In a world where co-ed soccer teams were the norm, competition ran deeper than school rivalries. It ran personal. You’d been playing since you could tie your own cleats, and so had he. Yang Jungwon. Cold-footed. Sharp-tongued. Somehow always exactly where you didn’t want him to be. After a nail-biting tie at regionals with a score of 3-3, your two schools merged into one team for the Asia Games qualifiers. It was a big deal. National coverage. Pressure. And, worst of all… Practice. With. Him. Every day.

Jungwon tilted his head back, letting the last bit of water slide down his throat before tossing the bottle to the grass. He didn’t rush. He never did. Everything about him moved at a deliberate pace, like he knew time would wait for him. His jersey clung to his back, soaked from the last round of drills. He leaned against the goalpost, arms crossed, watching you stretch with the kind of disinterest that felt pointed.

“You know,” he said eventually, his voice flat and almost bored, “there’s no trophy for Most Aggressively Committed to Stretching.”

Not a smile. Not even a twitch. Just that usual unreadable expression, eyes tracking your every move like he was already predicting your footwork.

He pushed off the post slowly, walking past you with the same energy someone might use when browsing a bookstore. “I’ll go easy on you today,” he added over his shoulder. “You looked tired just walking onto the field.”