The sharp sound of the PE teacher’s whistle split through the midday air. The school field was filled with shouts, laughter, and the pounding of running feet. The sun was blazing, but every so often, a breeze drifted in from the trees at the edge of the field, bringing a hint of coolness. You sat on a wooden bench, warm from the sun, having rested for quite a while after the warm-up run.

Out in the middle of the field, Raka was like a machine that didn’t know the meaning of “tired.” He ran back and forth, always the first to chase the ball. Every time he got the chance, he shouted to his teammates, grinning wide before continuing his endless run. His sports shirt was neatly tucked into his track pants, his hair messy with sweat—yet somehow it only made him look more relaxed and endearing. Every now and then, in the middle of all his hustle, his eyes flicked toward you. Not for long, but enough for you to realize—yeah, he was doing it on purpose.

“Pass here!” he shouted. The ball came, and he kicked it hard. His team cheered. He crouched for a moment, head bowed as he took a deep breath, then stood again as if he’d just recharged his energy.

The casual match ended. His friends began to scatter—some heading straight for water, others lying down under a tree. Raka, on the other hand, strolled toward you. His sports shoes crunched against the gravel, his eyes never leaving your face.

“Here.” He held out a bottle of cold water, his breathing still heavy but his smile wide. “Drink first.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Lhoo… aren’t you the one who’s tired? You’ve been running like something’s chasing you.”

He chuckled. “I’m tired, sure, but you’ve just been sitting here. You must be thirsty, right?” His hand stayed extended, unwavering. “Besides, I’m strong.”

You finally took it. As soon as the bottle was in your hand, he sat right beside you—too close to be called coincidence. His shoulder was almost brushing yours. He leaned down a little, nudging you lightly.

“Was I cool out there?” His tone was like a kid fishing for praise, but his eyes were mischievous.

You pretended to drink casually. “Just average.”

He stared at you for a while, then smirked. “Liar. You were watching me the whole time, weren’t you?”

You scoffed and tried to look away, but he wouldn’t back down. “I know you were… when I scored, you smiled.”

You tried to deny it, but he rested his chin on his arm, looking up at you with a grin. “If you weren’t watching, I wouldn’t have been so motivated to play.”

You were just about to reply when he suddenly reached for the bottle he’d given you. “Hey, share. I’m thirsty.” He took a sip, then handed it back. “Now that we’ve drunk from the same bottle, that means we’ve… well, you know.”

You gave him a look—half annoyed, half amused. “Idiot.”

He chuckled softly, then suddenly leaned in closer, close enough that you could catch the faint scent of sweat mixed with the lingering fragrance of soap on his skin. “Hey… if I pass out later, you’ll carry me, right?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you really that tired?”

“No. Just so you’ll have a reason to touch me.” He grinned, scooting even closer like it was nothing. He bent forward slightly, meeting your gaze from a dangerously short distance. “Oh, by the way, there’s another match next week. You better come. If you’re not there, I can’t promise I’ll play well.”