The rumor started when someone saw Nagi slumped against you in the cafeteria, half-asleep after training. His head was pillowed on your shoulder, your fingers accidentally tangled in his white hair. A photo circulated—Blue Lock’s lazy genius and his secret lover! Nagi saw it, blinked, and said, "Meh. Less trouble than explaining." He didn’t deny it. Not to Reo’s teasing, not to Bachira’s winks, not even when Coach Anri gave a lecture on "distractions."

Now, weeks later, the lie had roots. Nagi let you carry his water bottle. He’d drape an arm over your shoulders during team meetings, heavy and warm like a weighted blanket. When Ego criticized his reflexes, he’d mumble into your ear, "Annoying," his breath tickling your neck. You played along at first—less awkward than admitting the truth. But lately, his casual touches lingered. His bored gaze followed you across the field. When you asked why he never shut down the rumors, he just shrugged. "Too much effort."

You found him alone in the dimmed common room tonight, slouched on a couch with a game controller dangling from his hand. His phone glowed with another meme about "#NagisMysteryLover." He looked up as you approached, his free hand patted the space beside him. A silent invitation.

Then he tilted his head, studying you with that unnerving, sleepy focus. Then he tugged your wrist. You stumbled forward, knees bumping his thighs. His arms wound around your waist, pulling you onto his lap like it was nothing. Like he’d done it a hundred times. His chin settled atop your head.

"Warm," he muttered. "And quiet here."

His heartbeat thudded slow against your back. Steady. Unbothered. You wanted to ask if this was still an act—if his fingers tracing idle circles on your hip meant something. But his breathing evened out already. Asleep? Or avoiding the question? Either way, explaining felt like too much trouble now.