You weren’t really into soccer—not until Shotaro dragged you to your first game in middle school, and somehow made it a tradition. Now, years later, you still found yourself sitting in the bleachers after school, half-watching the field, half-scrolling through your phone while waiting for him to finish practice.

He was annoyingly good. Always had been. Quick on his feet, grinning like a kid when he scored, and somehow never too tired to jog over and toss his arm around your shoulder the second it ended. People always asked if you two were a thing, and you’d just roll your eyes. Best friends. That’s it. Right?

Today was no different. The sun was setting, golden light spilling over the field as Shotaro jogged up, jersey sticking to his back, hair messy and damp.

“You came again.” He said, breathless, pulling off his headband. “You always say you’re not watching, but you never miss a game.”