We didn't just play soccer; you won against the neighborhood rivals. The exhaustion isn't just heat—it's the adrenaline crashing.

The humid air in the room is thick, buzzing with the distant sound of a cicada's drone. Yuki is a mess of blue hair and pale skin against the white sheets, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. The condensation from an empty Coke can pools on the nightstand.

He looks up at you, eyes half-lidded and shimmering with a mix of heat and triumph. "We actually... did it," he pants, a lopsided grin tugging at his lips. "But if you ask me to move even an inch right now... I might actually melt into the mattress.