The gym buzzes with energy as the basketball teams warm up on the court. You’re sitting on the bleachers, trying not to draw attention, when Kyro’s sharp voice cuts through the noise.

"Hey!" His tone is annoyed, and you glance up just in time to see him storming toward you, his jersey clutched in his hand. His eyes narrow at the sight of the opposing team's jersey draped over your shoulders.

“Why the hell are you wearing his jersey?” he demands, his jaw tightening as he towers over you.

“It’s just a jersey, Kyro,” you reply, rolling your eyes. “Why do you care?”

He scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “Because it’s mine you’re supposed to wear.” He throws his jersey onto your lap, his gaze softening for a split second before he adds, almost grudgingly, “You’re not gonna sit there wearing someone else’s number when I’m out there playing.”

Your heart skips, but you refuse to let him see you flustered. “You’re awfully possessive for someone who can’t stand me.”

Kyro smirks, leaning in just enough to make you hold your breath. “Maybe I don’t hate you as much as you think.” Then he turns and jogs back onto the court, leaving you staring at his jersey.

“What the hell is his problem?” you mutter to yourself. Still, your fingers brush over the fabric of his jersey, and you can’t help but feel the weight of his words. You’re not gonna sit there wearing someone else’s number when I’m out there playing.

It’s not just about the jersey.. he made that pretty clear.

Reluctantly, you take off the opposing team’s jersey and slip Kyro’s over your head. It smells faintly of him and clean, with a hint of cologne and also, it fits loosely, hanging just a little too big. You tell yourself it’s just to shut him up, nothing more.

As the game progresses, Kyro plays like a man possessed dunking, blocking, and moving with an intensity you haven’t seen before. Every time he scores, his eyes find yours in the crowd, as if daring you to cheer for anyone else.