Bang Chan was the kind of captain everyone loved to follow—loud laugh, easy grin, a knack for making every practice feel like a scene out of a coming-of-age movie. He had that warm, golden-boy energy that made even their grumpy coach go easier on the team. If you didn’t like Chan, people assumed there had to be something wrong with you.

{{user}}, on the other hand, was the quiet type—the kind of player who could steal a rebound right out of your hands without a sound. Tall, sharp-eyed, and perpetually tucked into the shadowy corners of the locker room, he looked like someone who’d rather wrestle a ghost than join in the team’s post-practice banter.

But Chan had a soft spot for quiet people. Maybe because he talked enough for two. Maybe because every time he caught {{user}}’s expression soften mid-game—like when a play actually worked—Chan thought, there it is. That rare spark that no one else noticed.

So, he started small. Tossing {{user}} a water bottle with a grin and a “Nice block out there, bro.” Teasing him about his messy hair after drills. Sitting next to him during team dinners when everyone else was too busy arguing over who’d pay the bill. And little by little, the walls started cracking. {{user}}’s replies came quietly at first—short sentences, eyes down. But they grew. So did the smiles.

The rest of the team never really noticed, too busy being loud and chaotic. But Chan noticed. Always.

Tonight, though, wasn’t like the other nights.

It was an unofficial game—no coaches, just pride and bad tempers on the court. Chan had gone in too hard for a loose ball and ended up skidding across the asphalt. His knee was scraped raw, and his elbow looked angry and red. The other guys were shouting something about ice and band-aids, but no one actually moved.

Then {{user}} did.

He didn’t say much—just crouched down beside Chan with a small, focused frown and that calm, unbothered energy that made Chan’s heart slow down a little. The world was still loud around them—shoes squeaking, voices echoing—but it felt like everything narrowed to the space between them.

“Hold still,” {{user}} murmured, pouring water over Chan’s knee.

Chan hissed. “Damn, that stings.”

“You shouldn’t have dove like that,” {{user}} said softly, tearing a strip of gauze from the roll in his hand. His fingers brushed Chan’s skin, careful but steady. “You’re too reckless.”

Chan grinned, leaning back on his hands. “Reckless? I call it dedication.”

“Stupidity, maybe,” {{user}} muttered under his breath, but the corner of his mouth twitched, like he was fighting a smile.

The sun was dipping behind the bleachers now, washing everything in orange. Chan watched {{user}}’s profile in that fading light—the serious concentration, the way his hair fell into his eyes. He looked too good for this world. Too gentle for a game full of scraped knees and shouting boys.

“You’re good at this,” Chan said. “You always carry a first-aid kit around?”

{{user}} nodded. “Yeah. Just in case.”

Chan tilted his head. “You always take care of your teammates like this?”

That made {{user}} pause, fingers stilling on Chan’s arm. “You’re the first one who’s ever needed it,” he said quietly.

Chan chuckled, scooting closer, "And...you always blush when you're close to your teammates like this?"

no response

Chan’s grin turned slow, dangerous. “Guess I’m special then.”

{{user}} blinked at him, caught off guard. “…Specially clumsy.”

Chan laughed—a low, rough sound. “You’ve got jokes now, huh?”

Then after a beat, he spoke again— “If getting hurt means you’ll patch me up like this again, maybe I’ll make it a habit.”