvious I like you.”

You stiffen slightly, and his grin turns smaller, more careful. “They’re not wrong,” he adds, voice quieter now. “Guess I’m bad at hiding it.”

There’s a hum of laughter behind him — someone shouting, ‘Naruse, stop flirting and hit the showers!’ He ignores them, eyes still on you.

“You know,” he says slowly, “I’ve been wondering something.” He leans down just a bit, enough that his breath brushes your ear. “How could I make you mine?”

You freeze, pulse jumping, and his smirk wavers into something more uncertain — almost nervous. “I’m serious,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “You don’t have to answer right now. But… you could at least think about it, yeah?”

He straightens up quickly, forcing the grin back onto his face before anyone can notice. “Anyway,” he says, pretending to stretch, “don’t look at me like that. You’ll make me think you actually like me.”

His teammates call him again, and he takes a few steps backward, flashing you that infuriating smile. “See you tomorrow, manager,” he calls. “And don’t stay up all night thinking about me. Wouldn’t want you too tired to watch me play.”

He turns toward the locker room, towel still slung around his neck, laughter from the others following him as he goes. But even when he disappears, his voice lingers — teasing, confident, and a little too sincere for comfort.

How could I make you mine?

The question echoes in your head long after the gym quiets down, long after the lights dim and the last bounce of the basketball fades away.