Prompt: Asta and Noelle are Olympic hopefuls, each chasing a spot on Team USA in their respective sports. This is the story of how they meet at the tryouts—and become each other's rock.
—
The sun beat down on the Olympic training complex, all chrome buildings and rubberized tracks. It looked like a place that demanded excellence just by existing.
Asta bounced on the balls of his feet, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, eyes wide.
Holy crap, it's real. This is it.
The flag flapped high above the welcome center, red, white, and his dream in the wind. His heart pounded like he was mid-throw, but it wasn't nerves.
It was adrenaline.
"This place is crazy, huh?" he grinned at the nearest person—some track runner with wireless earbuds and zero interest.
They ignored him. He kept grinning anyway.
Asta was used to that.
Noelle stepped out of the transport van twenty yards away, already regretting the decision to wear her navy jacket. The heat pressed down like judgment.
Too many eyes. She kept her posture perfect, chin up, shoulders square. Like she belonged.
Like she hadn't nearly thrown up on the ride over.
Gym bag in hand, she scanned the entrance area. Coaches. Athletes. Reporters already circling like vultures. No familiar faces. Good.
She could breathe.
Until she heard shouting.
"LET'S GO, USA!—Ow, sorry, didn't mean to bump ya!"
Noelle flinched.
There he was. Loud. Shirt stretched across unfairly broad shoulders. Laughing like this wasn't the most important week of their lives.
Asta.
She didn't know him, but she already hated him.
He caught her staring and shot a thumbs-up like they were best friends.
She gave him a look cold enough to flash-freeze lava.
His grin only got wider.
Great. She walked faster.
—
The first orientation meeting was held in the main gym. Massive. Sterile. Full of Olympic hopefuls in branded gear trying not to look terrified.
Asta sat near the front, bouncing his leg. His coach told him to act cool. Relaxed. Professional.
He tried. For ten seconds.
Then he caught sight of a white-haired girl slipping in through the side entrance, expression carved from marble.
Her again.
She walked like she was balancing a crown and dared anyone to knock it off. Elegant. Kind of scary.
Asta tilted his head, watching her slide into a seat two rows behind.
She didn't look at him.
He gave a small wave anyway.
No response.
Tough crowd.
—
They trained in rotations.
Asta was dumped with the field athletes, immediately dwarfed by towering veterans. Shot putters with shoulders like cliffs. He got stares.
"Where'd they find this kid? High school JV?"
Someone chuckled. Asta pretended not to hear.
Instead, he locked eyes on the practice ring.
He could do this.
He would do this.
Grip. Step. Twist. Release.
The shot put flew. Not bad, not amazing. Some raw power. Coach didn't comment. Clipboard scribbles only.
Asta wiped sweat off his brow, jaw tight.
He'd have to scream it into the dirt every day if he wanted to make a dent here.
And he would.
—
Noelle's first practice was worse.
Beam drills. Her worst.
Everything felt off—the texture under her soles, the fluorescent lighting, the silent judgment from coaches watching like hawks.
She landed a turn slightly crooked. Bit her lip. Fixed it.
Missed the tempo on her dismount.
Ugh.
No one said anything, but she felt it.
She imagined her brothers whispering in the stands.
Noelle, you should've stuck that.
Noelle, how embarrassing.
She walked off the mat without waiting for feedback.
—
Later, by the athlete cafeteria, she stood at the vending machine debating electrolytes.
"You always that serious, or just hate snacks?"
The voice made her wince.
She turned.
Him again.
This time in tank top and shorts, a little too proud of his biceps. Dripping sweat and somehow still smiling.
Asta.
Noelle blinked. "Do you talk to everyone?"
He thought about it. "Pretty much, yeah."
She didn't answer. Just turned back to the machine.
"You're a gymnast, right?" he asked. "Saw your routine. You float like... like whoosh!"—he waved both hands—"and then BAM!"
She stared.
"That supposed to be a compliment?"
He nodded, unfazed. "Totally. You're, like, scary precise. It's awesome."
Noelle crossed her arms. "You ruined my focus this morning."
Asta tilted his head. "What?"
"You were yelling outside the gym." Her eyes narrowed. "I was mid-routine."
He scratched the back of his neck. "Oh. Uh. My bad. I just get hyped."
"No kidding."
They stood in silence.
Then she grabbed her drink and walked off without another word.
Asta watched her go, whistling low. "Okay… prickly."
—
That night, dorm assignments came in.
Noelle shared a suite with a swimmer who talked in her sleep. Not ideal, but manageable.
She sat by the window, stretching in silence, watching the campus settle.
Out there, Asta was probably still running drills under the lights. She'd seen him out on the field twice already.
He trained like someone chasing the world's last train.
Loud, reckless idiot. But determined.
She sighed and leaned her forehead against the cool glass.
This place… it wasn't built for mistakes.
—
Asta flopped onto his bed, hair still wet from a too-fast shower, bones aching in the best way.
He'd launched a decent throw before dark. Not good enough for the coaches to care, but he felt it.
Progress.
Still grinning, he stared at the ceiling.
That girl, though. Noelle.
Pretty eyes. Sharper tongue.
He liked her fire, even if it was pointed straight at him.
She'll come around. Probably.
Maybe.
He threw a pillow over his face and laughed.
Let the Games begin.
—
Asta spotted her first.
Morning sunlight poured through the gym windows, cutting stripes across the floor. He was heading in for weight training, but paused mid-step.
Noelle was mid-pike, legs carved lines of steel, body spinning through air like she owned it.
He let out a low whistle. "Dang."
She landed, wobbled—just for a second—and reset. Sharp, controlled. Not a smile in sight.
Asta raised a hand. "Lookin' strong today, Noe—"
She whipped around. "Don't call me that."
He blinked. "Oh. Uh. Sorry. Noelle?"
She didn't respond. Just turned her back.
Asta scratched his cheek. What'd I even do this time?
—
Ten minutes later, she heard him again.
Shouting through the weight room like someone hit a touchdown.
"LET'S GO! THAT'S TWENTY MORE, BABY!"
Clank. Grunt. More yelling.
Noelle ground her teeth. She was two floors up, yet somehow his voice echoed in her skull.
She tried to tune it out. Handstand holds. Breath control. Precision, not power.
But the noise bled through the walls.
Asta, again.
Of course it was.
—
Their paths crossed by the water fountains.
He waved, towel slung around his neck, shirt clinging to him like a second skin.
"Yo, Princess Precision!"
She stopped dead.
He winced. "Okay, that came out wrong—"
"No, please, continue." She gave him the flattest stare she could manage. "Let me guess. 'Lighten up'? 'Smile more'?"
Asta raised both hands. "Whoa. I was just gonna ask how your day was going."
She stepped around him. "Loud."
He watched her go, scratching his jaw. Seriously, what's her deal?
—
Later that week, they were scheduled for overlapping slots on the open field. Throwing drills for Asta. Floor work for Noelle.
He arrived early.
Set up his shot. Warmed up his shoulders. Jogged a bit. All was good.
Until she showed up.
She unrolled her mat exactly fifteen feet from the throwing ring.
Asta raised an eyebrow. "This whole field's open. You sure you wanna practice here?"
Noelle didn't look at him. "My coach assigned this space."
He grinned. "You sure it's not 'cause you secretly like the view?"
Her eyes slid to him. Flat. Deadpan. "Please. I've seen better biceps on ballet dancers."
"Ouch."
She started stretching. Silent. Focused.
Asta tried to ignore her. Really.
But her presence threw off his rhythm.
He stepped into his spin—off tempo. Shot released late. It hit the grass with a thud.
"Crap," he muttered.
Noelle didn't comment.
Which somehow made it worse.
—
She was in the zone now.
Tumbling passes. Roundoff. Back handspring. Layout.
Each movement crisp, practiced, clean.
Asta stole glances between throws.
She didn't smile once. But her eyes burned. Focused. Fierce.
He could respect that.
Even if she clearly hated his guts.
—
Then he let out a roar after a solid throw.
"No! Way! Let's gooo!"
She flinched mid-twist.
Her landing faltered. She hit the mat hard and cursed under her breath.
"Seriously?" she snapped, pushing herself up.
Asta froze. "What?"
"Do you have to scream every time you breathe?"
He held up his hands. "Sorry! Got a little hyped. That throw was—like—finally not trash!"
"Well, some of us need concentration."
She grabbed her water bottle, shoulders tight.
Asta frowned. "Look, I didn't mean to mess you up."
Noelle didn't answer.
He tried again. "You're kinda intense, huh?"
Her head turned slowly. "And you're kind of a walking megaphone."
He grinned. "You noticed."
She rolled her eyes and walked off.
—
Later, he found her in the dining hall. Sitting alone with a bowl of pasta and her usual force field of do not talk to me energy.
He slid into the seat across from her.
She glared.
He ignored it.
"I've been thinking."
She raised a brow.
"You ever seen those anime where the cold rival warms up to the loud hero over time?"
She blinked. "What?"
"You know, like, at first they hate each other—then bam, mutual respect, then maybe something more?"
Noelle stared at him.
"No offense," she said, "but I'd rather kiss a vault horse."
Asta chuckled. "Rough. But fair."
He didn't leave.
Noelle kept eating.
And for some reason, she didn't tell him to go.
—
That night, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
She should be reviewing her routine.
Instead, all she could hear was LET'S GOOOOO! echoing in her head like a curse.
Asta. With his noise and muscles and stupid optimism.
And yet…
When she landed wrong today, he hadn't laughed. He hadn't even smirked.
He'd looked... concerned.
She sighed.
Idiot.
—
Across campus, Asta tossed a tennis ball at the wall, catching it absently.
Noelle was definitely still mad at him.
Or maybe that was just her face.
He couldn't tell.
But there was something about her—something sharp and haunted. Like she was carrying weight no one else could see.
He liked people like that.
People who didn't quit.
He grinned to himself.
She'll warm up. Eventually.
And if she didn't?
Well, he'd just shout louder.
—
Rain pounded the track in steady sheets.
Coaches barked over the storm, their voices clipped, half-drowned by the downpour. Drills didn't stop just because the sky broke open.
Asta stood at the edge of the throwing ring, soaked through, fists clenched.
His last three throws had been garbage. Too wide, too flat, too weak. And every time he messed up, he felt the eyes.
Judging.
Measuring.
Dismissing.
He wiped water from his face and stepped back in.
Grip. Step. Twist—
His foot slipped.
The shot spun wild, landing short, almost outside the sector.
The coach didn't say anything. Just scribbled on his clipboard and turned away.
Asta stared at the ground, chest heaving.
He didn't roar this time.
Didn't fist-pump or laugh it off.
He just stood there, drenched and still.
What if I can't fix this?
—
Noelle stood in the beam room, watching the replay.
The screen paused at the exact moment her right foot missed the landing. Just a quarter-inch. But it was enough.
She'd fallen sideways, rolled to the mat like a rookie.
Her coach hadn't said much.
Didn't need to.
Noelle sat on the bench, arms wrapped around herself, eyes locked on the freeze-frame.
Sloppy. Weak. Embarrassing.
The whisper wasn't her voice.
It was her sister's.
Not out loud, but just as sharp.
They'll say you cracked again.
Her phone buzzed in her locker. She didn't check it. She knew the name.
She didn't want to see it.
—
The rain let up by evening.
The paths between dorms shimmered with puddles, the sky bruised purple and gray.
Asta walked without purpose. Shirt stuck to his back. Hair plastered down.
He'd skipped dinner.
Too much pride to sit with the guys who could throw.
He turned a corner near the back gym and stopped.
Noelle was sitting on the steps, ponytail damp, arms resting on her knees.
Alone.
He almost turned around.
Then she looked up.
They locked eyes.
No words.
Then—
"…Rough day?" Asta asked.
Noelle didn't nod. Didn't frown. Just said, "Yours too?"
He exhaled slowly. Sat on the step below hers.
Their silence settled like fog.
—
"I slipped," he muttered. "In the ring."
"Landed crooked," she replied. "Off by less than a foot."
He tilted his head back. Let the air fill his lungs.
"I thought I'd be better by now."
"Me too."
The rain had stopped, but water still dripped from the roof in slow, rhythmic taps.
Neither of them moved.
Noelle looked at her hands. Pale, scraped from the bar. Trembling slightly.
"I keep thinking," she whispered, "if I mess up here, it's over. My whole career. My family. Everything."
Asta glanced at her.
"I just wanted one shot," she added, voice thin. "Something that was mine."
He didn't know what to say.
So he didn't say anything.
—
A kid ran past with a hoodie pulled over his head, laughing with someone on the phone.
Noelle stared at the wet ground.
"…You ever think maybe you're not built for this?" she asked.
Asta frowned.
She wasn't looking at him.
He replied anyway.
"Every damn day."
She blinked.
He leaned back on his elbows.
"I've never won anything big. Never had the right coach or gear or, y'know... connections." He shrugged. "People say I'm all muscle and no control."
She watched him carefully.
He smiled. But it didn't reach his eyes.
"I throw like I've got something to prove. 'Cause I do."
Noelle didn't answer.
—
A car pulled up near the gate. Some athlete's family, probably. Voices called out.
Asta sat forward again.
"I don't think I'm the best. But I know I'm not gonna stop."
He glanced at her.
"Even if they laugh. Even if I fall on my ass every throw. I'm not quitting."
Noelle's throat tightened.
"…Why?"
He shrugged again.
"Because I don't want to be the guy who gave up before it mattered."
—
The clouds were finally clearing.
A tiny crack of moonlight bled through the sky.
Noelle stood up slowly.
Her legs ached. So did her pride.
"…Thanks," she said.
Asta looked up, confused.
"For what?"
"For not talking like a self-help book."
He snorted. "You're welcome."
She turned to go. Then paused.
"You coming back tomorrow?"
He grinned. "Unless I'm dead."
A beat of silence.
Then—
"…Don't scream so much next time."
He gave her a salute. "No promises."
—
She disappeared into the dorm.
He sat there another minute, watching the stars peek out.
His shoes were soaked. His back hurt. His ego was bruised to hell.
But his chest felt a little lighter.
They'd both cracked today.
But maybe that's when things start to rebuild.
—
Asta was back at the throwing ring the next morning.
Earlier than usual.
No crowd. No coaches. Just him, the chilled air, and a bucket of shots.
He planted his feet. Exhaled.
Step. Pivot. Launch.
The shot landed decently far.
Not great. But cleaner than yesterday.
He nodded to himself. Again.
He didn't hear her approach.
"Your foot's still turning too wide."
Asta jumped, almost dropped the ball.
Noelle stood a few feet away, arms crossed, hair in a tight braid.
He blinked. "You spying on me?"
She stepped closer. "You're wasting power. Your angle's too shallow."
Asta raised a brow. "Wait… you know throwing mechanics?"
"Physics," she said. "Same principles. Different sport."
He stared at her, slack-jawed.
"You're seriously offering help?"
Noelle rolled her eyes. "Don't make it weird."
—
They ran drills together.
Noelle watched like a hawk.
She corrected his stance, adjusted his balance, made him repeat spins until he stopped over-rotating.
He groaned with every rep.
"This is worse than core training."
"Stop whining."
"You're evil."
"And you're imprecise."
He grinned. "You sure you're not enjoying this?"
A flicker of a smile tugged at her lips. Barely there. Gone in a blink.
He didn't mention it.
But he noticed.
—
The next day, he showed up at the beam gym.
Noelle was mid-routine.
She spotted him in the mirror and almost lost her balance.
He waved. "Surprise!"
She dropped off the beam. "Why are you here?"
"To return the favor."
She gave him a flat look.
"I'm not coaching you."
He shook his head. "I'm cheering."
Her eyes narrowed. "Please don't."
He clapped loudly. "LET'S GO, NOELLE! STRAIGHTEN THAT BACK LIKE A CHAMP!"
She turned crimson. "Shut up!"
A coach popped his head in. "Everything alright?"
Noelle smiled tightly. "Perfect."
Asta gave a thumbs-up.
—
It became a routine.
Mornings at the field. Evenings in the gym.
She guided his form with laser focus. He cheered her through every flip, every failed landing, every tightrope wobble.
At first, it was awkward.
Then... normal.
Then... something they both started looking forward to.
—
He saw it first.
The new throw.
Compact. Balanced. Controlled.
He didn't yell.
Just stared at the arc as the shot soared clean and smooth through the air.
It landed further than it ever had.
Noelle watched from the edge, nodding.
"Told you."
He turned to her. Eyes wide.
"Holy crap."
"You're welcome."
He sprinted over, hands in his hair. "That felt amazing."
She smirked. "Because you actually listened."
He looked at her like she'd just handed him the secret to life.
"Coach is gonna lose his mind."
—
Later, she botched a landing.
Again.
Her ankle gave a little twist. Not enough to injure, but enough to shake her.
She sat on the edge of the mat, staring down at her leg.
"I suck at this," she muttered.
Asta didn't say anything at first.
Then he plopped down next to her.
"Y'know what I think?"
She glanced over.
"You're too smart for your own good."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You think through every step. Every possible way to mess up. That's gotta be exhausting."
She looked away.
"It is."
He nudged her. "Then stop doing it alone."
She didn't respond right away.
But later that night, she texted him first.
Just one line:
Same time tomorrow?
—
Whispers started spreading around the camp.
The gymnast and the shot put guy?
Weird combo.
What are they doing together?
Is this some kind of strategy?
Coaches started paying more attention.
To both of them.
Their form. Their pace. Their results.
—
Noelle was on the high bar when Asta walked in again.
She heard him before she saw him.
"Let's go, Gravity Queen!"
She rolled her eyes—but didn't tell him to stop.
She did nail her dismount.
The coach clapped.
Asta whooped like she just won a medal.
—
At the ring, he spun like a machine.
Feet planted, body aligned, release tight.
The shot cut clean through the air.
When it landed, someone swore under their breath.
Noelle clapped twice from the sideline.
"Better," she said.
Asta beamed.
—
One of the national team picks, a tall guy with perfect form and an arrogant face, scoffed nearby.
"Cute," he muttered. "But it won't last."
Noelle heard it.
So did Asta.
He didn't shout.
She didn't glare.
They just met eyes.
And nodded.
They weren't there to prove anyone else wrong.
They were there to prove each other right.
—
It was nearly midnight when they snuck into the empty training hall.
Noelle kicked off her shoes by the mats. Asta dropped to the floor with a groan.
"Why are we doing this again?" he muttered.
"Because you said you couldn't sleep," she replied, stretching out.
He grinned. "And you said you weren't tired either."
She shrugged. "I lied."
—
The lights were low, humming softly.
The mats felt cooler than usual.
No coaches. No drills. No pressure.
Just them.
—
"Tell me something real," she said suddenly.
Asta blinked. "Like what?"
"Something you don't tell anyone else."
He sat up, leaning on his arms. Thought for a second.
"My mom used to say I had too much energy. Said I'd either burn out or burn bright."
Noelle tilted her head. "Which do you think it is?"
"I don't know yet."
He looked over at her.
"I'm scared I'll burn out."
—
She didn't laugh.
Didn't tease.
She lay back, eyes on the ceiling.
"I used to fake injuries."
Asta stared. "Wait, what?"
"When I was a kid. Before big meets. Just to get out of them."
He said nothing.
She kept going.
"If I didn't compete, I couldn't fail. And if I couldn't fail… I couldn't disappoint anyone."
The silence between them stretched long and quiet.
Then—
"…You ever stop?" he asked.
"I had to. My family stopped believing me."
He winced. "That sucks."
She nodded.
"Yeah."
—
The air buzzed with unsaid things.
Outside, a breeze rattled the windows.
—
"People always act like I have it together," Noelle said. "But every time I'm up there, I feel like I'm one breath away from falling apart."
Asta rubbed the back of his neck.
"Guess we're both really good at pretending."
—
They started talking more after that.
Not just about routines or throws.
About home.
Dreams.
Regrets.
Asta confessed he never knew his dad. Said he didn't care—but his voice cracked a little.
Noelle admitted she once skipped Nationals just to avoid seeing her brother in the crowd.
They didn't judge.
They just listened.
—
Sometimes she brought tea to the gym early.
Sometimes he dragged her to the track just to "run the stress out."
They bickered.
They laughed.
They never talked about what was happening between them.
But it was there.
In the way she handed him his towel before he asked.
In the way he stopped shouting when she needed silence.
In the way they stayed close without realizing.
—
During one practice, Asta landed three perfect throws in a row.
He turned to celebrate, but Noelle wasn't there.
He scanned the field.
Found her sitting on the bleachers, hands tight in her lap.
He jogged over.
"You okay?"
She looked up. Eyes glassy. "My brother called."
Asta sat beside her, waiting.
"He said I was wasting my chance. That there's no medal for almost."
He stayed quiet.
She blinked fast, biting her cheek.
"I know he's right."
"No, he's not."
She scoffed.
"I mean it," Asta said. "You're not here to make him proud."
"You don't get it."
"I do." His voice was low now. Steady. "You're trying to outrun ghosts."
She met his eyes.
"I've got mine too," he said.
The wind picked up, tugging at her braid.
She whispered, "Then let's stop running."
He smiled, soft and sure.
"Let's start fighting."
—
That night, she walked him back to his dorm.
They stood under the porch light, neither moving.
Her hand brushed his by accident.
He didn't pull away.
She didn't, either.
He almost said something.
She almost let him.
But the door creaked open behind them, and the moment vanished.
They both stepped back.
"Night," she said.
"Yeah," he mumbled.
But as she walked off, he watched her the whole way.
And when she turned back—just once—he was still there.
—
The bond was growing.
Not loud.
Not flashy.
But unshakable.
And deep down, they both knew:
This wasn't just training anymore.
—
The rumor started with a whisper.
Asta was walking back from the weights room when he heard it.
"Heard they're cutting someone early," a discus thrower said. "Coach said one of the long shots is out."
"No way," someone else replied. "Bet it's that loud kid. He's strong, but messy."
They didn't see him freeze just outside the door.
Didn't see his fists clench.
—
He didn't tell Noelle right away.
Not because he didn't trust her.
But because he didn't want to see that look in her eyes.
The one that asked what if they're right?
—
Noelle had her own storm brewing.
Her oldest brother showed up at the gym.
Unannounced.
Wearing a team blazer and a smile like a knife.
"You're still doing this?" he said, arms folded as she wrapped tape around her wrist.
She kept her voice even. "It's going fine."
"Fine doesn't make the roster, Noelle."
She didn't flinch.
But she looked past him the whole time.
—
Asta found her later, practicing on dead ankles and no food in her stomach.
He could tell.
"You okay?"
"Peachy."
"You sure? You look—"
"I said I'm fine."
He didn't press.
But she didn't meet his eyes once.
—
That night, neither of them showed up at the usual practice spot.
They trained alone.
Barely slept.
Didn't text.
Didn't call.
—
Next morning, the list went up.
Not the final cut—just the shortlist for trial priority.
Asta's name wasn't there.
He stared at the sheet.
Read it again.
Still nothing.
—
Noelle found him at the edge of the field.
He didn't say anything.
Just tossed the shot again. And again. And again.
Off balance. Off rhythm.
She grabbed his arm mid-throw.
"Stop."
He yanked away.
"What does it matter? I'm not getting picked."
Her face hardened. "So you're giving up now?"
"No," he snapped. "I'm already out."
He kicked the bucket over. The balls clattered across the grass.
"I tried. I got better. And it's still not enough."
Noelle folded her arms. "You think you're the only one getting crushed out here?"
He looked up. Jaw tight. "Don't."
"I watched you crawl out of nothing and throw like a damn machine. You deserve to be up there."
"Then why aren't I?"
Silence.
The wind howled through the chain-link fence.
Noelle stepped closer.
"Because they're scared of what they don't expect."
He didn't answer.
She didn't back down.
—
Her voice softened.
"You made me believe I could be more than my family's shadow. Don't quit now."
Asta looked at her. Really looked.
"You don't believe that."
"I do."
"And what about you?" he asked. "You've been pushing harder than anyone. But your hands are shaking."
She glanced down.
Curled her fingers.
"They told me I'm too emotional to handle high-pressure meets."
Asta's brows knit. "Who the hell said that?"
"My brother. And the head coach."
He stared at her.
"...That's BS."
"I know."
She tried to laugh. It didn't come out right.
—
There was a pause.
Long. Heavy.
Then Asta broke it.
"I thought we were in this together."
Her eyes narrowed. "We are. You're the one who shut me out."
"I didn't want to drag you down."
"Well, don't."
She stepped up to him, close now.
"I need you."
The words hung in the air.
He swallowed hard.
"...I need you too."
—
No one apologized.
No one had to.
The truth had already been said.
—
They walked back toward the dorms, side by side.
This time, their hands brushed—and stayed there.
Fingers tangled. No words spoken.
Just a grip that said don't let go.
—
They had no guarantees.
No promises.
Only each other.
And the fire they lit in each other's chests, hotter than any medal dream.
—
The sky was gray the morning of the trials.
Not stormy—just heavy, like the clouds were holding their breath.
Asta stood in the locker room, taping his wrists.
He didn't look nervous.
But his hands were shaking.
—
Noelle found him by the track before warmups.
She didn't say anything at first.
Just nudged his shoulder.
He looked at her.
Saw the blue leotard.
The sharp braid.
The storm in her eyes.
"You look terrifying," he said.
"Good," she replied. "I am."
—
They warmed up separately.
Different sports. Different arenas.
But every so often, they looked for each other across the field.
And every time their eyes met, they nodded.
Still here.
Still fighting.
—
The men's shot put lineup was brutal.
Asta was dead last.
He paced behind the chalk line, trying not to look at the scoreboard.
The first guy launched a bomb.
So did the second.
Someone hit a new personal best on attempt one.
Asta exhaled. Rolled his shoulders.
Don't think. Just move.
—
His name was called.
The field quieted.
Noelle stood at the fence, fingers gripping the metal like a lifeline.
Asta stepped into the circle.
Breathed in.
Breathed out.
Spun.
Released.
—
The shot flew straight and sharp, like it knew exactly where to go.
When it landed, the marker moved.
Farther than his last recorded best.
A beat of silence.
Then applause.
Then cheers.
Noelle didn't cheer.
She just smiled.
—
He saw it.
And grinned back like a lunatic.
—
Inside the gym, the floor was cold under Noelle's feet.
Her name was last on the rotation.
Vault. Beam. Bars. Floor.
Every apparatus like a gate she had to pass through.
—
The beam was first.
She wobbled once.
Saved it.
No fall.
She could hear Asta from somewhere in the bleachers.
"YOU GOT THIS!"
The judge glared.
Noelle didn't flinch.
She landed her dismount like a hammer hitting steel.
—
Vault came next.
Two steps. Launch. Twist.
Perfect line in the air.
She felt light.
Like the fear burned off on the way up.
—
Bars.
The routine was longer here.
More places to screw up.
Halfway through, her grip slipped slightly.
Her heart lurched.
But then—his voice.
"BREATHE, NOELLE!"
Just that.
Loud and clear.
She did.
And finished clean.
—
Floor was last.
Her signature routine.
She stood at the edge of the mat, alone in the spotlight.
Music started.
She moved.
—
Every step hit like rhythm in her blood.
She didn't think.
She felt.
Spun hard enough to blur.
Leaped like her body remembered how to fly.
—
On the final tumble, she landed with her chest up and eyes forward.
Held it.
Didn't shake.
Didn't break.
The gym exploded in applause.
She didn't hear any of it.
She was already looking toward the exit.
—
Asta met her there.
Still sweating. Still pumped.
They didn't say anything at first.
Then—
"You crushed it," he said.
"You too," she replied.
—
The announcement came two hours later.
They posted it on a board.
Printed. Unforgiving.
Names in black ink.
People crowded around.
Some cried. Some cursed. Some were stone silent.
—
Noelle reached the board first.
Scanned fast.
Paused.
Then looked again.
Her name was there.
Second gymnast.
She turned, heart thundering.
Asta was behind her.
She didn't need to say anything.
He already knew.
—
He smiled.
Not wide. Not loud.
Just proud.
Pure.
"No regrets," he said.
"None."
—
She grabbed his hand.
Squeezed it.
Waited.
He didn't let go.
—
"Was it worth it?" she asked.
"All of it."
Her eyes searched his.
Quiet. Careful.
Then—
"Would you have stayed if you didn't make it?"
He didn't hesitate.
"With you? Always."
—
She stepped forward.
Close.
Closer.
Their foreheads touched.
No crowd.
No cameras.
Just them.
And the steady, silent beat of something finally real.
—
They didn't kiss.
Not yet.
But the promise was there.
Soft.
Unspoken.
Unshakable.
Whatever came next—Olympics, glory, heartbreak—they'd face it the same way they faced everything else.
Together.
—
Epilogue: Post Olympics
The lights of the closing ceremony shimmered behind them, gold and fading.
Neither had medaled.
Not even close.
But they'd fought tooth and bone for every second out there.
And that meant more.
—
Noelle sat on the edge of a rooftop balcony, legs swinging over the side. The Olympic Village buzzed below—celebration, music, final goodbyes.
She didn't feel like partying.
Too many emotions. Too much weight.
But when Asta climbed up beside her, carrying two sodas and still wearing that ridiculous Team USA jacket, something in her unclenched.
—
He handed her a can.
"I wanted to bring champagne," he said, "but I figured I'd probably spill it."
She smirked. "Smart."
They clinked cans and drank.
—
"Think we'll be remembered?" he asked, after a while.
She leaned against him.
"We weren't supposed to make it here."
"Still didn't win."
"No," she said, eyes soft. "But we didn't lose, either."
—
They sat in silence.
The world below pulsed with noise, but up here it was just the hum of their breath.
Then she looked at him.
Really looked.
And said, "I don't want to wonder anymore."
He frowned. "Wonder what?"
"If this thing between us is just adrenaline."
She kissed him.
—
It wasn't soft.
It was real.
Messy. Breathless. Like catching your balance mid-sprint.
His hand cupped her cheek, her fingers tangled in his shirt.
Every inch they closed felt overdue.
—
He pulled back just once, eyes dark and burning.
"You sure?"
She nodded.
No hesitation.
"Yes."
—
The hotel room was small—one of the cheaper options outside the Village, booked on a whim and a need to be alone.
No team rooms.
No noise.
No world, just them.
—
The air between them sparked the second the door clicked shut.
Noelle stood in the center of the room, her jacket half-slipped from her shoulder, lips still tingling from that first rooftop kiss.
Asta stared at her like he couldn't decide whether to speak or fall to his knees.
So he stepped forward instead.
She didn't move away.
Didn't blink.
Only tilted her chin up as he touched her face with both hands, holding her like something rare.
His thumb traced her cheekbone. Her hands curled into his shirt.
"You're really sure?" he asked, voice lower now, huskier.
"I've never been more sure of anything," she whispered.
—
The next kiss was slower.
More dangerous.
Mouths brushing, then lingering. Tasting.
Noelle pulled him closer by the collar.
Felt the tension in his shoulders melt when she whispered his name against his lips.
"Asta."
He inhaled sharply, like hearing it lit something inside him.
—
They moved in pieces.
Shirts off first.
Then fingers grazing bare skin like they couldn't believe they were allowed.
Noelle let her hands roam his chest, his shoulders, the dips of muscle she'd seen a hundred times at practice—but now they were hers to explore.
He let her take her time.
Didn't rush.
Didn't push.
Only watched her like she was the center of his universe.
And when he finally slid his hands along her waist, under the hem of her top, she arched into him with a soft gasp.
"You okay?" he asked again.
Her answer was her lips pressing to his throat, her voice a whisper there.
"Don't stop."
—
They stumbled back toward the bed, mouths never far apart.
Every touch deepened.
Every kiss more urgent.
But still—no rush.
Asta laid her back gently.
Traced her jaw.
Pressed his forehead to hers.
"I love you."
It slipped out before he could stop it.
She stared at him.
Wide-eyed.
Then smiled. Soft. Fierce.
"Good," she said, pulling him down again. "Because I love you too."
—
Clothes fell away, one by one.
Not tossed. Not flung.
Removed like secrets finally shared.
—
Their bodies moved in sync, like every practice, every push, every breath they'd ever fought for was leading to this.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was real.
Hot skin. Tangled limbs. Whispers between kisses.
His hands on her thighs.
Her mouth at his ear.
Every movement slow and aching and right.
—
Later, when the storm of limbs and breath finally settled, they lay tangled in silence.
They didn't speak much.
Didn't need to.
Just held each other in the quiet that followed.
Her head on his chest.
His arms around her like he was afraid she'd disappear.
His fingers tracing circles on her back.
Both of them worn raw and glowing.
—
Outside, Tokyo's lights shimmered in the window.
The Olympics were over.
The dream had ended.
But something better had started.
Something that wasn't about winning.
Or proving anything.
Just them.
And everything they'd finally allowed themselves to feel.