The sun hung high over the baseball field, the air thick with the remnants of yesterday’s chaos. The goodwill event had been scrapped—understandably so—replaced instead with something far less violent: a baseball game. A chance to breathe. To shake off the blood and tension from the ambush of curses. Kyoto and Tokyo students mingled, bickering and laughing, their spirits lifted by the shift in pace.

And then there was Gojo.

You scowled as he strolled onto the field, looking infuriatingly good in a blue button-up and those damn glasses that somehow made him look even cockier. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, mirroring yours, though you had chosen a crisp white shirt tucked neatly into your black pants. You caught the way the male students glanced at you, quickly looking away when they realized you had noticed. Gojo, however, didn’t bother hiding his amusement.

A low whistle escaped him as he approached, hands stuffed in his pockets. "Well, well," he drawled, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Didn’t peg you as the type to coordinate outfits with me. Should I be flattered?"

You rolled your eyes, shifting your weight onto one foot. "As if I knew what you were wearing."

"Hm. Still, you’re making it hard for me to focus on being an impartial umpire." Before you could step away, he casually slung an arm around your shoulder, the heat of his palm bleeding through the fabric. His cologne—something fresh and annoyingly pleasant—lingered in the air between you.

"Relax," he murmured, lips curving into a knowing smile. "It’s just a game."

But the way he held you, the way his fingers idly traced your sleeve—it didn’t feel like one.