JIAH POV
"I said what I said," I continue. "I'll wear your jersey to the match and watch my Jiho win."
For a beat, he just looks at me. Rain tapping, air thick, my pulse still trying to claw its way out of my throat. Then his mouth curves again, slow and deliberate, like he's savoring something disgusting.
"Damn," he says. "That'll be hot."
Something in me snaps so clean it's almost impressive.
My eyes narrow instantly, heat rushing up my neck, ears burning. Hot. He really just said that. Like this is a joke. Like this isn't a full-blown declaration of war fueled by spite and poor emotional decisions.
I glare at him, hard enough that if looks could kill, he'd be a chalk outline already. "Fuck off," I spit, voice sharp and ugly and absolutely done.
I don't wait for a response. I don't give him the satisfaction of another second. I step out from under the shelter and straight into the rain.
The cold hits me immediately. Not soft, not gentle. It slams into my face, my hair, my clothes, soaking through everything in seconds.
My shoes splash against the pavement as water runs downhill like it's chasing me personally. The rain is loud now, aggressive, soaking me to the bone.
I don't care.
I just need out of his sight.
I walk fast, almost stomping, shoulders tense, jaw clenched so tight it aches. My bag thumps against my hip with every step, and my hair sticks to my neck in wet strands, but none of it matters.
The only thing I can think about is the sound of his voice and how badly I want to erase it from my brain.
God, I hate him.
I hate his face.
I hate his stupid calm tone.
I hate that smirk like he knows something I don't.
Behind me, through the rain, his voice carries. Clear. Unbothered.
"I'll look forward to it."
I don't turn around.
I don't slow down.
I lift my hand and flip him off without even looking back, middle finger high and steady like muscle memory has its own moral compass.
In my head, I curse him out creatively. Vividly. In multiple languages I barely know. I hope his socks are always damp. I hope his alarm never works. I hope he steps on a Lego every morning for the rest of his life.
The bus stop comes into view, a blurry shape through the rain, and by the time I reach it, I'm drenched. Completely soaked. Water dripping from my sleeves, hair plastered to my face, uniform ruined.
I don't care.
I plant myself under the shelter, chest heaving, heart still racing, anger buzzing through me like caffeine overdose. My reflection in the glass looks insane. Wet. Furious. Eyes too bright.
Fine.
I wipe rain off my face with the heel of my hand and scoff under my breath. "Your jersey," I mutter. "Yeah. We'll see about that."
The rain keeps pouring, relentless, and somewhere behind me, Yu Enhyeok is probably still standing there with that stupid smirk.
Good.
Let him look forward to it.
__________________________
ENHYEOK POV
God, she's so stubborn.
I stay where I am, back under the shelter, rain cutting down in sheets just beyond the edge. She doesn't hesitate even for a second before stepping into it.
No pause. No glance back. Just straight into the mess like she's daring the weather to pick a fight.
Of course she flips me off.
The gesture is sharp and careless, done without even turning around, like she's already moved on to the next thing she hates today.
I watch her retreating figure anyway, soaked uniform clinging, hair dark and heavy down her back. She walks fast, almost angry at the ground, like she's trying to outrun something instead of just getting to the bus stop.
I exhale through my nose, the corner of my mouth lifting before I bother stopping it.
Fire.
Pure, uncontrolled fire.
Annoying. Loud. A headache with legs.
There's no way she actually does it.
She talks big when she's angry. All bark, zero follow-through. Wearing my jersey to a match where her precious Jiho is playing against us?
That's not support. That's suicide by public humiliation. She's impulsive, sure, but she's not that stupid.
…Right?
I shift my weight and watch the rain swallow her up, the distance between us stretching until she's just another blurred shape under the bus stop roof. Still tense. Still vibrating. Like she's running entirely on rage and caffeine.
If she did wear it, though.
The thought clicks in sideways, unwelcome but persistent. Not encouraging. Not supportive. It wouldn't be cheering. It'd be provocation.
An insult wrapped in fabric. The rival team's win paraded right in front of us like a middle finger with sleeves.
That'd be a mess.
That'd be loud.
That'd piss everyone off.
Including me.
I roll my shoulders once, letting the rain noise fill the space she left behind. My phone buzzes in my pocket, ignored. The street smells like wet concrete and ozone. Somewhere a car honks. Life moves on like nothing happened.
I glance once more toward the bus stop. She's still there, arms crossed tight, posture rigid, staring out at the rain like it personally wronged her.
Predictable.
Unreasonable.
Trouble.
I don't believe she'll actually do it.
But if she does?
I let the smirk come this time, brief and sharp, before turning away.
Yeah.
I'll look forward to it.
---------------------------
The court smells like rubber, sweat, and something faintly metallic that never really leaves no matter how often they mop the floor.
The lights hum overhead, too bright this early, reflecting off the polished court like it's trying too hard.
Balls bounce in uneven rhythms, sneakers squeak, voices overlap. Normal noise. Familiar noise.
I'm already warmed up, jersey hanging loose on my shoulders, hands resting on my hips while Minseok and Taehyung argue about something stupid near the benches. Someone misses a shot. Someone swears. Someone laughs too loud.
Across the court, Jiho's team is there too.
Different colors. Same confidence.
They stretch, pass, talk among themselves like this is just another practice and not a countdown to a competition everyone's pretending not to think about.
Jiho's easy to spot, relaxed posture, clean movements, that calm expression people mistake for humility. He looks healthy. Whole. No hesitation in his steps.
Good for him.
Coach's whistle cuts through everything, sharp and final. The noise dies down fast, bodies shifting into attention without complaint. He walks out from his office with a clipboard tucked under his arm, expression neutral in that way that never means good news.
He doesn't waste time.
"Before we start," he says, eyes scanning us, "there's a change to the lineup."
A few heads lift. Someone mutters, "What kind of change?"
Coach looks down at the clipboard. "Lee Juwon won't be playing this competition."
The gym reacts instantly.
"What?"
"Why?"
"Coach, you're joking, right?"
Juwon straightens near the baseline, confusion written all over his face before he even speaks. "What do you mean I won't—"
"Your ankle," Coach cuts in calmly. "The swelling hasn't gone down the way it should've. So you can't play".
A collective groan rolls through the gym, low and frustrated. Someone kicks the floor. Someone else drags a hand down their face. Juwon swears under his breath, jaw tight, eyes fixed on nothing.
"Shit," Minseok mutters beside me.
I don't say anything. I just watch Juwon exhale slowly, shoulders dropping like he already knew this was coming and just didn't want it confirmed out loud.
Coach lets it settle for a moment before continuing. "He'll still train with us when possible. But he's out for the competition."
Silence stretches, uncomfortable and tense. Losing a player this close isn't just bad luck. It's a problem.
Coach closes the clipboard.
"But," he adds, tone shifting just enough to pull attention back, "we're not down a player."
A few heads lift again.
"We have a new member joining us for this competition."
That gets murmurs. Confused looks. Someone whispers, "This late?"
Coach turns toward the gym entrance, one hand gesturing. "Come in."
Every pair of eyes moves to the door.
It opens.
Footsteps echo against the court, measured and unhurried. The figure steps inside, gym lights catching on dark hair, posture straight, expression unreadable. He's already in practice gear, like he planned this entrance down to the second.
Jeonhwa.
The reaction isn't loud, but it's immediate. Recognition flickers through the room. A few guys straighten subconsciously. Someone swears quietly. Jiho's side goes still for half a second, attention sharpening.
Jeonhwa stops a few steps in, gaze sweeping the court once before landing on Coach. No smile. No nerves. Just calm.
"This is Kim Jeonhwa," Coach says. "He's transferring into the team effective immediately."
Jeonhwa bows his head slightly. Polite. Controlled.
I study him without moving.
Built right. Balanced stance. Shoulders loose, not tense. The kind of stillness that means he knows exactly where his body is in space.
He doesn't look around like he's checking reactions. Doesn't rush to fill the silence.
Good.
Minseok lets out a low whistle. "No way."
Across the court, Jiho's eyes narrow just a fraction, interest sparking behind them. Not threatened. Curious.
I cross my arms slowly, gaze never leaving Jeonhwa.
So that's how Coach plans to fix the gap.
Risky. Smart. Potentially explosive.
The gym settles into a new kind of quiet, charged now, like everyone's recalculating. The competition just got heavier. Louder. More complicated.
Coach claps once. "Alright. Introductions later. Warm up properly. We start drills in five."
Jeonhwa nods and moves toward our side of the court, steps steady, expression unchanged.
Yeah.
This just got interesting.
_____________
Author's Note
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