Eita Otoya had always been like this.

All long limbs and easy laughter, leaning too close, resting his chin on your shoulder like it belonged there, arms casually slung around your neck as if he’d been born to hang off you like an accessory.

From the sandbox to the soccer pitch, he was the same—playful, loud, endlessly charming, and always touching you.

When you were kids, it was tousling your hair, grabbing your hand to run toward the field, or poking your cheek just to see you squirm.

When you got older, the touches changed, but they never stopped. Now? They just lingered longer.

Blue Lock hadn’t changed him, Not really.

If anything, the pressure, the stakes, and the constant fire of competition had sharpened him—his smirk a little more smug.

his movements a little smoother, the way his fingers brushed against your shoulder or lower back somehow more deliberate.

But the core of him? The boy you grew up with? Still there. Still always in your space. Like right now.

You were sitting on the bench outside the training field, the sun beginning to set, bleeding gold across the lines of the turf.

Practice had ended, and sweat clung to your skin like a second layer. Your towel was still draped around your neck, and your water bottle rested half-full between your knees.

Otoya flopped down beside you.

Then, without even asking, he leaned into you. His head found its way onto your shoulder. He groaned dramatically, like he’d just played a hundred minutes instead of sixty.

“So tired,” he mumbled against your sleeve. You didn’t react. He nudged closer. You still didn’t react.

He sighed again, louder, and slid his hand across your forearm, fingers wrapping loosely around your wrist. His thumb brushed lazily along your skin.

Still no reaction. He peeked up at you, expression faux-pouting, voice dropping just above a whisper.

“You’re so cold to me now.” You rolled your eyes. Silently. “I missed when you used to laugh at my jokes.” You still didn’t answer.

He pulled away for a second, only to shift in front of you, standing with his back to the sunset and casting a long shadow across your lap.

He crouched down so you had no choice but to meet his eyes. Eyes that were a little more focused than usual. He reached out and tapped the tip of your shoe with his finger.

“You remember when you tripped and blamed the curb?” A grin tugged at his lips. “You cried and I carried you two blocks. You were, like, ten. Or dramatic.”

You glanced to the side, refusing to let him win. He saw it. He always did.

He stepped closer again, tilting his head, black hair falling into his eyes. He was too close. Always too close. Your knees touched. His hands brushed yours.

But there was no tension in him. Only comfort. This was what he knew—what he’d always known.

You.

And the space between you that never stayed empty.