#noelnoa

───────── ⋆⋅꒰ა☆໒꒱ ⋆⋅ ────────

“Promise i’ll be kind, but I won’t stop until that boy is mine.”

───────── ⋆⋅꒰ა☆໒꒱ ⋆⋅ ────────

CW - none!!

The late afternoon sun cast a soft amber glow over the empty field. Dew still clung to the grass, and the air was thick with quiet—the distant call of a bird, the rustle of leaves in the breeze. Rin moved across the dirt with purpose, every step measured, every kick sharp and precise. His face was blank, eyes focused ahead, muscles tense with effort.

You leaned against the fence, arms crossed, watching him silently. His posture was sharp, shoulders rolling with each movement, like he was trying to push everything else out of his mind. You didn’t need to understand his thoughts; just watching him had always been enough. Since you were kids, you’d looked up to him—his focus, his strength, the way he carried himself without apology. That quiet determination had always drawn you in, made you admire him more than you knew how to say.

It wasn’t just about the game. It was how he refused to give up, how he kept going even when everything seemed to weigh him down. You’d always admired that unwavering resolve—how he looked like he carried the world on his shoulders but never let it crack him. Watching him now, you felt that familiar ache—an unspoken mix of respect and something softer, a quiet hope that he’d see you, too, in all those hidden pieces of himself.

Finally, you broke the silence, your voice calm but steady. “Hey, Rin.”

He slowed, ball at his feet. His eyes flicked up, narrowing as he assessed you—no expression, just that intense stare. After a moment, he tilted his head slightly, as if deciding whether to dismiss you or ignore you altogether.

You didn’t push. You only looked back, steady. “You’re pretty serious today,” you said softly. “Almost like you’re trying to rip the field apart. Maybe slow down a little—before you hurt yourself.”

He blinked, exhaled sharply through his nose. No reply. Just a slight shift in his stance—more guarded now, shoulders tensing as if he was preparing for your next move.

He went back to practice, but your gaze lingered on the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the subtle tension in his jaw. You’d always admired that quiet strength. Sometimes, patience was the only thing that mattered. Because you believed that, someday, he might let someone see all those pieces—those quiet, hidden parts of himself.

A few days later, you lingered at the sidelines after practice, watching Rin wipe sweat from his face with a damp towel. The sun was dipping low, casting long, amber shadows that stretched across the worn grass. The air still carried the scent of earth and grass, mixed with the faint metallic tang of sweat—an almost tangible reminder of the effort he’d poured into the game. A gentle breeze brushed past, stirring the loose strands of his damp hair and carrying the faint sound of rustling leaves.

Rin was nearby, shoulders slightly hunched as he pressed the towel to his forehead, muscles tense from the exertion. His breathing was even but shallow, each inhale slow and controlled. The damp fabric against his skin made a faint squelching sound each time he pressed it down, like the soft whisper of fabric on flesh. His dark hair clung to his forehead, damp and tousled from sweat, stray strands sticking where the breeze tugged.

You moved slowly, deliberately, your footsteps muffled against the uneven concrete, reaching for the water bottle you’d stashed in your pocket. The plastic was cool and smooth against your palm, a stark contrast to his overheated skin. You hesitated for just a moment, then spoke softly, voice nearly lost to the wind.

“Y’know,” you murmured, “you’ve been at it all day. Might want to hydrate.”

He looked up at your voice, eyes heavy with fatigue. They held a quiet, distant focus, like he was trying to hold himself together. For a moment, he just looked, then slowly reached out and took the water from you, fingers brushing yours briefly—an almost accidental touch that made your skin prickle. His grip was steady, deliberate, as if holding onto something to stay upright.

He lifted the bottle with slow, careful movements, the faint scent of sweat and grass curling from him. The plastic pressed cold against his sun-warmed fingers, a small relief from the heat radiating from his body. He tilted it, swallowing a long, slow sip. His throat moved visibly—tight, controlled—like he was trying not to show how much he was feeling. His eyes, dark and focused, flicked shut for a moment, savoring the coolness, then opened again.

He exhaled quietly, slow and measured, like he was trying to contain the tension inside. The faint sheen of sweat on his skin caught the fading sunlight, the damp hair clinging to his forehead. His shoulders remained tense but relaxed slightly, fingers finally unfurling from fists, the grip on the bottle steady.

You watched him, silent, sensing the weight he carried—not in words, but in the way he held himself.

“You know,” you said softly, voice blending with the breeze, “sometimes even the strongest guys need to ease up. Push too hard, and—”

His eyes flicked to you, lips pressing into a tight line. His jaw clenched briefly, then loosened. After a beat, he finally spoke, voice low and gravelly, with just a hint of reluctance.

“Can’t stop,” he said quietly. Almost like he was reminding himself.

You nodded, understanding. You gave him a small, quiet smile, a gesture that needed no words. Sometimes, patience was the only thing that mattered.

The wind shifted again, carrying the scent of rain. The clouds above grew darker but held back, heavy and slow. The world around fell into a hushed stillness. You stayed there, watching him, knowing that beneath his calm exterior, something was shifting—slowly, like the dawn waiting patiently behind the night.

-

Over the next few weeks, your interactions grew quieter, more layered Rin’s responses, once sharp or dismissive, now carried an edge of guarded hesitation. He was more deliberate—more careful—like he was testing whether it was safe to let someone see beyond his walls.

You started noticing small things: how his shoulders loosened just a fraction when he thought no one was watching, how he’d clench his fists during moments of frustration, then slowly relax when he believed he was alone. The faint sound of his breathing—steady, controlled—mingled with the distant patter of rain threatening to fall. The scent of damp earth and lingering sweat clung to him, faint but persistent, like a reminder of how much effort he was putting into holding himself together.

One evening, after a long, exhausting practice, you found yourself on the same weathered bleachers. The sky above was a dull, heavy gray, clouds rolling in slowly, casting the field in a muted, almost somber light. The air felt thick and cool, carrying a faint dampness that seeped into your clothes. The wind was persistent, tugging at your hair and clothes, making the fabric flutter and your skin prickle. 

You set your water bottle beside you with a slow, deliberate motion—fingertips brushing the rough plastic, the slight coolness of the cap against your palm. The faint scent of rain mixed with the earthy smell of grass and dirt. Your eyes traced the silhouette of Rin, standing a few meters away, his back turned, shoulders hunched as if he were trying to physically contain some unseen weight.

His breathing was steady but uneven, just enough to notice. His shoulders moved with each inhale and exhale, subtle as the whisper of wind through the trees. His shirt clung to his back, damp in some places, the fabric sticking slightly where sweat had cooled. His hair, dark and slightly tousled, was tossed by the breeze, strands falling across his forehead, brushing against the faint lines of his brow.

You watched him, silent for a moment, then softly broke the quiet. “You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world.”

He shifted, the movement catching the faintest sound—the soft rustle of fabric, the faint scrape of his shoes against the concrete of the bleacher seat. His head turned slightly, enough for his profile to catch the dull gray light. His eyes, shadowed and distant, flicked in your direction, like a flicker of something deep inside him—doubt, maybe, or exhaustion.

His jaw was tight, lips pressed together as if holding back a comment. The muscles in his neck twitched, a faint flicker of tension—like he was fighting the urge to tighten further or relax. His hand, resting limply on his thigh, twitched—fingers curling into a fist, then slowly unfurling, nails pressing into his palm. 

The wind brushed against his skin, pulling at the collar of his shirt, making the fabric ripple softly. The faint scent of rain was thick now, almost like a promise of coming storms. His shoulders rose and fell in a slow, measured rhythm—an attempt to keep everything inside under control.

“Why are you here?” His voice was quiet, gravelly, the sound barely cutting through the thick air, like a stone rolling over gravel.

You hesitated, then spoke softly, your voice even but carrying a weight of quiet patience.“Same as always. Just… watching. Trying to understand why someone like you is so distant.” The words hung in the air, carried by the wind, as you watched his shoulders tense and relax. “You move like you’re trying to hide something. Or maybe someone.”

He finally turned a little, enough for his face to be partially illuminated by the dull sky. His eyes, dark and shadowed, flickered briefly—like a flickering candle, fighting to stay lit. His jaw clenched, lips pressing into a tight line as if he was biting back something unspoken. 

The muscles in his neck twitched again, subtle as a heartbeat, almost like a reflex. His hand, still resting on his thigh, clenched into a fist—nails digging into his palm, skin taut. Then, after a long, heavy pause, he loosened it, the fingers unfurling slowly, the faint scrape of nails against skin.

He looked away, silent, and the wind caught loose strands of his hair, tossing them across his face. His shoulders rose again, then fell, as if trying to breathe out the tightness, to release the invisible burden he carried. 

You saw the faint flicker—the flickering of something deep, like a dying ember—uncertainty, longing, or maybe just the aching desire to be seen. His breathing was slow, steady, but there was a faint hitch every few seconds, like cracks in a calm surface.

“I don’t need anyone,” he finally said, voice barely above a whisper, the words almost swallowed by the wind.

You looked down at your hands, then back at him, your voice soft but unwavering. “You don’t have to be alone. Not all the time.”

He didn’t turn to face you. Only stared into the distant gray, shoulders still tense. The faint tremor in his hand remained—a tiny, persistent sign that he was fighting against himself, holding back something larger than words.

The clouds pressed closer, heavy with rain, but neither of you moved. The only sounds were the whisper of the wind, the faint rustle of grass, and the distant, faint drip of water from the trees. 

You stayed still, watching him, understanding that this fragile, tentative pause—this quiet moment—was part of something larger.

-

One night, after a long, grueling game, Rin was quietly collecting his things at the edge of the field. The stadium lights flickered faintly overhead, casting shadows that stretched across the cracked concrete. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, grass, and the faint metallic tang of equipment—an almost tangible reminder of the effort he'd poured into the match.

The wind stirred softly, rustling the loose strands of his dark hair and the fabric of his jacket. It carried the distant hum of the city, muffled but persistent, like a quiet pulse in the background. The sky darkened steadily, clouds swelling slowly, heavy with the promise of rain that hadn’t yet fallen.

You stayed nearby, your presence quiet, almost blending into the background. The silence stretched comfortably, yet thick with unspoken thoughts. Then, softly, without urgency, you broke it.

“Rin.”

He paused, muscles tensing for a moment, then turned toward you with slow, deliberate movements. His eyes, dark and guarded, met yours—an unspoken assessment, like a predator watching carefully. The air between you grew still, weighty—thick with the quiet of someone holding back a thousand words.

You took a small step forward, your voice low, almost hesitant. “I’ve been watching,” you said softly, your words measured and gentle. “You work hard. I see it.”

His eyes flickered—just for a moment—as if he’d been caught off guard. His cheeks were faintly pink now, subtle enough that only proximity revealed it. His lips parted slightly, then pressed into a thin line, a sign of restraint.

You didn’t press, only looked at him with quiet understanding, your gaze steady but soft. “Just… remember. I see everything.” Your words were understated, almost like a whisper carried by the wind.

He stared at you, silent. The faint flicker of vulnerability crossed his face—gone as quickly as it appeared—then settled back into that guarded calm. His shoulders remained tense, but there was no longer the sharp defensiveness he sometimes carried. Instead, a quiet tension, a silent acknowledgment of what you’d said.

The wind pressed against your skin, brushing past him, ruffling his hair, carrying the faint scent of rain. The clouds above grew darker, heavier, holding back the storm. The world seemed to hold its breath.

You stayed there, watching him, knowing this moment was fragile—an unspoken understanding, a small crack in the armor. Neither of you needed to fill the space with words. Sometimes, silence and the quiet weight of presence spoke the loudest.

And perhaps, just perhaps, he was starting to let himself be seen, a little more each time.  

-

Time drifted by quietly. Rin continued to keep his distance outwardly, but little things changed. He’d challenge you with a sharper look, sit beside you for a moment longer, or linger in silence when the sky darkened.

One day, you sat on the same bleachers, watching the sunset bleed into the horizon. The sky was streaked with muted pinks and oranges. The cool air brushed against your skin.

“You know,” you said softly, “I used to think you were impossible to reach. Like a fortress I’d never get through.”

He snorted softly, eyes still on the distant sky. “You’re persistent,” he muttered, voice rough. “Annoying.”

You nodded slowly, feeling the quiet truth in his words. “Yeah,” you said, “but I like that. I like that you’re not afraid to be a little vulnerable. That’s rare.”

He studied you for a long moment, then finally looked away, face calm but eyes softer than before. No more icy walls—just a tentative openness, a small crack in the armor.

In that silence, you understood—this was how it would be. Slow, steady, uncertain. But real.

-

It wasn’t fireworks or grand promises. It was the slow, quiet realization that beneath Rin’s cold exterior was someone who wanted to be seen—someone who needed patience.