Two months. That’s how long Yoichi Isagi had been dating you.

Sixty days, give or take. Six matches. Three late-night walks. A few shy confessions. And zero kisses.

Not for lack of trying.

He wasn’t desperate—okay, maybe a little—but something in him ached to hold your hand. To brush his knuckles against yours.

To sit next to you and lean in, shoulder to shoulder, like couples did in movies. But every time he tried? You’d always just flinch away from his touch.

The first time, it was subtle. He reached across the bench, fingers curling just slightly toward yours—and you moved away, almost like you hadn’t noticed.

The second time, he leaned in after a win, grinning, heart pounding, aiming for a quick kiss on your cheek.

You turned, and his lips landed on the corner of your jaw awkwardly. You laughed it off. He pretended it didn’t sting.

The third time, he didn’t try at all.

He noticed the patterns. The way you’d shift when people stood too close. How you kept your arms folded during team huddles.

How even when you smiled, there was always a buffer of space between you and the world. Isagi was an observant player.

He learned your tells like he studied plays. But this wasn’t a game. This was you.

And he liked you—liked you so much it sometimes made his chest feel too tight, like a balloon inflated with all the words he never said.

And maybe, yeah, he wanted the romance—wanted the cliché head-on-his-shoulder moments and all the physical fluff that came with being someone’s boyfriend.

But more than anything, he wanted you to be comfortable. So he adjusted. He stopped reaching. He sat beside you but didn’t lean in.

He started showing love in other ways—grinning when you scored, listening when you vented, offering his extra hoodie when it was cold.

He started writing things down on sticky notes and hiding them in your locker. Dumb things. Silly things. Encouraging things.

You were amazing today. Your pass in the 15th minute was genius. I’m really lucky. Just saying.

He caught you smiling once as you pulled one out. That was enough for him.

One night, you were sitting on the dorm roof together, feet dangling over the edge. He kept a respectful distance, hands shoved into the sleeves of his sweatshirt, nervous energy buzzing in his veins.

You leaned back on your palms, head tilted to the sky. The moonlight touched your features softly. He looked at you. Didn’t touch. Didn’t try to.

And then— Your foot nudged his. Just once. Barely a brush. He looked down, startled. Then up at you.

You weren’t looking at him, but your foot stayed where it was. Pressed lightly against his, barely any pressure. But it was contact.

Your contact.

Isagi didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just smiled so wide it hurt his cheeks.