The match should have been simple.

It wasn’t.

Cold air cut across the pitch, sharp enough to sting the lungs. The stands were loud—too loud—but distant in the way noise always became once the game began.

Arthit didn’t hear it anymore.

He saw:
• angles
• movement
• openings

The Golden Snitch flashed once, a flicker of gold against the grey sky.

There.

He leaned forward on his broom.

Locked.

Across the field, someone else saw it too.

Kongpob Suthiluck adjusted his trajectory without hesitation.

Clean line. No wasted motion.

He didn’t look at the crowd.
Didn’t look at the players.
Only the Snitch.
It was close.

Closer than it should have been.

Arthit pushed harder.

Wind tore past his ears, the world narrowing into a single point of gold.

He reached—
—and something shifted.

A shadow cut across his path.

Not deliberate.

Not controlled.

A slip.

Kongpob was falling. Or would, within thirty seconds.

Kongpob’s broom tilted at the wrong angle—just enough to break balance.

For a fraction of a second, it held.

Then it didn’t.

Arthit saw it.

Of course he did.

He noticed things.

He also saw—
the Snitch.

Right there.

Within reach.

There was a moment.

Small.

Precise.

Where both outcomes existed at once.

Catch the Snitch. Win the match.
Or—
Kongpob dropped.

Not dramatically.
Not all at once.
Just enough to go to point of no return.

Enough that the fall had started.

Enough that it wouldn’t stop on its own.

Arthit swore under his breath.

Not loud.

Just enough.

And then—
he let go.

The Snitch vanished past his fingers.

Ignored.

Irrelevant.

He veered sharply, cutting across the air at an angle that made no sense for the game.

Only for the fall.

Kongpob hit him harder than expected.

Momentum. Weight. Miscalculation.

Arthit’s grip tightened instinctively as the impact jolted through both of them.

For a second, the broom dipped dangerously.

“Hold on!” Arthit snapped.

Kongpob did not respond.

He was too focused on not falling.

Arthit adjusted—badly, then better—pulling them back into something resembling control.

The ground slowed.

Not enough.

But enough.

They didn’t crash.

That, apparently, was considered a success.

The whistle blew.

Loud. Final.

Irrelevant.

They hit the ground harder than necessary, but upright.

That counted.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then—
“You let it go.”

Kongpob’s voice was steady.
Too steady.
Arthit looked at him like that was the most ridiculous thing he could have said.
“You were falling.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

Arthit frowned. “What?”
“The Snitch,” Kongpob said, brushing dust from his sleeve with unnecessary precision. “You had it.”

“I didn’t have it.”

“You would have.”

Arthit stared at him.

Then let out a short, incredulous breath.

“You’re serious?”

Kongpob met his eyes.
Completely.
“Yes.”

There was no anger in it.
No gratitude either.
Just—
assessment.

Arthit shook his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“That remains to be seen.”

Arthit barked a laugh at that.
Sharp. Unrestrained.

“Next time I’ll let you hit the ground, then.”

Kongpob tilted his head slightly.

“Unlikely.”

“Why?”

A pause.

Kongpob’s gaze flicked over him.
Quick.
Measuring.
“Because,” he said, “you’ve already demonstrated a pattern.”

Arthit blinked.
“What pattern?”

But Kongpob had already stepped back.

Distance restored.

“Poor decision-making under pressure,” he said calmly.

Arthit stared at him.

Then snorted.

“Right. Saving someone is a poor decision now.”

“In a match where your sole objective is to catch the Snitch?” Kongpob replied. “Yes.”

“That’s—” Arthit stopped, searching for a word strong enough. “That’s stupid.”

“It’s accurate.”

They stood there.

Mud, wind, noise returning slowly around them.

Arthit shook his head again, still half-laughing.

“You’re actually insane.”
“And you,” Kongpob said, “are inefficient.”

That should have ended it.

It didn’t.

Because as Arthit turned away—already moving on, already done—
Kongpob didn’t.

He watched.

Not openly.

Not long enough to be noticed.

Just enough.

Arthit joined his team, loud and alive and entirely unconcerned with what had just happened.
Already laughing.
Already arguing.
Already—
over it.

Kongpob’s gaze lingered a second longer.

He looked up.

The Snitch was gone.

Match cancelled.

Outcome decided.

Incorrect choice.

And yet—
His attention shifted back.

To Arthit.

Not admiration.

Not gratitude.

Something far less convenient.
“…inefficient,” he repeated under his breath.

But he did not look away.