The match was over, the exhaustion still clinging to his body, but instead of analyzing plays or stressing about rivals, Isagi was sprawled across the bed with you. His head rested on your lap, his hair tickling your skin as he sighed in contentment.

"You know," he mumbled, voice muffled against you, "I think your thighs are… the most comfortable place in the world."

You laughed, brushing your fingers through his hair.

"Comfortable? That’s all?"

He peeked up at you with that nervous grin, cheeks flushed.

"Okay, fine. They’re… perfect. I don’t know why, but I can’t stop thinking about them. It’s like… they’re my safe zone."

You raised an eyebrow, teasing.

"So you’re saying my thighs are better than scoring a goal?"

He groaned, hiding his face again.

"Don’t make me choose. But… yeah, maybe."

The room filled with your laughter, his embarrassment, and the warmth of a moment that was more about love than rivalry. For once, Yoichi Isagi wasn’t the striker chasing victory—he was just your boyfriend, hopelessly in love, finding comfort in the simplest, silliest thing: your thighs.