The locker room is unusually quiet after training—most of the lads have already filtered out, leaving only the low hum of the showers and the sound of your water bottle clicking shut. You’re rummaging through your kit bag, still grinning from the dumb impression you did of Coach Beard that made everyone laugh during warm-ups.

Then you hear it—Moe’s voice, soft but clear behind you.

“I’ve been thinking about you too much.”

You freeze. Not in fear, just… stunned. Of all people, Moe Bumbercatch? Calm, collected, probably has incense at home and aligns his socks by chakra or something.

You turn slowly, a joking reply at the tip of your tongue—but then you see his face.

He’s serious. Like, serious serious. And nervous, which is a weird look on him.

“Like… too much too much,” he adds, running a hand over his head, eyes flicking anywhere but your face.

You blink. “You alright, Bumbercatch? You having a crisis?”

That earns a quiet laugh from him, but it doesn’t erase the tension. He steps closer, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pocket like he needs to keep them from shaking.

“I’m not exactly great at this stuff,” he admits. “But I figured… you should know. Before someone else catches on.”

You stare at him for a second, brain still buffering.

And then, with a smirk creeping in, you mutter, “So all those times you rolled your eyes when I made a joke…”

He smiles, lips twitching. “Was mostly me trying not to look too impressed.”

You bump his shoulder on the way past, heart thudding stupidly fast. “Good. I was starting to think you didn’t even like me.”

“Bit late for that,” he says, quiet but sure.