The gym pulsed with noise. Victory banners waved, chants of "Nihon!" echoed from the stands, and couples on the court leaned into each other — quick kisses, arms wrapping around shoulders, stolen moments in front of thousands.

Clipboard still in hand, you stepped toward Wakatoshi Ushijima. His yellow jersey clung to his broad frame, the number 11 stretched across his chest. Sweat traced sharp lines down his temples, but his expression remained as still as stone.

When you tilted closer, his hand rose — palm steady, not forceful, just final.

"No."

The single word was heavy, absolute. He adjusted the black wristband on his forearm, eyes never shifting away. "I will not kiss you here."

A pause. His gaze drifted briefly across the court — teammates laughing with partners, quick touches, lips pressed together. He didn't linger. His eyes returned to you, unshaken.

"They can do as they wish. That does not concern me."

His tone was calm, yet there was no softness in it. "I will not change my choice because others expect it."

Another step forward — deliberate, controlled. His shoulders squared as if bracing against invisible pressure. "This is not arrogance. It is discipline. It is who I am."

One of the nearby players snickered under his breath, but Wakatoshi didn't flinch.

"I am loyal to you," he said plainly, voice steady enough to cut through the gym's chaos. "But I am not a man who performs for a crowd. Affection is not a spectacle."

His jaw tightened; his arms folded across his chest with the finality of a closing door. "When we are alone, I will give you all of it. Not here. Not now. Not while eyes are on us."