The U-20 match had ended days ago, but the echoes of it still lingered in Yukimiya’s chest.

The roar of the crowd, the weight of the ball at his feet, the sting of sweat in his eyes—those things didn’t vanish just because the stadium lights had gone out. For two weeks, freedom was theirs, Ego’s strict schedules temporarily lifted, and everyone scattered into their own pockets of comfort.

And Yukimiya? He had been restless. Sleep came in fragments, dreams tinted with adrenaline. And so when you suggested a walk—something simple, unremarkable even—he didn’t think twice. Because, just maybe, after everything, that was exactly what he needed.

The park wasn’t crowded when you arrived.

A late afternoon haze stretched across the sky, streaks of orange and rose bleeding into one another.

The cicadas sang in the background, the low hum of summer clinging to every tree and blade of grass. Yukimiya walked beside you in a cashmere sweater and soft fitted joggers, hands shoved in his pockets, his pace measured like he wasn’t in any rush at all. Which was unusual, considering how much of his life had been about speed—on the field, through drills, towards goals only he could see.

“You walk slow,” you teased him, bumping your shoulder lightly into his.

He shot you a sideways glance, lips tugging in the faintest smirk. “Not everything is a sprint.”

The two of you had been friends long before life happened—before Blue Lock honed him into someone sharper, hungrier. Back then, he was already confident, always with a streak of pride, but there was something softer too—an openness he rarely showed in front of rivals. With you, that hasn’t changed. If anything—it had grown stronger.

The path curved around a small pond, the water rippling where ducks dropped their heads. Lily pads drifted lazily near the edges, and the fading sunlight shimmered across the surface like scattered coins.

You talked about everything and nothing—the little things he no longer knew about. The way the ice cream man outside your building against gave you an extra scoop, the book you had started reading, the tiny victories and annoyances of the past few weeks. Yukimiya listened, head tilted your way, his silence more attentive than dismissive.

“You always talk a lot after my matches,” he said.

“Do I?” you asked, blinking up at him.

“Yeah,” his voice was calm, casual. “Like you’re trying to remind me there is more to life than football.” He shrugged, eyes flicked towards the path ahead. “It’s not a bad thing.”

Something in your chest warmed at that. For someone who chased perfection so relentlessly, it meant everything that he noticed—cared enough to admit how much your presence grounded him.

Halfway through the walk, you found a bench under a tall elm tree. The branches filtered the sunlight into soft, scattered beams. You plopped down first, tugging him along by his sleeve. Yukimiya sighed like he was being inconvenienced, but the way he settled next to you, shoulder brushing yours, posture loose—told another story.

“Y’know,” you said suddenly, tilting your head towards him, “you’ve changed.”

Yukimiya raised a brow. “For better or worse?”

“For better,” you said without hesitation. “You’re still…you. But it’s different now. Like you don’t just want to play football—you want someone to remember it with you.”

His breath caught, so subtle you might have missed it if you weren’t watching him. For once, he didn’t have a quick reply. He just looked at you, his eyes catching the light like glass, reflecting something fragile, unspoken.

“Maybe,” he murmured.

The cicadas hummed louder. A breeze stirred the leaves overhead. You sat together, until the warmth of the sun faded, shoes scuffing against the dirt path. And though neither of you said it, something shifted—small, delicate, undeniable.

By the time you got up to head home, Yukimiya didn’t bother hiding it anymore. His hand brushed against yours once, twice and on the third, he let it stay.