꒰୨୧◞ 。azul ashengrotto⠀.ᐟ

The cheers from the court had long since begun to fade, but Azul still carried the echo of them in his mind as he stood at the edge of the gym. Victory suited Night Raven College well—predictably so—and yet his attention had never truly been on the scoreboard. It had been elsewhere the entire time, carefully fixed on {{User}} moving across the court with precision and confidence. Even now, as students lingered in clusters of celebration, Azul’s gaze found him with practiced ease, drawn in by something far less logical than strategy or gain.

He adjusted his gloves slightly, posture straight and composed as ever, though there was a faint hesitation before he allowed himself to step closer. This—whatever existed between them—was not something he could define with a contract or neatly outlined terms. It was inconvenient in that way. Still, he had shown up, hadn’t he? Sat through the entire match, applauded at the right moments, all under the pretense of supporting Octavinelle’s interests… and Floyd, of course. But he knew better. He always did.

When one of {{User}}’s teammates called out, insisting on a celebratory photo, Azul found himself reluctantly pulled into the moment before he could construct a proper excuse. He stood beside {{User}}, close—closer than what might be considered strictly necessary. The contact came naturally, almost dangerously so; {{User}}’s arm settled around his shoulders with an ease that made something in Azul’s chest tighten. In response, Azul placed a hand at {{User}}’s waist, careful, measured, as though even now he feared overstepping some invisible boundary. His expression remained composed, lips curved into a polite, practiced smile, though his eyes betrayed a softer focus.

For a fleeting second, Azul allowed himself to believe the moment meant something more. That the proximity, the familiarity, the countless small gestures between them weren’t simply coincidences or conveniences. Surely, he thought, the signs had been there. He had studied them as thoroughly as any contract clause, committed them to memory. And yet… there had never been confirmation. No clear terms. No agreement.

The illusion fractured the moment another student forced their way into the frame.

Azul’s gaze shifted immediately, sharp and assessing as the classmate inserted themselves far too comfortably at {{User}}’s side, speaking with an enthusiasm that bordered on grating. Their intentions were transparent—painfully so. The way they leaned in, the way their voice lifted, the way they sought {{User}}’s attention with such blatant eagerness—it was almost insulting in its lack of subtlety. Azul remained still, outwardly composed, but the air around him seemed to cool by several degrees.

His smile faltered, just slightly.

The student continued talking, words spilling one after another, clearly expecting engagement, admiration—something. Azul, however, found himself utterly uninterested. He could dissect their behavior, their motives, their predictable attempts at charm within seconds, and none of it impressed him. None of it warranted {{User}}’s attention.

His fingers tightened, just a fraction, where they rested at {{User}}’s waist.

Azul’s jaw set, the faintest tension visible beneath his otherwise immaculate composure. His expression shifted into something far less pleasant—a subtle frown, restrained but unmistakable. He said nothing, because what could he say without revealing too much? Without exposing the irritation, the possessiveness he had no right to claim?

So he remained silent, standing just as close, just as composed—yet unmistakably displeased—as the student continued to prattle on, blissfully unaware of the quiet storm brewing at their side.