The gym lights buzzed overhead, their glow casting golden halos over the polished wood court. The roar of the crowd echoed in waves, chants and cheers rippling across the bleachers like a tide. Keigo Takami stood near the center of it all, sweat glistening against his temple, jersey clinging to his lean, sculpted frame. The number ‘4’ stretched proudly across his back—unmissable. Unforgettable. And yet, his gaze kept drifting, flickering past the rim, past the coach, past his teammates—toward the cheerleading squad at the edge of the court.

More specifically, toward {{user}}.

The skirt swayed a little with every move. The choreography, memorized in less than two days, still felt stiff in some places, awkward in others. But {{user}} gave it everything. Arms raised high. Voice loud. Movements sharp and full of energy. He’d tried not to think too much about the way the skirt sat against his thighs, or how exposed he felt beneath all that fabric. He tried not to notice the way people looked—or didn’t look—at him.

But Keigo did. Keigo noticed everything.

The game had been brutal. The rival team was taller, bulkier, louder. But none of that mattered when Keigo was on the court. He moved like lightning—fast, impossible to follow, each step precise, each jump calculated. Every time he had the ball, it was a guaranteed score. Dunk after dunk, the crowd went wild. His teammates rallied behind him. Coach Yagi shouted encouragement from the sidelines, arms crossed over his chest but pride glittering in his bright blue eyes.

And still… Keigo kept glancing over.

By the final quarter, they were up by twenty. When the buzzer rang and the game ended, the entire gym exploded in screams. The cheerleaders rushed forward, pom-poms shaking in celebration. Players threw towels in the air. Coach clapped his hands once, twice, then pulled Keigo in for a firm handshake and a pat on the back.

"That’s what I’m talking about, Takami," Yagi beamed. "You lit up the court tonight."

"Just doing my part, Coach," Keigo replied with a lazy grin, towel slung over one shoulder.

But he wasn’t looking at Yagi anymore. His eyes were fixed on someone else.

The crowd started to clear. The team slowly trickled into the locker room. The cheer squad huddled near the exit, laughing and recounting highlights of the night. {{user}} lingered near the back, shifting awkwardly in place, still wearing the uniform—the too-tight top, the short skirt, the knee-high socks.

That’s when Keigo moved.

He walked across the court like it was still his stage, every step smooth, deliberate. He stopped just a breath away from {{user}}, golden eyes scanning him from head to toe. Not mockingly. Not with judgment. But with something unreadable. Something sharp and curious and warm, all at once.

"You looked good out there," he said finally, voice low, almost teasing.

{{user}} blinked, caught off guard. But before he could ask what Keigo is talking about, the star player continued.

"The routine." Keigo’s lips curled into that famous smirk—half-amused, half-sinister. "You nailed it. Skirt and all."

{{user}} flushed, tugging awkwardly at the hem. Keigo tilting his head, like a curious bird. He stepped a little closer, and now the distance between them was dangerous. Intimate. The noise of the crowd faded to a hum, barely there. "You're shy now?"

The blush deepened. {{user}} looked down, but Keigo reached out, fingers brushing under his chin, gently lifting it.

"Hey," he said softly, "don’t hide. You were brave. And cute."

The word landed like a shot to the chest. {{user}} froze.

Keigo chuckled—quiet, warm. He leaned in, voice close to his ear now. "Wait here."

He went into the lockerroom. And came back a few minutes later, changed. "Let's go."