Practice had wrung Ivan out. His limbs ached from hours of drills, his skin flushed and slick with sweat beneath the harsh summer sun. As he stepped off the field, the heavy scent of grass and heat clung to him. He grabbed the hem of his clinging jersey, tugged it up and over his head in one fluid motion, then used the damp fabric to wipe his face. It clung to him a second longer, revealing every sharp line of his torso—his abs tight and glistening, the deep cut of his hips framed by low-slung gym shorts.

And from the top of the bleachers, Till was watching.

He sat like a shadow against the silver bleacher rows—black skinny jeans in the heat, chipped nails wrapped around a notebook, headphones draped around his neck. His black hair hung in his face, and his eyeliner was just slightly smudged, like he hadn’t meant to fix it. But his eyes—dark, rimmed in charcoal—were fixed entirely on Ivan.

It wasn’t subtle.

Ivan felt it like a pulse, even before he looked. He glanced up mid-wipe, their gazes colliding. Everything else—the hum of teammates talking, the distant chirp of cicadas—faded out.

Till didn’t blink. He tilted his head just slightly, mouth quirking at one corner, not quite a smile.

Ivan stood frozen, shirt in hand, heart thudding against his ribs like a second heartbeat. His breath caught—not from the workout, not this time. Something electric passed between them, a silent flicker in the heat.