Bon !

you’re ninety-nine percent sure asahi has never been this nervous in his life—like, ever. not when karasuno faced shiratorizawa, not when daichi yelled at him, not even when nishinoya threatened to “fix his posture” with a broom. but sitting across from you at a small restaurant, he looks like he’s trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person.

and you definitely don’t think anyone has ever looked at you the way asahi does. it’s not just looking, actually—more like staring so intensely that if affection could combust, the entire café would be a crime scene. he’s sitting across from you now, hands fidgeting with the edge of his sweater sleeves, his hair tied up a little too neatly like he rehearsed it fifteen times in the mirror this morning (he did).

“you look really pretty,” he mumbles, and then, like the sentence personally offended him, his eyes dart away, cheeks immediately going red.

you laugh softly, trying to ease the tension, “you’ve said that five times already, asahi.”

“because it’s true,” he says quickly, panicking at the idea that you might take it back. he nearly knocks over his water glass in his haste to sit straighter, like posture alone might convince you he’s confident and not dying inside.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

the café’s warm, cozy, and smells faintly like coffee beans and sugar. outside, the sky’s beginning to blush the same color as his ears. the two of you have been on this date for exactly thirty-seven minutes, and he’s thanked the waiter at least twelve times.

he’s nervous—so painfully nervous that you can feel it radiating off him like a space heater powered by social anxiety. but there’s something about the way his knee bounces under the table, the way his fingers twitch every time yours graze the edge of his plate, that’s kind of… adorable.

you’d never admit it, but you’re nervous too. maybe because it’s asahi. kind, soft-spoken, ridiculously handsome asahi who looks like he’d apologize to a chair if he bumped into it. and the worst part? he’s looking at you like you hung the moon, painted the stars, and invented laughter itself.

he keeps sneaking glances when he thinks you’re not looking—memorizing, cataloging, probably engraving your every movement into his soul like an ancient vow. he doesn’t even realize how obvious he is.

his carbonara has gone cold.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

when the bill arrives, everything falls apart.

you both freeze, mid-sentence, staring at the folded paper like it’s a live grenade. the waiter smiles politely, oblivious to the chaos about to unfold, and walks away.

“i got it,” you say first, reaching for it casually—too casually.

asahi looks horrified. “what—no, no, no, you’re not paying.”

“why not?”

“because i—because i asked you out!”

you raise a brow. “that doesn’t automatically mean you have to pay.”

“it does if i’m the guy,” he argues, voice rising slightly before he realizes it and ducks his head in embarrassment.

you grin, leaning on your hand. “so if i asked you out next time, i’d pay?”

his brain short-circuits so violently you can practically see the static behind his eyes. “next time?” he echoes, voice cracking.

“mmhm,” you hum, “assuming you survive this one.”

he’s trying to be smooth, trying to maintain dignity, but the sight of you teasing him like that makes him want to drop to the floor and declare eternal devotion. he swears your laughter could end wars, resurrect extinct species, convert atheists.

“still,” he mutters, snatching the bill and holding it like it’s sacred scripture, “i’m paying. no arguments.”

“asahi,” you sigh, reaching across the table. “split it?”

he looks betrayed. like you’ve personally stomped on his sense of chivalry. “no. absolutely not.”

“why are you so dramatic about this?” you tease, but he’s dead serious—eyes wide, brows furrowed, mouth set like a soldier in a last stand.

“because,” he says, voice suddenly soft but so firm it hits you right in the chest, “you deserve to be treated right. even if it’s just dinner.”

you blink. and he immediately looks like he regrets existing. “i—uh—i mean, not that you don’t already get treated right—i just—”

you laugh again, interrupting his meltdown. “asahi,” you say gently, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt, “you’re too sweet for your own good.”

his heart somersaults, backflips, possibly combusts. he looks down at the table so you don’t see the way his hands are shaking, or the way he’s biting his lip to hide the grin threatening to split his face.

too sweet for his own good. if only you knew that the thought of you even holding another guy’s hand makes his stomach twist like it’s trying to strangle itself.

but you don’t, and he won’t say it. not now—not when you’re smiling at him like that, all soft and unaware and perfect.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

five minutes later, the bill war begins.

“give me the paper, asahi.”

“no.”

“asahi, seriously.”

he shakes his head so hard his hair tie nearly flies off. “nope.”

“you can’t stop me if i just—”

“don’t even think about it,” he warns, clutching the bill to his chest like a relic.

“asahi—”

“y/n, i’m serious.”

“you’re ridiculous.”

“i’m determined.”

you lunge forward. he gasps. chaos ensues. the waiter across the room looks mildly alarmed as two fully grown adults wrestle over a receipt like it’s a newborn child.

“you’ll make me look bad!” he huffs.

“you’re making yourself look bad!” you shoot back, both of you tugging on opposite sides until it crumples in your hands.

he finally wins—not because he’s stronger (he is), but because he’s so determined it’s kind of terrifying. he slaps a few bills onto the tray with trembling hands, breathing hard like he’s just won an Olympic event.

“there,” he says breathlessly, “done.”

you pout. “fine. but next time—”

“next time i’ll pay again.”

“asahi!”

he grins sheepishly, scratching his neck. “what? i can’t help it. i like… taking care of you.”

the way he says it—quiet, sincere, like the words slipped straight from his heart before his brain could stop them—makes your stomach flip.

you lean forward, elbows on the table, smiling in that way that makes him forget his own name. “you really like me, huh?”

he freezes.

“like you?” he repeats, eyes wide. “that’s—uh—that’s an understatement.”

and when he says it, you believe him. there’s no hesitation, no joke hiding behind it—just him, pure and nervous and completely sincere.

you’re laughing again before you can help it, soft and fluttery, and the sound nearly kills him on the spot.

“you’re really something, asahi.”

“i hope that’s a good thing,” he says sheepishly, his grin spreading helplessly.

“it is,” you whisper.

the silence that follows is comfortable. warm. the kind of silence that wraps around you like a blanket rather than filling the space. he’s still blushing. you’re still smiling. outside, the evening hums quietly as people pass by, unaware that two nervous dorks just fell even harder for each other inside a small café.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

asahi insists on walking you home afterward. he keeps his hands jammed in his pockets the whole way, like if he doesn’t, he’ll accidentally reach for yours.

and when you reach your door and turn to him, he stares like he wants to remember every second of this moment forever.

“thank you for dinner,” you say, playful, “even though i didn’t get to pay.”

“thank you for coming,” he says quickly, voice so earnest it hurts.

you laugh, stepping closer, and his breath catches. “we should do this again soon.”

his heart just about stops.

“r-really?”

“really.”

you give him a small smile—one that feels like sunlight after winter—and slip inside before he can implode from joy.

asahi stands there for a moment, dazed, before grinning so wide he has to cover his mouth with both hands to contain it.

he walks home that night with his chest aching in the best way possible, whispering your name under his breath like it’s a prayer.

and later, when he gets home, he gently folds the crumpled receipt from your dinner together and tucks it into his wallet. right next to his ID.

because if there’s one thing he’s sure of—

it’s that paying for dinner was the easiest thing he’s ever done if it meant getting to see you smile like that.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a: giggling so hard while writing.

<taglist>

@lsirria @the-bloopsters @averys-place @anzuuhoshi @s1lly-bon @katzline @michexoxo @asthmaticasma @pelicanpizza @buriedfifii @keiob @mptality @qardasngan @crystal-lilac @methiart @cvnt4him

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

it starts with a spool of yarn and a delusion.

asahi swears it was supposed to be a scarf. really. that’s what he tells himself when he’s ten hours into a crochet tutorial, hair tied up in a messy bun, fingers trembling, whispering “just one more row.” it’s for you, he thinks. you, with your laugh that makes his chest feel like it’s full of warm soda bubbles. you, who lent him your pen once and called him “gentle” and nearly killed him right there in the hallway.

so of course, when the scarf turns into a pair of arms—your arms—he just keeps going.

it’s not weird. definitely not weird. it’s devotion, the same kind poets used to ruin their lives over.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

by the time midterms roll around, he’s finished the head. it’s perfect. hauntingly, devastatingly perfect. the same shape of your face, soft yarn stitched into your hair, button eyes that look almost alive. he even embroiders the little mole you have by your neck. if he’s going to lose his mind, he might as well do it accurately.

then, one tragic morning, he drags the entire thing—the life-sized plushie of you—into school.

like a knight carrying his sacred relic, asahi wrestles the yarn you up the stairs, apologizing every three steps. “sorry, sorry—oh god, your head almost hit the railing—” his classmates stare. he doesn’t notice. his entire world is made of polyester and daydreams.

when he finally collapses into his seat, the plushie is safely nestled beside him, and he sighs with the kind of peace usually reserved for monks or people who’ve just eaten the perfect bowl of ramen.

he tucks the plushie’s hair behind its ear. “you made it,” he murmurs.

someone at the back coughs.

“is that… a person?”

asahi glances up, blinking innocently. “no, it’s… uh.” his voice dips into a whisper, “it’s y/n.”

“like—the y/n?”

“yeah.” he says it so softly, like he’s confessing a crime and a love story at the same time.

the classroom explodes into hushed laughter and disbelief. people lean over desks, phones halfway out. but asahi doesn’t hear them. he’s busy tucking a small blanket—pink, with tiny hearts—over the plushie’s lap. “don’t get cold,” he mutters, utterly sincere.

he even brought a little thermos for “her.”

later, when daichi passes by his classroom (because the rumor spreads like wildfire: asahi’s finally snapped, but in the cutest way possible), he peeks in and chokes on air.

“bro.”

asahi looks up, startled, halfway through brushing the plushie’s hair. “oh, hey, daichi!”

daichi points. “is that—”

“yes.”

“is it breathing?”

“not yet.”

daichi decides he doesn’t want to unpack that.

he leans against the doorframe, smirking. “you’re whipped.”

“i’m inspired,” asahi corrects, defensive, clutching the plushie closer like a dragon guarding treasure.

“you’re delusional.”

“i’m romantic.”

daichi grins, stepping closer, because of course he can’t leave it alone. “so if i just—” he reaches out a hand—

asahi’s eyes darken, a flicker of something feral hiding behind the kind smile. “don’t.”

daichi freezes. “i’m kidding, man.”

“she’s sleeping.”

“oh my god.”

and that’s how daichi ends up slinking out of the classroom, whispering to sugawara later that asahi “might’ve knitted a girlfriend and given her a bedtime.”

the truth? he did.

because that night, after classes end, asahi walks home with the plushie in his arms like a newlywed husband in a romcom no one agreed to film. he keeps adjusting its scarf (which used to be the original scarf, poetic irony at its finest), making sure the wind doesn’t “hit your face.” he even hums.

he sets you—the plush you—on his couch, smooths out the wrinkles in your skirt, and sits across from you with a cup of tea.

“it’s weird,” he tells it, “but you make me less lonely.”

and if he sounds like he’s about to cry, well. yarn can’t judge him.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

the next day, he does it again. and the next. and soon, the plushie has a seat beside him in every class. sometimes he braids its hair during lunch breaks, sometimes he whispers exam answers to it (“we’re in this together”). he even draws little doodles of “you and you²” in his notebook margins.

his classmates have accepted it. mostly.

“don’t look too long,” one whispers to another. “he gets jealous.”

“of what, the air?”

“yeah. especially if it touches the plushie too much.”

asahi, meanwhile, is in his own cotton-candy world, oblivious to the chaos he’s created. when the real you passes by his classroom, he doesn’t even notice at first. you stop, staring through the window, blinking at your own yarn doppelgänger.

it’s… uncanny. lovingly detailed. terrifyingly earnest.

you push open the door.

“asahi?”

he jolts upright like he’s been tasered. “y/n! uh! hi!”

you point at the plushie. “is that… me?”

his face goes crimson. “uh—well—yes—but not in a weird way! i just—missed you—and then i thought—well, i didn’t miss you, you were right there, but i thought maybe if i—uh—” he takes a shaky breath. “—made something that felt like you, i wouldn’t freeze up every time i saw you.”

and somehow, that’s the most heartbreakingly sincere thing you’ve ever heard.

“you… knitted a therapy version of me?”

he nods, sheepish.

“and you take it to class?”

“yeah.”

“and you tuck it in?”

“she gets cold,” he says, completely straight-faced.

you laugh so hard you have to lean against the door. “asahi, you’re—oh my god—you’re insane.”

“is that bad?”

“no,” you giggle, wiping your eyes, “it’s adorable.”

and maybe that’s the moment his heart combusts.

he looks at you, the real you, and for once, he doesn’t hide. he just smiles, the kind of smile that feels like the first day of spring after a miserable winter. “you really think so?”

you nod, still grinning. “yeah. but maybe next time, just ask me to hang out instead of… making yarn-me.”

he laughs, breathless. “i’ll try.”

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

but that night, asahi still tucks the plushie in. not because he needs it anymore—but because it’s part of the ritual now, the comfort of caring for something that reminded him of you. he kisses its forehead and whispers, “thank you for helping me talk to her.”

the real you texts him an hour later. “knitting lessons tomorrow? i wanna learn.”

his reply takes approximately 0.3 seconds. “yes.”

and somewhere in his room, under the soft hum of his desk lamp, two scarves—one half-finished, one complete—sit side by side.

one for the girl he dreamed of, and one for the girl who finally said yes.

he still brings the plushie to class sometimes, though. just to keep it updated on how happy he is.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a: on my everyone’s soul, i’ll get through the requests soon!

<taglist>

@lsirria @the-bloopsters @averys-place @anzuuhoshi @s1lly-bon @katzline @michexoxo @asthmaticasma @pelicanpizza @buriedfifii @keiob @mptality @qardasngan @crystal-lilac @methiart

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)