The clouds finally thin after two days of rain, leaving the world rinsed and bright. Water still beads along the chain-link fence, each drop catching the sun like a tiny bell. The lanes are darker than usual, damp red turning almost wine-colored where the rubber hasn't dried. It smells like wet chalk and oranges—the janitor must've mopped the hall just before the team came out.
Aoi sits on the second step of the bleachers with her brace half-unbuckled, heel resting on her bag to keep the knee straight. She taps a rhythm on her water bottle: three soft knocks, a pause, three more. It's not a song so much as a question she doesn't know how to ask.
Across the field, Ren stands at the storage shed arranging athletic tape rolls into a perfect line. He always does that—foam rollers stacked by height, scissors in a little cup, alcohol wipes squared to the edge of the tray. It's a habit that makes the whole place feel less fragile, as if order itself could keep injuries from happening.
When he passes by the bleachers, Aoi says, "You ever get tired of watching everyone else run?"
"Every day," he answers without slowing.
She expects one of his dry half-jokes, something to make the question bounce off. Instead, he glances toward the lanes where the boys' team is jogging warmup laps, sunlight nicking the edge of his eyes.
"Then why stay?" she asks.
He wipes his hands on a towel, thinking. "Because it's better than pretending I don't care."
The words settle somewhere under her ribs. They sound simple, but they don't feel simple at all—more like something worn smooth by being carried too long.
Coach Minobe whistles once. "Kisaragi! Walking laps. Hayama spots you."
Ren raises an eyebrow at Aoi as if to ask You cleared that? The coach answers from across the field as though he heard the thought. "I'm watching."
Aoi sighs like she's being sentenced, then pushes herself up. Ren doesn't offer an arm; he just falls into step a half-pace behind, the way a shadow learns the right distance.
They start along the inner lane.
"You can walk faster," she says after ten meters.
"You can slow down," he says.
"I hate slowing down."
"I know."
She shoots him a look. "You say that too much."
"Because it's usually true."
She clicks her tongue, but it's more amused than angry. The track under their shoes squeaks faintly where the water hasn't dried. They pass the exchange zone triangles, white paint bright like teeth.
By the second straight, she's breathing a little easier. Ren keeps the pace even; if she tries to speed up, he doesn't argue, he just stays that same half-step behind. If she falters, he doesn't reach for her—he slows so she doesn't have to admit it.
At the end of the first lap she stops, gripping the fence to stretch her calf. The brace strap has loosened. Ren kneels to adjust it, fingers careful on the webbing, knuckles brushing fabric rather than skin.
"Too tight?" he asks.
"It's fine."
"You say that too much," he returns.
She laughs before she can stop herself, and the sound startles them both. Sun cuts through a break in the clouds and throws the fence's diamond shadow over their shoes.
"Again?" he asks, standing.
"Yeah."
They make another lap, slower. Aoi watches the boys practicing baton exchanges. She knows each runner's stride by sound—the slap of heel-toe, who breathes too loud, who leans too early into the curve. The baton passes look good this morning; nobody hesitates. Even from far away she can tell who's relaxed and who's trying too hard.
"It looks easy from far away," she says.
"It always does," Ren answers.
They finish, then head for the scoreboard shade. Aoi lowers herself to the turf with more care than she wants to admit. Ren sets the med kit down and checks his phone timer.
"Five minutes rest," he says.
Aoi unwraps a small onigiri from her lunch box and breaks it cleanly in half. "You eat?"
"I already did."
"Liar." She offers him the piece anyway. "You always skip lunch."
He gives her a look that says Since when do you watch me? She shrugs. "You're easy to read."
"That's new," he says. "Most people say the opposite."
"I'm not most people."
"Yeah." He looks away. "I figured."
They share the rice without ceremony, passing the napkin back and forth, the kind of small intimacy that doesn't call itself that. From here, the sound of the baton hits the palm is soft as a page turning. The rhythm gets into her jaw, into the back of her tongue. She swallows and asks, "Does it bother you? Being this close to it again."
He doesn't answer right away. "Some days. But not like before."
"What changed?"
"You," he says, and then, maybe realizing what he's admitted, adds quickly, "The work. Keeping somebody else moving instead of measuring myself by it."
Her cheeks warm despite the shade. "You're terrible at phrasing things."
"I'm out of practice."
"Practice," she echoes, tasting the word like she used to. "I miss that."
"You will again," he says simply.
She doesn't ask how he can be so sure when he can't promise it about himself. The timer buzzes in his palm; he resets it with a thumb.
"Walk the backstretch," he says. "Then we try standing marches. Minimal knee lift."
"Minimal lift," she repeats, making it sound like a personal insult.
"Your favorite."
They do the backstretch. Wind moves across the track in low folds, a slow-running river made of air. When they stop, he cues the marches. His hand hovers near her shoulder, not touching—just there, the way you hold a door without saying after you.
"Smaller," he says when she lifts too high.
She grumbles and obeys. The muscle trembles, then steadies. The third set looks clean.
"Better," he says.
"You could try not sounding surprised."
"I'm not."
"You're terrible at lying," she says, a little proud.
When practice ends, the rest of the team starts collecting hurdles and cones. Aoi insists on carrying one of the small hurdles. Ren doesn't argue—he just keeps near enough to catch it if her grip slips.
Hana's voice carries from the gate. "Princess! Don't you dare turn that knee into confetti!"
"I'm fine!" Aoi calls back.
"Liar!" Hana sings, already halfway down the path with Rika and Mei in tow.
Ren glances after them, faintly amused. "You have an entourage."
"They're insurance."
"For what?"
"So I don't vanish while I'm not moving," she says, too fast, then adds, "They bring snacks."
He doesn't tease her for the first answer. He just nods like she's said something wise.
By the time the field empties, the sun has lowered into a tired, honey color. Water still clings to the chain links; each drop burns like a tiny planet. The flags at the far end bend, then recover. Somewhere a bicycle bell rings, then fades down the road.
Aoi leans against the fence, facing the lanes. "You ever think about why the wind never stops?"
Ren shakes his head. "No."
"Because it doesn't have to prove anything," she says. "It just moves."
He studies her profile—the angle of her ponytail, the violet in her eyes turning deep like dusk. A few loose strands cling to her cheek where the breeze has touched sweat. He thinks about all the times he'd treated wind like an opponent, something to cut through or beat back.
"Maybe that's the trick," he says softly. "Letting it move and not chasing it."
She looks at him, surprised. "That's… not stupid."
"Most good metaphors are," he says, deadpan, and she laughs, the rectangle of light on the turf shivering like it felt the sound.
They carry the last hurdle into the shed. Ren flicks the switch; the single bulb inside hums awake. He logs Aoi's sets on the clipboard—range figures, notes about guarding less on the third interval. His handwriting is unshowy but precise, like he's trying to respect the facts.
At the door, Coach Minobe appears with his hands in his pockets, as if he has nowhere better to be but here. "How's the knee?"
"Annoyed," Aoi says. "Alive."
"Good." The coach glances at Ren. "Your pace work is sound."
"I'm not—" Ren starts, then stops. He knows the coach means the walk, the cadence he kept without making it a leash.
"Same time tomorrow," Minobe says, already turning. "No heroics."
"Define heroics," Aoi calls.
"Anything that makes Hayama make a face," he says over his shoulder. "Which is almost nothing, so don't try your luck."
Ren's mouth almost moves. "I make faces."
Aoi smirks. "I'll believe it when I see one."
They lock the shed. The campus has gone quiet in the way late afternoons do—blue gathering in corners, the day putting itself away. They walk toward the gate at the same pace, not bothering to pretend it's coincidence.
At the curve where the path splits, he stops. "Homework," he says, handing her a folded slip torn from the clipboard. "Two rounds tonight. Heel slides, quad sets, five-second holds. Text if there's sharp pain."
She nods, tucking it into her jacket pocket.
"Or if you panic," he adds, the words light but not joking.
"I don't panic," she lies automatically.
"I know," he says, and the way he says it sounds like I'll be there if you do.
She turns before her face can give anything away. "See you."
"See you," he echoes.
She goes. He watches until she crosses under the row of gingko trees and disappears into their shade. When he looks back at the field, the wind is running quiet laps all by itself. For the first time in a long time, it doesn't feel like it's blowing past him. It feels like it's pausing—like a held breath with his name in it.
Ren steps to lane three and stands with his toes on the line. He doesn't move. He just lets the air press against his shirt and listens to the hush it leaves when it slips on.
He almost smiles.
Almost.
Then he turns away and heads for the gate, the note of her footsteps still somewhere in his chest, keeping pace with his own.