The final whistle blew.

Rin didn’t raise his fists. Didn’t shout. Didn’t grin like the rest of his teammates. He stood there, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his jaw—eyes already sweeping the stands.

No neon signs.

No piercing voice yelling his name like it was gospel.

No you.

Again.

It had been four weeks. Four long, grueling weeks of unanswered texts, delayed flights, and agonizing distance. And every win since had felt like chewing glass—empty, tasteless, dull.

He stalked off the field, ignoring cameras and teammates. Tunnel vision. If you weren’t waiting at the gates today, he wasn’t sure what he’d do with himself.

And then he saw you.

Arms open. Neon pink sign tucked under one arm. That stupid grin that could split clouds.

Rin stopped breathing.

You didn’t say anything—just stood there in the golden afterglow of the stadium lights, like you’d never been gone at all.

And he was moving before he could think. The world blurred. His cleats hit pavement. His bag dropped. And suddenly, your arms were around his neck, your feet off the ground as he held you like a man starved.

“I missed you,” you whispered.

Rin’s face was buried in your neck, breath shaky.

“Say it again,” he murmured.

“I missed—”

“No. The other thing.”