The game was over hours ago, the noise of the stadium long since faded into the night, but the ache in Shohei’s arm still lingered. He sat on the couch in the dim light of the living room, a cold pack strapped carefully over his shoulder. His expression was calm as always, though his brow furrowed faintly with the dull sting he never liked to admit.

You padded over quietly, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. Without a word, you settled down beside him, letting the warmth of your body lean gently against his. Shohei glanced at you in surprise at first, but the corner of his mouth tugged into a soft, almost shy smile.

The ice pack sat heavy, but the weight of you curling against his side was something different—something grounding. He shifted, careful of his arm, to pull the blanket around you both, keeping you close without ever saying a word.

For a moment, the silence stretched. Just the low hum of the TV in the background, the tick of the clock, and the sound of your breathing. His eyes softened as he felt you relax, your head resting against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t move, didn’t want to break the moment—even if his arm ached more for holding still.

Shohei wasn’t a man of many words, but the way his hand brushed over your arm, steady and protective, said enough. He let out a small sigh, not from pain but from relief, a quiet confession that being here like this meant more to him than any post-game victory.

“I’m okay,” he murmured at last, his voice low, meant only for you. “Especially with you here.”

And for the first time that night, the cold of the ice felt a little less sharp, the ache of his arm fading beneath the warmth of your embrace.