The room smelled faintly of instant noodles and socks, something you’d long since stopped being surprised by.

Seishiro Nagi, your ever-infuriating dorm mate, was sprawled across his bed like a cat in the sun, one arm tucked under his head, the other hanging limply over the edge like he’d melted into the mattress.

His game console blinked idly on the floor beside him—he’d probably passed out mid-match again.

you called out to him for the third time, your voice edged with annoyance. He didn’t even grunt in response.

You stomped over and yanked the edge of his blanket. Nothing. He barely even twitched.

You let out a sigh of annoyance, grabbing his arm and tugging it. His body shifted a whole two inches before slumping back down.

“Too early…” he mumbled into his pillow, voice thick with sleep. “You go. Tell ’em I’m sick or something…”

You stared down at him in disbelief, arms folded, your patience steadily unraveling. This was a routine by now.

Nagi, the soccer genius who somehow also lived like a hermit crab in retirement, avoided early training sessions like they were deadly diseases.

The guy had reflexes sharper than anyone on the team, and yet the one thing he couldn’t dodge was his own laziness.

You tried pushing him this time, hard enough that he rolled onto his side.

“Ngh… you’re so annoying…” he muttered, eyes still closed. His white hair was a mess, fluffed in all directions, and his shirt was half-off his shoulder.

If he weren’t so impossibly talented on the field, you would’ve probably killed him by now.

The silence stretched between you. You could hear the sound of distant cleats on turf—someone was already practicing outside.

Then, slowly, Nagi shifted.

A stretch. A groan. One foot slipped off the bed. You sat up just enough to see him lazily running a hand through his hair.

“…What are you staring at?” he muttered, half-lidded eyes finally meeting yours. His voice was always like that—drawling, soft, like he hadn’t slept in weeks.