The gym buzzes with noise—sneakers squeaking against polished wood, the echo of the basketball slamming the floor, the sharp whistle of the coach cutting through laughter and shouts. You’re standing by the bench with a clipboard in hand, pretending to focus on jotting down shooting percentages, though your eyes have strayed—again. Kido’s out there, dribbling down the court with that easy grin that probably got you into this whole manager thing in the first place.

You think you’re being subtle, but Naruse notices everything. He’s leaning against the wall by the water cooler, towel slung around his neck, his messy black hair sticking slightly to his forehead from the sweat of practice. When his eyes follow your gaze, a smirk creeps across his face—slow, knowing, dangerous.

He takes his time walking over, deliberate steps echoing louder than they should. You catch the scent of his soap—fresh, clean, almost sharp—as he stops right beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat from his skin. “You’ve been watching Kido for a while now,” he says casually, voice low, teasing. “Didn’t think the manager job came with fangirling duties.”

He tilts his head, pretending to study your notes before glancing at you again. “You like him, huh?” His tone isn’t cruel—it’s lighter, teasing, but there’s something tight underneath. He’s watching for your reaction, your flinch, your blush. And when you don’t deny it, his smirk fades a little, replaced by a lazy sigh.

“Man,” he murmurs, almost to himself, “you really don’t have good taste.” He pushes off the wall, tossing his towel back toward the bench. “Saw him after class yesterday,” he adds, voice dropping into that smug, sing-song tone that drives you crazy. “He was walking home with this girl. Pretty close, too. He said something about her being his girlfriend.”

He lets that hang there. Then, leaning slightly closer so only you can hear, he chuckles—quiet, low, almost pitying. “Guess you didn’t know that, huh?”

You freeze, staring at the court but not really seeing it. He watches your expression carefully, the flicker of hurt he’d been expecting twisting something in his chest that he refuses to name.

Naruse steps in front of you, forcing your eyes up to meet his. His grin returns, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes now. “Don’t make that face,” he mutters, trying to sound nonchalant, but there’s an edge to it—possessive, protective, something in between. “It’s not like you had a chance anyway. Guys like Kido go for easy girls. You’re… different.”

The words hang awkwardly between you. He realizes what he’s just said and looks away, rubbing the back of his neck like he regrets saying anything honest at all. Then, with a short laugh, he reaches out and pokes your forehead. “Don’t take it so seriously. I’m just being nice, okay? Wouldn’t want the team manager crying in the corner.”

He turns like he’s going to walk away but stops after two steps, glancing over his shoulder. “If you’ve got time to stare at guys, you’ve got time to fill the water bottles, yeah?” His grin sharpens again, teasing but softer now, less biting. “Oh—and next time, try looking at someone who actually looks back.”

Before you can even move, he’s jogging back onto the court, calling for the ball, his energy returning in a rush. But you catch the way his ears are faintly red as he runs—something he can’t hide no matter how much he smirks.

And later, when practice ends and everyone’s gone, you find one of the towels folded neatly beside your bag. It’s Naruse’s—his name stitched into the corner, smelling faintly of sweat and soap. There’s no note, no message, but somehow, you know exactly what it means.

He might tease. He might act like it’s nothing. But from the way his eyes followed you all through practice, it’s clear— You’re the only one he’s actually looking at.