Archive of Our Own

Yoichi Isagi always thought herself to be a calm person, or atleast, that's what she'd been told by most people. "Oh you have a strong mentality!" or "Oh I wish I could be as patient and calm as you!"

Well, right now, Isagi did not see herself calm any time at the moment.

It started when she was walking back home after school practice. Obviously, she was exhausted, and extremly worn out and sweaty. Her grip on her bag tightened as she felt herself getting slightly dizzy from the summer heat, and she pushed herself along.

"Fuck..." She muttered, her voice hoarse as she had really pushed herself way too much that day, with the added stress of not having slept properly the night properly.

"You should really see what's up with your sleeping problems, Yoi," Chigiri had told her that same morning, shooting Isagi a quick glance before she patted her shoulder and went back to Reo.

Kunigami had also commented on it that day, cringing at Isagi's eye bags. "You need to stop staying up all night, how many hours do you even sleep a day?"

Isagi flushed and looked away, muttering a dark "4 or so..." before Kunigami gave her an unimpressed look and stormed off to her own seat, completely giving up on Isagi for the day.

See, Isagi's sleeping problem had started over a few months ago, and Kunigami and Chigiri had pestered her to tell someone, but Isagi was stubborn, and she didn't think it affected her that much.

Well until today.

She was soaked and tired, cringing at her obviously very sweaty school clothes, and her eyes were getting blurry from how hot it was in this stupid country.

Suddenly, Isagi was hit with a force so strong on her left shoulder she almost stumbled back, and she felt a vein throb in her temple as she turned to see who had bumped into her.

"Sorry! Sorry... Ah... So sorry, my bad!"

​The voice was bright, almost musical, cutting through the haze of Isagi’s exhaustion like a jarring chord in a symphony. Isagi blinked, her vision finally focusing on the figure she knew all too well standing before her.

​It was Meguru Bachira.

​Even in the sweltering heat, she seemed to vibrate with an unnerving amount of kinetic energy. Her short hair was slightly mussed—not from heat, but likely from some inexplicable impulse to touch it—and her eyes, those wide, golden, bottomless pools, were fixed on her with an intensity that made Isagi’s skin prickle.

​"Isagi!" She chirped, his grin wide and seemingly effortless. Well, atleast Isagi thought it to be. "You look like you're melting. Are you melting? Do you need a cool down? I have a water bottle, but it’s mostly just air now. Actually, I think I drank the air too."

​Isagi felt the throbbing in her temple reach a crescendo. She inhaled sharply, trying to summon the part of her everyone so loved to praise. Though she did manage to let out a quiet snort at Bachira's antics.

​"I'm fine, Bachira," she managed, her voice gravelly. She tried to step around her, but her equilibrium, already compromised by lack of sleep and the brutal humidity, betrayed her.

Her knees buckled just a fraction, and before she could catch herself, a hand, surprisingly firm, was on her elbow.

​"Whoa, easy there, monster," Bachira said.

The playful tone hadn't vanished, but the underlying cadence had shifted. It was sharper, more observant.

She wasn't just looking at her, she was reading her, noting the dark circles, the tremor in her hands, the way she was holding her breath to keep from collapsing.

​"I said I'm fine," she repeated, pulling her arm away.

She didn't want Bachira to see her like this.

She didn't want anyone to see her like this.

Especially not someone who lived in a permanent state of sunshine.

Especially not... Someone who cared about her. Or, more importantly, some she cared for more than herself.

Isagi especially hated worrying Bachira, I mean, come on! That was her best friend, the one who stood by her during the thick or thin, but she didn't really have any any reason to worry her most times, yet Bachira always, always, managed to make Isagi feel so... Taken care of for some reason.

To Isagi, Bachira was a creature of pure light—someone who, by all accounts, had never spent a single night staring at the ceiling, wondering if they were actually broken.

But she couldn't judge from what she saw, after all, she didn't actually know anything about Bachira as she thought she did.

(Isagi would never admit it, but she constantly worried about her friendship with Bachira for mainly two reasons. One of those reasons may be that Bachira is someone unpredictable and has different thoughts every second, and the other is that she fears she doesn't actually know anything about Bachira, or atleast the things that matter, sure, she loves knowing things about Bachira, but she wants to know more. Like, she wanted to know about Bachira's friends from middle school, what embarrassing things she did as a kid, where she used to play soccer, was it a park, her room?)

​"You're not fine," Bachira said, her voice dropping into that rare, quiet register that usually only appeared when she was being genuinly serious. "You're vibrating. Like a guitar string that's about to snap. You haven't slept, have you?"

​Isagi froze. She looked at her, searching for the usual quirk of her lips, the hint of a joke.

Instead, she found Bachira studying her with a terrifyingly clear gaze.

It was as if she’d bypassed her carefully constructed facade and looked straight at the frayed edges of her mind.

It wasn't a new thing, she supposed, after all, she and Bachira shared a passion and a basically a brain, god forbid Bachira wouldn't see right through her.

​"I sleep enough," she lied, though it felt heavy on her tongue, and she could see Bachira raising an eyebrow from the corner of her vision.

​Bachira let out a soft, short laugh, but there was no mirth in it.

"Isagi, you’re the most calculated person I know. You analyze everything. But you're being really, really bad at calculating your own battery life."

​She took a step closer, invading her personal space with an ease that usually only made Isagi uncomfortable (of course, that was a lie, Isagi fully enjoyed Bachira's touch more than anything).

Today, however, she was too tired to care.

​"It's none of your business," she snapped, though the bite lacked its usual edge, and she cringed, preparing to apologize to Bachira for lashing out on her. Because

​"It is when you're going to pass out on the sidewalk," Bachira countered, her expression darkening for the briefest of seconds.

There was a flicker of something in her eyes, a shadow of profound, intense genuine care, before it was swallowed back up by her signature quirk of the head.

"Come on. I’m walking you home. You look like you're about to turn into a puddle, and I don't think you'd survive being a puddle in this heat."

​Isagi opened her mouth to argue, but the world tilted again, and she realized, with a sinking feeling, that she didn't have the strength to fight her.

She nodded once, a concession she’d regret later.

​As they started walking, the silence between them was unlike any other silence Isagi had shared with her.

Usually, Bachira filled the air with nonsense, either with cute hums and singing, or the weird stories about her and Chigiri's (unwilling) skateboarding adventures.

Today, she was quiet. And in that quiet, Isagi felt a strange, suffocating pressure.

​She looked at Bachira out of the corner of her eye. Was she actually as carefree as she let on?

Or was this, too, a performance? She’d always assumed the former—she was the girl who smiled even when she was benched, the girl who made friends with shadows.

But looking at her now, Isagi couldn't help noting the worried quiver in Bachira's hands.

She had never considered that the laughter might be a shield, a way to keep people at a comfortable distance from the parts of her that actually hurt.

Was Bachira... Worried about her?

​"You're thinking again," Bachira murmured, her eyes fixed on the path ahead.

​"I’m always thinking," Isagi muttered back.

​"Yeah. That's your monster, isn't it?" Bachira glanced at her, a strange, knowing smile playing on her lips. "You think if you think hard enough, you can fix anything. You can control the outcome. But some things don't have a solution, Isagi. Sometimes you just have to sit in the dark and wait for the sun to come back."

​Isagi stopped walking. She felt a chill crawl down her spine, despite the heat. "What nonsense are you talking about now?"

​Bachira stopped too, turning to face her. Her face was more relaxed now, dangerously transparent.

She looked at her, and for a moment, the infectious laugh, the bouncy stride, the eternal joy—it all vanished.

She looked tired. Not physically exhausted, but tired in a way that spoke of years of carrying weight she wasn't meant to hold alone.

​"I'm talking about you," she said softly. "And I'm talking about me. We’re both monsters, Isagi. But you think your monster is your brain. And mine? People think mine is just my dribbling."

​She reached out, her hand hovering near her shoulder before she pulled it back, a rare instance of her actually respecting a boundary—or perhaps, recognizing that she was too fragile for Bachira's usual tactile nature.

That's the thing about Bachira, she recognized when boundaries aren't supposed to be pushed.

​"I know you don't think I overthink things," Bachira said, her voice quiet, almost wounded. "I heard you the other day. When you told Reo that you couldn't imagine me feeling sad. You think I’m just this... happy-go-lucky side character in your life."

​Isagi felt a flush of genuine shame rise to her cheeks.

She remembered saying that.

She had meant it as a compliment—an observation of Bachira's truly beautiful resilience.

Now, looking at the hollowed-out look in her golden eyes, she realized how dismissive she had been.

She had reduced his entire existence to a personality trait.

​"Bachira, I didn't—"

​"It's okay," she cut her off, the smile returning, but it didn't reach her eyes.

It was a practiced, perfect mask. "I get it. It's easier that way, right? If you don't have to worry about my feelings, you can focus on your own game. You can be the calm, calculated Isagi who has everything under control."

​She turned back to the path, starting to walk again, her pace slightly faster, her movements jagged.

​"But just because you don't see the storm," she called back over her shoulder to Isagi, "doesn't mean it isn't raining."

​Isagi stood there, stunned. The sun was setting, casting long, distorted shadows across the pavement. She realized then that she knew nothing about Bachira. She knew her favorite foods, her playstyle, her obsession with the ball, that same obsession that fueled them both, that made Isagi oh so dearly attached to Bachira.

But... she didn't know the girl who lived behind the laughter. And worse, she realized Bachira knew exactly who she was—flaws, shadows, and all.

​She hurried to catch up to her, her heart thumping against her ribs. She couldn't allow Bachira to go home, not after that, not after... she hurt Bachira's feelings without intending to.

Isagi’s legs burned, her breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches as she hurriedly went over to Bachira, she sprinted slightly, or as close to a sprint as her depleted stamina allowed, to bridge the gap between them.

The streetlights flickered with the light of the setting sun, casting long, orange and pink glows that made the atmosphere feel even more heavy.

​"Bachira! Wait!" Isagi’s voice broke, raw and desperate.

​She reached out, her fingers grazing the fabric of Bachira’s open button down, desperate to stop her before she could vanish into the cooling evening air.

But the moment Isagi’s hand made contact, Bachira flinched. It wasn't a violent movement, but a sharp, reflexive withdrawal.

​Bachira spun around, and for the first time in long time, Bachira wasn't smiling, or expressionless either for that matter.

The vibrant, golden light in her eyes was muted, obscured by a swirling, turbulent storm of insecurity that Isagi had never dared to imagine lived behind that playful exterior.

​And before Isagi could grasp her arm again, Bachira’s own hand shot out, not to push, but to intercept. She caught Isagi’s shoulder, a firm, grounding pressure that held her in place, her grip uncharacteristically heavy.

​"Sometimes," Bachira started, her voice sounding thinner than Isagi had ever heard it, "I feel weird. And wrong. Because I hate this fear in my heart—the one that whispers that I will never be important to you as much as you are to me."

​The confession hung in the humid air, stifling and honest. Isagi felt the breath leave her lungs in a rush. She opened her mouth to deny it, to say that Bachira was everything, but the intensity of Bachira's gaze silenced her.

​"And even if I’m not important to you," Bachira continued, her voice trembling slightly, "you’re important to me. You’re the center of my world, Isagi. That's why I see you. I see the cracks. I see the monster you're trying to starve. And it kills me to watch you fall apart when I know you’re trying so hard to be perfect."

​Bachira’s grip on Isagi’s shoulder tightened, her golden eyes searching Isagi's face with a raw, painful vulnerability.

​"So, stop pushing yourself," Bachira whispered, the playfulness completely extinguished, replaced by a fierce, protective ache. "Go sleep, you bastard. Because when you don't, it makes me so worried it feels like I’m the one who can’t breathe, not you. So please, save me the fucking misery, because I've never loved someone as much as you, or cared for them either."

​Isagi felt a sting behind her eyes, the sheer weight of Bachira’s care crashing over her.

The silence that followed Bachira’s confession wasn't empty; it was pressurized, vibrating with a frequency Isagi had no instruments to measure.

The streetlights overhead clicked on one by one, buzzing like dying insects, their artificial hum layering over the erratic, frantic drumming of Isagi’s own heart.

​I’ve never loved someone as much as you.

​The words weren't a declaration of romance in the way Isagi had categorized it in her mind—not a neat, checkbox-item affection. It was something prehistoric.

Something terrifyingly absolute.

​Isagi tried to form a rebuttal, a maneuver to deflect, to return to the status quo where they were just "teammates" or "freinds," but her brain felt like it was dissolving into gray static. The heat of the day seemed to have seeped into her very marrow, making her bones feel brittle. She leaned back against a cold, graffiti-tagged brick wall of a convenience store, needing the structural integrity of the architecture because she no longer possessed her own.

​"Bachira," Isagi breathed, her voice barely audible over the distant roar of city traffic.

She looked at her—really, really looked at her.

Those sweet, amber flecked golden cat like (or were they doe eyes...? Yoichi! Focus dammit!) eyes were no longer dancing with playful, manic light. They were steady. Stagnant. A mirror of the abyss she had just revealed. "You... you shouldn't be carrying that."

​"Carrying what?" Bachira asked, her head tilting in that familiar, bird-like motion, though the playfulness was absent. She was hovering just inches away, a constant, magnetic presence that anchored Isagi to the earth even as her mind began to drift.

​"The weight of me," Isagi replied, her fingers digging into her own palms until her nails left crescent-moon indentations. "I’m not… I’m not a sun, Bachira. I’m just a person who can’t turn her brain off. If you stand too close, you’re just going to get burned by the friction."

​"You're right, you're not a sun. But I like the heat," Bachira retorted, a ghost of a smile touching her lips, but it vanished as quickly as it had arrived. She reached out, her fingers brushing against the damp, sweaty hair plastered to Isagi’s forehead.

Her touch was cooling, a stark contrast to the stifling humidity. "Isagi, you’re trying to analyze your way out of a feeling. It doesn't work like that. You can’t pass your way out of being loved."

​The word loved hit Isagi with the force of a physical blow.

She felt a phantom ache in her chest, a sudden, sharp clarity that cut through the delirium.

She had spent her entire life building walls, treating her connections to others like formations on a pitch—something to be optimized, utilized, and eventually, if the game required it, sacrificed.

​But Bachira wasn't a formation. Bachira was the unpredictable variable she had failed to account for.

​"I’m exhausted," Isagi whispered, the admission slipping out like a secret she’d been hiding from her own reflection. "I’m so tired, Meguru."

​Using her given name felt like an act of betrayal against her own stoicism. It was a crack in the dam. The moment the syllables left her lips, the world seemed to tilt on its axis. The streetlights stretched into long, impossible lines of light. The sound of distant cars turned into the roar of a stadium, then faded into a low, oceanic hum.

​Bachira’s expression softened, the sharp, jagged edges of her own insecurity smoothing out into something profoundly gentle. She didn't press for more. She didn't ask for explanations of why Isagi hadn't slept, or what demons were keeping her awake in the small hours of the night. She simply stepped into the space Isagi had vacated, her presence a protective shield against the rest of the world.

​"Then stop walking," Bachira said softly. She took Isagi’s hand, not the firm grip of a teammate, but a gentle, interlacing of fingers that felt impossibly intimate. "We’ll just stand here. Until your brain slows down. Until the world stops spinning.Well, it won't stop spinning, but we can pretend it did! I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got nowhere else to be but here, with you. And even if I did, I don't want to be anywhere but with you."

​Isagi felt a tear track through the grime and sweat on her cheek, a hot, shameful line that she couldn't hide. She wanted to pull away, to regain the distance that made her feel safe, but her body had finally surrendered. She let her head rest against the brick, her eyes closing, the darkness behind her lids no longer a source of anxiety, but a welcome relief.

​She felt Bachira shift, heard the soft rustle of her school uniform, and then, a warmth pressed against her side. Bachira had leaned in, effectively blocking out the street, the noise, and the reality of the city. She was creating a micro-climate, a tiny, private room made of breath and shared space.

​"You're a monster, Isagi," Bachira whispered, so close that the words ghosted against her ear. "But even monsters need to go to sleep."

For all her thinking, for all her dumb tactical analysis, she had been blind—dangerously, selfishly blind—to the person standing right infront of her.

The silence that followed Bachira’s soft command stretched between them, but it no longer felt suffocating. It felt like the air after a thunderstorm: washed clean, heavy with humidity, but finally still.

​Isagi let out a shaky, jagged breath, the tension that had been locked into her spine for days beginning to leach out.

She felt small, exposed, and entirely seen. It was terrifying, yet for the first time in months, her mind wasn't racing to find a solution.

It was just... quiet.

​"I can't go home like this," Isagi murmured, her voice still thin.

"If I walk into my house, my parents will see the state I'm in, and I just... I don't have the energy to explain the last week, let alone the last twenty minutes."

​Bachira pulled back just enough to look at her. The deepness in her golden eyes had passed, replaced by that familiar, slightly manic, but entirely genuine glint of pure impulse.

​"Well," Bachira started, a slow, impish grin spreading across her face.

The transition was so sudden it almost gave Isagi whiplash.

One second they were baring souls, the next, Bachira was back to her chaotic, unpredictable self.

"My place is closer. And my dad is out tonight anyways, he’s on a trip to visit some old friends in the countryside, so it's just me and my soccer balls. Which, granted, are great listeners, but they don't exactly provide blankets."

​Isagi blinked, the shift in tone catching her off guard. "A sleepover?"

​"A recharge-the-battery-over!" Bachira corrected, poking Isagi squarely in the chest.

"Look at you. You’re shivering, and it’s a hundred degrees out. You need a shower, some weird energy drink I have in the back of the fridge, and probably the floor of my room to pass out on. Or my bed! If you don't mind the piles of magazines."

​She grabbed Isagi’s hand again, tugging her gently away from the brick wall.

The desperation from before had vanished, replaced by a firm, unwavering insistence.

​"Come on, Isagi. You’re in no condition to be left alone with your thoughts. They're clearly bullies. I’m the only one allowed to bully you, and I’m currently off the clock."

​Isagi let herself be pulled, snorting as she retorted back.

"Yeah? Well say that to Rin and Kaiser, bullying me any chance I get."

But Bachira didn't answer, instead, she let a quiet hufff of annoyance, her grip on Isagi's hand tightening slightly, and truth be told, Isagi loved teasing Bachira as much as Bachira loved teasing Bachira, but Bachira did not want to talk about Rin or Kaiser or anyone, not when she's hear, and they're not. Instead Bachira opted to changing the subject back to the 'recharge-the-battery-over', as she called it.

"So you coming or not? Or am I gonna be arrested for kidnapping my best friend against her will?"

There was no reason to agree— Isagi could have argued, insisted she was fine, or tried to make the walk to her own house. But the thought of her own empty, dark room felt daunting compared to the prospect of Bachira’s own room, the one she was so used to by now.

(What did you expect? She's had tons of sleepovers with Bachira, Chigiri, and Kunigami ever since starting high school when she met them.)

​"You're weird," Isagi muttered, but she didn't pull away.

​"And you're a tired, stubborn genius," Bachira countered, pulling her along the sidewalk with a skip in her step.

"Think of it as a tactical retreat. You're exhausted, you're out of stamina, and the opponent—in this case, your own brain—has clearly won the current match. So, we're forfeit-ing tonight to save your stats for tomorrow."

​Isagi couldn't help it; a genuine, small laugh escaped her lips.

It didn't feel forgein, she laughed like this alot with Bachira, but it was good good.

Bachira had already seen through the armor anyway.

​"Fine," Isagi conceded, her grip on Bachira’s hand tightening slightly.

"But if you start talking about soccer monsters at three in the morning, I'm locking you in the closet."

​Bachira beamed, that infectious, sunny light flooding back into her eyes. "Deal! But fair warning, I have a dream journal that’s mostly just sketches of how to dribble past a dragon. We might be there a while."

​"I don't mind," Isagi countered, her voice soft as she stared back at Bachira, her cheeks warming. She was slightly grounded now, more able to focus, as the last rays of the sun began to fade away, bringing the moonlight now into focus.

The streetlights overhead buzzed, a rhythmic, mechanical sound that seemed to sync with the thrumming in Isagi’s own temples.

​Bachira didn't let go of her hand. Her grip remained steady, not tight enough to hurt, but firm enough to be an anchor. It was a strange contrast, the way Bachira, the girl who moved like a gust of wind, was currently acting as the only thing keeping Isagi tethered to the pavement.

​"You’re doing that thing again," Bachira hummed, her voice cutting through the ambient noise of the city evening. "The 'everything around me is a threat' thing. Relax, Isagi. My house isn't moving. It's not a striker, it's not going to dodge you."

​Isagi blinked, her focus snapping back to the girl beside her. She felt a faint, dusty flush on her cheeks. "I'm not processing anything. I'm just… walking."

​"You're walking like you're entering the penalty area with ten seconds left on the clock," Bachira countered, pulling her hand gently to adjust their pace. "Your shoulders are all the way up by your ears. Take a breath. A real one."

​Isagi sighed, the sound long and ragged. She consciously dropped her shoulders, feeling the tension ripple down her spine. "I'm just tired, Meguru. My head feels like it's full of static."

​"Static is just unorganized energy," Bachira said matter-of-factly, turning down a street that smelled faintly of jasmine and damp asphalt. "You have too much information bouncing around. The play-by-plays, the stress, the 'what-ifs.' You need to purge the cache."

​"Is that your advice? To treat my brain like a computer?"

​"It's more fun than treating it like a torture chamber, isn't it?"

Bachira glanced at her, her golden eyes reflecting the soft glow of a passing streetlamp.

For a split second, the playfulness vanished, replaced by a gaze so piercingly honest it made Isagi’s heart skip (seriosuly, Isagi will never get used to seeing Bachira look so serious).

"You act like you have to be the one to hold the whole world up, Isagi. But you're just a girl. A really, really stubborn, talented, exhausted girl."

And for some reason, no matter how many times Isagi got complimented, she would only ever react if the compliment came from Bachira. Further proof was her cheeks darkening in color, if that was even possible.

she was blushing way too much today.

​The walk continued in a lull of quiet conversation.

They navigated the suburban streets, the houses blurring into shapes against the darkening sky. Isagi found herself watching the way Bachira moved, the fluid, almost feline grace even in a simple walk, the way she occasionally kicked a loose pebble with a precision that hinted at the strength in her legs.

​"You know," Isagi said, her voice softer now, "you talk about monsters like they're roommates. Like you just invite them in for tea."

​Bachira giggled, a sound so sweet it seemed to brighten the dimming light. "Well, they are, aren't they? If you ignore them, they get louder. If you acknowledge them, they’re just... energy. Like a stray cat that follows you home. You might as well give it a name and a bowl of milk."

​"And what's my monster's name?" Isagi asked, a small, tired smirk touching her lips.

​Bachira stopped, tilting her head.

She looked at Isagi, really looked at her, her expression unreadable for a moment before she hummed, a sound of deep contemplation.

"Yours? Yours is 'Architect.' It likes to build structures, draw lines, and map out the entire field. But it gets so busy building the stadium that it forgets to actually play the game."

​Isagi felt a weird tightness in her chest. "That… actually sounds pretty accurate."

​"I know," Bachira said, dropping back into her usual upbeat, airy tone.

"I get that alot. That I'm a 'genius when it comes to observing people.' "

She skipped slightly ahead, pulling Isagi with her before loudly complaining, "Honestly, they shoudl all it 'people watching!! It sounds way more cool!"

Isagi started giggling at that, her shoulder shaking before Bachira's face broke out in a smile, their giggles merging with each other as they bumped shoulders.

Silence washed over them after that, and Bachira continued.

"It's how I know when you need a water bottle, when you need a distraction, or when you need me to just shut up and hold your hand."

​They passed a park, the swingsets silhouetted against the indigo sky. Isagi looked at the metal frames and felt a pang of nostalgia, though she couldn't quite place the memory.

​"Do you ever get scared?" Isagi asked suddenly.

The question hung in the air, weighted with the honesty that only late-night exhaustion could draw out. "That the energy... the 'monster'... will just stop? That one day you'll wake up and the field will just be... empty?"

​Bachira didn't look at her immediately. She kept her eyes on the path, but her grip on Isagi’s hand shifted, interlacing their fingers more firmly.

"Sometimes. The silence is the scariest part. But then I remember that the field is only empty if I stop looking for the ball."

She looked up at the stars, which were beginning to poke through the haze of the city lights.

"And I have you. You're the one who keeps the game going, Isagi. Even when I’m off in my own world, you’re the one who brings the reality back."

​Isagi felt a heat that had nothing to do with the summer humidity. She looked at their joined hands, then up at Bachira, who was now humming a tuneless, cheerful melody.

​"You're doing it on purpose," Isagi realized, a faint laugh escaping her.

​"Doing what?" Bachira asked innocently, though her eyes glinted with mischief.

​"Distracting me. Every time I start to spiral, you say something weird."

​"It's not weird, it's strategic!" Bachira declared, skipping slightly.

"I'm optimizing our walk. If we get home with you still thinking about your problems, I have to deal with a grumpy, over-analytical Isagi. If I fill your brain with nonsense, I get a sleepy, peaceful Isagi. The choice is obvious."

​Isagi couldn't help it; she let out a genuine, clear laugh. It felt lighter than it had in days. "You’re impossible."

​"I'm a visionary," Bachira corrected, her grin wide and genuine, showing her teeth. "And we're almost there. Look, that light? That's my porch."

​Isagi looked ahead, seeing the soft, warm glow of a house tucked away at the end of the street. It looked welcoming, a sanctuary waiting to pull them out of the cooling night air. As they reached the gate, she felt the last remnants of her rigid, perfectionist armor begin to slip.

​"Meguru?"

​"Yeah?" Bachira paused, her hand on the gate latch.

​"Thanks. For... for walking me."

​Bachira’s expression softened into something profound, a quiet, raw sincerity that made Isagi’s breath hitch. She reached out, her hand lingering for a moment on Isagi’s cheek, a cool, gentle touch that felt like a benediction. "Anytime, Isagi. I’ll always walk with you. Even if we're walking in the wrong direction and we get lost."

they stayed silent after that, both navigating the dark pathway to Bachira's house, opening the gate and entering the garden.

"Also, you're the one walking me, not the other way 'round," Bachira pointed out, though her voice lacked any real bite.

But Isagi was just leaning heavily against the gatepost, her eyes half-lidded as she watched Bachira fiddle with the latch.

​"Details, details," Isagi murmered, watching Bachira abandon the lock entirely to spin around on her heels.

Her eyes crinkled at the corners, that familiar, infectious manic energy bubbling up again.

"Besides, I’m leading us into a tactical zone! If we enter the house now, the transition from 'adventuring in the great outdoors' to 'being boring adults who sleep' is too fast. We need an acclimation period."

​"An acclimation period," Isagi deadpanned. "Is that what we're calling standing on your porch at ten at night while I contemplate whether my legs are still attached to my hips?"

​"Exactly! It's science, Isagi. Don't you know about the... uh... Porch Gravity Theory?" Bachira leaned against the railing, hanging off it with the ease of a monkey.

"It’s a very serious phenomenon. If you move too quickly from high-stress environments like 'the sidewalk' to low-stress ones like 'my living room,' your brain might actually pop like a balloon due to the sudden decompression."

​Isagi let out a wet, breathless laugh. "You just made that up."

​"I made it up for your safety!" Bachira reached out and flicked Isagi’s forehead.

"You’re a high-pressure system, Isagi! We have to vent the pressure. Look, a cat!"

​Bachira didn't wait for Isagi to look; she was already off, darting toward the edge of the lawn where a pair of glowing eyes stared out from under a hedge.

She crouched down, making a series of soft, ridiculous chirping noises that sounded more like a dying dial-up modem than any actual animal communication.

​"Psst! Hey, Mr. Whiskers! Are you also tired of the systemic pressure of being a cat? Do you have an internal 'Architect' monster like Isagi? Should we discuss the structural integrity of this hedge?"

​Isagi watched her, her hands shoved deep into her pockets, a genuine, sluggish smile playing on her lips.

The sight of Bachira, one of the most talented soccer players she knew, currently trying to hold a philosophical debate with a very confused, very unimpressed tabby cat, was exactly the kind of medicine she needed.

​"I think he's ignoring you, Meguru," Isagi called out, her voice slightly stronger now."

​"He's not ignoring me, he's processing!" Bachira stood up, brushing dirt off her knees, and jogged back.

She reached out, grabbed Isagi’s sleeve, and yanked her toward the driveway.

"Okay, the cat is a bust. New mission. We need to find the most inefficient way to get from the gate to the front door."

​Isagi stared at her. "We are literally ten feet away."

​"Which is why it must be done with flair! We should do it in reverse. Or we could hop. Or we could do the 'injured penguin' walk."

Bachira immediately demonstrated the latter, hunching her shoulders, locking her elbows at her sides, and waddling frantically in a small circle, letting out a series of high-pitched 'wark!' sounds.

​Isagi watched, then started wheezing. She hadn't laughed this hard in months. "You look like you're having a seizure."

​"It's a penguin! An artistic, depressed penguin!"

Bachira stopped, breathless and grinning, her hair sticking up at even more chaotic angles than usual. "Okay, fine, no penguin. How about we play 'the floor is lava' but we use these decorative garden stones?"

​Isagi looked at the stepping stones leading to the porch. They were small, unevenly spaced, and surrounded by a sea of woodchips that definitely didn't look like lava but were certainly not designed for a high-stakes obstacle course.

​"Meguru, I am exhausted. If I fall, I am not getting back up. I will simply become part of the landscaping."

​"Don't worry, I'll be your rescue drone!" Bachira hopped onto the first stone.

"See? Easy! Come on, Chief. Use those famous eyes. Analyze the path."

​Isagi sighed, but she stepped onto the first stone. Her balance was still shaky, but Bachira immediately reached out, grabbing her hand to steady her.

​"Calculated movement, Isagi! Watch out for the rogue woodchip, it’s a trap!"

​"They're all woodchips, Bachira!"

​"That's just what they want you to think!"

​They moved across the stones in a slow, ridiculous dance. Every time Isagi wobbled, Bachira would dramatically 'save' her, swinging her around in a circle or yanking her forward with an unnecessary amount of force. By the time they reached the third stone, they were both laughing so hard that Isagi had to lean her forehead against Bachira’s shoulder to keep from collapsing into the 'lava.'

​"We're going to break your dad's porch," Isagi gasped, her face flushed, her heart racing—not from stress, but from the sheer absurdity of it.

​"My dad would love it! He’d probably join in and start narrating the match," Bachira whispered, keeping her voice low as if they were stealth agents. She looked at Isagi, her eyes dancing with mirth. "You know, you’re much funnier when your brain is half-asleep. You should stay sleep-deprived more often."

​"That is the worst tactical advice I have ever heard," Isagi shot back, but she squeezed Bachira’s hand.

​"It's not tactics, it's vibes! Look, I've got a better idea." Bachira suddenly stopped and looked at the front door, then at the porch light, then back at Isagi. "Do you think we can reach the door without touching the ground and without using the stones?"

​"How?"

​"Parkour!"

​"I am not doing parkour in school shoes!"

​"Not with that attitude! Okay, look, climb on my back."

​Isagi froze. "What?"

​"Hop on! I'll carry you. It's the ultimate 'I am a humble horse carrying a very tired, very smart rider' maneuver. It's scientifically proven to be the most efficient way to cross a porch."

​"Meguru, you're going to drop me."

​"I have the balance of a mountain goat! I literally dribble soccer balls for a living! Trust the process, Isagi!"

​Against her better judgment, and fueled by a delirious, giggly sense of surrender, Isagi leaned forward and looped her arms around Bachira’s neck. Bachira grunted, shifted her weight, and with a surprising amount of strength, scooped Isagi up.

​"Whoa!" Isagi shrieked, wrapping her legs around Bachira’s waist.

​"Giddy-up, monster!" Bachira shouted, immediately starting to sprint in tight circles on the porch, her shoes thudding against the wood. "We are the fastest delivery in the prefecture! One package of 'Stubborn Genius,' arriving at the door!"

​"You're going to trip! Stop, stop, I'm going to throw up from laughing!"

​"Never! We are building momentum! We are a force of nature! We are... a very sweaty, very tired human centipede!"

​"That is the most disgusting comparison you've ever made!"

​Bachira spun, laughing hysterically, and finally, finally came to a halt right in front of the front door, swaying slightly. She lowered Isagi to her feet, but didn't let go, instead keeping her arms around Isagi’s waist, her head resting against Isagi’s shoulder.

​They stood there for a long moment, both of them breathing hard, chests heaving, their laughter slowly fading into soft, contented gasps. The porch light cast long, warm shadows around them, making the world outside feel incredibly far away.

​"You're an idiot," Isagi whispered, but she tucked her face into Bachira's soft hair, feeling the warmth of her friend, the steady beat of her heart, and the absolute relief of finally, finally stopping.

​"Yeah," Bachira murmured back, her voice soft and lacking the manic energy of a moment ago. "But I'm your idiot. And you're currently two seconds away from falling asleep standing up, so maybe, just maybe, we should actually go inside?"

​Isagi felt a bubble of warmth in her chest that had nothing to do with the summer heat. "Yeah. Maybe."

​Bachira pulled back just enough to grin—that bright, messy, beautiful grin that had guided her through the darkest parts of the walk. "Race you to the sofa? I get a five-second head start because you're a genius."

​"That's not how racing works," Isagi laughed, reaching for the doorknob. "And I'm a talented learner dumbass, you're the genuis."

​"It is when I'm the one who knows where the blankets are!" Bachira ducked under her arm and bolted into the dark, welcoming hallway, leaving Isagi standing there for a beat, just smiling at the empty space before following her in.

"Wait up Bachira! You didn't take off your shoes!" Isagi shouted, immediately grinning as she saw Bachira on the top of the stairs.

"Here, put them at the rack!" Bachira shouted back, holding her two shoes and throwing them down the stairs.

Isagi shook her head, a soft, fond smile plastered on her face as she picked up the stray shoes from the end of the stariway.

"You're a disaster, Meguru," she muttered, placing them neatly on the rack. The house was quiet, the air inside smelling faintly of citrus and plants—the distinct scent of Bachira’s home.

​She walked toward the living room, glancing briefly at the sofa that had been their original finish line.

It looked plush and inviting, but the image of Bachira bounding up the stairs, hair wild and energy still strangely high, shifted her priorities.

​Isagi turned and headed for the stairs, her pace steady. The weariness was still there, a dull ache in her muscles, but the static in her brain had been replaced by a focused, playful determination.

​She reached the top of the stairs and followed the sound of humming to Bachira’s room.

The door was ajar, spilling soft yellow light onto the hallway floor. Inside, Bachira was already moving with her usual chaotic speed, shrugging off her school button-down and tossing it toward a chair, missing it entirely. She was left in her skirt and bra, hopping on one foot as she tried to peel off her socks.

​Isagi stood in the doorway for a second, watching. Then, she moved.

​With a burst of energy that she hadn’t realized she was saving, Isagi surged forward. She crossed the floor in two long strides and launched herself, tackling Bachira onto the soft, slightly cluttered (with plushies) expanse of the bed.

​"Hey! Ambush!" Bachira shrieked, though it immediately turned into a high-pitched, breathless laugh as she tumbled backward into the pillows.

​Isagi didn't give her a second to recover.

Before Bachira could even fully process the impact, Isagi had her pinned, her fingers diving straight for Bachira’s ribs.

​"That's for the 'human centipede' comment!" Isagi declared, her voice filled with a genuine, unburdened joy as she began to mercilessly tickle her.

​"No—! Hahahaha! Isagi! Wait, surrender! I surrender!" Bachira squirmed violently, her legs kicking out, her laughter ringing off the walls.

She was a tangle of limbs and wide-eyed panic, trying to swat Isagi’s hands away while failing miserably. "Too—too much! My battery is over-charged! You're breaking the system!"

​"You wanted to vent the pressure, right?" Isagi countered, a wicked, triumphant grin on her face as she pressed her attack.

"Well, consider this a forced system reboot!"

​Bachira was practically hysterical, burying her face into a pile of laundry to muffle her squeals, but she was laughing so hard she was shaking. "Okay! Okay! You win! isagi beats me with the... the tickle monster!"

​Isagi finally pulled back, breathless and red-faced, her own laughter subsiding into heavy, contented sighs. She collapsed onto her side next to Bachira, who was splayed out like a starfish, gasping for air and staring up at the ceiling with a wide, manic grin.

​The room was still, save for their synchronized breathing.

​Bachira turned her head, her golden eyes sparkling with residual tears of laughter. She reached out, her hand finding Isagi’s and interlacing their fingers firmly against the mattress.

​"You know," Bachira whispered, her voice raspy but infinitely soft, "I think your monster just lost a game."

​Isagi hummed, closing her eyes and letting her head sink into the soft pillow. The quiet was perfect. "Yeah. Maybe. But I think I'm okay with that."

The room was still, the residual adrenaline of their little wrestling match slowly bleeding out of them, leaving only the soft rhythm of their breathing in the dim light.

Bachira, however, wasn't about to let the "recharge" phase of the operation stall out.

​She sat up, her hair a wild, beautiful halo of static, and looked down at Isagi with a look of mock-stern command.

"Nope! No falling asleep. Get up, monster, we’re migrating to the living room."

​Isagi groaned, her limbs feeling like lead weights, but the thought of being anywhere other than where Bachira was simply wasn't an option for isagi, at all.

She let out a small, tired huff and rolled off the bed, stumbling slightly as she followed Bachira out into the hallway and down the stairs.

​Bachira moved with that singular, bouncing purpose, leading Isagi straight to the sofa. She shoved Isagi down onto the cushions with a playful but firm hand to her shoulders.

"Sit. Stay. Don't move. You’re currently in 'Low Power Mode,' and if I let you roam, you’ll probably walk into a wall."

​Isagi sank into the plush cushions, a small, genuine smile playing on her lips. She didn't mind the bossiness.

In fact, after the exhausting, over-analytical day she’d had, having someone else take the reins—even if that person was a chaotic ball of energy like Bachira—felt like the greatest relief imaginable.

​Bachira promptly curled up next to her, her legs tucked underneath her, and pulled out Isagi's phone from Isagi's bad (which was on the floor).

She stuck her tongue out at Isagi when she groaned at her phone being taken.

Her fingers danced across the screen with practiced speed, illuminated by the soft, blueish glow of the device.

​"DoorDash time," Bachira announced, her voice humming with excitement. "When my dad’s away, it's a culinary free-for-all. I’m thinking… probably a ridiculous amount of fried chicken or maybe those spicy ramen bowls that make your tongue go numb. What’s the verdict? Oh! Oh! I also want cookies!!!"

​Isagi leaned her head back against the sofa, watching Bachira’s face. She looked so focused, so intentionally domestic in her planning. It was cute—distractingly, unfairly cute.

​Then, Isagi’s heart did a sudden, painful flip-flop of panic.

​Oh god.

​That morning.

Her goddamn phone.

Her conversation with Chigiri.

​The memory hit her like a cold bucket of water.

She had been so exhausted, so sleep-deprived, and so desperately confused about her feelings that she had poured her heart out to Chigiri in a series of texts that were, in retrospect, excruciatingly vulnerable—and embarrassingly detailed about her crush on Bachira.

​If Bachira looked at her phone... if she saw a notification...

​Isagi felt a bead of sweat trickle down her temple, despite the cool air of the living room.

She watched Bachira’s nimble fingers, half-expecting her to start scrolling through messages or open a social media tab.

​"You’re doing the thinking thing again," Bachira said without looking up, though her thumb paused on the screen. "Stop it. I’m ordering. You’re just the lucky beneficiary of my questionable nutritional choices tonight."

​Bachira tapped the 'Order' button with a flourish, then tossed her phone down onto the cushions between them. She reached out, her hand resting naturally, unthinkingly, on Isagi’s knee.

​"Payment confirmed. The dragon-slaying energy should be arriving in thirty minutes," Bachira murmured, shifting closer until her shoulder was pressed firmly against Isagi’s arm. "Now, we just sit here and do absolutely nothing. That's an order, Isagi. Can you manage that?"

​Isagi let out a long, shaky breath, her gaze drifting down to where Bachira’s hand rested. She felt a strange mixture of overwhelming relief and mounting anxiety. The house was quiet, the only sound the distant hum of the refrigerator and the frantic beating of her own heart.

​"Yeah," Isagi whispered, turning her head to look at Bachira, whose golden eyes were already fixed on her with a soft, searching intensity. "I think I can manage that."

The living room felt warm.

Bachira, having successfully ordered their feast, had settled into the sofa, her energy finally plateauing into a comfortable, rhythmic hum.

​But as the silence stretched, Isagi realized she was still wearing her school uniform—stiff, sweaty, and clinging to her skin like a second layer of exhaustion.

​Bachira seemed to notice it at the same moment. She hummed, a sound of sudden realization, and bounced off the cushions.

"Wait! You can't rot in your uniform. You left some loungewear in my closet from last time, right? I’ll go grab them!"

​Isagi watched her sprint toward the stairs, a small smile tugging at her lips.

She waited until the thudding of Bachira’s feet reached the landing before she called out, her voice playful and teasing.

"Hey, Bachira! Be careful with them! Tell me, are you actually washing those yourself, or are you just dumping them on your poor dad to handle?"

​"Hmph!" Bachira’s voice drifted down, indignant and slightly muffled by the distance. "I’ll have you know I am a laundry professional! A genius of the washing machine! Just you wait, Isagi, I folded them with extreme precision!"

​Isagi chuckled, listening to the energetic rustling from upstairs. She glanced at the sofa where her phone lay discarded, the screen dark and inviting.

​Oh, right.

​Her heart did a frantic little flutter. She hadn’t unlocked it yet. She hadn't even checked if Chigiri had sent a follow-up text to those disaster-level messages she’d sent this morning.

Bachira was too kind to pry, but she was also terrifyingly observant—if a notification popped up while Bachira was holding the phone (probably a 'stop talking about Megs' text from Chigiri'), she would do all her rivals a favour and bury herself in the ground.

​Isagi reached over, her movements fluid and swift.

She thumbed in her passcode—which Bachira honestly probably knew already—and the screen glowed to life.

​She opened the chat with Chigiri.

It was a goldmine of absolute cringe: detailed, paragraph-long confessions about how she thought Bachira’s underlights looked like sunshine, how she wanted to hold her hand but was too scared, and a particularly mortifying story about how Isagi had once stared at Bachira for ten minutes straight during practice, completely forgetting to kick the ball.

​"You're a disaster, Yoichi," she muttered to herself, a flush creeping up her neck as she rapidly hit Delete on the entire conversation thread.

​Just as she cleared the last message, she heard the floorboards creaking. Bachira was heading back down, humming a tuneless, cheerful melody.

​Isagi quickly locked the phone and slid it back into the cushion just as Bachira rounded the corner, holding a pile of neatly folded, soft oversized clothes. Bachira looked triumphant, her hair even messier from the brief mission.

​"Behold!" Bachira declared, holding the clothes out like a precious relic. "Clean, fresh, and definitely handled with expert care. I even gave them a little shake to make sure they're extra fluffy."

​Isagi took them, the cotton soft against her skin. She looked up at Bachira, her eyes glinting with a mix of genuine fondness and mischievous intent. "Expert care, huh? I’ll be the judge of that once I put them on."

​Bachira puffed out her cheeks, feigning offense.

"You're lucky you're cute when you're tired, Isagi. Otherwise, I’d make you do the laundry next time!"

​Isagi laughed, a light, carefree sound that filled the room. She stood up, feeling a hundred times lighter than she had an hour ago.

After a few minutes of Isagi in the bathroom, the doorbell chimed, slicing through the quiet of the living room just as Isagi returned, feeling significantly more human in her oversized loungewear.

​Bachira practically vibrated off the sofa, her previous lethargy forgotten. "The haul has arrived! Victory is served!"

​She bolted for the door, and Isagi followed, watching as Bachira retrieved the paper bags from the doorstep with the dramatic flair of a treasure hunter.

Back in the living room, they set up a makeshift feast on the coffee table.

The scent of spicy, numbing Sichuan peppercorns and fried chicken filled the air, an intoxicating mix that made Isagi’s stomach give an honest, audible growl.

​"Look at this," Bachira whispered, reverently opening a container of steaming red ramen.

She looked like she was about to go into battle. It was cute, endueringly so. "This is the fuel of the gods."

​They sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the sofa.

For the first few minutes, the only sound was the clatter of chopsticks and the rhythmic slurping of noodles.

It was a comfortable, unspoken pact: food first, conversation later.

​Isagi took a bite of a chicken wing, the crunch satisfyingly loud.

She watched Bachira, who had already managed to get a smudge of spicy broth on her chin.

Bachira didn't seem to notice; she was focused entirely on her bowl, her eyes wide and glowing with pure, unadulterated pleasure.

​"You have, like, a whole ocean of soup on your face," Isagi remarked, a small, teasing smile playing on her lips.

​Bachira blinked, looked at her, and then laughed, a muffled, noodle-filled sound. She didn't bother reaching for a napkin; she just swiped at it with the back of her hand, smearing the red sauce further across her cheek.

"It's a tactical war paint! It shows I survived the spice!"

​Isagi couldn't help it—she reached over and wiped the spot with her thumb.

Bachira froze, her chopsticks hovering mid-air, a faint, surprised flush rising to her cheeks that wasn't just from the heat of the ramen.

​"You're a mess, Meguru," Isagi said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

​"I'm a connoisseur," Bachira corrected, though her voice had lost its usual sharp, manic edge, settling into something warmer, lower.

She watched Isagi for a second too long, her gaze lingering on Isagi’s lips before she shook her head and dived back into her food.

​They continued eating, the tension that had defined their walk home—that raw, heavy vulnerability—now diffused by the simple, grounding act of sharing a meal.

​"You know," Bachira said after a while, picking up a piece of crispy chicken with her fingers, "my dad usually yells at me if I eat in the living room. Says it attracts 'monsters.' I told him that if they were the kind of monsters that wanted fried chicken, I’d be happy to share."

​Isagi snorted, a piece of noodle nearly escaping her nose. "You really have a monster for everything, don't you?"

​"Everything is a monster if you look at it hard enough," Bachira hummed, her eyes crinkling. She leaned forward, her shoulder bumping against Isagi’s.

"Even this chicken. It’s a 'Flavor-Explosion-Monster.' It’s attacking your taste buds right now, isn't it?"

​"It’s definitely attacking something," Isagi conceded, laughing.

​They finished the meal in a state of sluggish, contented bliss. Isagi felt the heavy, lingering ache in her limbs begin to recede, replaced by a warm, food-induced drowsiness. Bachira had long since abandoned her sitting-upright posture, and was now essentially draped across the floor, her head resting on Isagi’s lap.

​"I'm so full," Bachira groaned, patting her stomach. "I feel like a very happy, very spicy caterpillar."

​Isagi looked down at her, her hand moving instinctively to brush a strand of hair away from Bachira’s eyes.

The golden gaze was heavy, drifting, the usual manic energy replaced by a soft, feline contentment.

​"You're definitely something," Isagi murmured, her fingers tracing the line of Bachira’s cheekbone.

​Bachira leaned into the touch, her eyes closing. "I'm the person who fed you and kept you from collapsing on the sidewalk. You owe me."

​"I owe you? I’m the one who had to listen to a lecture on Porch Gravity Theory."

​"And you loved it," Bachira countered, her voice dropping into a drowsy, contented hum.

She didn't open her eyes, but she reached up, her fingers intertwining with Isagi’s. "You wanna try and sleep now, monster? It can help if you sleep with someone."

Although BAchira hadn't expected an answer, she still shifted her head in Isagi's lap to look at Isagi face to face. After a few moments, Bachira gave up and stared at the ceiling, sighing heavily at the food in her stomach.

​Isagi shifted, her back aching from the floor, and looked down at Bachira. The girl looked impossibly peaceful.

​"Meguru," Isagi murmured, her hand still tracing the soft skin of Bachira’s cheek. "We can't stay on the floor. My back is going to kill me by tomorrow."

​Bachira let out a long, dramatic groan, shifting so her head rested right against Isagi’s stomach.

She looked up, her golden eyes hazy with sleep, shimmering in the dim light.

​"The floor is a solid, honest surface, Isagi! It doesn't judge you for your posture!" She reached up, blindly snagging one of Isagi's hands and pulling it down to her chest.

"Besides, if we move to the sofa, you're just going to start calculating 'optimal sleeping angles.' I know your brain."

​Isagi couldn't help but laugh, a soft, tired sound that vibrated through her chest. "I am not. I just want a pillow that isn't a discarded hoodie."

​Bachira pouted, a look so genuinely endearing it made Isagi’s heart ache in that familiar, terrifying way. "Fine. Sofa it is. But only if you promise to actually try to sleep. And no 'mental marathons,' no replaying practice footage in your head, no monster nonsense. Just... shut the monster off for a few hours."

​Isagi sighed, letting her hand drop to smooth down Bachira’s hair. "I’m trying, Meguru. It's not like I want to stay awake. It's just... the static."

​"Then let me be the white noise," Bachira whispered, her voice dropping into that rare, earnest register that always almost bypassed all of Isagi’s defenses.

She reached up, tugging at Isagi’s hand until Isagi finally leaned down, letting Bachira pull her up from the floor.

​They migrated to the sofa, a clumsy, tangled mess of limbs and giggles. Once they settled, Isagi found herself wrapped around Bachira, pulling the girl firmly against her chest. It felt natural, a gravity they had been orbiting for months, finally collapsing into one another.

​Bachira buried her face in the crook of Isagi’s neck, her breath warm against her skin. She smelled like laundry detergent and the faint, spicy residue of their ramen.

​"Isagi?" Bachira’s voice was muffled, tickling against her collarbone.

​"Yeah?"

​"Will you just... try? Pretty please? Just for me?"

​Isagi felt a swell of warmth that had nothing to do with the room temperature.

She tightened her arms, tucking Bachira closer, feeling the steady, rhythmic beat of her heart against her own.

​"I'm trying, you idiot," Isagi murmured, her lips brushing against the top of Bachira’s mussed hair. before pulling back in embarrasment. "I’m literally doing it right now. I’m 'shutting down' as much as I can."

​"You're not," Bachira retorted, a hint of that signature playfulness creeping back into her tone. "Your heart is still beating at like... 120 beats per minute. That's a 'sprinting to the goal' heart rate, not a 'drifting to dreamland' heart rate."

​"It's beating fast because you're literally climbing on top of me," Isagi graoned, before freezing at the confession she just made, though she didn't make an effort to actually push her away. In fact, she pulled the throw blanket up over them, cocooning them together.

​"It's called cuddling, Yoi! It's scientifically proven to lower cortisol! I'm doing you a medical service!"

Bachira snuggled closer, a leg tangling firmly over Isagi’s, effectively pinning her in place. "So, no more talking. If you start talking about soccer strategy, I’m going to start narrating your internal monologue in a really annoying voice."

​Isagi let out a wet, breathless chuckle, her eyes drooping. The weight of the last few days—the practice, the stress, the crushing, lonely silence of her own room—was finally melting away under the heat of Bachira’s body.

​"Fine," Isagi whispered, her voice thick with genuine exhaustion. "No more talking. But if you start sleep-talking about dribbling through dragons, I’m kicking you off the couch."

​Bachira didn't answer with words. She just hummed, a soft, vibration-like sound that seemed to resonate through Isagi’s very bones. She shifted her head, nuzzling deeper into Isagi's neck, her hand splayed flat against Isagi’s heart.

​"Goodnight, monster," she murmured, her voice barely a breath.

​Isagi closed her eyes, the darkness behind her lids feeling safe for the first time in forever.

"Goodnight, Meguru."