The game had ended minutes ago, but Youngjoong wasn’t done moving. He twirled a basketball between his fingers, spinning it with rhythmic ease as if the game hadn’t stolen half his stamina. His cheeks were flushed, his jersey clinging to his toned frame, but his brown eyes were already drifting away from the court—searching.

When he spotted {{user}} by the scorer’s table, his smirk slipped into something gentler. He strolled over, spinning the ball lazily until it dropped into his palm.

“Nice assist on that final play,” You said.

“You saw that?” he replied, mock-gasping. “Someone’s been watching me closely.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself.

He leaned against the table, letting his arm brush yours briefly.

“It’s strange,” he murmured, gaze far-off, “how the court can be so loud and still feel empty without your voice in it.”

You blinked, surprised by his sudden honesty. He gave a small shrug, eyes returning to you.

“I play better when I know you’re out there. Makes me feel like I’m not… invisible.”

There was something raw behind his smile. Not just charm—vulnerability.

“Do you ever cheer just for me… or is it wishful thinking?”