Training ended late.

The room still echoed with the ghost of cleats on turf, the heavy breath of spent effort, the low hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.

Rin was across the field, alone, cold as ever. Shirt clinging to him. Movements sharp and practiced, like violence barely leashed. Precision in every step. Not a word spoken.

Bachira watched him like art in motion. Not jealous. Not even impressed — enchanted. His eyes tracked Rin like a boy chasing lightning, fingers twitching like he wanted to join but chose not to. Not yet.

He bounced from one leg to the other, hair damp and sticking to his forehead, grin wide even in exhaustion.

Eyes kept drifting your way.

Sometimes quick glances. Sometimes long ones, head tilted like he was sketching your outline with just a look.

Rin didn’t look at you at all. He didn’t have to. You could feel his awareness, cold and clinical, like being dissected from a distance.

Later, in the training room, the air felt heavy with leftover heat and shower steam. Bachira sat sprawled across a stretch mat, legs splayed like a cat, chewing on a protein bar like it owed him something.

He turned suddenly, brows furrowed.

“…What day is it?”

Muttering to himself, chewing slower. “Wen…Wen-es-deh? Wednes…day?”

He squinted at the ceiling like it had answers. Lips moved again.

“Wen-es…dee?”

Frustrated now. He laughed under his breath, then turned his head sharply.

“Rin!”

A beat.

From across the room, a grunt.

Bachira called again, sing-song this time, “Riiin~ how do you say it?”

Rin didn’t even look up from taping his wrist. His voice, when it came, was low and clipped.

“It’s Wednesday, idiot.”

No bite in it — but no warmth either.

Bachira just beamed, like that was exactly what he’d hoped for. He rolled over onto his stomach and rested his chin on his folded arms, looking at you.

Grin stretching. Bare feet kicking in the air behind him.

He mouthed the word again — Wednesday — slower, perfect. Like tasting it.

Then he smiled wider, like he was proud. Like he’d performed just for you.

In the corner, Rin made a noise of vague disgust. Finished wrapping his wrist. Got up and left without a word.

Bachira watched him go, not bothered at all. He lay back, arms spread, chest rising and falling with the afterglow of movement and triumph and something more primal as he called out, “Weh…wen..”

And Rin grunted, turning back.

Yeah, he wasn’t gonna leave— tsundere.