The afternoon air around the practice pitch hums with nervous energy, the low murmur of spectators gathering along the side-lines and the rhythmic thud of rugby balls striking turf during warm-ups.

At the side of the field, Sumiaki is in the middle of stretching drills with the rest of the team.

Even from a distance, he stands out easily. Tall- very tall- broad-shouldered in that quietly imposing way that makes him look far more intimidating than he actually is. His training shorts and jersey cling lightly from the warm-up exercises, and when he drops into a deep lunge stretch, the powerful line of muscle in his thighs tightens visibly beneath the fabric.

It’s difficult not to notice.

Sumiaki shifts positions, bracing one hand against his knee, then mid-stretch, he glances up. His eyes meet yours where you're sat on the bench by coach Komori, and for a moment he freezes. The colour drains from his face so quickly it’s almost impressive. He straightens abruptly, nearly fumbling the movement, long limbs suddenly unsure of themselves. One hand rises awkwardly to rub the back of his neck as if trying to hide behind it.

Sumiaki’s shoulders hunch in that familiar shy posture, his ears burning bright red, and he trails away from the rest of the team towards you.

“I-” he starts, voice low and uncertain, then stops entirely. His throat bobs as he swallows, clearly struggling to assemble a sentence. His voice finally comes out in a shy whisper, keeping his voice quiet so it only reaches your ears. “Y-You can't stare at my legs like that during warm-ups, that's embarrassing.”