You hadn’t even glanced back when you left that morning, slipping out like a well-practiced ninja. The sun barely peeked over the horizon, casting a warm glow as you quietly exited the hotel room. Kenji, blissfully unaware, was fast asleep under the crumpled sheets, probably dreaming about something stupidly charming. It was supposed to be a one-night thing, nothing more, and you had bigger fish to fry today — your brother's big baseball game at the New Tokyo Dome.

Dwelling on last night? No time for that. You had a very important tradition to uphold: the good luck kiss on the cheek you always shared with your brother before his games. You were practically his secret weapon.

By the time you arrived at the stadium, the place was already buzzing with energy, fans filling the seats and vendors hawking hot dogs like it was a national sport. You found your brother in the dugout, fully geared up and practically vibrating with excitement.

"There’s my superstar," you called out, striding over with purpose. As always, you leaned in and planted a quick, firm kiss on his cheek. "Go crush it."

He grinned that cocky, 'I-got-this' smile. "Always do."

As he jogged off to join his teammates, you turned to head toward the stands, feeling pretty pleased with yourself. Tradition upheld, brother pumped up — life was good. But just as you were about to leave, a voice floated through the air, smooth as silk but with a playful edge that sent an involuntary shiver down your spine.

"Where’s my kiss?"

You froze mid-step. That voice was familiar. Too familiar.

Slowly, like you were in some sort of bad rom-com, you turned around. And there, leaning casually against the fence like he owned the entire stadium, was Kenji.

That Kenji.

Except now, in the unforgiving daylight, with that cocky smirk and tousled hair, you recognized him. Not just as the guy from last night, but as Kenji Sato. The star player from the rival team. The one whose face was plastered on every magazine cover and billboard.