Morning drifts into the infirmary like a shy guest—thin light through paper blinds, the smell of antiseptic softened by spring air. Aoi Kisaragi sits on the edge of the bed with her left leg extended, a towel folded beneath the knee. Her tracksuit jacket is zipped to the collar as if pride could be worn like armor.
Ren Hayama sets a blue cooler on the rolling tray. He doesn't say good morning; he nods, and the nod feels enough.
"Fifteen minutes on, fifteen off," he says, cracking the lid. The ice inside answers with a small, bright music. "Twice. Then we test range."
"I hate this," Aoi mutters.
"I know."
Her violet eyes flick to him. "You always say that like you actually do."
Ren lifts the first pack, wraps it in a thin towel, and offers it. She takes it, presses it to the back of her knee, and inhales sharply through her teeth.
"Hurts?" he asks.
"It's ice," she snaps. "It's supposed to."
He sets a timer on his phone and pulls the rolling stool beside her bed. For a minute, the only sound is the faint buzz of the clock and the soft click of the ceiling fan. Aoi stares at the window, jaw clenched, knuckles white around the towel.
Ren says, "You can squeeze the bed frame instead of your own fingers."
She doesn't answer, but her hands move—one to the cool metal rail, one snatching the edge of the mattress like she's bracing for a wave. The hiss leaves her throat a little easier.
"Breathe," he adds.
"I am breathing."
"Like a person, not a sprint."
She glares. He looks at the timer.
Three minutes crawl by. He checks the joint lightly with the back of his knuckles to avoid startling the muscle. "You're guarding," he says. "Try not to."
"How?"
"Think of the pain like a passing car. Notice it—don't chase it."
"That's stupid."
"Most good rehab cues are."
For a second she's almost smiling, and then she remembers she's supposed to be miserable and looks away again. The ice leeches heat; her shoulders fall a fraction.
Coach Minobe slides the door open, head tilted, whistle sleeping against his chest. "You two survive in here?"
"She will," Ren answers.
Aoi tries to sit up straighter. "I can do drills this afternoon—starts, maybe light strides—"
"No," Minobe says, not unkindly. "You'll do exactly what Hayama gives you and you'll hate it, and that's how we'll know it's working." His eyes crease faintly. "Report after homeroom."
He leaves as quietly as he arrived. Aoi exhales something halfway between a laugh and a sigh. "He always knows how to ruin an argument."
"Ten more minutes," Ren says, tapping the timer.
"Of ice? You're a sadist."
"The word you want is 'assistant.'"
She snorts. The sound surprises both of them.
When the first round ends, Ren swaps the pack, then helps her slide from the bed to the mat—no weight on the injured leg, one hand on his shoulder, the other clutching the bed rail. Her fingers are light but certain. He moves like furniture, steady and exactly where she expects him to be.
They sit on the floor. Ren draws a simple diagram on a legal pad—knee joint, hamstring, line arrows. His handwriting is plain, careful.
"This is what we'll test," he says, tapping the tendon path. "Start with heel slides. Small. Stop before pain."
Aoi sets her heel down and begins to draw it toward her without lifting the foot. The motion's barely anything—a cautious nudge of rubber against vinyl. Her body wants to jump; her mind yanks the reins. She stops short, jaw tight.
"That's it," Ren says. "Half the size. It's not a sprint; it's a hello."
"That's stupid," she repeats, but the words are softer. She halves the range. The muscle trembles—less from strain than from the humiliation of moving slowly when you know how to fly.
"Five," he counts. "Rest."
She stares at the ceiling. "I can hear the others from here."
"They're doing warmups," he says. "You're doing the thing that lets you warm up again."
Silence. The fan ticks another circle.
"Do you miss it?" she asks suddenly.
Ren's eyes stay on the notepad. "Which part?"
"Running. The wind. The way the world gets quiet and your body… doesn't."
He considers. The hazel in his eyes looks dull when he thinks too long. "I miss the way it felt before I needed it to prove anything."
Aoi's lips press together. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got."
He cues another set. She moves better this time, because there's nothing more to say.
They cycle through heel slides, quad sets, and gentle isometrics. Ren's voice is the metronome—low, even, never scolding. When she cheats and tries to sneak extra range, he doesn't scold; he simply puts two fingers on her shin and says, "There," and her body, to her surprise, listens.
After the second ice interval, he brings out a foam roller and two small lacrosse balls from the cooler's side pocket.
Aoi narrows her eyes. "That's not ice."
"Calf rolling," he says. "Light pressure." He sits beside her on the mat, places a ball under his own calf to demonstrate. "You're going to hate it less than the ice."
He rolls a slow strip of muscle and breathes. She mirrors him, awkward at first, then with a tiny huff when the ball finds a knot.
"Breathe into it," he says. "Let the muscle melt."
"Muscles don't melt."
"Most good metaphors are stupid."
She laughs—really laughs this time—and then bites it back like the sound betrayed her. Ren doesn't look over, but a crease of amusement touches his mouth. It isn't quite a smile. It's a weather change.
They move to stretches. Ren kneels behind her to correct posture, fingertips barely whispering along her shoulder blade to cue alignment. The touch isn't intimate—it's patient, like he's teaching her body a language it once knew and forgot in fear.
A sharp knock on the door; Hana Kurosawa pokes her head in—the one with the heart-shaped pins and volume set to eleven.
"Princess! We brought sugar." She waltzes in with Rika and Mei behind her, a paper bag of mochi doughnuts held up like a trophy. "Are you alive? Are they torturing you? Is he torturing you?"
"I'm rehabilitating," Aoi says grandly, as if that were somehow cooler than sprinting. "And yes."
Hana squints at Ren. "You look too normal to be evil."
"He's a sadist," Aoi supplies.
"Assistant," Ren corrects mildly, handing Aoi a paper cup of water.
Mei, glasses fogging from the sudden outside air, smiles with relief when she sees Aoi upright. "We thought you might want company after class."
Rika leans on the doorframe, eyes flicking from Ren to the cooler to Aoi's leg. "He's cute in a bland way," she whispers loud enough to be illegal.
Aoi chokes on her water. Ren lifts the foam roller and stands. "We're done in five," he says, as if he didn't hear anything. "Then you can have… whatever that is."
"Mochi salvation," Hana declares.
Ren packs the roller and balls back into the cooler, scribbles a few notes, then tears the bottom half of the page and slides it across to Aoi.
"What's this?" she asks, suspicious.
"Homework," he says. "Two rounds tonight. Heel slides, quad sets, five-second holds. Text me if anything pinches where it shouldn't." He hesitates a half-beat and adds, "Or if you panic."
She glances at the number scrawled at the bottom. His name above it is plain: Hayama. No emoji. No explanation. The act lands softer than a kindness should.
"I don't panic," she lies.
"I know," he says, meaning the opposite. "But if you do."
Hana's stare is a physical object. "He gave you his number."
"It's for rehab," Aoi says, a little too fast.
Ren wheels the cooler to the door. "Don't run today," he says over his shoulder.
"Obviously," she fires back.
"Some people try."
She opens her mouth to swear she won't. Closes it. Nods once.
He leaves. The room exhales.
Hana immediately collapses onto the empty bed. "Okay, so he's weirdly calming. I hate it. I love it. What is that."
Mei perches on the chair, hands folded, soft smile aimed at Aoi. "How does it feel?"
"Like not moving is the hardest thing I've ever done," Aoi admits. The words taste like truth. "Like if I stop, I'll disappear."
Rika tosses the doughnut bag into Aoi's lap. "Then don't disappear. Distract yourself. We're taking you to that cat café after school. Doctor's orders."
"I'm not a doctor," Aoi says.
"Then it's friend orders," Rika says, triumphant.
Aoi looks down at the homework slip. The black ink is neat, deliberate. The number sits there like a lifeline she will absolutely, definitely not use.
"Fine," she sighs. "Cat café."
"Victory," Hana sings, throwing an imaginary confetti handful.
The day thins into afternoon. After the final bell, Aoi meets the girls at the gate, the campus wind pushing cherry petals along the pavement. She walks carefully, like she's wearing her own body for the first time.
Across the courtyard, Ren and Kenta Morishima exit the building together. Kenta says something that makes Ren huff a quiet laugh, head tilted, eyes catching the light for a heartbeat. It changes his face. Aoi looks away before anyone can catch her staring.
"Earth to princess," Hana says, clicking her tongue. "Let's go. The cats won't pet themselves."
They go. The wind follows, tugging at Aoi's ponytail, folding the corner of Ren's note inside her pocket until it creases like a bookmark.
That night, Aoi sits on her bedroom floor with a towel beneath her knee, phone timer glowing like a small moon. The house is quiet. A message from her mother sits pinned at the top—Don't overdo it. Proud of you. Her father's unread bubble below it—We'll review film after you heal. She doesn't open either.
She sets the ice pack, teeth clenched, and starts the timer. Thirty seconds in, the urge to throw it across the room crests like a wave.
She reaches for her phone.
Her thumb hovers over Hayama.
She doesn't text him.
She doesn't need to.
She breathes—in like a person, not a sprint—and lets the cold pass through her like weather.
Somewhere outside, wind brushes the eaves and moves on.
When the timer chimes, she peels the towel away and realizes the fear, for tonight at least, is a little quieter.
She sets the second round and presses start.