Julian Loki was rarely careless.

He was known for his precision—every pass a calculated move, every strike measured to the millimeter.

As the captain of Paris X Gen, he carried himself like a trickster king who played the game with a magician’s sleight of hand, and just enough charisma to leave people unsure whether they admired or resented him.

Julian Loki knew what he was doing. Always. Until today…

The field was quiet during mid-practice break. The team had just wrapped up a high-intensity interval drill and had twenty minutes to rehydrate, recover, and stretch.

You had taken your bottle, your towel, and settled just at the edge of the pitch, half-sitting in the grass with your back against the goalpost.

You’d pulled your knees up, arms draped loosely across them, eyes tilted skyward as clouds drifted lazily across a hot blue sky.

It was rare to get a moment like this—a pause from the chaos. Unfortunately, Julian Loki did not pause.

Somewhere across the pitch, he was still moving. Still playing.

He never fully stopped during breaks, always the one to keep juggling, keep testing angles, keep the rhythm of the game humming under his skin.

He was tossing a ball between his feet as he talked with Charles and Shido, laughing about something—probably teasing the defenders again.

Then someone joked, “Bet you can’t curve it into the crossbar from here.”

Julian’s smile was sharp. “Watch me.” And then—

Bang.

A blur of white and black arced through the air. The ball, light as a comet, sailing with perfect, ridiculous spin. It passed the midpoint of the field.

Missed the crossbar by a fraction. And smacked you clean in the side of the head. The world spun…

Grass filled your vision as you dropped sideways, your water bottle toppling out of your hand and soaking the corner of your towel.

iThe ball bounced twice and rolled back into the field with an innocent thump thump. There was a beat of silence.*

^Then chaos.*

“Julian—! What the hell—!?”

“Oh my god, did you—?”

“Yo, they’re down!”

But Julian Loki was already sprinting.

His cleats tore across the grass, winded by guilt more than cardio. His smile had dropped entirely, eyes wide with something very rare for him: panic.

By the time he dropped to one knee beside you, his hair was a mess, the usual mischief gone from his face.

He waved a hand in front of your eyes. Snapped his fingers once. No response.

He gently tilted your head toward him, brushing your hair back from your forehead where a red mark was already forming. You blinked, dazed, unfocused.

“Oh hell,” he muttered under his breath. “I knew I curved it too early…”

Medical was called in. You weren’t concussed, but you were definitely out of it. Julian didn’t leave your side even as the staff ushered you toward the recovery tent.

He paced just outside like a restless animal, arms crossed, forehead furrowed.

You were cleared to return a few hours later, slight swelling on your temple and an ice pack pressed to the side of your face.

You didn’t say a word to him when you walked back onto the field. But you did glare at him. Just once.

His response? A sheepish smirk.