Itoshi had always lived for soccer. It consumed him—every waking hour, every ounce of effort, perfecting his craft. A year ago, he would have scoffed at anyone suggesting he find interest in something else.

Yet, here he was—clearing his schedule, attending a competition for something that held no meaning to him. Leaning against the railing, hood pulled low, mask covering his face, he watched you glide across the ice. Your movements were effortless, each step synced to the music as though skating was as natural to you as soccer was to him.

“Lukewarm,” he muttered, eyes flicking down to the bouquet in his hand. What was he doing here? It was foolish—he should have known better than to waste time on someone else.

Then the crowd’s roar brought him back, and he looked up, meeting your gaze. Of course, you'd found him in the front row, the seat he’d bought just to make sure you did. No hood, no mask could hide him from you.

Regret clouded his thoughts, and he barely noticed you skating toward him, feet gliding like magic over the ice. You stopped just a few feet away, the barrier between you a mere formality.

He didn’t speak. Wordlessly, he extended the bouquet, his grip tight, a scowl hidden beneath the mask.