ry

​“i’m simply saying,” oikawa chirps, leaning against the gymnasium wall with a practiced, casual grace that he definitely rehearsed in his bedroom mirror for twenty minutes this morning. “that if you were to witness my jump serve from the front row today, you might actually experience a spiritual awakening. i’m in top form. i’m lethal. i’m basically a biological weapon of mass destruction.”

​he’s doing the thing. the thing where he tosses his hair—which is suspiciously soft-looking—and looks at you through his lashes like he’s trying to sell you a luxury perfume you can’t afford. he’s a flirt by trade, a heartbreaker by reputation, and a complete disaster by nature.

​you aren't really listening to his lecture on his own greatness. instead, you’re looking at the way his pulse is thrumming at the base of his throat. you reach out, your movements slow and nonchalant, and let your fingertips graze the sensitive skin of his inner wrist, right where his pulse point is jumping like a frantic grasshopper.

​the effect is instantaneous.

​the sentence ‘i am the pinnacle of athletic evolution’ dies a gruesome death in his throat. oikawa’s entire skeletal structure seems to liquefy. if he were a computer, this is the exact moment the blue screen of death would appear, accompanied by a very loud, high-pitched mechanical whirring sound.

​his fingers twitch. the volleyball he was spinning on his other hand hits the floor with a pathetic thud and rolls away, forgotten.

​“tōru?” you hum, your voice tilted with genuine curiosity as you trace a small, slow circle over the bone of his wrist. “you stopped talking. did the ‘biological weapon’ run out of batteries?”

​oikawa’s brain is currently a soup of static and screaming. he is staring at your hand like it’s a holy relic and a live grenade at the same time. his heart is performing a drum solo against his ribs, a frantic thump-thump-thump that says ‘oh god, she touched us, abort mission, evacuate the building, tell my mother i love her.’

​he swallows hard. his throat feels like he’s trying to gulp down a whole cactus.

​“i—uh,” he starts. his voice cracks. not a cool, edgy crack. a ‘thirteen-year-old boy going through puberty’ crack. he clears his throat, desperately trying to grab the tattered remains of his dignity from the floor. “i was just… pausing for dramatic effect. to let the weight of my brilliance sink in.”

​“you’re shaking,” you point out, your eyes dancing with warmth. you aren't trying to be mean; you just find it genuinely endearing that the boy who gets confessed to ten times a week is currently vibrating like a smartphone.

​“shaking with power,” oikawa lies through his teeth. he is actively folding into himself. his knees feel like they’ve been replaced by overcooked udon noodles. he wants to pull his hand away to save face, but the lizard brain responsible for his survival is screaming ‘NO, STAY, LET HER TOUCH YOU MORE, PERHAPS IF YOU’RE LUCKY SHE’LL PAT YOUR HEAD AND YOU CAN DIE HAPPY.’

​he is so deeply, pathologically gone for you that it’s actually a safety hazard. iwaizumi often tells him he looks like a kicked puppy when you leave the room, but oikawa prefers the term ‘pining aristocrat.’

​in reality, he’s just a boy who has built his entire personality around being untouchable, only to find out that your touch is the only thing that makes him feel like he’s actually standing on solid ground.

​“you have a smudge on your face,” you lie, stepping a fraction closer.

​the proximity is the final nail in his coffin. oikawa can smell your shampoo—something sweet and soft that makes him want to bury his face in your neck and never emerge back into society. he is a man of many words, most of them annoying, but as you lean in, he becomes a man of zero words. he is a man of zero thoughts. he is a man of white noise.

​you reach up, your thumb brushing his cheekbone.

​oikawa’s eyes flutter shut. he’s supposed to say something witty. he’s supposed to wink. he’s supposed to tell you that he’s the one who does the flirting around here. instead, he leans into your hand with a tiny, involuntary whimper that he will later deny ever happened, even under threat of torture.

​“there,” you whisper, your fingers lingering. “all gone.”

​when he opens his eyes, he looks absolutely dazed, like he’s just been hit by a freight train made of marshmallows. he’s staring at you with a level of raw, unadulterated devotion that is honestly borderline embarrassing. he wants to melt into a puddle at your feet. he wants to write your name on every volleyball in the equipment shed. he wants to follow you home and sit on your porch like a gargoyle just to make sure you’re safe.

​“you’re… so mean,” he breathes out, though his expression says please do that again or i will perish. “i’m mean? for helping you?”

​“it’s a distraction!” he suddenly shouts, waving his arms around with the frantic energy of a man trying to put out a fire with a toothpick. “i have a practice match! i have to be a cold-blooded killer on the court! how am i supposed to serve a ball when my entire body feels like it’s been put through a blender? you’re sabotaging aoba johsai! you’re a spy! a beautiful, terrifying spy sent to ruin my life!”

​you laugh, a bright, melodic sound that makes oikawa’s heart do a backflip and land in his stomach. “i think you’ll manage, tōru. you’re the grand king, remember?”

​he huffs, crossing his arms and pouting in a way that is far too cute for a six-foot-tall athlete. he’s trying to look annoyed, but the faint pink dusting his ears gives him away. he is so hopelessly whipped that it’s a wonder he hasn't started barking yet.

​“yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, though his eyes are soft and melting as they trace your features. “just don’t complain when i lose my focus because i’m too busy thinking about your hands. that’s on you. that’s your burden to bear.”

​“i’ll take the blame,” you promise, patting his chest.

​his breath hitches. his heart does a little dance. he watches you walk away toward the bleachers, and for a solid thirty seconds, he forgets how to use his legs. he just stands there, a premier setter and the pride of his school, looking like he’s just seen a vision of the afterlife.

​iwaizumi walks up behind him and smacks him on the back of the head. “get a grip, loserkawa. the ball is over there.”

​oikawa doesn't even complain about the physical assault. he just sighs, a dreamy, faraway look in his eyes.

​“iwa,” he whispers, clutching his wrist where you touched him like it’s been plated in gold. “i think i’m going to marry that girl. i don't think i have a choice. my soul has left my body. i am an empty vessel now.”

​“you’re an idiot,” iwaizumi mutters, but oikawa doesn't hear him.

​he’s too busy trying to figure out how to get you to touch his other wrist.

​the match starts ten minutes later, and oikawa is, predictably, a disaster for the first three points. he steps up to the service line, spins the ball, and looks at you in the stands.

​you wave.

​oikawa’s brain immediately short-circuits. he tosses the ball, swings, and sends it flying directly into the back of kindaichi’s head with the force of a thousand suns.

​“oikawa!” the coach screams.

​oikawa stands there, frozen, his face burning a shade of red that shouldn't be biologically possible. he looks at his hand, then at you, then at the floor. he’s folding. he’s folded. he is a crumpled piece of paper at the bottom of a trash can.

​he flashes you a shaky, desperate thumbs-up, his smile trembling at the edges.

​“all part of the plan!” he yells, his voice an octave too high. “tactical error! i’m in control!”

​he is not in control. he is a man possessed by the memory of your thumb on his cheek, and as he prepares for the next serve, he knows he’s going to spend the rest of his life trying to earn that look you gave him—the one that makes him feel like the only person in the world who matters.

​he’s desperate, he’s a mess, and he’s never been happier to be completely and utterly defeated.

​oikawa tōru is a liar, but as he catches your eye again, the way he leans toward your presence like a flower to the sun is the most honest thing he’s ever done.

​he’s going to buy you so much milk bread after this.

𓏵

the “tactical error” of hitting his own teammate in the skull is a brand new low, even for him. as the whistle blows for a timeout, oikawa practically evaporates toward it. iwaizumi is looking at him with the kind of expression usually reserved for a dog that’s just tracked mud all over a white carpet, but oikawa is too busy vibrating to care.

he reaches for his water bottle, but his fingers are still buzzing from that brief contact earlier. his hand shakes so violently that he nearly splashes water into his own eye.

“oikawa, if you don’t stop acting like a victorian maiden with the vapors, i’m going to kick you into the equipment room and lock the door,” iwaizumi hisses, looming over him.

“iwa, you don’t understand,” oikawa whispers, his voice sounding like it’s being squeezed through a straw. he looks over his shoulder, squinting toward your spot in the bleachers. “she’s looking at me. she’s doing that thing where her eyes get all crinkly at the corners and i think my soul is actually leaking out of my ears. i’m losing my structural integrity. i’m becoming a gas.” states of matter who?

“you’re becoming a nuisance. play the game.”

oikawa tries. he really, truly tries. he stands back up, rolls his shoulders, and attempts to summon the ‘grand king’ persona. he adjusts his knee supporter. he narrows his eyes. he looks like a lethal, focused predator. then, he catches a glimpse of you leaning over the railing to cheer, and he immediately trips over his own feet while walking onto the court.

he performs a graceful, slow-motion slide that ends with him face-down on the polished wood.

the gym goes silent.

oikawa stays there for a second, cheek pressed against the floor, contemplating if he can simply melt into the floorboards and live the rest of his life as a piece of gym equipment. it would be easier. floors don’t have heart palpitations.

“i’m okay!” he chirps from the ground, muffled and miserable. “just checking the wax quality! it’s superb! ten out of ten!”

he scrambles up, his face a shade of magenta. he manages to survive the rest of the set by sheer muscle memory, though every time he hears your voice call his name, his sets go about three inches higher than they’re supposed to. he’s overcompensating. he’s performing like a circus animal hoping for a treat. he is, in every sense of the word, a goner.

the moment the match ends—a victory, miraculously, mostly because iwaizumi started threatening to bury oikawa in the sand pit if he missed one more serve—oikawa is a blur of motion. he doesn’t even wait to change. he grabs his bag, splashes some water on his face to stop the literal steam from rising off his skin, and sprints toward the exit where you’re waiting.

he stops three feet away from you, chest heaving. he tries to lean coolly against a pillar, but he misjudges the distance and his elbow slips, causing him to do a little awkward jig to stay upright.

“so,” he pants, flashing a smile that is about 40% charisma and 60% pure, unadulterated panic. “did you see that? the way i strategically fell? it was a psychological tactic to make the opponents overconfident. very advanced stuff. you wouldn’t understand the complexities of my genius.”

“it was very graceful, tōru,” you say, reaching out to straighten his rumpled collar.

his heart rate hits a tempo that could rival a techno song. your knuckles graze the skin of his neck, and oikawa’s eyes go wide, his pupils dilating until his chocolate-brown irises are practically gone. he looks like a cat that’s just seen a ghost.

“you… you’re doing it again,” he squeaks.

“doing what?”

“being… like that!” he gestures vaguely at your entire existence. “existing! in my personal space! making me feel like i’m made of marshmallows!”

you laugh, and the sound is so sweet it makes his teeth ache. without thinking, you slide your hand down from his collar and take his hand in yours, interlacing your fingers.

oikawa tōru ceases to function.

his hand is large, calloused from thousands of repetitions at the net, but it feels like it’s made of lead the moment you squeeze it. he stares down at your joined hands. his brain is just playing a loop of high-pitched whistling. he’s hyper-aware of everything: the warmth of your palm, the way your thumb is idly stroking the back of his hand, the fact that he is definitely, 100%, about to pass out in front of the vending machines.

“your hand is really warm,” you comment, looking up at him with a soft, genuine smile.

oikawa makes a noise. it isn’t a word. it’s a tiny, strangled “mnh.”

he is currently undergoing a spiritual crisis. he wants to pull you into a hug and hide his face in your shoulder so nobody can see how much he’s blushing, but he’s also terrified that if he moves, he’ll break the spell. he is a man standing on the edge of a cliff, and you just gave him a gentle nudge.

“walk me to the station?” you ask.

“i—yes. station. trains. transportation. i am familiar with these concepts,” he babbles.

as you walk, he’s basically walking on air, except ‘walking on air’ involves him occasionally bumping into trash cans because he can’t stop looking at you. he’s holding your hand like it’s the most fragile, precious diamond in the world. his palm is a little sweaty—he’s mortified about it, truly, he’s screaming internally about his ‘hygiene’—but you don’t seem to care, which only makes him fall deeper into the abyss of his own devotion.

he’s thinking about the future. he’s thinking about how he’s going to have to win the nationals just so he can dedicate the trophy to you. he’s thinking about how he wants to buy you a giant stuffed bear, but then he realizes he’d be jealous of the bear because it gets to sit on your bed.

he is a terrifyingly competitive athlete, but right now, the only ‘win’ he cares about is the fact that you haven’t let go of his hand yet.

“tōru, you’re staring again,” you tease, swinging your joined hands back and forth.

“i’m not staring,” he lies, his voice full of a tenderness that betrays him completely. “i’m observing. i’m a setter, remember? it’s my job to analyze beautiful… i mean, important… things. i’m analyzing your face. for science.”

“and what does the science say?”

oikawa stops walking. the sun is setting, casting a golden-orange glow over the street, and it catches in your eyes in a way that makes his heart do a painful, soaring leap. he looks at you, and for a split second, the flirting stops. the big talk vanishes. the grand king retreats, leaving behind just a boy who is so profoundly, ridiculously in love that he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

he leans down, his face inches from yours. his breath is shaky. he smells like sports drink and adrenaline and something uniquely tōru.

“the science says,” he whispers, his voice dropping into a low, velvety register that makes your own heart skip a beat. “that i’m completely at your mercy. and it’s actually really embarrassing, so you’re not allowed to tell anyone, okay?”

you giggle and stand on your tiptoes, pressing a quick, soft kiss to his cheek.

oikawa doesn’t move. he stays frozen in that bent-over position for a full ten seconds after you pull away. his brain has finally, mercifully, completely short-circuited. there is no more oikawa. there is only a shell of a man who has been kissed by a goddess.

“tōru?”

he slowly stands up straight, his face a ghostly pale before turning a violent, neon red. he looks like he’s about to burst into tears or song, possibly both.

“i’m buying you a house,” he blurts out. “right now. i don’t have the money, but i’ll figure it out. i’ll sell my soul. i’ll sell iwa’s soul. he wasn’t using it anyway.”

“a house? we’re just going to the station, tōru.”

“it starts with a station! then a house! then a golden retriever! then a small army of children who all have your face!” he’s rambling now, his hands flying everywhere as he walks twice as fast as before, his legs suddenly working on high-octane fuel. “you can’t just do that! you can’t just kiss a man’s cheek and expect him to remain a functioning member of society! i’m a delicate flower! i’m a treasure!”

you catch up to him, laughing so hard you can barely breathe. he’s still talking, listing off all the ways you’ve ‘ruined’ him, but he hasn’t let go of your hand for even a second. in fact, he’s holding it tighter now, his thumb tracing over your knuckles with a frantic, devoted rhythm.

he’s big, he’s loud, and he talks a game that could move mountains. but as he pulls you closer to his side, shielding you from a passing cyclist with a protective arm, it’s clear that the grand king has finally found his queen—and he’s more than happy to spend the rest of his life surrendering.

n: an 8th grade classmate hits me up and tries to make conversation with me, but apparently i’m too stupid to catch on hints so i just kept shutting him down. he’s still trying though.

tōru’s taglist 1/3

@cvntyandfasionable @the-bloopsters @trulyylee @nelinkythoughts @kukikoooo @sleepykeijiii @briestrom94 @averys-place @reverd-ck @sxnnee @anzuuhoshi @evilari111 @rabbitcola @nivabiva @yeonette @forgottensniper @katzline @michexoxo @meonelixir @asthmaticasma @pelicanpizza @x3nafix @han0vyc @keiob @depressinglyobsessed @babybird-meena @ghostwifeyy @bigdaddyyaoii @mptality @crystal-lilac @methiart @wensurr @emotiandon @alyriaschoenheit @rafsbeloved @suha-reads @adagio4strings @sillylule @horanghaepaws @imjustanobody2024 @hibernatinghamster @olliesoxenfree @mitzukita @griffincorn @fiannee @tsukkislala @starzlytoetsie @nekoffie @littlemissfix-itfic @kuroofangirl67

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

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.

Not that you kept track or anything haha.

You also totally didn’t peek at his ID card that one time it slipped out of his wallet when he was paying. Nope. You just… happened to hear someone say his name.

Akaashi Keiji.

You repeated the name in your head as if it might unlock some deeper understanding of the mysterious man.

He looked like something out of a film. And his hair—god, his hair was always perfect, dark and slightly tousled. His eyes, sharp and observant. His thick eyebrows, his soft, kissable lips—

Ahem.

Anyway.

Akaashi always had the same routine: black coffee, no sugar, and, if he was feeling indulgent, a chocolate muffin. You’d memorized his order by the third visit.

Today was no different. The warm glow of sunset spilled through the glass, catching the sharp lines of his face as he turned a page in his book. You’d been trying to get a look at this week’s read, but he had a habit of angling the cover just out of view. Today, however, luck was on your side. As you set down his coffee, you caught a glimpse of the cover:

"How to Survive a Garden Gnome Attack: Defend Yourself When the Lawn Warriors Strike (and They Will)."

You blinked. Then blinked again.

Well. You loved an educated man. Even if the said education was… questionable.

Then, against your better judgment, let out a tiny snort.

Akaashi’s eyes flicked up— very aware of your reaction.

“Problem?” he asked, voice smooth but edged with amusement.

“Nope,” you said, a little too fast. “Not at all. Just, uh… interesting reading material.”

One brow arched. “You’d be surprised how often gnome-related violence goes unreported.”

Was he… was he joking? You couldn’t tell. His expression gave nothing away, but there was something in the way his lips twitched, just slightly, that made you unsure.

“Right,” you said, nodding solemnly. “I’ll keep an eye out for any suspicious lawn ornaments.”

A beat of silence. Then Akaashi’s mouth curved into a small, real smile.

“Good,” he said, lifting his coffee. “Survival starts with vigilance.”

That damn smile didn’t leave your mind for another two weeks.

The next Thursday, Akaashi’s book was different.

Not The Zombie Survival Guide. Not How to Identify Alien Shapeshifters. No, today’s choice was somehow worse:

"How to Fight Presidents: Defending Yourself Against the Badasses Who Ran This Country."

You nearly dropped his coffee.

“Really?” you said, sliding the cup toward him with deliberate slowness. “So, what’s the plan? World domination, or…?”

Akaashi didn’t look up. “Andrew Jackson once beat his would-be assassin with a cane. After being shot in the chest.”

You stared. “That’s… horrifying.”

“Also motivational.” He finally met your eyes, his expression unreadable. “Unlike William Howard Taft.”

“The one who got stuck in his bathtub?”

Something sparked in his gaze—recognition, delight—as if you’d just spoken a secret password.

“Exactly.”

On Saturday the book was still there—How to Fight Presidents—but today, something was different.

Akaashi wasn’t reading it.

Instead, he was watching you, chin propped on one hand, as you fumbled with the espresso machine. Like he was studying you instead of the page.

You nearly burned yourself.

“Uh.” You wiped your hands on your apron, suddenly self-conscious. “Did you… need a refill?”

“No?” he said blankly, like your question didn’t make sense.

“RIght, uh, okay.” You swallowed and tried to get back to work.

Two weeks later, you slid a loyalty card across the table with his usual order.

Akaashi raised an eyebrow.

“You’re officially our most consistent customer,” you said. “Ten stamps, and the next coffee’s free.”

He examined the card, then you. “You’ve been keeping count?”

“The café has been keeping count,” you corrected, cheeks warming. “Corporate policy. Very serious stuff.”

Akaashi hummed, amused, slipping the card into his book as a makeshift bookmark. “Then I suppose I’ll have to keep coming back.”

The shift was gradual. At first, your conversations with Akaashi were brief—comments about the weather, the coffee, or the concerning piece of literature he chose for that week. But over time, they stretched.

Five minutes became ten. Ten became your entire fifteen-minute break spent perched on the chair across from him, sipping your own coffee as he explained the linguistic shift of the crying emoji.

And—most surprisingly—he listened when you talked. Really listened. Like when you ranted about your literature professor’s vendetta against happy endings, and the next week, he slid a marked-up copy of Jane Eyre across the table.

He seemed to soften up a bit too. Or maybe you just started to understand him more.

The micro-squint when he was amused but refusing to smile. Or the way his thumb tapped the edge of his book when he was deciding whether to say something.The rare, devastating half-laugh—more a sharp exhale through the nose—that made your pulse stutter.

So now you spend your break Googling “advanced latte art” and attempt a swan after Akaashi asked you to ‘surprise’ him with coffee this time.

When you set it in front of him, Akaashi studies it for a long, silent moment.

“…Is that a…pigeon?”

“It’s abstract,” you mutter.

He takes a sip. Pauses. Takes another. Your stomach knots.

“Well?” you prompt.

“The coffee is excellent.” He sets the cup down. “The art is a crime.”

You groan, but he’s already reaching into his bag. He slides another book toward you: Latte Art Techniques for Beginners.

“You’re insufferable,” you say, but you’re already flipping through it. “And a nerd.” you added.

“I’ll return it when I’m done,” you mumble, fighting a smile.

Akaashi nods. “See that you do. I’ll quiz you.”

“What.”

Akaashi’s routine never wavers, he always came at the exact same time on the exact same day.

It was a rainy Saturday, half past five. His seat was empty

You tell yourself it’s fine. Maybe he’s busy. Maybe it’s because of the weather..

Maybe he got tired of this.

You wipe down the counter for the third time, glancing at the clock. 5:45 PM. The rain drums harder against the windows.

Finally the door opens and you let out a small sigh of relief.

There he is. Hair damp. Jacket soaked. No umbrella. Gorgeous as ever.

“You’re late,” you blurt out before you can stop yourself.

Akaashi runs his hand through his wet hair with a sigh. “I was fighting presidents..”

You stare.

He stares back.

“So…Traffic.” you assume.

He grins and pushes his fogged-up glasses up the bridge of his nose with his finger. “Yep.”

He doesn’t go to his usual seat. Instead, he lingers at the counter, watching as you make his coffee.

“You noticed,” he says, in an almost teasing tone.

"Hm?" You pretend to focus very hard on the steam wand.

"That I was late."

"Sorry, can't hear you!" you say loudly, gesturing to the grinder. "Wow, this thing sure is loud today, huh? Haha!"

Akaashi doesn’t respond, he just watches you, amused, as you slide his coffee across the counter.

Your fingers brush, just barely, and your stomach does that stupid flip again.

His grip lingers for half a second longer than necessary and you can’t stop smiling for the rest of your shift.

When he finally fills the loyalty card, you hand him his free coffee—except you’ve swapped his usual black coffee for a mocha.

Akaashi eyes it with hesitance.

“You’ve been branching out in your reading,” you eye the “Why Cats Paint: A Theory of Feline Aesthetics” book peeking out of his bag, “so, branch out in your taste too.”

He takes a sip. And another. “...Acceptable.”

You chuckle. “High praise.”

Akaashi sets the cup down and pushes the full loyalty card back toward you.

“Start a new one,” he says.

“That’ll take another ten visits.”

“I know.” He holds your gaze, deliberate. “I’ll be here.”

And as you take the filled out card from him you notice scrawled on the back in neat, unfussy handwriting:

A phone number.

You bite your lip, but the grin breaks through anyway. When you look up, Akaashi's watching you over the rim of his mocha, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

Please do not repost or translate my work. Reblogs and comments are appreciated though!

additional notes:

concept inspired by @aestherin’s keep my heart, would highly recommend reading it if you’re into genshin impact

i couldn’t come up w actual names for colleges so i just reused the high school names

the college system reflect the usa college system, though majority of the cast (except [name]) will still be referred to by their last names for consistency (and all characters are 18+)

not completely new to writing smau’s, though it’s been a while. unsure if updates will be consistent.

time stamp DO NOT matter unless stated

dividers courtesy of @cafekitsune

written chapters (if any) will be denoted with a ☆

warm up & introductions . . .

passers + barely passing | seijoh more like say joe mama

set one !

1st point: stfu kageyama

2nd point: barbecue dinner

3rd point: late night practicing ☆

4th point: make it up

5th point: study date with gojo

6th point: in my guest room? ☆

7th point: seijoh girl for today

8th point: immovable kageyama vs. unstoppable [name]

9th point: monday rest day

10th point: understand ☆

11th point: managers secret

12th point: game of truth

court swap

set two !

taglist (open) (18/50?) | @sophiahearttss @s6rine @l0ckedtomb @mey-archive @idexmids @jadebat7 @katemira @linaaeatsfamilies @ajtheidk @corvid007 @sevriizy @rabbitcola @roses4lex @wiggly-yrath @woncloudie @katarinaablu @depressinglyobsessed @yueriasblog

you have half the mind to shut the curtains and pretend he didn’t buzz in, rambling about making everything up to you and becoming a better best friend—but don’t tell iwa that, he’s gonna get jealous.

but it’s too late. tooru has spotted you, brown eyes lighting up like he’s seen the sun for the first time, and he’s grinning. like he knows you’ll unlock the gate and open the door for him—it’s just a matter of when.

your heart shouldn’t flip. it does anyway, tumbling behind your ribs like a lovesick washing machine.

you hate him. hate his stupid face, stupid hair, stupid grin and stupid dimples. hate the way he pushes up his glasses.

you especially hate the way that makes you feel. like you want to punch and kiss him at the same time, which leads your stream of consciousness to the thought of his glasses pushing up against your face if you ever kissed.

would they fog up? god, would he do that thing, rip off the frames and go in hungrier?

“hello?” tooru calls from the gate. it’s muffled by distance and the window, but it’s him all the same.

the guy you’ve missed for the majority of high school. the guy who only ever shows up every blue moon, assuming ushitoshi or whatever his name is doesn’t mess things up.

“i promise i won’t bail!” he yells again. flaps his arms and turns out his pockets for show. “i only have my phone, for emergencies!”

you jam the button meant to unlock the gate. you hope you don’t regret this, you think as you open the door.

tooru’s already on the other side, smiling with something fond blooming in the corners of his eyes.

says a soft, “hi,” and you have to pretend that you don’t notice the way his adam’s apple bobs.

“hey,” you say, taking him in.

soft sleep shirt, the bright alien one with a hole in the side and a fraying collar. sweatpants, from the aoba johsai team kit. he looks good: taller than the last time you saw him, and bigger too.

the shirt clings to his shoulders, broad enough to know that tooru would sooner be scouted for modeling than beating his impossible dreams. it’s kind of wrong, how he doesn’t even seem to know how much he’s changed. like a secret he hadn’t meant to keep from you.

tooru closes the door behind him with a gentle kick, the lock clicking back into place.

he stares, and you hold it, challenging. silent questions pass in your head, mostly about who the hell had their hands in his hair, because it’s too messy to be casual.

and then—

“race you upstairs.”

that bastard. catching you off guard like that, it’s cheating.

you sprint after him, bounding up the stairs while he takes two at a time with his freakishly long legs.

“oikawa, when i catch you—”

“if,” he singsongs, already in your room. when you burst in, he’s already sliding a dvd into the player, grinning wide. then he turns to you, pouting. “what happened to tooru? tooru, i’ll kill ya! tooru, i missed you!”

he says it in a pitched voice that definitely isn’t yours. and he has the gall to still laugh to himself as he clicks through the movie intro—one that he chose by cheating.

“well, that’s what happens when i don’t see you for a week, stupid,” you grumble, throwing yourself onto your bed. “and you’re a cheater.”

tooru gasps, half offended, half dramatic. “you were just slow.”

he pads over, settling in while you still lay messily tangled with the blanket. he tugs on it, jerking your body. “come on, i said i’ll make it up to you.”

“by making me watch a scary alien movie, or what?”

the opening scene plays, and you realize that no, you aren’t watching one of those scary movies your best friend chooses to piss you off. instead, it’s a sappy romance drama, one you’ve cried your eyes out to a million times.

“i’m not that mean,” tooru says, patting the space beside him. “plus, i meant it when i said i missed you.”

you give in, crawling to curl against his side.

and some things really don’t change. he still smells like the cologne you and iwaizumi picked out last christmas, the one iwaizumi said would wow his fangirls and grinned smugly when you got annoyed at the notion.

you had hugged tooru once after that, and that cologne lingered for days on your sweater. made you feel like one of his fangirls, hiding it until the smell had disappeared.

“hey,” tooru whispers. he’s close enough for his lips to be brushing against the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. barely five minutes into the movie, and he's already bugging you. “so, shikumi from class two wanted me to pass his number to you.”

“who the hell is that?”

tooru laughs softly, slings an arm around you to pull you closer. he’s warm through the thin shirt, and you swear you can feel his abs against your side.

“told him you’d say that.”

you do know shikumi, though. he’s the kind of jerk who thinks that if he looked like tooru, handsome and all that, he’d get all the girls.

not true. tooru gets girls ‘cause he’s cute, sure, but they like him for his kindness and dedication to volleyball. it cancels out the less-than-swell parts of him, like the fact that he’s annoying and has a girl best friend.

alright, the girl best friend part isn’t completely ignored. in fact, people try going through you to get tooru’s number. and each time, you revel in the knowledge that every girl in the school wishes they could be you.

tooru runs a hand through his hair, puffing. now that you notice it, he’s been playing with his hair for a while, fixing it this way and that.

“i just,” he pauses, thinking of what to say. the movie is long forgotten, probably because you’ve seen it so many times. “i wish there was a way to keep our fans away.”

“our? i didn’t know you were including my singular suitor, mr. worldwide handsome,” you laugh, pushing up to look down at him.

tooru stares up at you, something hesitant swirling behind his glasses. he’s so pretty like this, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted. like he’s waiting to see who makes the first move.

“i mean, having fans is fun and all, but sometimes they get in the way,” he sighs out. his hand trails up to your wrist, squeezing lightly. a reminder that this is real. “and i know shikumi, he’s relentless.”

“so what are saying?”

“we…could hold hands at school…and not have to deal with it.”

you frown, glancing at the movie out of the corner of your eye. this exact scene is playing out between the love interests, except at a library where they’re five feet apart.

not like the two of you, pressed flush together and sharing a bed. as friends, obviously.

you laugh, half in disbelief, and jab your thumb at the screen. “dude, acting should be your second choice.”

tooru laughs with you, a little too wide, too many teeth. “yeah, i was kidding. now shut up and watch with me.”

you settle back down, closer now. chest to his side, arms wrapped around each other. you put your hand on his sternum, feeling the way his heart works at a hundred meters an hour, ignoring the way it matches yours.

he goes another ten minutes—a world record, at this point—before speaking again.

"hey," he says again. by your ear as always, glasses making a little ticking sound when he pushes them up. in this otherwise silent room, it's like an explosion. "it was a good idea, right?"

you shift your head, looking up at him. the movie plays in the reflection of his specs, bright colors of romance and high school plastered over the planes of his face.

pretty, you think, and then you push that thought down.

"i dunno," you say, frowning. "you want to—what, be my fake boyfriend?"

"yeah."

and it's stupid, how his immediate response makes your stomach flip. like he's eager to do it, pretend that you're more than friends.

tooru fixes himself, brushing his hair away from his forehead nervously. "i mean—just—i don't want slimeballs like shikumi going after you, okay?"

"and i'm not supposed to want crazy fangirls taking you away too?" you respond, dry.

he raises his brows, looking at you pointedly. "why do you think we haven't had a movie night in a month? and don't answer with another question."

that's a good point. it's become all too regular for you to join the going home club because tooru's fans keep him in the gym hours after practice has ended. iwaizumi complains to you over text on the sidelines, talking about how his knees hurt from standing and waiting for your mutual best friend to finish up.

instead of answering, you intertwine your fingers together. his palm is rough from years of dream-chasing. the touch sets something off in your chest, scorching your ribs.

you hope he can't hear your heartbeat. hope he doesn't know that your brain is on the edge of bull-wild, thoughts about having him all to yourself wrecking havoc on your body.

"is this fake enough for you?" you murmur, just to have something to fill the silence with.

your eyes flick up.

tooru looks at you with something cracked wide-open in his eyes, vulnerable. he bites the inside of his cheek, humored, inadvertently making the dimple he has dip into his cheek.

you decide at that moment to hate his dimples. it's just there to taunt you, like one of those stupid kids who throw rocks and then say 'come and get me!'

"i told you not to answer with a question," he says, quieter than you. the sound of his voice, low and bordering on raspy, stirs heat in your stomach. your fingers twitch against his.

then tooru is yanking off his glasses with a pin-drop click, cupping your face with his free hand, and you're—

kissing.

it's textbook and chaste, like those first kisses on tv. a brush of lips for two seconds, and it still makes your pulse rocket to a dangerous high.

he's everything you've ever wanted, you realize, and none of this is real.

tooru pulls away, having the gall to look shy. you aren't—yearning, when you pitch forward to reciprocate. you swear that you aren't chasing. just getting a little revenge, right?

he meets you in the middle, tilting his head to let you in, and this time things move faster, a little hungrier. mouths sliding together like it's the most natural thing in the world, like you've been made to kiss each other.

sweetly, tooru runs his thumb along the crest of your cheek, shifts so that he's leaning over you. and then it's your turn to pull away, breathing hard and blinking up at him.

you feel like a deer in the headlights, frozen and trying not to look at the smooth, hard outline of his upper arm propped beside your head.

"uh," you say. sage words for someone who's just been kissed stupid.

"uhhh," tooru teases, softening the moment with a smile. your heart hurts a little, knowing that you can't go back.

he pulls you close by your still-twined hands, and whispers into your ear, "was that real enough for you?"

the movie is still playing, volume turned all the way down. you don't remember tooru having done that, but you suppose that you don't know a lot of things about your fake boyfriend.

like how he's a damn good kisser, and how pretty he is without his glasses. you feel like a changed person looking at him from a whole new perspective.

you swallow, mouth suddenly a desert devoid of moisture. your tongue feels like cardboard, still tingling. "though we weren't asking questions."

tooru laughs. "got me there."

—

notes. title from steve lacy. ive been stuck on the concept of situationship final boss and oikawa is just perf for that ykkk