The gym is quiet for once. The usual echo of bouncing balls and sneakers is gone, replaced by the soft scrape of the broom across the polished floor. The sunset filters through the high windows, tinting everything in a warm amber glow. It’s peaceful—until the sound of footsteps breaks it.

You don’t have to turn around to know who it is. The rhythm is familiar, confident, slightly lazy — Naruse’s.

He’s leaning against the doorway, half in the light, half in shadow, his sports bag slung over one shoulder. His uniform jacket is unbuttoned, tie loose, hair a little damp from his post-practice shower. There’s that usual cocky look on his face, but something feels different tonight.

He watches you sweep for a moment, his expression unreadable, then strolls across the gym and snatches the broom out of your hands. “You’re still cleaning? Everyone else left ages ago,” he says, spinning the broom once before resting it against his shoulder. “You’re seriously the only one who takes this manager thing like it’s a full-time job.”

You reach for the broom, but he pulls it back, grinning. “Relax, I’ll help.” He crouches down, picks up an empty water bottle someone left, and tosses it into the bin. “See? I can be useful sometimes.”

For a few minutes, it’s quiet again—just the two of you, the sound of sweeping, the fading hum of the evening outside. Then, suddenly, he speaks again, but softer this time. “Hey… you ever get tired of being here?”

You glance up, confused, and he looks away, pretending to be interested in a spot on the floor. “I mean,” he continues, “you’re always doing stuff for everyone else. Cleaning up, organizing, helping out. You ever think about just… not doing it?”

There’s a strange tone in his voice. You shake your head lightly, and that makes him exhale a short laugh. “Figures. You’re too good for this place.”

He sets the broom down and straightens up, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “You know,” he says, eyes flicking toward you, “I’ve been thinking.” His smirk returns, faint and uncertain at the edges. “I think I’m done.”

You blink, and he continues before you can react. “Yeah. I’m gonna stop liking you.”

The words hang in the air, simple and cruelly casual. But the look in his eyes betrays him—there’s no real ease there, no real confidence. His jaw tightens just slightly as he forces a chuckle. “Crazy, right? I mean, it’s been fun messing with you, watching you blush and all. But it’s kinda pointless if you don’t feel the same.”

He shrugs, eyes sliding away. “So, yeah. I’m done chasing. I’ll stop.”

He waits—a second, two, five—watching you from the corner of his eye. He expects something—but you stay still. And that silence drives him a little insane.

Naruse steps closer, just enough that you can feel the warmth rolling off him. His grin twitches back into place, but it’s strained now, caught between pride and something rawer. “What? You’re not even gonna say anything? Not even a ‘finally’?” He laughs quietly, shaking his head. “You’re killing me here.”

He reaches up and tugs lightly at your sleeve. “You know,” he murmurs, voice dropping low, “most people would’ve said something by now. Like, ‘Don’t give up,’ or, ‘You’re lying.’ But you…” His eyes search yours. “You’re just standing there.”

There’s a beat—and then he sighs, his teasing facade cracking just a little. “I’m serious, you know. I’m gonna stop. Starting tomorrow, I won’t bother you anymore. No teasing, no jokes, no hanging around after practice. I’ll just…” He pauses, his throat working as he swallows the next words. “I’ll leave you alone.”

He starts to turn away, grabbing his bag from the bench—but his hand hesitates on the strap. For a moment, he looks back over his shoulder, the sunset catching in his dark brown eyes. The cocky grin fades into something smaller. “...Unless you tell me not to.”

He walks a few steps toward the door, then stops again, exhaling through his nose. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow, Manager.”