The track is still damp from last night's drizzle, each lane lined with glistening pearls of water that catch the morning sun. It's quiet—too early for most of the team—but Aoi's already there, brace tightened, sneakers double-knotted.
Today she'll jog. Just once around the curve, nothing more. That's what Ren said. "One lap, no heroics."
She can still hear his voice like a metronome.
The wind brushes past her bangs, lifting the loose strands. For the first time since her injury, it doesn't sting to look at the track—it feels like standing in front of an old friend she's finally ready to speak to again.
Coach Minobe waves from the bench. "You cleared it with the doc?"
"Yes."
He nods. "Good. Hayama's on standby."
She looks over to where Ren stands near the shed, clipboard tucked under one arm. His posture is relaxed, but she knows him well enough now to see the tension behind it—the faint lift of his shoulders, the way his thumb taps the edge of the board.
He's pretending to be calm.
So is she.
Warmups first.
Heel slides. Light quad sets. Small marches. Every move feels heavier than it should, but the pain that used to make her flinch is gone—replaced by a cautious pull, a conversation instead of a warning.
Ren watches her form, quietly counting in his head. He doesn't interrupt, doesn't correct. Just stands there, the way he always does: present, not pressing.
When she finishes, she looks up.
"Well?"
He nods. "Looks good."
"That all?"
He smirks faintly. "I don't want to jinx it."
"Superstitious now?"
"Careful."
"Always."
She grins. It's the first one that feels unforced.
The whistle blows. Time for the lap.
She walks to lane two, heart thudding in her chest. It's not nerves—it's something heavier, the weight of remembering.
Ren steps up beside her, just far enough away to give her space. "You ready?"
"I think so."
"Don't think. Just move."
She exhales slowly, closing her eyes for half a second. Then she pushes off—light, careful, deliberate. Her stride is shorter, but the rhythm returns faster than she expected. The first ten meters feel foreign. The next ten, familiar.
Her knee twinges once, then settles.
The curve approaches.
Ren walks along the infield, matching her pace from the grass. "Breathe. Keep it even."
"I know," she calls back between breaths. "You say that too much."
He chuckles under his breath, almost too soft to hear.
She rounds the bend. For a second, time folds back—the cheering, the pressure, her father's voice. But then the sound fades, replaced by the steady wind. No fear. No shouting. Just motion.
When she crosses the line, she slows to a jog, then a walk. The air feels cold in her throat, but she's smiling.
Ren stops a few steps away. "How's it feel?"
"Like remembering how to breathe."
He nods. "Good. Then that's enough for today."
"Just one?"
"One is enough."
Coach Minobe claps once. "That's the best I've seen you move since the fall. Take the win, Kisaragi."
Aoi bows lightly. "Thank you, Coach."
When he leaves to check the next group, Ren hands her a towel. "Nice job."
"You sound surprised."
"I'm not." He hesitates. "Just proud."
She blinks. "Proud?"
"You worked for it."
It's a simple thing, but her throat tightens. People tell her good job all the time. No one says I'm proud of you. Not since her father. Not like this.
She looks down to hide the warmth creeping up her neck. "You should smile more when you say things like that. It'd sound less awkward."
He actually laughs. "I'll take notes."
After cooldown, Aoi sits on the bleachers, legs stretched out, watching the rest of the team run relays. The sky's deepening into blue; the smell of sweat and dirt feels nostalgic instead of suffocating.
Ren joins her, two bottles of water in hand. He sets one down beside her.
"Thanks."
He nods. "Your form's cleaner than before the injury."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah. You're listening to your body now instead of outrunning it."
She smiles, small but real. "That's because someone wouldn't stop nagging me about it."
"I prefer 'guidance.'"
"You're the worst guide ever."
"Maybe."
They sit in silence for a while, the sound of the baton exchanges echoing across the field.
Then she says, softly, "You really used to run, didn't you?"
He freezes for half a heartbeat, then nods. "Yeah. A long time ago."
"Why'd you stop?"
He doesn't answer right away. "Because I forgot why I started."
The honesty in it makes her chest ache.
She looks at him—the calm eyes, the faint half-smile, the boy who hides storms behind still water—and realizes she's starting to understand him in ways that scare her.
Before she can say anything, Coach calls her name again.
"Go home early, Kisaragi. Don't push your luck."
She stands, brushing off her knees. "See you tomorrow, Hayama."
He watches her walk away down the path, brace glinting in the sun.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "See you."
That night, she writes in her notebook for the first time since her injury:
I ran today.
The wind didn't feel cold.
I think it smiled.