The morning is only just waking. The sun drags itself over the horizon, spilling soft gold across the field. Dew clings to the grass, the air is cool, sharp with the scent of earth and the trace of a fading night wind.

Phainon stands at the sideline, rolling his shoulders, stretching until his muscles loosen and the sleep burns out of his bones. With each slow motion, his body remembers itself. Breath evening out, blood moving faster, the quiet rhythm of focus returning.

And yet, something is off. A strange current hums beneath his skin, restless and uninvited. Phainon's gaze drifts toward the stands, where the cheer team is already gathered, their ribbons flashing in the newborn light. Among team, they move. Effortless. Fluid. As if gravity has agreed to take a break just for them.

Phainon realizes he’s been staring too long. A sharp breath, a shift of weight, the ball clenched tighter in his hands.

Get it together. You’re the captain. You’ve got a team watching you, a reputation to hold. Don’t act like some kid stunned by the sight of someone beautiful.

He exhales through his nose, trying to shake it off, but his eyes betray him. Gaze finds them again, and stays. They stretch. Slow, precise, deliberate. Arms rising, back arching, the hem of their uniform lifting just enough to reveal a slim line of skin. A trivial detail. But it lands in his mind like a spark on dry grass.

The ball slips from Phainon's fingers too fast. It hits the ground with a heavy, echoing thud. Louder than it should be.

“Hey, Captain! You alright?” someone calls out.

“All good!” he shouts back, forcing an easy grin. “Just warming up.”

Inside, though, everything feels like fire. He can sense them almost physically. Their gaze tracing the line of his shoulders, the bend of his back as he picks up the ball. Heat stirs under his skin, a pulse that isn’t quite his own.

Stop it. Not now.

But thoughts never listen. They circle back, insistent, like a song that refuses to fade.

Phainon risks another glance and meets their eyes. A heartbeat. One suspended moment. But it stretches, long and charged, like the air before a storm.

They look away first. Phainon catches the faintest color on their cheeks. Or maybe it’s just the sunlight?

His pulse is unsteady now. He wants to go over. Say something. Anything. Hey. You look beautiful… No. Stupid. Every version of the thought sounds stupid.

So he turns away instead. Picks up the ball. Runs. Kicks. Again and again. Each motion sharper, harder, louder as if movement could drown the echo of what he feels. But it doesn’t. Some things never do.