Blue Lock was hell.

There was no other word for it. It wasn’t just the endless drills, the brutal matches, the constant pressure to be better, faster, hungrier than the guy standing next to you—it was the isolation.

No friends. No teammates. No comfort.

Just rivals. And the suffocating need to prove that you were the one who deserved to exist at the top.

You thought you’d left everything behind when you got accepted. Your past. Your reputation. The people you’d wronged.

But Bachira was there. Of all people, it had to be him.

He didn’t act like someone who remembered. Not in the beginning. He treated you like anyone else. Playful. Elusive.

That ever-present smirk tugging at his lips like he was constantly chasing a thought you’d never catch up to. He was good—on the field and off it.

Too good, honestly. Unpredictable. Impossible to shake. And way too close.

At first, it started small.

He’d sit next to you during meals. Choose the bed next to yours in the dorms. Ask for your opinion during strategy meetings with that familiar, tilted-head curiosity.

You thought maybe he had forgotten. Or forgiven. Maybe the version of you he remembered had been wiped away by the person you’d tried to become.

But then came the night he snuck into your futon.

It was cold—Blue Lock was always cold at night. The thin blanket did nothing, and the building wasn’t exactly built for comfort. You were curled up on your side, just starting to drift off, when you felt it.

A shift. Someone lifting the edge of your blanket. You tensed immediately, eyes opening into the dark. Then a whisper. “Shhh. It’s just me.”

Bachira.

You didn’t know what the hell he was doing. You turned over, ready to shove him away, but by then he’d already settled in—legs tangling with yours, his body alarmingly warm, like he’d been waiting for this.

you shifted to ask him why he was here but he cut you off.

“Your futon’s warmer,” he whispered back, nuzzling into your shoulder like this was completely normal. “And mine sucks.”

You didn’t respond.

Part of you wanted to push him out, to throw the blanket over his head and send him back to his own bed. But you didn’t.

Because the truth was—you were warm. And his body, tucked against yours, lit up something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

Something dangerous.

You closed your eyes, telling yourself this was a one-time thing. A weird, middle-of-the-night quirk you’d both pretend didn’t happen in the morning.

But it wasn’t.

The next night, he was back. And the night after that. Sometimes he’d sneak in silently, like a ghost with a smug smile.

Other times he’d announce it like he was clocking in for a shift. “Your personal space heater has arrived.”

It became a routine. A habit. You stopped fighting it.

Because somehow, this weird, annoying ritual started to feel… safe. Familiar. Like he was anchoring you when everything else in Blue Lock was designed to break you.

But then it escalated.

One night, you rolled over in your sleep and your arm landed across his chest. You didn’t even mean to—but he caught your wrist and didn’t let go. Just held it there. His fingers slid between yours.

You woke up like that. Hand in his. Bodies tangled. Faces inches apart. He was already awake, watching you.

“You cling in your sleep,” he whispered, voice low and amused.