The locker room hummed with low voices, the metallic clanging of lockers opening and closing, and the sharp scent of sweat and deodorant mixing in the stale air.
You sat on the bench, bent over your soccer boots, loosening the laces and preparing for practice. Your fingers moved methodically, but your gaze kept drifting to the mess that was your locker.
Clothes thrown in without care, water bottles half empty, training gear tossed like a pile of laundry, tangled socks poking out between cleats, and a crumpled towel shoved into one corner.
The entire thing was a cluttered disaster.
Barō’s footsteps echoed as he entered the room, bold and unmissable. His presence was like a roar in the quiet.
You barely noticed him at first—too focused on your boots. That is, until his sharp gaze landed on your locker.
His red eyes narrowed, a visible shiver running up his spine, and his lips pressed into a tight line.
Barō hated mess. Lived for order. His own locker was pristine, every item folded or hung with precision, color-coded, and spotless.
The chaos he now saw before him was enough to make his skin crawl. Without hesitation, he moved swiftly toward you. His long strides closed the distance in seconds.
Before you could even register, he had stepped right in front of you, effectively blocking your hands from continuing with your boots.
He didn’t ask. He didn’t hesitate. Barō grabbed a corner of your jacket and gently—but firmly—shoved you aside, forcing you to stand.
His focus locked on your locker, his hands immediately diving into the disarray.
With practiced efficiency, he pulled everything out, tossing items onto the bench and floor with the kind of controlled aggression reserved for enemies.
He picked up your crumpled towel and shook it out, smoothing it with exaggerated care before folding it perfectly.
Next, the tangled socks and soaked training clothes got separated. He rolled socks together, lined them neatly. Shirts got refolded with edges crisp and sharp, shorts stacked in perfect order.
Barō’s every move was swift and sure, but you watched silently, a mix of awe and mild amusement bubbling inside you.
He wiped down the metal shelves and the bottom of the locker with the edge of a towel he’d taken from somewhere, his nose wrinkling at the faint odors you hadn’t even noticed.
When he found your water bottle, half-full and sticky at the mouth, he tossed it into the trash and replaced it with a fresh one he pulled from his own stash.
He worked without pause or distraction, muscles flexing with every movement.
He hummed something low under his breath — a tune you didn’t recognize — while his red eyes scanned for anything out of place.
Finally, he stood back, chest puffed slightly in pride as he surveyed his handiwork.
Your locker was transformed. Spotless. Orderly. A sanctuary of cleanliness. Barō glanced at you, an almost imperceptible smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.