Roachel

Oikawa Tooru had been something of a campus celebrity since your very first year—charismatic, loud in the way stars always are, and seemingly untouchable in how easily people gravitated toward him. There was always someone calling his name across the quad or waving at him in the halls, and he never failed to flash that practiced, dazzling smile that somehow managed to look sincere every time. You’d never spoken to him—not directly, not personally—but you’d caught glimpses. Enough to know that the real thing was even more magnetic than the rumors.

You knew the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, how his shoulders relaxed when he was surrounded by his friends, how he would complain about the cafeteria coffee but still drink it anyway. You’d watched him from the corners of classrooms and in line at campus cafés, never too obvious but never quite able to help yourself. You were down horrendously bad for this man—though you’d die before admitting it aloud. The problem was that you were painfully shy, and despite your not-so-minor crush, you went out of your way to avoid even the possibility of interaction. You’d once pretended to be deeply fascinated by a bulletin board just to avoid making eye contact when he walked past.

You were convinced that he didn’t know you existed.

But he did.

He noticed you—had been noticing you since the second week of that painfully early GE class you shared. At first, it was idle curiosity. Then, fascination. And now, borderline obsession. You sat two rows in front of him, usually by the window, and he could barely concentrate half the time. Your handwriting, the way you sometimes doodled in the margins of your notes, the tiny way you tilted your head when you were confused—he knew it all. You'd lean forward just slightly when something interested you, and he would forget entirely what the professor was talking about. Once, you dropped your pen and he nearly fell out of his chair trying to reach it at the same time.

“God, he’s doing it again,” Matsukawa muttered, nudging Hanamaki with his elbow as they all slumped in their usual booth at the library café.

Hanamaki didn’t even look up from his phone. “What? Spacing out and pretending he’s not heart-eyes over mystery girl?”

“She’s not a mystery,” Oikawa shot back instantly, cheeks already starting to pink. “I know her name.”

Iwaizumi raised a brow as he took a sip of his drink. “Congratulations. Next, you’ll be telling us you know her blood type.”

“I don’t, obviously,” Oikawa muttered, fiddling with the lid of his drink. “...It’s probably B.”

Hanamaki snorted. “You looked that up, didn’t you.”

Oikawa looked vaguely horrified. “I did not! Why would I—okay, I might have, but only once! And it was for research.”

“Research,” Matsukawa repeated, deadpan. “On her blood compatibility? You planning to donate an organ or propose?”

Oikawa groaned, slumping into the table. “You guys are the worst.”

“You’re worse,” Iwaizumi said dryly. “You're literally a disaster every time she’s within a ten-foot radius.”

“She’s so pretty,” Oikawa mumbled into his arms.

“And you get so stupid,” Hanamaki added.

“You almost walked into a door last week,” Matsukawa said. “We saw it. The entire hallway saw it.”

“I was distracted!”

“By her existing,” Iwaizumi said flatly. “Just talk to her, dumbass.”

“I can’t just talk to her,” Oikawa said, lifting his head with a look of genuine agony. “She’s—she’s quiet. What if I scare her?”

“You scare everyone,” Hanamaki said. “That hasn’t stopped you before.”

“But she’s not everyone,” Oikawa said softly.

They didn’t say anything to that—not because they didn’t have anything to tease him with, but because the way he said it was too honest, too transparent in a way that caught them slightly off guard.

Matsukawa was the one who broke the silence. “You’ve got it bad, man.”

“Like, ‘write her name in your notebook and practice your married signature’ bad,” Hanamaki added.

Oikawa let out a long, suffering groan and buried his face back into the crook of his elbow.

And from a few tables over, completely unaware, you sipped your coffee and tried not to look directly at him. He was loud and bright and effortlessly charming—and you were convinced you’d melt into the floor if he ever so much as glanced in your direction.

He did.

A lot.

And every time he did, his heart stuttered—like he was the one with the hopeless crush.

It was almost ridiculous how the universe seemed to toy with both of you. A few weeks into the semester, your professor for one of your GE classes stood at the front of the lecture hall, a list of randomly assigned project partners in his hand. You weren't expecting much. In fact, you were already mentally preparing yourself to carry the entire project, as usual.

But then, your name was called—and immediately after, his.

Oikawa Tooru.

Your breath caught. Your brain short-circuited. You didn’t even look back at him, too busy calculating how quickly you could get up and ask to be re-assigned. Surely the professor would understand. It wasn’t about Oikawa specifically—it was about your tendency to completely shut down around people like him. Popular. Charming. Intimidatingly beautiful.

But before you could move, you heard his voice—bright, eager, and just a little too loud.

“Cool!”

You froze.

He was already making his way toward you, that signature easy grin on his face, his brown hair bouncing slightly with each step. He looked like he didn’t have a care in the world, like this was the best possible outcome he could have hoped for.

And then he tripped.

It happened so fast. One second he was gliding down the steps of the tiered seating like it was a runway, the next he caught the edge of his shoe on a stair and went sprawling—face-first, limbs flailing in the most undignified way possible—onto the floor right in front of you.

The entire lecture hall gasped. So did you.

“Oh my god—Tooru! Are you okay?”

Your voice cracked slightly at the end, halfway between concern and panic. You were already halfway out of your seat, your hands hovering, unsure whether to help him up or pretend you hadn't just witnessed your crush crash and burn like a baby deer on ice.

Oikawa froze on the ground. Not because he was hurt—but because you said his name.

You. Knew. His. Name.

He looked up at you, ears burning bright red, and despite the throbbing pain in his knee and the bruised ego, he swore he could feel his soul leave his body and ascend.

“I—uh. Yep! Totally fine. That was…just gravity testing me.”

“Gravity's a bitch,” you muttered, more to yourself than him, but he heard it anyway. He laughed. You winced.

From the back row, Iwaizumi groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “He’s malfunctioning again.”

“Dude’s gone,” Matsukawa said, sipping from his tumbler like he was watching a reality show. “Absolutely fried.”

Hanamaki leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “Did you hear her? She said his name. That’s it. We’ve lost him.”

“I’m not carrying him down the stairs if he short-circuits again,” Iwaizumi added.

Oikawa, who was still crouched on the floor pretending to inspect his shoelaces, heard all of it.

But he didn’t care.

Because you knew his name.

And you were worried about him.

God help him, he was doomed.

Meanwhile, you, on the other hand, were still internally spiraling over what had just happened—not even a full minute had passed since Oikawa tripped in front of you and practically crashed face-first into the pavement like a poorly written slapstick scene. You didn’t even understand how it unfolded. One moment, he was confidently walking your way, and the next, gravity had betrayed him in the most theatrical way possible. Now he was crouched down, pretending to fiddle with his shoelaces as if that somehow explained the catastrophe, but the real chaos was happening in your head—because you had said his name.

Again.

“Tooru.”

It slipped out before you could stop yourself, soft and uncertain, and the moment it left your lips, you saw it hit him like a second blow. If his brain had short-circuited the first time, this one sent him into a full shutdown-restart sequence. You couldn’t tell if it was the way you said it or the fact that you said it at all, but it had him spiraling—and you, just as badly, were panicking over how much worse you might’ve made things.

Still, you did the only thing you could think of—you extended your hand toward him, voice quiet but sincere. “Uhm—I’ll help you up, Tooru.”

That did not help.

Oikawa looked up at you as if your voice alone could kill him, a stunned expression frozen on his face. You had just offered him your hand—and said his name—again. It was over. His neurons had given up entirely. He was absolutely losing it.

“Yeah—yeah, sure,” he managed to say, but it came out breathless, like the words had to push past a malfunctioning system just to make it to the surface.

Then, without thinking, he took your hand.

You jolted at the contact, visibly startled, and you couldn’t stop the flush that crawled up your neck. His hand was warm—too warm—and the feel of it against your palm made your heart spike wildly in your chest. You could feel your entire body heating up like your blood had turned to steam. He held on longer than necessary, just long enough to make your breath hitch, and when you finally looked at his face, he was already staring at you like you had just fallen from the sky and cracked his sanity open.

Several steps behind, the rest of the team had come to a halt, observing the entire scene unfold like front-row spectators to the most awkward yet painfully romantic moment they’d ever seen in real time. Iwaizumi stood with arms crossed, clearly trying to suppress the urge to groan into the sky. Matsukawa had one brow lifted so high it nearly disappeared into his hairline, and Hanamaki, bless him, had the most smug grin stretching across his face.

“Who needs a cinema when I’m watching this?” Hanamaki muttered under his breath, elbowing Matsukawa lightly.

None of them blinked. None of them moved. Because somehow, despite how ridiculous it all started, they knew—this was the beginning of something they were absolutely going to tease Oikawa about until the end of time.

“Uhm… when do you want to start?” you asked, your voice barely steady as he sat down beside you—too close, too real, too much for your already short-circuiting brain to handle.

You didn’t dare look at him. Not directly. Not when your heart was pounding this loud and your palms were too clammy to be normal. Your eyes focused anywhere else—the desk, your notebook, the way the sleeve of his hoodie brushed against your arm like it had no concept of personal space. Everything about him was overwhelming, even in silence.

Oikawa shifted slightly, one leg crossed over the other, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie as he tried not to stare too obviously at your profile. You looked nervous—but soft. And so, so pretty up close. He almost forgot to answer.

“Later?” he offered, trying to sound casual.

You gave a small smile—barely there, but real—and shook your head gently. “I have another class though,” you said, almost apologetically, and that little touch of laughter at the end of your sentence slipped out before you could catch it.

And just like that, Oikawa was gone.

To anyone else, it would’ve been a normal laugh. A polite one. But to him, it was the prettiest thing he’d heard all day—maybe all semester. The way it cracked the nerves in your voice, the way your eyes softened when you said it—he wanted to bottle the sound and play it on repeat. His thoughts unraveled faster than he could keep up with.

“Oh—uh, right—of course,” he stammered, already fumbling his words. “That totally makes sense, I—I mean, obviously you’d have class, because, uh, we’re in school—yeah.”

You couldn’t help it. You laughed again, this time hiding your smile behind your hand.

Oikawa stiffened. He had to look away, cheeks visibly flushing, as if he had been caught in the act of thinking something he shouldn’t be.

From across the room, Hanamaki made a dramatic face and mouthed oh my god while Matsukawa smirked like he’d just won a bet. Iwaizumi, arms crossed and expression flat, looked like he was moments away from dragging Oikawa out by the collar if he fumbled one more time.

Eventually, the awkward air gave way to something lighter, easier—like the ice had cracked just enough to let a little warmth through.

“How about this weekend?” you offered softly. “There’s a café across from the school. It’s usually quiet.”

Oikawa’s head snapped toward you so fast you thought he might pull something. “Yes. Yes—Saturday? That works. Saturday’s great.”

You smiled again, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Saturday, then.”

The moment stretched just a little too long, not in discomfort—but in uncertainty. You weren’t sure if you were supposed to just leave it at that. So you hesitated, fingers brushing against the edge of your phone.

Then, voice even quieter than before, you glanced up from beneath your lashes and said, “By the way… should I give you my number? To contact me?”

Oikawa stared.

If his brain had reset earlier, this time it completely powered down. Your voice had gone soft again—so soft he had to lean in slightly just to hear you clearly. And then, the words themselves—give you my number—sent him into another emotional tailspin.

“Yes!” he said a little too loudly. Then he cleared his throat, trying to play it off. “I mean—yeah. That’d be helpful. Just so, like, I can message you. About the project.”

You nodded, holding out your hand for his phone. Oikawa fumbled to unlock it—twice—before finally managing to hand it over. You typed in your number slowly, trying not to think too hard about how his eyes were definitely on you the whole time. You even added a small emoji next to your name—out of habit, not flirtation—but when you gave the phone back, Oikawa stared at the contact like it had personally granted him eternal happiness.

You didn’t realize it, but he smiled for the rest of the day.

When you handed your phone to him so he could type in his number, Oikawa took it like it was made of glass. His fingers hovered for a second, then typed carefully—nervously—as if each letter had the power to make or break fate. He pressed save only after checking twice, cheeks flushed, mouth opening like he wanted to say something more before he let it go.

You bid him goodbye with that soft smile and your usual light step, not noticing how long he stayed there even after you disappeared into the crowd.

Oikawa was still staring at your contact info, frozen in place like time stopped. He couldn’t believe it. Your name—your name—was now sitting in his phone like it belonged there, like it always had.

And then his phone buzzed.

[you]: see you on saturday tooru ( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ

His heart did a full somersault in his chest. His lips parted in disbelief, then curved upward slowly, like they didn’t know how else to react.

“That’s new,” Matsukawa said casually, appearing by his side with an annoyingly smug look as he peered over Oikawa’s shoulder. “So you finally won the lottery.”

“I should’ve placed bets,” Hanamaki added as he joined in, nodding to the message on the screen. “All it takes was a project so you can finally grow balls to get close to her.”

Iwaizumi was the last to arrive, folding his arms as he cast Oikawa a look that was both unimpressed and faintly amused.

“Even though it was an embarrassment watching you fall flat earlier,” he muttered.

Oikawa groaned, but it was the kind that had no real weight—his grin gave him away. He clutched his phone like it was a secret he never wanted to lose, still looking at your message like he couldn’t quite believe it existed.

Maybe he did fall earlier. Maybe he’d embarrassed himself more times than he could count. But none of that mattered now.

The rest of the week passed in a blur, lectures blending into each other, and practices running longer than they should. But Oikawa didn’t mind. Saturday kept inching closer, and he welcomed the distraction of waiting.

By the time it finally arrived, Oikawa was practically vibrating with energy.

Living off-campus was a mutual decision between the four of them—him, Iwaizumi, Matsukawa, and Hanamaki—something about shared space, independence, and how splitting rent outside campus was barely any more expensive. Their rented house had four bedrooms, and despite their differences, it worked.

Kind of.

Especially when Oikawa started his morning by knocking on every single one of their doors for the third time.

“Iwa, Iwaaa—how’s this coat? Be honest, I trust your opinion,” he sang, standing in the hallway in front of Iwaizumi’s door, fully dressed in layered neutrals: a cream turtleneck under a deep brown blazer, tailored slacks, tortoiseshell glasses, and his favorite loafers. Very old money. Very Tooru.

The door flung open with force. Iwaizumi glared at him, hair still tousled from sleep.

“It’s seven-thirty in the morning. On a weekend.”

Then, without waiting for an answer, Iwaizumi slammed the door shut again.

“That was rude, Iwa!” Oikawa called, offended but not surprised.

Undeterred, he made his way to the next door. “Mattsun?” he said, knocking rhythmically. “Don’t ignore me. Rate the look. One to ten. Be honest but not too honest.”

A muffled groan. Then: “Too early for fashion shows, Tooru.”

Finally, he knocked on the last door. “Makkiiii~ You’ll tell me I look hot, right?”

The door creaked open a crack, just enough for a bleary Hanamaki to squint at him. “You’re obnoxious, but annoyingly good-looking. Now get out of here before I throw a slipper at your face.”

Oikawa beamed. “That’s the energy I needed, thank you, Makki!”

Satisfied, he returned to his room, checking his appearance in the mirror one last time—adjusting the collar of his coat, fixing the cuffs, making sure his glasses sat just right.

Then his phone buzzed.

[you]: good morning tooru see you later (´｡• ᵕ •｡`)

Oikawa froze. Stared. Then dramatically collapsed backward onto his bed, clutching his phone to his chest and covering his mouth like he was trying to trap a scream.

“She texted,” he whispered to no one. “She texted first. Oh my god—she’s so cute—what does that kaomoji mean? Is that a heart? Is she flirting? Iwa-chan will never believe this—wait, no, Iwa-chan cannot know about this.”

He rolled onto his stomach, kicking his feet into the mattress like a teenager high on the idea of love.

Then his phone vibrated again. He jolted upright like he'd been electrocuted.

[you]: I'll eat breakfast first then I'll let you know when I'm on the way

[you]: you should also eat too tooru (๑´ڡ`๑)

Oikawa screamed.

Like, actually screamed.

He launched his phone onto the bed and flailed like a man under emotional attack.

“She cares about my health! She wants me to eat! She used a food kaomoji—what does that even mean?!” He groaned into his pillow, muffled and dramatic, before flipping over again to stare at the ceiling in awe. “She’s gonna be the death of me.”

There was a sharp knock on his wall—probably from Iwaizumi’s room. “SHUT UP, TOORU. SOME OF US ARE TRYING TO SLEEP.”

Oikawa cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled back, “I’M HAVING A MOMENT, IWA-CHAN. LET ME FEEL THINGS.”

Then, quieter, to himself, “I can’t eat now… how do you expect me to eat when she texts like that?”

Still, he sat up. Smoothed his clothes again. Slipped off his glasses just to clean them even though they were spotless. Checked the time. Checked it again two seconds later.

And with one last look at his reflection, he whispered, “Don’t mess this up, Tooru.”

You, on the other hand, were already red just by sending the message to him.

Your phone slipped from your fingers and landed on the bed with a soft thud as you froze in place, hands hovering midair like you were afraid to touch reality.

"Are you okay?" she asked slowly, watching the way your face turned even redder. "Do you have a fever?"

You whipped your head toward her, eyes wide. "What? No! I'm—I'm fine!" you lied, voice three octaves higher than usual.

She frowned, standing up to approach you with her hand outstretched. "You're sweating. You definitely look like you have a fever—"

"I'm fine!" you insisted, grabbing a pillow to hide your face. "It's just... I sent a stupid text, okay?"

That caught her attention.

She stopped in her tracks, grin forming instantly. "To Oikawa?" she asked, voice laced with teasing.

You groaned into the pillow.

"Why did I put a kaomoji?!" you cried into the fabric. "Who even does that?! What am I, twelve?! He’s gonna think I’m weird."

Your roommate laughed. "You're spiraling, and it's not even 9 a.m."

“I should’ve deleted it. I should’ve deleted it and retyped like a normal human being.”

"And yet," she sipped her coffee again, eyes sparkling, "you didn't."

You dramatically collapsed backward onto the mattress, hands flung out like you were on stage.

“I’m never texting anyone again.”

Your phone buzzed.

You shrieked.

[tooru]: see you later also ♡

You stared at your phone.

Oh god.

Why did he send a heart.

Without even thinking, you launched yourself face-first into your pillow and let out a muffled scream.

Your feet kicked at the mattress. You writhed like a bug on its back. The pillow smothered both your voice and your rising panic, but the damage was done. Your brain was spiraling.

You didn’t even hear your roommate step into the room until you heard the unmistakable sound of a coffee mug being set on your nightstand.

“You good?” she asked, one brow raised and very much not concerned.

You lifted your head just enough for her to see your wide-eyed expression and the sheer panic painted across your face.

“He sent a heart,” you croaked out. “Tooru. Oikawa. He—he sent a heart.”

Your roommate paused for a moment… and then snorted.

“Oh my god,” she said with a grin. “You’re totally acting like a high schooler with a crush.”

“I am! This is his fault! I only sent a kaomoji! That’s like—barely flirting! Why would he heart me back?!”

“Maybe…” she drawled, her grin widening, “he likes you too?”

Your brain short-circuited.

Your entire body glitched.

Face: red. Heart: combusted. Brain: fried.

“D-Don’t say that!” you stammered, clutching your pillow like it was a life preserver.

She laughed as she sat at the edge of your bed, watching you squirm with far too much amusement. “You’re so adorable when you’re flustered. This is the most I’ve seen you lose it over a guy.”

You groaned and rolled again, hiding your face. “Because he’s not just a guy! He’s Oikawa Tooru! And he just sent me a heart like that’s a normal thing to do!”

“Well,” she teased, “good luck being normal when you see him later.”

You arrived at the café first.

The place was cozy, bright with warm light, and filled with the low hum of morning chatter. You chose a table near the window, trying to look casual as you sat down—but your fingers kept betraying you. You brushed imaginary dust off your dress for the third time, then tugged at your sleeves like they were too tight. They weren’t. You were just… nervous.

You smoothed the ribbon in your hair, inhaling deeply. You’d already ordered drinks to distract yourself. Maybe it would help. (It didn’t.)

Then the soft chime of the door rang.

Your head turned instinctively.

Oikawa Tooru stepped inside, hair slightly tousled by the wind, a tote bag over his shoulder, and that same casual, effortless charm he always carried like second nature. His eyes scanned the café for a second—and then found you.

He lit up immediately.

He waved at you like he’d been waiting for this all week.

Your eyes met his—and just as quickly, you dropped your gaze, flustered. You looked down at your lap like your nails suddenly became very interesting.

Meanwhile, Oikawa?

He was dying.

His heart thudded against his ribs so loud he was surprised no one else could hear it. You looked so adorable it physically hurt. The ribbon in your hair, the way you were dressed just a little more than usual, the way your gaze flitted away shyly when you caught him staring—

He was done for.

He moved toward your table too fast, too giddy—and immediately bumped into the edge of a nearby table.

A sharp, clumsy thud echoed.

A few people turned. He winced. One hand clutched his hip dramatically.

You looked up in surprise. “Oh my god—are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he said quickly, shooting a sheepish smile at the older woman whose latte nearly spilled. “That table clearly came out of nowhere.”

You tried to hold in your laugh as he finally reached your table and slid into the seat across from you, rubbing at his hip like he was wounded in battle.

“You really okay?”

“I’ve had worse injuries in volleyball,” he replied with a wink. “But I’ll probably need emotional support now.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks still warm. “You’re ridiculous.”

He leaned forward slightly, still smiling. “But you’re smiling now, so… mission accomplished.”

You looked away again, biting back a smile.

And in that quiet second between heartbeats, Oikawa thought:

I’m so, so screwed.

Oikawa stood up almost immediately after settling in, like he hadn’t really intended to stay seated just yet. He brushed invisible dust from his sleeves before turning to you with a casual, “Do you want something? I’ll order.”

He glanced at the menu again while waiting for your answer, and when he asked what you wanted, you simply replied that you’d have another iced mocha—then added, somewhat shyly, that a slice of strawberry cheesecake sounded nice, too.

At the mention of it, he looked up. You hadn’t noticed, but there was a subtle shift in his gaze—like something about the words strawberry cheesecake flipped a switch in him. Oikawa swore he caught the tiniest glint in your eyes, an almost childlike spark that told him you didn’t just like the dessert—you loved it. He made a mental note of it without hesitation, storing it somewhere deep in the corner of his mind like it might come in handy one day, even if he didn’t know when.

A few minutes later, he came back carrying two iced drinks and two slices of cake. One strawberry cheesecake—perfectly plated and slightly glossy under the café lights—and another slice of chocolate for himself. He set yours in front of you without a word, just the smallest smile tugging at his lips.

You immediately reached for your wallet, already ready to split the bill. “Wait—how much was mine?”

“It’s fine,” he said, waving his hand like it was no big deal.

You paused. “Are you sure?”

He looked up—and made the mistake of actually looking at you. The question had come out so genuinely, so earnestly, paired with that slight tilt of your head and the way your fingers hovered above your bag like you were still ready to insist. You looked up at him with eyes too soft for your own good, brows slightly drawn together in a way that screamed polite worry. And Oikawa, who had thought himself immune to such things, immediately felt his heart skip something like five beats.

He forced a casual shrug, suddenly feeling warmer than before. “Yeah. Seriously. It’s just cake.”

The silence that followed wasn’t entirely awkward, but it wasn’t quite comfortable either. It was the kind that made you stir your straw unnecessarily in your drink just to give your hands something to do. He glanced down at his plate, and you glanced around the café, neither of you quite sure what to say next.

Eventually, you cleared your throat and spoke, voice a little lighter as if trying to reset the mood. “So... how do you want to start our project?”

It brought him back to reality. Right—your GE in literature. The joint presentation on showcasing different forms of written expression across eras. Poetry, prose, essays, scripts—anything that could be dissected and brought to life in front of the class. It was supposed to be simple, academic, straightforward. But now, looking across the table at you—fork in hand, eyes curious and waiting for his response—it didn’t feel so straightforward at all.

“Since we have two weeks to prepare, let’s just research first. Then I’ll do the PowerPoint—is that okay with you?” he asked, stirring his drink lazily, gaze fixed on you with casual ease that made your heart skip.

“Of course, but I’ll help you with the PowerPoint, okay?” you replied, offering a smile before your eyes quickly dropped to your plate. You poked at your cheesecake, avoiding his eyes, too aware of how intensely he’d been watching you. The heat creeping up your neck was impossible to ignore—so was the flutter in your stomach. You were trying to play it cool, but God, the way he looked at you was intimidating in a way you couldn’t explain.

Oh god, Oikawa swears he might not even get through the day without combusting for the tenth time.

And don’t even get him started on how your cheeks puffed slightly as you took another bite, eyes lighting up at the taste like it was the best thing you’ve had all week. The way you looked—content, cheeks rounder, mouth curved into the softest smile as you chewed happily—it was too much. Too damn much.

He leaned back in his seat, trying not to grin like an idiot, but it was already too late.

He was so screwed.

And to make it worse, he could already hear Iwaizumi’s voice echoing in the back of his head—“You’re so whipped, it’s pathetic.”

Oikawa took another sip of his drink and stared at you over the rim of his glass, already knowing Iwaizumi was right.

Your days began to follow a pattern—one Oikawa secretly looked forward to more than his weekend games. Whether it was in quiet cafes tucked into campus corners, the school library where he’d “accidentally” reserve the seat next to you every time, your dorm lounge where you two would awkwardly huddle over a shared laptop, or sometimes even the house he shared with his three equally nosy (and annoying) best friends, your presence was starting to blur into every space of his life.

At first, it was just the literature project. But that quickly evolved into, “Hey, aren’t we in the same GE class? Want to study together too?” And you’d nodded, a bit too quickly, cheeks already warming, eyes darting anywhere but his face.

What started as strictly academic became something more like a ritual. Oikawa would pretend not to get too excited when your name popped up on his phone, and you would spend a full twenty minutes debating whether your outfit looked “too much” or “too plain.” You were a nervous wreck most of the time—especially the first time he invited you over. To a boy’s house. A house filled with boys. Tall, chaotic, loud boys. You practically considered faking sick.

But you showed up.

In a simple cream-colored dress with puff sleeves and a burgundy bow clipped neatly into your hair. You were trembling like a puppy in a thunderstorm, clutching your notes like they were a crucifix. Oikawa thought he might die. Right there. On his stupid living room rug.

“Hey, she’s cute,” Hanamaki had whispered way too loudly as he passed the living room with a bowl of popcorn.

“Our Oikawa has taste, huh?” Matsukawa had added, peeking into the room and wiggling his eyebrows like some evil uncle.

“She’s here to study,” Iwaizumi groaned, whacking both of them with a throw pillow. Then he turned to you with a forced smile. “Sorry. They’re idiots. Please ignore them.”

You bowed in embarrassment. “I-It’s okay… I didn’t expect anyone else to be here…”

Oikawa had the audacity to grin like a maniac. “They’re always here,” he whispered to you. “But you’re the only guest I like.”

He swore he saw steam rise from your ears. And then he had an internal breakdown for saying that out loud.

Your bow would bob every time you nodded, always slightly off-center by the end of the day from fidgeting too much. He grew to anticipate that bow like it was part of your personality—like it was something only he got to see up close. You’d tug at the hem of your skirt while reciting terms or chew on your pen while watching him explain things on your laptop screen, and Oikawa would have to bite his tongue not to say anything stupid.

"She's literally a shoujo manga character," Matsukawa whispered to Hanamaki one evening while peeking through the kitchen pass window.

"I bet Oikawa already has a secret folder of her selfies," Hanamaki replied, nodding seriously.

"I do not—!" Oikawa barked, nearly flipping his textbook. You shot him a puzzled glance, oblivious to the banter, while Iwaizumi dragged the two idiots back to the kitchen by their shirt collars.

“I’m sorry again,” Iwaizumi deadpanned, setting snacks down beside you. “If you hear them say anything stupid, just pretend they’re NPCs.”

You giggled, finally relaxing a little as you opened your notebook. “It’s okay. They’re kinda funny…”

Oikawa caught that—the way your eyes softened when you laughed. And he was screwed. So utterly, completely, permanently screwed.

Because your shy glances, your off-center bows, the way you always offered to help even when you didn’t have to—it all made his heart feel too full.

And unfortunately, Matsukawa was right. He might have actually saved a few selfies you sent when you asked, “Is this dress too much for study night?”

He might be whipped. But at this point? He didn’t even want a way out.

Once your literature project ended—and you both presented it with flushed cheeks and awkward smiles that your professor somehow didn’t question—your little study dates… still continued.

There wasn’t even a conversation about it. No “Hey, want to keep studying together?” or “Should we still meet up at the café this Friday?” It just happened. Like clockwork. Like you two were already part of each other’s schedules, as natural as morning alarms and coffee runs.

It was almost laughable—how seamlessly Oikawa had folded himself into your routine. Or maybe you had folded into his. Either way, it felt like the universe quietly decided: Yeah, these two belong in the same sentence.

Still, no matter how many times you found yourself beside him—head bent over a shared textbook, knees brushing under the table, his pen sometimes in your hand because you always forgot yours—you never quite got used to being close to Oikawa Tooru.

Not in the way that mattered.

Not when his cologne lingered too long on your sleeves. Not when he leaned over your shoulder and quietly read something out loud, voice brushing the shell of your ear. Not when he offered you his hoodie without asking and your fingers brushed when you reached for it.

You were calm and composed on the outside—mostly—but inside? You were still a shy, fidgety mess.

And Oikawa? Well, he was in emotional shambles too.

Every time you smiled up at him with that quiet kind of warmth, every time you touched his arm to get his attention, every time your bow flopped slightly to the side by the end of your study session, he had to resist the urge to scream into a pillow. Preferably Iwaizumi’s.

“She’s so cute I’m gonna combust,” he whispered one time in the kitchen, forehead pressed against the fridge.

“You’ve said that four times this week,” Iwaizumi replied flatly, sipping his protein shake.

“Because it’s true,” Oikawa whined. “She’s literally ruining me.”

“You’re ruining yourself, actually,” Hanamaki chimed in from the hallway. “Man up and ask her out already.”

“I second that,” Matsukawa added. “Unless you want us to keep watching you make heart eyes at her over a damn thesaurus.”

“I do not make heart eyes—!” Oikawa hissed, then immediately cut himself off when you peeked your head in to ask if he still had your highlighter.

He melted.

You apologized for interrupting, bow bouncing softly with your flustered movement. Oikawa stared for two full seconds too long before snapping out of it.

“Y-Yeah! It’s on the table!” he stammered. “Wait—I’ll get it for you!”

“Dead man walking,” Hanamaki muttered behind his cup of coffee.

“Certified whipped,” Matsukawa coughed.

“Do I ever get a break from you guys?” Oikawa groaned as he jogged after you, highlighter in hand, soul in shambles.

No. No, he did not. But he didn’t really mind.

Because somehow, even without the project, even without a clear label for what you two were, you still kept coming back to him.

And honestly? He hoped you never stopped.

But he did hope—selfishly, stupidly—that there was a label between you two.

Because god, the project was over, the grade was in, and the deadline had passed weeks ago—but he still wanted you near him. Even if it meant combusting every time you leaned too close, losing his cool whenever you looked at him for just a second longer than necessary. You still laughed at his dumb jokes, still texted him memes at midnight, still dragged him to cafés under the excuse of "editing" your presentation. It should’ve ended. Should’ve faded. But it didn’t. And Oikawa hated how much he liked that.

He was out at the mall with Iwaizumi, Hanamaki, and Matsukawa, trailing a few steps behind them, hands shoved into his jacket pockets as they argued over which movie to watch later. He wasn’t really paying attention. His gaze drifted along the rows of shop windows—until it landed on a pastel storefront with a cluttered display of hair accessories.

One bow caught his eye.

It was delicate—off-white with soft lace and little crystal accents that shimmered under the lights. The kind of thing he’d never wear or care about. But when he saw it, he thought of you. Instantly. The way you sometimes braided the sides of your hair when you were rushing. The way your eyes lit up when you wore something cute and someone actually noticed.

Oikawa lingered, slowing down.

He was still staring when a voice chirped behind him.

“Oh my god, you’re buying that for her, aren’t you?” Hanamaki said, elbowing him with a grin. “Makki, shut up—” Oikawa muttered, though he made no move to walk away.

“Aw, come on, it’s adorable,” Matsukawa added, stepping beside him. “Can you imagine her face? She’d die.”

“I’m not—buying anything,” Oikawa said, even as his eyes flicked back to the bow. “It just... looks nice, that’s all.”

“Right, right,” Hanamaki smirked. “And I just follow you around out of brotherly affection. Tooru, you’re down so bad it’s almost romantic.”

“She’s not even—” Oikawa started, then cut himself off. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the heat crawl up to his ears. “We’re not even together.”

“Yeah, and whose fault is that?” Iwaizumi cut in dryly, not even looking up from his phone. “Buy the bow, dumbass. You’ve been staring at it for a full minute.”

Oikawa exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his face. “You guys don’t get it. She’s... she’s different. And I don’t want to mess this up by pushing too hard.”

Hanamaki tilted his head. “So you’d rather suffer in silence than tell the girl you’re in love with her?”

“I never said love,” Oikawa said, immediately.

Matsukawa raised a brow. “You just did.”

Oikawa groaned again, loud this time, like the sound could drown out his heart hammering in his chest. His eyes found the bow again. The crystals sparkled like they were mocking him. But he still pictured you wearing it. Still wondered if you’d smile. If you’d let him put it on you himself. If you’d finally look at him and say you liked him too.

Iwaizumi nudged him forward with a grunt. “Just buy it already, Tooru.”

And maybe, if he did—maybe he’d finally find out if you’d let him be more than just a partner on a long-finished project. Maybe you’d let him be something real. Something with a name.

He bought the bow.

Matsukawa let out a low whistle behind him the moment he stepped up to the counter, and Hanamaki practically threw his arms in the air like Oikawa had just proposed marriage instead.

“Oh my god, he’s doing it!” Hanamaki stage-whispered with all the subtlety of a marching band. “Look at our boy—finally growing up.”

“Should we clap? I feel like we should clap,” Matsukawa added, already fishing out his phone like he might record the moment for future blackmail.

Oikawa didn’t say a word. Just placed the bow gently on the counter and tried to ignore how the cashier raised an eyebrow at the spectacle happening behind him.

“Is this… a gift?” she asked, deadpan, as Hanamaki and Matsukawa continued to act like they were witnessing a wedding proposal.

“It’s not a confession,” Oikawa muttered, cheeks flushing. “It’s just... something I thought might suit a friend.”

Behind him, Hanamaki gasped. “Friend?”

“Liar,” Matsukawa coughed into his fist.

Iwaizumi stepped up with a sigh that sounded like it had aged him ten years. He bowed slightly to the cashier, one hand already gripping Hanamaki’s collar. “I’m sorry for them. They were dropped on their heads as children.”

The cashier snorted but waved it off. “It’s cute. Annoying, but cute.”

Oikawa paid in silence, doing his best to look anywhere but at his friends. When the cashier handed him the little pastel bag with the bow inside, he took it carefully, like it might break if he held it too tightly.

He didn’t even realize he was smiling until Iwaizumi nudged his side.

“Don’t screw it up,” he said.

And for once, Oikawa didn’t fire back. He just clutched the bag a little tighter and thought of you.

You were in your dorm, sprawled on your bed with your cheek pressed against the pillow and your phone held loosely in one hand when it vibrated. You barely glanced at the screen before your heart did a quiet flip.

[tooru]: are you free?

That was it. No context. No follow-up. Just five words that immediately lit a fuse in your brain.

You stared at the message a little too long, waiting for another one to come in—for something like need help with econ again? or want to review the lab notes together? Something that would make this feel normal, familiar, something that wouldn’t make your stomach twist the way it was currently doing. But nothing else came.

You bit your lip, fingers hovering over the keyboard and deleting your reply three different times before you could bring yourself to send a casual yeah, why? back. You barely had time to toss your phone on the bed when it buzzed again.

[tooru]: there’s a new pastry place by the station. they have strawberry cheesecake. wanna come with me?

You blinked.

Then you sat up.

Then, without warning, you dropped back down face-first into your pillow and let out a long, muffled groan that could only come from someone who was spiraling too hard, too fast.

“Uh-oh,” your roommate said from her desk without even turning around. “It’s happening again, isn’t it.”

You didn’t move.

She swiveled her chair and gave you a pointed look. “What did Oikawa say this time? Did he compliment your penmanship? Call you cute again on accident? Smile at you with his pretty boy twinkle?”

You rolled over dramatically, holding your phone up like it was damning evidence. “He asked if I was free.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And?”

“He said there’s this new pastry shop near the station. And that they have strawberry cheesecake.”

Silence.

Then—“Oh, you’re doomed.”

You clutched your pillow tighter. “What if he’s just being nice? Maybe he just remembered I like sweets and wants company.”

She gave you a look. “Company? What is he, an eighty-year-old man with a tea set?”

You flushed. “It’s not like he called it a date. What if it’s just... casual? Not even that deep.”

“And yet here you are, spiraling like this is the season finale of your love life.”

You groaned. “We don’t even hang out like this. It’s always for school. Group projects. Study sessions. I don’t know what this is.”

Your roommate stood and walked over, snatching your phone from your hands with a huff. “He said strawberry cheesecake, right?”

“Yeah.”

“The one you like.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’ve never actually told him you liked it?”

“I don’t think so?” you said, voice going soft. “Maybe... maybe back when we met at that café for our project? He asked what I wanted, and I told him strawberry cheesecake.”

She raised a brow. “So he still remembers.”

You shifted uncomfortably. “There was also that one time at his house. He gave me these cream puffs while we were reviewing, and I kinda—might’ve—gone through his snack stash like a criminal.”

Her grin was practically predatory now. “And he let you?”

You covered your face with your hands. “He said I looked cute when I was chewing.”

She gasped and hit you with a pillow. “You left that out on purpose.”

“I forgot!”

“No, you repressed it,” she declared, pointing at you like she was solving a crime. “You’ve been in love with him since I don't know during the freshman orientation.”

“I’m not in love with him.”

She arched a brow. “You sure?”

You didn’t answer.

She threw herself on the bed beside you and poked your shoulder. “It’s a date. You’re getting cheesecake with a pretty boy who remembers what you like and texts you without an academic excuse. You’re not imagining it.”

You peeked at your phone again.

[tooru]: i’ll wait for you at the station at 3. don’t be late—i want to see if you’ll light up again when you eat it like last time.

You stared. Then let out another groan and rolled off the bed.

Your roommate smirked. “Yeah. You’re toast.”

Oikawa, on the other hand, was beet red when he sent the message—his fingers trembling slightly as he hit send, and the moment it was done, he immediately tried to play it cool, though it was impossible to hide the way his face burned all the way up to his ears. Behind him, the laughter came sharp and immediate. Hanamaki had caught the tail end of the text just as he leaned over to grab his drink, his eyes widening before he burst out laughing, loudly enough to draw glances from nearby tables. Matsukawa nearly choked on his soup, slapping the table with the flat of his hand while Iwaizumi just stared, unimpressed but not entirely unsympathetic—though the upward twitch of his lip betrayed that he was far more amused than he let on.

“Be honest,” Makki said through his cackling, “did you actually just say ‘see you later’ like you’re in a high school drama?”

“I told you not to look at my phone,” Oikawa muttered, his face buried in his scarf even though they were already seated and the hotpot was making the space warm enough to fog the windows.

“I mean, I didn’t try to look,” Makki grinned, leaning back, “but you were holding it up like it was a love confession.”

“You should’ve added a heart,” Matsukawa added, nudging him with his knee beneath the table. “She replied, right? What’d she say?”

“Yeah, come on, Tooru,” Hanamaki teased, voice sing-song, “don’t leave us hanging.”

Oikawa gave them all a half-hearted glare but couldn’t hide the way his hand curled tightly around his phone, thumb brushing over the screen. The reply had been simple—rushed, even—but it was enough to make his chest feel light. okay sre you tooru. A typo, sure, but she had replied. And more importantly, she had called him by his first name. The way his name looked in your message did something inexplicable to his brain, enough that he kept reading it over and over again in his head like it meant more than it probably did.

The four of them were currently seated around a bubbling pot, the restaurant tucked into a quieter corner near the station, their bags from the mall resting beneath the table, the crisp late afternoon slowly darkening through the windows behind them. It was supposed to be just another group hangout to kill time before they headed home for the weekend, but at some point between teasing each other in the arcade and getting distracted at the snack stalls, Oikawa had typed that message to you—an invitation, barely disguised beneath casual words and a half-hearted emoji. He might deny it later, might swear up and down that it was just a recommendation or a friendly suggestion, but the reality was undeniable.

He had technically asked you out on a date. And the moment you replied, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it for the rest of the night.

After a few hours had passed since they finished lunch—his stomach full but his thoughts restless—Oikawa excused himself from the group, slipping away from the laughter still echoing behind him as they split off in different directions. The late afternoon breeze tugged gently at his jacket as he made his way to the pastry shop by the station, the one with soft pink walls and dainty cakes behind glass, where he’d told you to meet him.

He arrived early, of course. Pacing near the door for a few moments before deciding to head inside, he chose a seat by the window, one that gave him the perfect view of the street. His fingers drummed idly against the table, gaze flitting from his phone screen to the people passing by—until his eyes caught on a familiar figure approaching.

There you were.

Wearing a dress he could only describe as the embodiment of sweet elegance. You always wore dresses—your signature style, he’d come to realize—but today’s look made something in his chest tighten. A soft, lolita-style dress in a muted cream color framed your figure, adorned with subtle lace, frilled sleeves, and a ribbon that swayed with your steps. Your hair was styled with care, and even from behind the glass, he could see the way your eyes lit up when you spotted him.

The off-white lace bow he'd bought earlier at the mall—on impulse, he’d claimed to his friends, though they'd all seen right through him—would match your outfit perfectly. He felt his heart skip, his fingers instinctively brushing the little shopping bag beside him, suddenly bashful at the thought.

Then you waved, your face brightening in a way that made him melt instantly. There was a sparkle in your eyes—pure, warm, sincere. Oikawa barely had time to recover before you pushed open the door, the bell above it chiming softly.

“Hi, Tooru,” you greeted sweetly, your voice soft with affection.

And just like that, any rehearsed line he had vanished from his head.

Oikawa blinked once—twice—because somehow, seeing you through the glass hadn’t quite prepared him for how stunning you looked up close. His breath caught in his throat, and his words tangled awkwardly as you approached the table with a small smile, the soft hem of your dress swaying with every step.

“You… wow,” he managed, sitting up straighter, ears turning pink as he fumbled for coherence. “You look—really, really cute. Like… ridiculously cute. I mean, not that you don’t always, just—today—especially—” He ran a hand through his hair in a flustered motion, letting out a nervous laugh. “This dress suits you so much, it’s almost unfair.”

The moment the words left his mouth, you looked down immediately, your cheeks heating like a rising tide, lips parting in surprise before curling into a shy smile.

Your fingers clutched your bag a little tighter, voice barely above a whisper as you murmured, “Thank you, Tooru…”

You still wouldn’t lift your gaze, and Oikawa thought he might combust right then and there—because even your shyness was adorable beyond reason.

Oikawa stood up so fast his chair nearly tipped back, catching it with a quick hand before clearing his throat and turning to you with a nervous smile.

“D-Do you, um—what do you want? I-I mean, to order,” he asked, voice stammering slightly as he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to play it cool but failing miserably.

You blinked up at him, surprised by how flustered he was, and gave a small smile.

“Strawberry cheesecake,” you said, soft and certain, then added with a thoughtful hum, “and probably… some tarts too.”

Oikawa nodded far too seriously, as if it were a mission briefing. “Right—cheesecake and tarts. Okay. Got it.”

Then, under his breath—barely audible—you caught him mutter, “of course you’d pick something sweet.”

You sat down, smoothing the hem of your dress as you did, and let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. A soft smile found its way to your lips—small, almost unsure, but warm nonetheless.

Your heart was beating so fast it echoed in your ears, thumping against your chest like it was trying to get your attention. And maybe it was.

Because this felt different.

There were no study guides laid out across the table. No notebooks crammed with highlighted notes. No looming exams or group projects to fall back on as an excuse.

Just you and him.

Just Tooru.

And deep down, in a place you tried to keep quiet, you couldn’t help but wonder if this really—truly—was a date.

Oikawa came back carefully balancing a small tray, placing it down with a proud little grin. On it were two slices of cake—yours a strawberry cheesecake topped with glistening fruit, and his a rich chocolate mousse layered with ganache. Beside them sat a delicate mini tart platter, each one filled with creams and fruits and custards like a pastel mosaic.

“Uhm—I ordered the mini tart platter instead,” he said, stammering slightly, “so we can, like, try different flavors… together.”

He tried to play it cool, but the way he fiddled with the edge of the tray betrayed the fact that he was anything but.

Then he looked at you—and nearly melted.

Because your eyes lit up the moment you saw the sweets, your entire face softening in delight like you’d just been handed a box of sunshine. You looked at the tray, then at him, and back again, like you couldn’t decide what was sweeter.

He didn’t care that his cake was probably going to get warm. Not when you looked at dessert like that. Not when you looked at him like that.

He sat down in front of you, still slightly flushed, and gently nudged the tray a little closer to your side of the table.

"You can eat now," he said softly, eyes flicking between your face and the strawberry cheesecake like he wasn’t sure which one was more captivating.

You nodded, your fingers brushing over the fork as you quietly murmured, “Okay,” your voice a little shy, your cheeks already warm.

He watched the way you looked down bashfully, how your lashes fluttered when you avoided his gaze—so damn cute he had to glance away himself just to breathe.

“By the way,” he said again, voice softer now as he reached down and pulled out the small paper bag from earlier. His fingers fidgeted slightly with the handles, like he wasn’t sure if he should hand it over yet. But then, after a breath, he set it on the table between you two. “I bought this and… it immediately reminded me of you.”

You blinked, eyes flickering between him and the bag. You slowly opened it and carefully peeled back the tissue, revealing the off-white lacey bow inside. Your heart skipped at the sight—it was delicate, sweet, and just your style. You already imagined how it would look nestled in your hair.

You looked up to thank him, but your voice caught when you saw the way he was watching you—quietly, earnestly, like he’d been holding something in for a long time.

“Tooru…?”

He let out a slow exhale, glancing down at his fingers before lifting his gaze back to yours. His voice was gentle, almost hesitant, but firm enough not to run away from what he needed to say.

“I didn’t just ask you here because I happened to be in the area,” he admitted. “I… I’ve been meaning to do this for a while. Ask you out, properly. Just us. No study materials. No excuses.”

He smiled sheepishly, cheeks tinting red. “I like you. I think I’ve liked you for a long time. And I saw that bow at the mall earlier, and it just—made me think of you. How cute you’d look in it. How much I wanted to see you smile.”

Your breath hitched, and the blush on your cheeks deepened as you lowered your gaze for a moment, overwhelmed but soft all the same.

“I… I wasn’t sure how you’d feel,” he continued, quieter now. “But I figured, if there was even a chance… then I wanted to try.”

You looked up again, meeting his eyes. They were wide with vulnerability, his usual bravado nowhere to be found. Just Tooru. Honest. Hopeful.

The bow still rested in your lap, but your hands were already trembling from how full your chest felt.

And with a shy smile tugging at your lips, you whispered, “I’m really glad you did.”

Your fingers moved almost on instinct, soft and trembling as you reached across the table and gently held one of his hands resting near the fork. His skin was warm, and when your touch met his, Oikawa froze—eyes flicking down, then back to you, breath held like he didn’t want to ruin the moment.

You smiled, shy and a little wobbly, but it was genuine—tinged pink across your cheeks as you gently squeezed his hand.

“I like you too, Tooru,” you said quietly, just above a whisper. “I think I’ve liked you for a while now… I just never thought you’d notice me like that.”

His eyes widened, a glint of disbelief flickering in them before his lips parted, but you kept going, voice a little steadier now.

“And… I’m happy,” you continued, looking down at the bow still sitting on your lap, brushing your thumb over the delicate lace. “That it reminded you of me. It’s really pretty. It feels like… you see me. Really see me.”

You peeked up at him again and added with a soft laugh, “And you remembered I have a sweet tooth. The tarts, the cheesecake… you always remember the little things.”

Oikawa was speechless for a moment—his fingers gently curling around yours now, as if trying to ground himself in the fact that this was real.

“You’re kind,” you whispered, “and I always thought… maybe someone like you wouldn’t look at someone like me like this. But I’m really glad I was wrong.”

And for the first time that day, Oikawa looked like he could cry—from relief, from joy, from the soft, quiet realization that the person he’d been falling for felt the exact same way.

You and Oikawa walked to your dorm that same evening hand in hand. In your grasp was a paper bag filled with slices of strawberry cheesecake and another box holding cakes of different flavors—ones he remembered you mentioned liking before. In his was the smaller bag carrying the delicate lace ribbon he bought just for you.

You couldn’t stop smiling, your fingers gently curled around the handles as if you were afraid this day might slip away like a dream. Your heart fluttered at how thoughtful he’d been, getting takeout just so you could enjoy the sweets later too.

Oikawa kept glancing at you, grinning to himself. The way you clutched the cake boxes so carefully, eyes bright and steps a little lighter than usual—he thought you were the most adorable thing he’d ever seen. You were practically glowing, and all because of him. He didn’t think his heart could take it.

When you reached your dorm building, you turned to him, the hallway quiet and dimly lit.

“Thank you again, Tooru,” you said softly, cradling the bags against your chest. “For… everything.”

Before he could say anything back, you leaned in and gave him a quick peck on the lips—soft, fleeting, but sweet enough to make his heart skip.

You pulled away shyly, your gaze flickering down as your cheeks heated.

But then Oikawa’s hand gently cupped your cheek, and before you could look up again, he leaned in and kissed you—deeper this time.

His lips moved slowly against yours, tender but sure, as if he’d been holding that in for too long. The cake bags were nearly slipping from your hands, but you didn’t care. You felt like you were floating.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. His breath was a little shaky, and his smile was boyish and full of wonder.

“…I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he murmured.

You giggled, breathless, and whispered, “Me too.”

After that night, you officially started dating the campus crush and star volleyball player—Oikawa Tooru—who, unbeknownst to most, had been deeply in love with you all this time.

Even with the title of boyfriend now secured, Oikawa would still short circuit in your presence alone. You could be doing the most mundane thing—tying your hair, sipping your drink, or smiling at your phone—and he’d be sitting across from you, red-tipped ears and dreamy eyes, completely malfunctioning.

You, on the other hand, were doing your best to overcome the fluttery shyness that came with dating someone like him. It was hard to stay composed when Oikawa would send you heart-throbbing winks across the hallway, or pull you close by the waist just to kiss the top of your head when you least expected it.

Of course, this only gave his friends premium material to tease him with.

“Look at Lover Boy over there,” Hanamaki would grin while nudging Matsukawa. “He’s been staring at her for five full minutes. Is that drool?”

“Bet he writes her poems on the back of his practice schedules,” Matsukawa added with a snort.

“I wouldn't put it past him,” Iwaizumi deadpanned. “The man once practiced ‘how to smile less smugly’ in the mirror for her.”

Oikawa would dramatically shield you behind him, scowling at them like a knight defending his honor. “You're all just bitter and alone.”

But even in the face of relentless teasing, he was unbothered—too busy being head over heels for you to care. And while you were still adjusting to all the public attention, there was one thing you both knew for sure:

Whatever this was between you—it was real, sweet, and the best kind of chaos.

Old routines blend with new ones, the slow swirling of your coffee with creamer, the two liquids creating lovely patterns as they attempt to become something new. The habits you developed in Tokyo clash with the almost idyllic life awaiting you in Hyogo. You’re left teetering on the edge, hoping that something will demand your attention when all else has been attended. Small things that contribute to feeling as though you stick out rather than belong as a piece in the greater whole.

And so here you are, sent out of the house on errands to relieve your mother of your minute agitation. The air is frigid, biting the exposed skin of your face, still yet to recover from the short bout of snowfall last night. Its remnants are found dusted along the eaves of the buildings you pass, in small piles accumulated along the sidewalk and the edges of the street. Your earbuds remain forgotten on your dresser at home, but there’s something peaceful about the silence afforded the world in the beginning of January. It’s soothing in ways you hadn’t anticipated, easing the ache in your chest.

The heat of the market envelops you upon your entrance, allowing you to breathe easier. It’s busier than you anticipated, some familiar faces scattered amongst those that crowd the wide walkways between tables. For a second, you think you see the gentle smile of Granny Yumie, but when you look again, she’s gone, replaced by another grandmother belonging to someone unknown.

Behind your sternum, your heart clenches, memories of summers spent at the Kita household while your mother worked the bakery and your father worked in the city coming to the forefront of your mind. Sitting on the engawa, tiny legs kicking next to ever calm Shinsuke, melon juice trickling down your chin; visiting the shrines together in the winter, wearing freshly knitted mittens after forgetting yours at school; running along the paths between rice paddies, listening to the songs of nature, turning back to see his smile.

Your throat grows dry and you clear it, bringing yourself firmly back in the present.

Though you needn’t look at the list your mother gave you, your fingers dig into your pocket anyway, unfolding it in a search for any semblance of distraction that will keep those impossible feelings from growing. It doesn’t help, not as you select fresh daikon and leeks, perusing hakusai, carefully selecting kiwi to your standards rather than your mother’s—memories of Shinsuke crop up between each and every piece of produce you handle.

There’s no point trying to count how many times you two were sent to the market together, adolescent Shinsuke growing the least bit irritated as you intentionally grabbed the wrong vegetables if only to hear his carefully detailed explanation of what to look for when at the farmers’ market.

It brings a smile to your face, soft and delicate in ways only possible with him.

It makes that ache grow, something unfulfilled, a love that was there but unexplored, both filling you up and emptying you out.

The basket in your hand grows heavy with the weight of this week’s meals, leaving you with only a handful of items left to grab before you can return home. As you round the corner, a small group has gathered, mostly neighborhood aunties, though you spot the fishmonger among them. They all chitter, seeking the attention of the man with his back turned to the flour you need. The red of his knit cap reminds you of the red of Inarizaki. Turning on your heel, you hear the voice of the person you thought you had glimpsed earlier.

“Shin, doesn’t she look familiar? Cute, ain’t she?”

Everything grows silent as you turn in their direction once more, the only sound to break through being the growing beat of your heart. Granny Yumie stands beside him, her arm curled in the crook of his as she gently pulls his attention toward you. The familial intimacy of the action confirms that it was Shin you heard in the joyful lilt of her voice. He starts to speak, words unintelligible in your current state.

There’s a pull, slow and deliberate, redirecting your focus, your heart stilling in your chest the moment you meet familiar amber eyes, his voice ceasing.

For a second, you’re a teenager again walking up the path to his house, only for Granny Yumie to open the door and reveal Shinsuke. The curl of your lips is involuntary, a natural reaction to his presence as it has ever been, mirrored by his, surprise morphing into easy acceptance at your appearance before him.

And then you notice the ways in which he has changed.

Shinsuke is slightly taller than he used to be (or Granny has lost a centimeter or two). His shoulders are broader, obvious even under his winter clothing. The adolescent softness you once found present in his face is gone now in favor of the smooth lines of adulthood, made firm by the time spent working the land. Even from this distance, you can see the way the corners of his eyes crinkle, deeper than from the smiles you remember. The past and present flicker before you, leaving you to reconcile the boy you once knew with the man who stands before you.

He speaks your name with the same care and inflection he did while both attending Inarizaki and the sensation that’s haunted you for the last month eases, things shifting five centimeters to the right. Granny Yumie looks up at him, her grin widening before turning to you again. While you half expect her to come to you herself, easily just as responsible for your upbringing as your parents, she instead releases Shinsuke’s arm and tries nudging him in your direction.

Without taking his eyes off you, the corners of his lips quirk, the barest acknowledgment of Granny’s urging. Shinsuke hesitates, his gaze slow to release you and follow the turn of his head, but he does, proper as ever with the way he bids a quick farewell to all others seeking his attention. Their reactions vary, some smiling with knowing, similar to Granny, others with piqued curiosity.

As he approaches, time plays tricks again and you’re waiting for him just outside of class, ready to study together in the library.

He says your name again, the cadence practiced with decades’ worth of speaking it into existence, the movement of his mouth familiar with its shape. Again, your smile comes without thought and your cheeks warm as he nears.

“Ya came home.” Spoken as though this was a prediction of his that came true, an inevitability. Under his gaze, you think he might still see the truth of you, that he might still be capable of pulling you apart.

“I did.”

It’s been a decade since you two have seen each other, the years in between scattered with occasional updates, pictures sent without much said beyond basic captions. You think it’s that which causes you to hesitate, to wonder whether it’s more appropriate to call him by his family’s name—the name of his parents, of his Granny—or to call him by the name you’ve called him since you were both five. But he watches you with that expression that communicates that ten years is nothing in the face of your friendship.

“It’s nice to see you, Shinsuke.” Your mouth shapes around his name with the same ease you witnessed from him. It’s familiar. It feels like home.

“S’been a while,” his smile grows as he says it, your eyes drawn to the creases on either side of his mouth, the physical memory of frequent laughter. “Are you visitin’?”

“As of last month, I am all done with my apprenticeship. I’m back for good.”

Warmth blossoms in your chest at his smile, your heart spreading it throughout your body as his grin communicates more than he could possibly hope to accomplish with words.

“Always knew you’d find yer way back to Hyogo.”

“Did you now? I’m glad to see that you are still a paragon of knowledge.”

It almost feels as though your heart is beating in time with his chuckle. “I don’t know everything. Just hopeful.”

“To me, you always have.”

Shinsuke makes it easy to fall back into things by the very nature of who he is. The world comes back around you two and the first thing you register is the tittering of the aunties behind him. Tilting your torso, you look past him, catching them watching you two with excitable grins, Granny Yumie offering a contented wave your way.

He snickers, the sound low and meant for your ears only, wordlessly calling your attention once more. Even with his eyes closed, mirth is etched into his expression, unphased by their behavior.

“Tell me: are they just as prone to gossiping as they used to be?”

The snicker turns into a chuckle, a little deeper than before. “They’re harmless.”

“Shinsuke…” You peer at him, suppressing your smile in an attempt to goad him into answering. In return, he opens his eyes, cheeks lifting higher, turning him the tiniest bit boyish. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Most of ‘em have retired since you were last here.”

“What a clever way of evading my question while telling me that their gossiping has gotten worse.” The weight of the Shinsuke-sized hole by your side hits you in full force by the virtue that it is suddenly filled. How you made it through a decade without him after nearly two with him, you don’t know.

Honey-gold eyes remain focused on you, soft in the same way they were when you last saw them. “I’m glad ya came home.”

Simple and succinct but no less potent in true Shinsuke fashion.

“I am, too.” The first time in the last few weeks that you’ve meant it with full sincerity, that constant buzzing beneath your skin finally calming.

The chatter behind him hasn’t stopped and you hear Granny Yumie’s voice break above the steady din. You can see it clearly, the way their eager assumptions about you two will spark around the town, happy gossip featuring everyone’s favorite rice farmer and the baker freshly returned from Tokyo. There’s an uncomfortable twisting in your gut that sours your mood.

Anyone who remembers you would remember how you and Shinsuke were once attached at the hip, that as children, if you wanted to find one, you’d usually find the other. Your name’s been tied to his for longer than you can remember, but everything that went unsaid and unrealized in high school still lingers in your mind.

“We should move before we’re the only thing they’re talking about for a while.”

Understanding is laced in the nod he gives you. “Alright. D’you want any help?” The question comes after a momentary glance at your basket, the right corner of his mouth lifts, his smile turning crooked as he turns teasing.

Stepping around the corner again, firmly out of sight of those whose voices have gone suspiciously quiet, he follows, allowing you to lead him to the next item on your list. “Are you accusing me of not knowing how to pick the best vegetables?”

“I remember that you used to struggle with that when we were kids.”

“I remember getting to hear your lesson again and again. One of my favorites, I have to say.” Beside you, he shakes his head, the two of you sharing a quick glance, smiles mirrors of the other’s. “All I need is rice vinegar and flour.”

“Is that all?”

“That’s all. I was about to grab the flour, but, uh…”

“Let me grab that for ya.” He comes to a stop, hanging back while you step closer toward the rice vinegar.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Assumin’ you don’t wanna risk their speculation.”

Even after all this time,

“You know me so well.”

Because it’s you and it’s him and ten years separation isn’t enough to unravel the threads that tie you two together. Because ten years’ growth doesn’t erase the crux of who either of you are.

“What kind d’ya need?”

“Hakurikiko and kyoryokuko.”

With a hum and a nod, he leaves, the curve of his smile imprinted into the back of your eyelids. Shinsuke returns to you a couple minutes later, a pack of flour in each hand, adding them to your basket.

“Mama wanted to make bread at home this coming weekend. We could bring some to you and Granny.”

“I’d like that.”

There’s a little twinge in your chest similar to the infinitesimal drop to his voice, a hint of reluctance to the impending end to your incidental reunion.

“Good. Is it safe to say you still don’t use LINE?”

“That’s right.”

“Alright, then I’ll give you a call.”

“I look forward to it.”

It’s not like last time, you have to remind yourself. Still, your throat tightens just enough that you feel silly for it, especially in the face of the certainty Shinsuke carries with him always.

Spring

Spring arrives on a cool breeze that rustles through the ume tree in your parents’ yard, carrying with it the early blossoms. It starts with a gentle rain that turns into a flurry, the snow gathering in small pockets of the town before melting into the ground, nurturing the blooms to come. Ume blossoms make your world blush, the slightest gust of wind ensuring that you’ll need to check yourself for petals before tracking them into your home or the bakery. By the time ume make way for sakura, you’ve found an apartment closer to town, away from the farmhouses that mark your childhood.

The abundant blossoms in Hyogo remind you of high school, of the last few springs spent here, the change promised by the fragrant blooms signifying changes beyond the new school year.

There was rain following hanafubuki that imitated snowfall from weeks before, petal piles gathering and dancing along the paths before becoming weighed down by sudden showers. It wasn’t gradual, not with adequate warnings of an overcast sky in the morning that would’ve encouraged an umbrella from you, but out of nowhere, leaving you to run for cover under the nearest overhang. With the smooth accompaniment of the downpour, you watched Shinsuke pull out his umbrella, never failing to be prepared. His lips shaped into that knowing smile of his as he neared, waiting for you just at the edge of your covering.

(“You’re taunting me, Shin,” said with the petulance of losing an argument lost many times before.

Rather than dignifying you with a response, he said, “Let’s go home. Don’t wanna get sick now, do you?”

Part of you wanted to resist by the virtue of the uptick of his lips, but you knew he wouldn’t leave without you. “Fine. Yeah, let’s go home.”

Usually he wouldn’t allow you to leave home without an umbrella, reminding you before picking you up each morning, but that day required you to be tucked into his side, crowding him to avoid the rain. A single glance turned into something more, admiring the shadows of the raindrops on his umbrella and how they dappled his skin, played with his eyes. They flicked to you and it was the first time you felt it: that pulling behind your navel, the tingling of your fingertips, both causing your cheeks to heat.

Your arms brushed together and your throat grew tight and you knew what it was when you wanted to lace your fingers with his, to feel the warmth of his palm in yours, different than when you were kids.

“What happened to your umbrella?” he asked, staring ahead though his attention was wholly on you.

“You didn’t remind me.”

“You shouldn’t push the responsibility of yer preparedness onto someone else.”

“When have you ever been just ‘someone else?’”

“Don’t sidestep the conversation, please. You shouldn’t need me to remind you.”

“Maybe I just like the sound of your voice, even when lecturin’ me.”

He looked at you and took a second longer than usual, attention drifting from your eyes to your nose, then your lips. Your hand itched for contact and it was the only time he let you off without a lecture.)

Again, sakura petals swirl in the wind as you as you make your way to the market, making memories of then and now dance before your eyes, as ephemeral as the nature of the petals catching in your hair and the folds of your clothes. It hurries you along, through the sliding doors and almost directly into Shinsuke.

“Oh,” you breathe, a bewildered sound escaping on your exhale.

All it takes is a quick glance over his shoulder before he’s turning to meet you fully, the soft line of his lips lifting until you’re met with a blinding smile. “Ain’t you in a hurry?”

You’re left breathless, your lungs pausing while your heart picks up, a soft pattering against your ribs not nearly as captivating as the regard with which he holds for you. It feels like a gift just for you, one you want to treasure. The moment passes and you miss the parts of your childhood when you could remain by his side and attempt to pull that reaction from him more freely than you can now.

“My Shin Senses were going off and I had to rush over and see you.” The sound of his laughter nestles itself into your skin, warming you up, and it feels like petals are suddenly dancing within the confines of your chest. “No, I was just trying to run away from the flowers and get some eggs while I’m at it.”

Amber eyes take you in, pausing at the top of your head. “Seems like ya didn’t come out unscathed.”

Without skipping a beat, his hand reaches up, picking a petal from your hair, then another. Calloused fingers brush against the skin of your neck, burning their touch into the memory of your cells.

“Thank you,” your voice is lower than you wanted, unintentionally just for him.

“Course. We keep runnin’ into each other here, don’t we?” As he steps back, his smile turns gentle.

“We do. What’re you lookin’ for today?”

Behind him, the table displays are overflowing with freshly delivered vegetables from local farms. Turning his head to look at the strawberries, your eyes catch on his throat, the bob of his smile before turning up, admiring the line of his jaw and the shape of his nose all before he meets your gaze once more.

“Granny wanted some strawberries, otherwise I need food for the next coupla days.”

“Got it. Want some help?” Shinsuke’s laugh nearly sounds like a cough, short and wry, its intent immediately identifiable. “Fine. The errors of my youth have still yet to be forgiven. Let me rephrase: want some company?”

“I’ll never say no to your company.”

It’s your turn to beam, for a pleasant hum to build somewhere near the base of your ribs. With his basket, he leads you through the displays, stopping at every other one, making comments about the farmers, admiring their crops. With expert hands, he selects sansai with care, the hint of a smile in place, happy to receive the bounty of his neighbors.

“You know,” you drawl, “it might be easier if we started planning to shop together.”

“Is that so?” He tosses you a glance, attention torn between you and the yama udo in his hand. “I don’t wanna subject you to my hours. The bakery’s more constant than the farm.”

“You say that as though we haven’t run into each other here almost once a week since I’ve been back.”

Satisfied with his bundle, he puts it in his basket, moving on to inspect the warabi. “That’s true now, but just you wait ‘til summer and autumn roll around.”

Your own attention is drawn to the mikan, mind already considering the different recipes you could try at the bakery. Your response comes a little offhandedly, something you’ve thought many times before but have never explicitly stated. “I wouldn’t mind getting used to your hours. Think it'd do me some good.”

Shinsuke turns away from the cabbage, considering you instead, soft moments with contemplations unknown to you. His silence feels charged and you look over, meeting his attentive gaze. The seconds carry on until he finally says, “I’d like that.”

Soft, carrying with it something unidentifiable (though possibly if only because you are a little afraid to misidentify it) that both frightens and steadies you.

It follows you, entwining around your heart until it feels as though you are holding your breath in anticipation, kept level with the surety of his voice as he originally spoke it.

Not until two weeks later does that breath release, in your sempai’s restaurant several streets over from the bakery.

You sit at the only table for two, her counter seats full of her regulars. Every now and then Fujiwara makes eye contact with you and smiles apologetically and each time you want to laugh because she used to talk about wanting this exact scenario. There’s a steady din, people enjoying her work, the careful cultivation of her time and love, and it leaves you with a pleasant hum beneath your skin.

The bell above the door rings and your eyes flicker to it, distracted from your reverie by a swift burst of the remnants of sunlight left in the day. The smile that graces your lips belongs solely to the unexpected appearance of Shinsuke, curious and unassuming in his arrival. You’re granted a few seconds before he spots you, admiring the relaxed set of your shoulders, the gentle greeting afforded Adachi. Then he notices you and his lips quirk and that pleasant hum turns warm.

In your periphery, Fujiwara looks at you again and you gesture between you and Shinsuke, making her assess her newest customer with heightened interest before nodding. Adachi notices, directing Shinsuke to your table leaving the two of you alone under the watchful gaze of your sempai.

(Of course she’d be interested in him, what with how many times she tried setting you up on dates during culinary school, only for you to back out one way or another time and again.)

“This is a lovely surprise,” you greet, the end of your sentence lifting with your lips.

“Do you often eat here?” His appraisal of her restaurant is quick as though eager to make you the sole recipient of your attention once more.

“I do. The chef and I attended the same program in Tokyo. We bonded over family businesses and both hailing from Hyogo.” Just like your smiles with him, you can’t help but smile when talking about her, looking over once more, catching her with a grin of her own as she jokes with the patrons at the counter. When you turn back to Shinsuke, you find him watching you with an air of contentedness, honey eyes warm.

“I’m glad.” He watches you for a beat longer, nodding to himself with a satisfied hum you don’t think you were meant to hear. You offer him your menu and he peruses it, taking in each line with equal consideration. “Is there anything you’d recommend?”

Humming, you review the menu and settle on— “I think you’d enjoy her ochazuke.”

“Alright.”

The food comes quickly and you spend more time watching Shinsuke than eating, content with his enjoyment of your recommendation.

It always pleased you when you could accurately guess his tastes, though it was usually with your own food that you’d experiment. Honestly, you’ve forgotten how it started, but it was some time in high school. If you had to guess, probably in your first year at Inarizaki. A fondness creeps up on you, warming the tips of your fingers, traveling up your arms, if only because it was your sharing of food that caused the Miya twins to argue about whether you and Shinsuke were together.

You aren’t sure when that started, either, when that afternoon in the rain sparked into blurred lines, into the liminal space that was your relationship with Shinsuke. What were once platonic touches turned charged. Wiping a stray grain of rice from your face would turn the tips of his ears pink. When you two walked home and your arms would brush against the other’s, fingers sometimes catching. A chuckle bubbles past your lips at the memory of your classmate surprised when you stopped loitering between class and club, all so that you could be mindful of Shin’s desire to walk you to club without being late to his.

“What’s funny?”

Tilting your head, your gaze settles on the miniature shrine Fujiwara established on the wall, inhale getting caught with your thoughts. “Do you remember… how I used to dawdle after class before club?”

“Yes.”

“I was just remembering when Inoue made a big deal about me leaving on time so I could walk with you to club.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “She was loud with that one,” he says, voice a little wistful.

“D'you remember when the twins started arguing about us?”

The resigned exhale tells you he does, sparking your smile, irrepressible, causing your eyes to crinkle. Instead of answering in the affirmative, he surprises you. “Which time?”

“It happened more than once? I only remember when they started raising their voices after we passed by their classroom.”

Atsumu was insistent that you and Shin couldn’t possibly be together because you two ostensibly behaved as friends compared to some of the other couples around campus. Osamu, on the other hand, claimed that you must’ve been a couple because of how often you two shared homemade meals. What started as needless gossip turned into another one of their fights.

“That was the first one,” he says before drinking his tea, eyes shifting the side. “Aran told me that they kept arguing because I wouldn’t entertain their questions. He was probably right.”

“Why didn’t you answer them?” Maybe if he answered them, things would have felt a little less… opaque between you two. That liminal space needn’t have been extended as long as it was.

The light breaks through the window, the last bastion with the sun’s descent into the sky. It perfectly illuminates Shinsuke’s face, turning his eyes golden and glowing when he looks at you again. “What happens between us isn’t for anyone else to know. It’s ours.”

Your breath is stolen from you at the same time that something light rushes past your sternum, setting you alight. Heat spreads across your cheeks and he continues to watch you as though he hasn’t just stopped your heart. A hand comes to cover the bottom half of your face and you’re drawn to the subtle twitch of his lips.

“Always has been.”

Summer

Summer comes on the heels of the rainy season, the steady showers replaced by the familiar weight of the sun, rising temperatures fully bringing to life all that slumbered when you arrived. Farmers are busy with their fields, balancing out the deluge with the unrelenting heat. The kitchen has offered no relief, though the joy on your customer’s faces has been reward enough, watching them enjoy that which you carefully crafted into existence, ingredients turned into treats.

Today is no exception, sweat trailing down the back of your neck, slipping beneath the collar of your shirt. You’re almost reluctant to turn off the aircon, your only salvation, even if the exertion of cleaning negates most of its effects. Even with the late hour, you’re unsure whether you’ll find reprieve outside.

That doesn’t stop your grin from forming—the least bit shy—when you walk to the front of the shop and see Shinsuke waiting for you just outside. In the present, he doesn’t notice you just yet, staring at something down the street, allowing you a minute to take him in. He wears a plain white shirt and you admire the subtle tan-lines on his wrists, only about four centimeters, the distance between his gloves and his protective wear. His hair has gotten a little longer and you wonder whether he would like a haircut or is interested in growing it out a little longer. As if feeling your attention on him, he looks at you from his periphery, a soft smile developing as he turns to face you in full.

It pushes you forward, to walk out of the shop and lock it behind you, keys clinking together with your movements.

Though cooler than you anticipated, the humidity keeps everything cocooned, the warmth of the sun on the pavement having nowhere to go. Your clothes begin to stick to you when they didn’t before and you can nearly hear the sweet call of your shower.

“Good evenin’.”

“Good evening, Shinsuke.” Peeking over your shoulder, you catch him watching, his smile endlessly tender, something you know you’ll end up thinking about in the moments before you go to sleep. “You don’t need to do this, y’know.”

“I know.”

The locks click in place and you test the doors out of habit before turning. “It’s late.” Your brows pinch together, searching for any signs of exhaustion on him, only to find none. You both know that he’ll wake before the sun, just as he did today, that were it any other night, he would have been asleep two hours ago. “I can get home just fine.”

“I know. I like walking ya home.”

It was like this then, too, insisting on walking you from class to club, and from club home. As much as you want to argue, to insist he care for himself and his hours, you know him to be nothing if not responsible. One who loves routine as much as he is making a statement by changing it.

It’s not lost on you, and so you allow him a truth.

“I like it when you walk me home.”

The answering grin that lifts his cheeks leaves you dizzy, makes you feel unbearably light. “Then come. Let’s get you home.”

The night is quiet, something never quite achieved in Tokyo. You missed it, the comfort that comes with a world asleep, no distractions to keep you from your thoughts, guaranteeing a moment of reflection. That you can share this with Shinsuke makes you happier than you thought it would—you always loved the night but it was something that only ever belonged to you.

“There’s going to be a storm in a coupla days.”

“Not a thunderstorm, right?”

“That’s not in the forecast right now, but it might change.”

“So what does that mean for you?”

“Gotta make sure the ducks will be fine, otherwise not much I can do.” He turns to look at you, head tilting in a question that goes unasked.

“Does it align with my days off?”

He nods. “It does. I thought we could spend the day together.”

Whenever rain would preclude you two from your usual chores and activities, the two of you would often curl up together in the tatami room with books or shogi. Curiosity tickles the back of your mind, whether he would have you return to tried and true traditions or if he wishes to do something else.

“What were you thinking?”

“A friend has a rice sake farm on the other side of the mountains. He gave me a list of izakayas in the area that ordered his sake. I thought we could go to the bookshop and then grab lunch.”

“I’d like that. After, can we swing by the farmhouse and read like we used to?” The smile that shapes his lips is effortless and his eyes brighten, making it near impossible to not respond in kind. “You have me looking forward to a summer storm.”

Shinsuke’s chuckle is a tiny thing, meant for himself, but the two of you say nothing more. It isn’t until your arms brush that you realize the distance you had started with has disappeared. Whether it was you or him, it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t change anything.

His truck comes into view, parked in the empty spot belonging to you, almost as though it belongs.

“Hope ya don’t mind—”

“Shinsuke,” you interrupt, exasperation bleeding through. “You’ve been picking me up every Thursday for the last month. Do you think I’d mind? Do you think I’d mind if you hadn’t been?”

This laugh is louder, his smile reluctant to leave. “Alright, you’ve made your point.”

“Good. You’re always welcome at my home.”

And it hits you, sudden and striking, a truth that’s existed for decades, a flash of lightning against the shore of a lake. It isn’t home if Shinsuke’s not there. It’s almost suffocating, your breaths coming in a little shallow, leaving you glad for the lingering heat, for the deep shadows of night, even with the street lamps that attempt to provide light. Warmth blossoms from behind your navel and part of you is surprised that you’re reacting to such a truth like this when it’s not the discovery of something new but the uncovering of something that was always there.

While he slows, you continue forward, the door to the stairwell calling you. (Perhaps a cool shower will be enough to sooth your racing heart).

“I have somethin’ for you.”

The truck creaks after he unlocks it, the door opening while he ducks inside the cab. He reappears, something in his arms and you step forward. Stepping around the open door, he nudges it closed with his elbow, revealing a pot with two of the same plant, tall green leaves with dainty stems that curve and dangle a series of small white cupped flowers.

“Thought you could use some green in yer apartment. They’re suzuran. Lily-of-the-Valley.”

The flowers dance with his movement, delicate little things. A perfect gift from him, if you had to say.

“Thank you.”

“C’mon. I’ll help you get ‘em inside.”

Autumn

From summer, it’s a gentle transition into autumn. With days growing shorter incrementally, it grows cooler, the heat that chased you since July tapering off to bearable temperatures. The world becomes awash with gold and crimson between the farms and tree leaves, the final exhale before a deep slumber.

It’s warm for the final weekend of October, the sun still high overhead, a counterbalance to the intermittent cool winds. Earth and petrichor carries on the breeze, remnants of the rains from two days before filling your lungs, leaving you satisfied. There’s a little give in the dirt beneath your feet, packed in from the visitors that came before. A sea of cosmos stands before you, waves of pink sensations and orange flares bobbing and undulating with the wind, the untilled paths disappearing and reappearing.

The brim of your sunhat lifts and your hand is quick to come to the band to keep it in place. Behind you, your favorite heh, heh rings and you can’t help but turn to find Shinsuke watching, looking first at your hand, then at you.

“We’re here,” you call, stepping ahead before rotating until you’re facing him. “It’s been so long. When did you last visit?”

He catches up in a couple strides, nodding his head in silent encouragement for you to continue. His brows furrow for half a second, the briefest shadow crossing over his face. “A year after you left for Tokyo. Granny wanted to cut the sunflowers.”

A single thread of melancholy weaves itself throughout his answer, unusually succinct after he’s asked to visit the fields for the last couple months. As much as you want to pull at it, to receive the answer he would willingly give, you hold back. Even if he would give it willingly, you wish for him to reveal it to you when he’d like.

“I remember the first time we came here, I fell and scraped my chin at the playground,” you say, pointing in the direction of the play structure near the top of the hill, voice turning wistful. “I was bawling and you went and got our grannies and I thought that you were so awe-inspiring.”

A laugh bubbles past your lips at your childlike wonder, but the sentiment hasn’t changed all that much. Reaching your left hand out, you let the leaves come and go to your fingertips. Shinsuke stands beside you, steady and firm. He lets you nudge him with your shoulder, the back of your right hand bumping against his left.

“I was just doing what I should’ve. Wasn’t anythin’ special or awe-inspiring.” Your hand sways when you do and his follows, warm against yours, until he shifts, slotting your palms together, fingers laced with yours.

“Both can be true. Just because you are steady with your routine and are the accumulation of all the tiny choices you make every day doesn’t mean you aren’t awe-inspiring. I think you are.”

“Fair enough.”

Taking another couple steps forward, he follows your lead, and when you look over your shoulder at him, his smile is so achingly gentle, it makes your heart squeeze.

“They really are beautiful, Shin.”

“Ya always did like the flowers. Think ya had more fun here than you did at the top of the hill.”

Further to your left, two siblings run through the fields, their parents not too far behind. The one in front calls for the second, voice light, a perfect counterpart to the chime of his sister’s laughter. “Maybe. I used to have dreams of coming here, running through the flowers with you like we used to do with the paddies. I’d wake up feeling happy.”

The silence is full, comfortable, a bubble encapsulating you two even as the wind blows and the children run through the fields.

“D’you know what they mean?”

“Hm?”

“The flowers. Do you know what they symbolize?”

Turning from him to the cosmos colored blush pink and magenta, you try to remember the books Granny Yumie lent to you decades ago. “No, I’ve forgotten.”

Without missing a beat, he answers. “They can mean harmony, peace. The joys that love and life can bring.”

He would remember, ever diligent with all his lessons.

“So what are you saying? My dreams were a little more pointed than happy memories here?” you tease.

Smiling to himself, he shakes his head. “Perhaps. Granny always said the gods are watching us. Maybe they were guiding your dreams.”

“Maybe,” you acquiesce. “Okay then… What do sunflowers symbolize?”

“Sunflowers?”

“Yeah, since we’d always come in the summer when the sunflowers were in bloom.”

Shinsuke takes a deep inhale, contemplation thick in it, and his exhale is carried on the wind. “Sunflowers can mean adoration. They can also mean false riches.”

Clicking your tongue against your teeth, you say, “I prefer adoration.”

“I expected as much.”

Pink makes way for the orange, the warmth that lingers from summer, bleeding into autumn. Signs advertise the flower trimming that will start next week, always coming just before the end of the flowers’ lifespans. You enjoy the ephemeral nature of it all, of roughly four million flowers planted and nurtured from September to the end of October, their growth and beauty allowed to flourish and be appreciated year after year. When you reach the line separating the crops, the new flowers running perpendicular, Shinsuke guides you back to the main path, doing so with little more than a squeeze of his hand.

Walking along the street, he gestures to the market, strategically placed amongst a popular park to best host the farmers’ best crops. It’s a little smaller than the market back home—not that that says much—but you always remembered the vegetables in this market being your favorites to work with.

Noticing your wandering attention, Shinsuke chuckles. “You don’t wanna carry those squash for the rest of the day, do you? We can come back next weekend for the cuttings. Let’s get lunch for now.”

There’s individually packaged meals made fresh, both of you reaching for the umeboshi onigiri with tamagoyaki. By the time you two check-out, your stomach is starting to growl, glad for the timing of it all (knowing Shin, it was intentional).

The wind has died down when you reach the outdoor dining area, leaving you two to eat your meal in peace. Your mind wanders to the flowers again, lining the fence that separates this area from the rest of the park.

“What’s your favorite flower?” If you were to ask most other people, you doubt they would have an answer, however—

“I’ve always liked magnolias.”

“They are pretty, aren’t they?” His neighbor had a tree in their yard, the blossoms always marking the end of summer. “What do they mean?”

“Perseverance, dignity. You should know these. Granny gave you the same books.”

“That suits you. A little too well, I think,” you laugh.

“What’s yer favorite flower? The blue hyacinths still?”

“You remembered. My favorite shade of blue.” As if you made it hard to forget, arguing with a classmate that they were better than the pink or yellow ones during break in elementary school.

He snickers, smile lingering as he looks at his hands. “They mean constancy and sincerity. They suit you, too.”

You forgot that the flowers have their own language, that sometimes their voices are heard without knowing them. With how easily he recollects the flowers and their meanings and how intentional he is with everything else, each small action in a day building up to make him who he is, to impact the world around him…

“Hey, Shin?”

He looks up, golden honey sweetness erasing the insignificant sliver of anxiety at the question on your tongue, and hums.

“What about suzuran?”

At that he grins, slow but sure, the tips of his ears turning pink.

“They represent sweetness and the return of happiness.”

New Years Eve

The blanket and pillow both smell distantly of Shinsuke’s detergent, cleaned and then stored away for when his guest room would be put to use. They’re older, soft with age and care, attended to for who knows how long. The house is silent, the wind and rain from earlier in the week having dissipated, enough that you can hear the soft tup, tup, tup of the cat down the hall. Your belly is full, the nyumen from earlier keeping you sated.

And yet, you lie here awake, sleep elusive, your attempts to grasp it as fruitful as trying to grasp the smoke that rises from a fire. The tendrils that usually pull at your mind and lull you into a state of rest are nowhere to be find, and so it’s with a defeated exhale that you remove the blanket and resign yourself to wakefulness.

Deciding on the chill of the night rather than the warmth of the kotatsu, you dress, only so far as to put on your jacket and scarf, otherwise folding the blanket in half before wrapping it around your shoulders. The slippers soften your steps, attempting to remain as silent as possible, not wanting to disturb Shinsuke’s rest. Your shoes wait for you in the genkan, and with that you’re free. With your first step toward the door, the cat comes around the corner, trilling in a bid for you to let her out, disappointed when you shoo her away.

It’s not as cold as it has been in years past, not that different from your last New Years spent in Tokyo. The air feels refreshing, crisp, your exhales little puffs in front of you. Shuffling, you decide to sit on the edge of the engawa, careful to keep the blanket from touching anything other than you. The wood is cold, instantly chilling you, making you shiver, but the restlessness from earlier begins to fade, bit by bit.

If you look past the eaves, you can see the stars, scattered lights across the night sky, something you missed dearly while away. With Shinsuke in the country, your view of them is clearer than you’d find even in town. Where he remembers the books on hanakotoba and your grandmother’s attempts for you to learn ikebana, you remember the constellations. As you make out their shapes and remember their stories, the door slides, immediately pulling your focus.

“Can’t sleep?” Shin asks, having thrown on a cable-knit sweater and scarf, peering at you curiously as he leans against the enbashira with crossed arms.

“I didn’t want to wake you. I’m sorry.”

“Wasn’t you. Momo was complainin’.” The corner of his lips quirk. When you jerk your head in an invitation, he sighs, pushing himself in your direction.

“Share my blanket with me.”

He comes to your side, careful as he descends, taking the edge of the blanket you hold open to wrap around his shoulders. He’s warm, firm.

“So why’d ya choose to sit out in the cold instead of warm by the kotatsu?”

“I missed the stars.”

His hum is deep, rumbles in his chest. “You always did like the stars.”

The silence isn’t so bad with him by your side, the steady rising and falling of his chest in time with his breaths, making it easy to follow his rhythm. You worry about the interruption to his sleep, especially given that he’ll be waking earlier than he usually would so you two could watch hatsuhinode on the beach instead of in the mountains.

“We don’t have to go to the beach tomorrow. We could still make the hike,” you say, voice low.

“You wanted to go to the beach.” He says it so matter-of-fact, as though the alternative is no longer viable. Your learned preference for the beach thanks to your time in the city made that the only logical course of action.

“Yes, but you like the mountains.”

“I want to see the sunrise at the beach.” Such a simple way to end the argument.

It’s another routine of his, something done each year, followed by hatsumoude, almost sacred with the way he carries it out, but he’s welcoming you and the changes you bring so readily, it’s a little intimidating. How many people had you witnessed struggle to adjust to living alone or somewhere entirely new while in school? How many times had you been one of them?

“What’re you thinking about?”

“The international students in my program and how scary it must’ve been to come here.” He simply hums in response, letting your mind continue to wander. “I remember it was the first or second year of the program, but we all got together and were talking about traditions and it was fun hearing about what other cultures do for New Years.”

“Like what?”

“Ah, I had a friend from Spain who said they’d eat twelve grapes with the twelve chimes of the clock. Apparently it would help achieve good luck each month of the year. Or one of my classmates visited Brazil and said everyone wore white at the beach, something to do with wishing for peace and luck. And another was American. She told me that they had New Year kisses, where they’d kiss their partner at midnight. It meant they’d have a good year together.”

“I don’t understand that. Wouldn’t it be better to put in the work to be a good partner? If two people come together while both putting in the work, wouldn’t that translate to a ‘good year’ together?”

“Yeah, I guess,” you laugh. You’re long used to his logic. “I don’t know. It seemed a little romantic to me. She also said that it was like promising each other that the coming year would be full of love and dedication. I liked the sound of it as a promise.”

He hums again, as much of an answer as you’ll receive for now, though you’re sure he’ll turn over your words and give them consideration as he so often does. You shift against him, leaning your weight against him, content when he rests his head against yours. It’s not long after that Momo starts crying, audible through the door. Shinsuke chuckles, the sound tired, and he nudges you.

“We should get inside. She’ll stop complaining if we’re both inside.” He pulls away from you, standing with ease, extending a hand. You take it, your hand fitting perfectly in his, and he helps lift you to your feet. “I’ll turn on the kotatsu.”

“You’re not tired?”

His eyes drift to the right before coming back and he shrugs. “I like spendin’ time with you.”

The kotatsu is still out from earlier, quick to warm, relaxing your muscles. Momo circles his feet, chirping at him as though scolding him for keeping her inside. He ignores her for the most part, only acknowledging her to say, “In the morning. Yer capable of waiting.”

He comes to join you, offering you a cup of yuzu tea as you place your phone on the table, uncomfortable with it in your pocket. As you drink, enjoying the smooth citrus and honey blend, lulled into a state of peace previously out of reach, the framed pressed cosmos draw your focus. Shin had told you that he wanted to preserve one of the flowers you cut, just as a reminder of, as he said before, the joys that love and life can bring.

“Do you mind if… never mind.” Even if your curiosity burns and you’ve still yet to discover why it was so important to him to visit the park, what matters is that it was important and that it’s a memory you two have together.

“What do you want to know?”

“I was just… curious why you wanted us to go to the park a couple months ago.”

Shinsuke straightens, the lift of his lips slow, and you’re reminded of that thread you wanted to pull in the autumn. “The last time I went to the fields, it was with Granny. I didn’t realize until I was there, lookin’ at the sunflowers, that it was the only time I hadn’t gone with you.”

“Oh.” It was an annual trip, usually in the summer in that sea of petaled gold, turned toward the sun. You hadn’t thought anything of the fact that it’s been nine years since he had gone, but it should have stood out to you.

“It didn’t feel right. I wanted us to go back to fix that.”

Releasing the hold you have on your cup, you reach across the surface of the kotatsu to where his hand rests and squeeze. He opens it for you, letting you pull it until it’s between you both. When you’re done, he laces his fingers with yours, thumb smoothing over the back of your hand.

“We can make it an annual trip again. Maybe not in summer, but we could see the cosmos each year.”

“Ya know… it was in those sunflowers that I first knew.”

“That you… knew?” Your heart hiccups and your cheeks warm incrementally while your mind tries to parse his meaning, almost as though your body knows something you don’t.

“How I felt about you.”

That hiccup picks up, turns into a faint thrumming.

“When was that?”

“The summer of our first year at Inarizaki. You ran ahead like ya do and you turned around to call my name and it sounded like you were callin’ me home.”

Your lips part and you inhale, trying to find something, anything to say. “Shinsuke… That long?”

How long did you spend questioning whether it was you and you alone? Whether he watched you as your best friend or as something more? (Why did you assume that the latter didn’t include the former?)

“Why didn’t you say anything before I left?”

Shinsuke shuffles, bringing himself closer. The movement pulls his hand from yours but you release it, mesmerized by the words he left hanging in the air and the words yet to come. “It wasn’t gonna change anythin’. Not the way I felt and not the opportunity you had. To me, there’s only been you.” The hand that was entwined with yours comes forward, reaching for you. His index and middle fingers touch you first, barely there, and then his thumb brushes against the swell of your cheek. “You’re worth the wait.”

His eyes flicker to the left before meeting yours again, giving you no time to worry about the vibrating of your phone, full of a love you swear will swallow you whole. When his palm presses against your cheek, you lean into it, trusting him with the affection he has to offer. Your heart is in your throat as he closes the distance, moving leisurely. Warm breath fans against your lips before his nose bumps against yours. At the same time you close your eyes, the fingers along your jaw tighten imperceptibly, giving you the only warning you’ll receive.

Shinsuke brushes his lips against yours before pressing again, responding when you reciprocate. It’s gentle, languid. He kisses you like he’s taking his time with you. He pours his love into you, constant and unwavering, something as sure as the rising of the sun tomorrow morning. The product of years worth of loving you, as natural as breathing is natural.

When he pulls back, it’s only enough so he can rest his forehead against yours, lips still brushing against yours when he whispers, “Happy New Year.”

It feels like a promise.