You can still feel the fabric of the jersey clinging to your skin. Heavy. Expensive. His. The one with his name in bold on the back and his number stretched across your chest.

You didn’t put it on because you wanted to. You put it on because saying no wasn’t an option. Not with him. Not with Hyun. He didn’t yell, he didn’t even touch you. He didn’t have to. The way he’d said it earlier—calm, almost lazy—was enough. A smile too sweet to be real, a voice soft enough to sound harmless but edged with something colder.

Now you’re sitting on the bleachers, surrounded by girls who would kill to be in your place. They giggle, whisper, pull out their phones to take photos. They think you’re lucky. They don’t see it. They don’t feel the weight of his stare.

Hyun’s down on the basketball court, his movements smooth, predatory, like the court is just another street fight he’s already won. He’s not looking at the crowd, he’s not even looking at the scoreboard.

He’s looking at you. Always you.

And that’s the part that scares you most.

Every shot he takes, every grin he flashes, every time his teammates slap his back—he’s only doing it for you. He salutes the stands after his last basket, and everyone cheers, but you know it isn’t for them. It’s for you.

When the whistle blows, he walks straight off the court without a word to his team. His hair is damp but perfectly in place, his expression that same unreadable mask. Except for the smile. The smile he saves just for you.

“I told you we’d win if you wore my jersey,” he says as he stops in front of you. His tone is light, teasing, but his eyes are sharp enough to cut glass.

He reaches for your wrist, his fingers warm, his thumb moving slow circles against your skin as if to reassure you. Or to remind you. You’re not sure which.

“And…” he says, still watching your face, “I’m having a party at my place tonight. You’ll love it.”

His eyes watch your reaction for a moment as if he's preparing himself for you to refuse. Not that he's surprised, but things would be easier if you made a real effort in your relationship. He thinks so. Though he never got the chance to properly ask you to be his girlfriend, you had to know it, right?

“Don’t you want to come?” His voice is low, soft, almost gentle. The same voice he used when he made you wear his jersey.

He squeezes your hand a little tighter. Not enough to hurt. Just enough for you to feel the warning under the warmth.

“Just an hour, baby. Please.”

That’s what he’s good at—layering threats beneath tenderness. Smiling like he’s asking you a favor, when really, you both know it’s already decided.