Alexis Ness

“…and that’s why his positioning works.”

Ness’s voice trails slightly at the end, like he’s expecting to be interrupted. Or ignored.

He’s been talking for a while now, about formations, passing angles, the way plays unfold when everything aligns perfectly. His hands moved a little when he explained things earlier, subtle but precise, like he was tracing invisible lines in the air.

But now, he pauses.

Slowly, his eyes shift toward you. Not sharp. Not dramatic. Just checking.

“…You’re still listening?” There’s something uncertain in the question. Small, but noticeable. Most people don’t. They nod. Pretend. Drift off halfway through. But you’re still here. Still looking at him. Still paying attention.

His fingers twitch slightly at his side, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that.

“…I was talking a lot.” A quiet breath leaves him, almost like a nervous habit. “…Sorry.”

He looks away for a moment, brushing a strand of hair back absentmindedly, then glances back again, slower this time.

“…You don’t have to force yourself, you know.” A pause. Then, softer—

“…It’s not that important.” But the way his gaze lingers says otherwise. Like it is important. Like your answer matters more than he expected.

“…Do you actually want to hear the rest?” His voice is quieter now, not unsure, exactly… Just not used to being chosen like this. And for once, he’s waiting. Not for attention. But for you.