#tendou fluff

there were many things tendō expected from a casual thursday. a nice cafeteria pudding. maybe a good serve or two during morning practice. definitely another round of teasing goshiki until the first year dramatically threatened to “show him what he’s made of” (never actually did).

what he didn’t expect was to fall in love at approximately 3:27 p.m., somewhere between a flawless quick set and a perfectly timed block that sent the opposing team’s ace crying into her towel.

because holy shit, you were terrifying.

“she’s like me,” tendō whispered, eyes wide, clutching the edge of the bleachers like he’d just seen a miracle.

semi snorted. “you mean loud and a little scary?”

“no,” tendō breathed, grinning so wide it almost hurt. “i mean perfect.”

ushijima hummed beside him, arms crossed, expression unbothered. “her technique is strong. she reads the attacker well.”

“reads? she saw into that girl’s soul!” tendō said, voice pitching high. “i swear she knew exactly where she was going to spike before she even breathed. it’s like— it’s like watching a psychic battle but with kneepads!”

shirabu sighed, flipping through his phone. “you’re being dramatic again.”

but tendō wasn’t listening. his entire body leaned forward, red hair catching the gym lights, eyes never leaving you. every time you jumped—every time your hand met the ball with that snap that echoed through the gym—his heart stuttered like a poorly timed set.

he was gone. fully, entirely, tragically gone.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

you were chaos incarnate on court. laughing after blocks, making little hand gestures to your setter like some secret code, and celebrating every point like you’d just won olympic gold. but then—then you’d go all serious when you read the opposing team’s formation, eyes narrowing, body loose and ready. tendō recognized it instantly: that sharp, unpredictable focus. that thrill of the game.

and maybe, deep down, he recognized a piece of himself too.

when the whistle blew, announcing your team’s victory, tendō clapped like a maniac. the rest of the boys followed, though goshiki did it mostly because semi elbowed him into it.

“we’re going to meet her,” tendō said suddenly, standing.

“we are?” semi asked, eyebrow raised.

“yes. i’m gonna get her number.”

“you don’t even know her name.”

“minor detail!” tendō waved, already hopping down the bleachers like a redheaded cartoon character fueled by unfiltered adrenaline.

ushijima followed at a steady pace (“someone should supervise”), goshiki trailed behind whispering “senpai’s got game, right?” like a mantra, and shirabu trudged along with the face of a man who regretted every decision leading to this moment.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

you were toweling sweat from your face when you heard the footsteps—then saw them. the boys’ volleyball team. the tall, terrifying legends of shiratorizawa. and in the middle of them, one bright-eyed redhead who looked like he’d just discovered religion.

“hi!” he chirped, too loudly. “you’re amazing! like, freakishly amazing. are you human? i mean, you play like a divine cryptid.”

you blinked. “uh. thanks?”

ushijima nodded solemnly. “you performed well.”

“yeah,” semi added with a grin. “i think our middle blocker just fell in love.”

tendō didn’t even deny it. “i did. hi. i’m tendō satori. full-time middle blocker, part-time psychic. i think we’re soulmates.”

goshiki gasped audibly. shirabu groaned audibly.

“uhh,” you said, face hot, still clutching your towel like a shield. “that’s… fast.”

“so was your reaction time on that quick set!” tendō countered. “see? we already have something in common.”

semi choked on his laughter. goshiki looked at tendō like he was witnessing the birth of a new species.

but tendō didn’t waver. his grin softened a little, voice dropping into something a bit less manic, a bit more real. “seriously though, you’re incredible. you read players like a storybook. i’ve never seen someone so in sync with the court.”

you blinked again, surprised by the sincerity tucked beneath the chaos. “thank you, really. that means a lot coming from—” you glanced up, eyes flicking to his jersey. “—from the famous tendō satori.”

his brain short-circuited. “you know who i am.”

“everyone knows you,” you teased lightly. “you’re kind of impossible to miss.”

semi muttered, “he’s going to explode.”

he almost did. tendō clasped his hands dramatically. “then it’s destiny. we have to hang out sometime. for science. to test the psychic connection between two middle blockers who are clearly meant to block out the sun together.”

ushijima nodded, because to him, that sounded perfectly reasonable. “that seems logical.”

shirabu pinched the bridge of his nose. “you’re all insane.”

you laughed—an honest, full laugh—and tendō swore the gym lights flickered for a moment, like the universe itself couldn’t handle how pretty it sounded.

“fine,” you said, smiling. “you can have my number. but only if you promise not to use it for weird experiments.”

“no promises!” he said immediately, but his hands trembled a little as you took his phone. he was trying to play it cool—keyword trying—but his heart was doing backflips, and he could feel semi watching with the smuggest grin known to man.

you typed your number, saved it under your name with a little volleyball emoji, and handed it back.

“so… text me?”

“i’m gonna text you so hard,” tendō blurted before realizing how that sounded. “wait—no—uh, not like that! i mean—like, consistently! with enthusiasm! not in a weird way, just a totally normal, maybe slightly romantic but definitely respectful way—”

“you’re cute,” you said simply, and he froze.

he blinked. then blinked again. then looked at semi as if to confirm he hadn’t hallucinated it.

“she said i’m cute,” he whispered.

semi nodded. “she did.”

“she said i’m cute.”

“yes.”

“holy shit.”

ushijima patted his shoulder like a proud father. “good job.”

goshiki was already vibrating. “senpai! you did it! teach me your ways!”

“step one: be born weird,” tendō said dreamily. “step two: fall in love with a volleyball goddess.”

you laughed again, shaking your head. “i’ll see you around, tendō.”

“you will! i’ll make sure of it. not in a creepy way, just in a fate-has-already-written-this-in-the-stars kind of way!”

and somehow, the ridiculousness only made you smile wider.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

that night, he couldn’t stop thinking about you. the way you grinned after every point, the way your hair caught the light, the way your laugh made something warm and reckless bloom in his chest.

he texted you at exactly 9:03 p.m.

tendō 🧠: hey hey hey! psychic experiment #1: can you feel me smiling right now?

paradise: i can feel the chaos through my screen

tendō 🧠: success!! you are the one!

semi, visiting his dorm to read some of his manga, groaned into his book. “you’ve known her for five hours.”

“five hours of eternal devotion,” tendō murmured, eyes soft, thumbs tapping another message.

tendō 🧠: i can’t wait to see you block someone again. it was like art. violent, beautiful art.

you replied with a heart emoji and a lol, and he nearly combusted.

he spent the rest of the night staring at your contact name, rereading your single heart emoji like it was scripture.

somewhere outside, the campus lights flickered. maybe it was nothing. or maybe it was the world shifting a little, just enough to make room for something new.

tendō didn’t know. he just knew that the next time he saw you, he was bringing flowers. probably purple ones. maybe a stuffed volleyball with googly eyes.

whatever it took to make you smile again.

and if his heart beat a little too fast every time he thought of your laugh—well, that was just part of the experiment.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a: a ton of followers have been sending me oikawa and gojo edits on tiktok 🤑

<taglist>

@lsirria @cvntyandfasionable @the-bloopsters @highandalive @nelinkythoughts @sleepykeijiii @averys-place @sxnnee @anzuuhoshi @evilari111 @nivabiva @s1lly-bon @yeonette @katzline @asthmaticasma @michexoxo @xiansoria @pelicanpizza @keiob @ghostwifeyy @perpetuallydone @mptality @qardasngan @crystal-lilac @methiart @alyriaschoenheit @suha-reads

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

Not loudly. Not always. Sometimes it’s just in the way people’s voices dip when they say his name, the way their eyes flick away too fast, the way laughter turns sharp around the edges when he passes. Sometimes it’s in the way girls lean closer to each other when he walks by, whispering like he might hear. Like he might turn.

Like he might bite.

Satori Tendou is tall in a way that feels unfair. All limbs and angles, red hair like a warning sign, smile too wide, eyes too sharp. He doesn’t fit. Never has. He takes up space in rooms without trying, and people notice even when they pretend they don’t.

Especially people like me.

I notice him before the whistle blows.

I always do.

The gym is already loud when I walk in—sneakers squeaking, voices overlapping, the low hum of anticipation buzzing in the air. The bleachers are cold through my jeans as I sit, my friends piling in beside me, bags thumping at our feet. My brother waves from the court, already laughing with his teammates, already alive in that easy way he always is.

I wave back.

Then I look for him.

It’s instinct. A reflex. My eyes slide across the court like they’re searching for something I forgot and suddenly remembered, and there he is—near the net, stretching, shoulders rolling, long fingers flexing like he’s testing the air.

Tendou.

My breath catches. It always does. It’s small, barely there, but I feel it. The way my lungs hesitate, the way my chest tightens just a little, like my body is bracing for something it wants too badly.

He laughs at something one of the guys says. It’s loud. Unapologetic. Too much. And God—his smile. It’s crooked, sharp at the edges, like it was never meant to be gentle.

My fingers curl into my sleeves.

I’m not here for my brother.

I never am.

I tell myself I am. I tell everyone I am. I let them believe it. It’s easier that way. Cleaner. Safer. If anyone ever knew that I sit through entire matches just to watch the way Tendou moves—how he reads the game, how his eyes narrow before a block, how his whole body coils and springs like something wild and precise—

No. I don’t let myself finish that thought.

“Ugh, there he is,” one of my friends mutters beside me.

I stiffen without meaning to.

“Who?” another asks, though we all know.

“The red one,” she says, lowering her voice. “The weird one. He creeps me out.”

I keep my eyes forward. Keep my face still. Keep breathing like nothing just folded in on itself inside my chest.

“He’s like… unnerving,” someone else adds. “Why does he smile like that?”

A laugh ripples through them. Light. Careless.

I don’t join.

I don’t argue either.

I just sit there, hands knotted in my lap, watching Tendou bounce lightly on his toes, completely unaware that he’s being dissected in whispers. Unaware that my friends are pulling him apart in the same ways people always have. Unaware that every word feels like it lands somewhere tender inside me.

I wonder if he’s used to it.

I hate that I wonder that.

He turns, scanning the stands, and my heart slams so hard it almost hurts. I look away instantly, heat rushing up my neck, pulse roaring in my ears like I’ve been caught doing something wrong. I stare at the banner across the gym, at the faded letters, at anything that isn’t him.

Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t—

I glance back.

He’s already facing the court again.

Relief and disappointment tangle together in my chest, tight and messy.

He knows who I am.

That’s the worst part.

Not well. Not personally. But he knows. He’s seen me. I know he has. I sit in the same spot every game. I wear my brother’s number on my sleeve. I laugh when my brother messes up and groan when he misses easy points. I am a constant.

A background detail in his world.

He probably thinks I’m here for my brother.

The idea presses against my ribs, heavy. He has no way of knowing that every time he jumps, I feel it in my stomach. That every time his hands slam over the net, something inside me twists. That I’ve memorized the way his shoulders tense before a block, the way his eyes sharpen, the way his grin widens when he shuts someone down.

He has no way of knowing that I carry him with me in small, quiet ways. In the back of my mind. In the pauses between thoughts. In the spaces where other people might put something safer.

The whistle blows.

The game starts.

Tendou moves like he belongs exactly where he is. Like the court was built for him. Like every long limb and strange angle finally makes sense when he’s blocking, reading, predicting. He’s brilliant. Not flashy. Not loud about it. Just… devastatingly precise.

And I ache.

It’s a slow ache. A patient one. It lives under my skin, in my throat, in the way my fingers twitch when he celebrates a point, in the way my breath goes shallow when he laughs with his teammates. It’s been there for so long it feels permanent, like a second heartbeat.

My friends lean forward, whispering commentary. Joking. Teasing. I nod when I’m supposed to. Smile when it’s expected. But inside, I am somewhere else entirely.

I am watching him.

Always him.

At one point, he glances up.

Not at me. Not directly.

Just… up.

And something stupid, reckless, hopeful flares in my chest before I can stop it.

I drop my gaze immediately, staring at my hands like they’ve betrayed me. My palms are damp. My fingers are cold. I press them together, grounding myself in the small, ordinary sensation.

He tried to talk to me once.

The memory surfaces without warning, sharp and sudden.

It was after a game. The gym was half empty. My brother was still in the locker room. I was standing by the doors, pretending to scroll through my phone, pretending not to look at him, pretending my heart wasn’t trying to climb out of my throat.

He walked over.

Just… walked over.

Like it was nothing.

Like he didn’t know he was everything.

“Hey,” he said. Casual. Easy. Too easy.

I froze.

Actually froze.

My brain emptied. My mouth went dry. My hands forgot how to exist. I remember staring at him, stupidly, stupidly, taking in the height of him, the color of his hair, the curve of his smile, and thinking, oh. oh no. oh no, no, no.

“Uh—” I tried.

Nothing came out.

He tilted his head, confusion flickering across his face. “You’re… uh, you’re [brother’s name]’s sister, right?”

I nodded.

Too fast.

Too stiff.

He smiled. “Cool. You come to a lot of games.”

And that was it.

That was all it took.

My heart sprinted. My vision blurred. My tongue tangled around itself. I felt small. Exposed. Seen in a way I was not prepared for.

“Y-yeah,” I whispered, barely audible.

He waited.

I didn’t say anything else.

Silence stretched. Awkward. Heavy.

He shifted, something uncertain passing through his eyes, and for a second—just a second—he looked… hesitant. Like he’d misjudged something. Like he’d stepped somewhere he shouldn’t have.

“Oh,” he said, softer. “Uh. Okay.”

And then he smiled again. That same too-wide grin. And stepped back.

“See you around.”

I didn’t look up until he was gone.

I’ve hated myself for that ever since.

Because I know how it must have looked.

Like I was scared.

Like I didn’t want him near me.

Like he was too much.

And now—now every time he’s close, every time he passes by, every time our paths almost cross, I feel my body lock up. My breath stutters. My gaze drops. I turn away like he’s something dangerous instead of something I want.

I wonder if he thinks I’m afraid of him.

The thought sits in my chest, heavy and quiet and awful.

On the court, Tendou blocks a spike clean, the sound of it sharp and final, and the gym erupts. He throws his arms up, laughing, wild and uncontained, and I smile before I can stop myself.

It’s small. Soft. Unnoticed.

Just for him.

And he never sees it.

~~~

My brother’s car is still warm from the drive, engine ticking softly like it’s thinking. Music leaks faintly from someone’s house down the street—bass thumping, a laugh breaking loose and carrying on the air. Kuroo’s place is lit up ahead of us, windows glowing gold, silhouettes shifting behind the curtains like a living thing.

My brother kills the ignition and just sits there for a second like he’s building up the energy to be social.

Then he looks at me.

Really looks—slow, suspicious, like he’s clocking a detail he’s been ignoring on purpose.

“…I still don’t get why Kuroo invited you,” he says.

I blink at him. “Because I’m charming.”

“You’re a menace.”

“That’s also a charm.”

He huffs a laugh through his nose, shaking his head. “He literally said, ‘Invite every pretty girl you can think of,’ and you—” He points at me like I’m evidence in court. “—somehow ended up on that list.”

I stare at him flatly. “Do you want to try that sentence again, or do you want your sister to end your life in this driveway.”

He holds up his hands like he’s surrendering, but his grin is already there, smug and stupid. “I’m just saying. It’s weird.”

“It’s not weird. Kuroo has eyes,” I say, then lean closer like I’m about to share a secret. “Also, maybe he invited me because I’m hilarious and he wants the party to be fun.”

My brother snorts. “You’re only hilarious when you’re bullying people.”

“Exactly.” I tap his shoulder with the back of my knuckles, light but pointed. “And you should be grateful. I could’ve been one of those sweet, quiet sisters who just… knits and smiles.”

He groans like the thought physically pains him. “Please don’t start knitting.”

“Too late,” I say. “I knitted you a sweater that says I Peak in Volleyball.”

He reaches over, flicks my forehead. “You’re unbelievable.”

I swat his hand away immediately. “Don’t touch my face. I’m trying to be pretty for the party.”

He leans back in his seat, giving me a look that’s half amused, half exasperated. “You’re already pretty. You don’t have to try.”

The words land in that casual brother way—careless, automatic, not meant to mean anything heavy—but my stomach still tightens for a beat because pretty is a word that follows me around like a shadow in rooms like this.

Pretty. Funny. Easy.

All the things that make people look at me.

All the things that make it harder to be invisible when I want to be.

I push the door open. Cold air rushes in, clean and sharp against my cheeks. The streetlight catches the edges of my breath.

My brother gets out and slams his door, then looks at me over the roof of the car like he’s about to say something else. Something softer.

Instead, he says, “Also, try not to scare off half the teams tonight.”

I smile sweetly. “No promises.”

He points at me. “I mean it.”

I step closer and punch his shoulder—light, practiced, sibling violence that means I love you more than anything else does. “Go be social, loser.”

He rubs his shoulder like I hit him with a brick, dramatic. “You hit like a truck.”

“You’re just weak,” I say, and he flips me off, laughing, as we start walking.

The closer we get, the louder everything becomes.

It’s not just music. It’s bodies. It’s energy. It’s the sound of too many voices bouncing off walls, the warmth spilling out every time the front door opens. Kuroo’s place looks like it’s breathing—light in the windows, movement behind glass, a flicker of someone’s arm as they wave someone inside.

My brother reaches the porch first.

He doesn’t slow down.

He doesn’t hesitate.

He’s already halfway through the door before I can even step fully onto the welcome mat.

Of course he is.

He has always belonged in crowds. He moves through people like water moves through gaps—easy, natural, unbothered. He’s laughing before he’s even inside, someone already calling his name, hands clapping his back like he’s a returning hero.

And I—

I follow a beat behind, like an afterthought.

Like a shadow.

The doorway swallows me.

Heat hits first. Warmth and sound, layered and loud, soft golden light stretching across hardwood floors. The air smells like sugary alcohol, citrus, cologne, and something faintly savory from the kitchen. Someone shouts in greeting. Someone else whoops. The music is loud enough to vibrate through my ribs.

And then—

I see him.

Not eventually.

Not after scanning.

Immediately.

Like my eyes have been trained, like they know exactly where to go without asking permission.

Tendou is near the back of the room, one shoulder against the wall, drink in hand. The lighting catches him in pieces—red hair like a flare, pale throat, the sharp line of his jaw when he turns his head to listen to someone.

He’s tall in a way that makes the room feel different around him. Like he alters the space without trying. All long limbs, loose posture, that familiar grin hovering on his mouth like it belongs there permanently.

He laughs at something and it’s not quiet. It’s not polite. It’s full-bodied, unfiltered, the kind of laugh that takes up too much room.

It does something to me.

Something small and violent and private.

My breath stutters.

My palms dampen instantly.

I stand there, just inside the doorway, feeling like the world has narrowed to one person in one corner of one room.

A ridiculous thought flashes—sharp, unwanted: What if he looks at me right now? What if he sees me?

My heart hits my ribs like it’s trying to get out.

I glance down, pretending to adjust my jacket, like if I can keep my hands busy I can keep myself from unraveling. My brother’s voice fades into the background. The music fades. Everything becomes a blur with Tendou as the only clear shape in it.

He shifts, and for a split second his gaze sweeps across the room.

Across the entrance.

Across me.

My body reacts before my brain can argue.

I look away so fast it’s almost a flinch.

Heat rises up my neck, up my cheeks. I swallow like I can force my heart back into a normal rhythm. I tell myself not to be stupid. I tell myself not to be obvious. I tell myself I am a whole person with a spine and a brain and I can handle looking at a man without—

“Hey!”

A voice cuts in close, bright and amused, and my thoughts snap like a string pulled too hard.

Kuroo appears in front of me like he’s been waiting for this moment—tall, sharp-eyed, hair messy in that deliberate way, grin lazy and confident. He looks like the kind of person who belongs at the center of every room.

“Look who actually came,” he says, like I’m a surprise he’s pleased about.

I lift my chin, letting the familiar version of me slide into place—sarcastic, blunt, comfortable. The mask I can wear without effort.

“Yeah,” I say. “I heard you were collecting pretty girls like Pokémon.”

Kuroo laughs, loud and delighted. “Oh, you’re dangerous. I like you.”

“I’ve been told,” I say, deadpan, and his grin widens like he’s just found new entertainment.

He steps aside slightly, gesturing with his cup like a host welcoming someone into a kingdom. “We needed more pretty people here. The volleyball teams were starting to make the house look like a locker room.”

“Tragic,” I say, looking around dramatically. “How are you all coping without deodorant sponsorships?”

Kuroo actually cackles at that, head tipping back. The sound draws a few glances. It’s the kind of laugh that makes people want to be near you, like it’s contagious.

He points at me like I’m a discovery. “See? This is exactly why you were invited.”

My brother calls something from deeper inside the house—my name, half warning, half amused—but he doesn’t come back. He keeps moving, already swallowed by his teammates, already caught in the current of familiar hands and familiar jokes.

And just like that, I’m alone.

With Kuroo.

And a room full of people I mostly know by reputation.

“Come on,” Kuroo says, already turning like he assumes I’ll follow. “I’ll introduce you before you get kidnapped by some random setter with a hero complex.”

I walk with him because that’s easy. Because Kuroo makes things easy. Because it’s easier to let myself be guided than to stand still and feel Tendou’s presence across the room like a weight on my skin.

We weave through bodies. Conversations. Laughter. A cluster of guys near the kitchen.

And then Kuroo stops.

“Oi, Oikawa!” he calls.

The name alone shifts the air, like everyone’s heard it enough times to recognize the energy attached to it.

Oikawa turns—tall, pretty in a way that feels unfair, hair perfectly styled like he walked out of a commercial instead of a party. His smile is immediate and bright, the kind that could convince someone to do anything if they were weak enough.

His gaze flicks to me and sharpens with interest.

“Ah,” he says, voice warm and playful. “And who is this?”

Kuroo hooks his thumb toward me. “My newest favorite person. [Your name]. Also—” he glances at me like he’s enjoying the setup, “—the reason I’m now considering banning volleyball boys from my parties because they’re all acting feral.”

Oikawa laughs, quick and charming, stepping a little closer. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says, like he means it.

I give him a flat look. “Are you always this dramatic or is it a special occasion?”

His eyes widen for a second, then he laughs again, brighter. “Oh, I love you.”

Kuroo makes a satisfied sound like he’s proud of himself. “Right?”

There are others around them—faces I recognize from games, from sidelines, from the way my brother talks about them like they’re characters in a story. They introduce themselves. I answer. I make a joke. Someone laughs. Someone offers me a drink. Someone tells me I’m funny.

And I am funny.

I know how to do this.

I know how to be this version of myself—sharp and easy and unafraid.

But even as I laugh with them, even as I tilt my head and fire off another sarcastic comment, there’s a thread of awareness pulled tight inside me, stretching across the room.

Because I can feel him looking.

Not constantly.

Not obviously.

But enough.

Like a finger pressing into a bruise.

And every time I catch a glimpse of red hair in the corner of my vision, my body betrays me again—breath catching, stomach dropping, thoughts stuttering like a record scratched.

I don’t look directly.

I don’t let myself.

But I know he’s there.

And I know—because I’m cursed with the kind of awareness that doesn’t let me rest—that he’s watching me talk to other people.

Watching me laugh.

Watching other guys lean in too close.

Watching me be the version of myself that doesn’t exist when he’s near.

The room feels warmer. Brighter. Like the light is turned up too high.

And somewhere underneath it, there’s a colder edge I can’t name, the quiet thought that presses in no matter how many jokes I make:

If I turn my head and meet his eyes again… will I survive it?

I’m laughing at something Oikawa says when I feel it—movement near the back of the room, the subtle shift of air when someone tall passes behind a conversation. My spine goes tight, immediate, instinctive.

He’s closer.

Not close-close.

But closer than he was.

My voice falters for half a second, just a fraction, like my body forgets how to keep up the act.

Oikawa doesn’t notice.

Kuroo doesn’t notice.

No one notices.

Except me.

And him.

Because when I glance up—just for a heartbeat, just enough to ruin myself—I catch Tendou watching from across the room, eyes steady, expression unreadable in the warm light.

And my lungs forget how to work.

I look away immediately, laughing too loudly at a joke that wasn’t that funny, nodding too fast, moving my hands too much, like if I become a blur maybe no one will see the way I’m shaking on the inside.

I hate that I do this.

I hate that I can stand here and hold my own with Oikawa—Oikawa—and fire sarcasm back at Kuroo without blinking…

…but the moment Tendou exists within my orbit, I turn into someone else.

Someone smaller.

Someone quieter.

Someone with a heartbeat that gives her away.

Kuroo claps his hands suddenly, loud, cutting through the room like a knife.

“Alright!” he announces, grinning like he’s about to set something on fire. “Game time. Seven minutes in heaven. Everyone who’s brave, sit down.”

A wave of cheering. Groans. Laughter.

The circle begins to form.

I feel my stomach tighten—not fear exactly, not that simple, but something sharp and anticipatory, like the air right before a storm.

People drop to the floor, shoulders bumping, knees touching. Someone sets the bottle in the center, glass catching the light.

I lower myself to the floor with the others, careful, deliberate, like if I move too fast I might draw attention to myself. The circle is uneven, knees brushing, shoulders nearly touching, the warmth of too many bodies in one space rising into my skin. Someone laughs. Someone shifts. The bottle glints in the center of the floor like it’s waiting for blood.

I keep my eyes down.

Not because I’m shy. Not because I’m unsure.

Because I know exactly where he is.

Tendou sits across from me.

I don’t look, but I feel it—the way the space directly in front of me is occupied by something larger, heavier, more charged than everything else in the room. I can sense the length of his legs, the way his body folds into itself even when he’s relaxed, the gravity of him pulling at my awareness like a tide. It’s ridiculous. He hasn’t moved. He hasn’t spoken. And still my pulse stutters like he’s already done something.

My hands rest in my lap, fingers threaded together so tightly my knuckles pale. I focus on that pressure, on the grounding of skin against skin, because if I let myself think about the fact that he’s sitting right there—if I let myself imagine his eyes lifting and finding mine—

No.

I don’t look.

I can’t.

The game starts around me.

The bottle spins. Glass scrapes against the floor, the sound sharp and bright, cutting through the music and chatter. Laughter rises and falls, people groaning when it lands on them, others cheering. A pair disappears into the closet. The door shuts. The room exhales.

I don’t.

I sit still, back straight, expression carefully neutral, like I’m completely unbothered. Like my heartbeat isn’t counting down. Like I’m not hyper-aware of every movement across from me, every shift of his weight, every small sound he makes.

I can feel him there. It’s constant. Like a low hum in my bones.

Someone bumps my shoulder. I flinch before I can stop myself, then recover, forcing a laugh that feels thin even to my own ears. My gaze stays on the floor, on the bottle, on anything that isn’t him. I’m acutely aware of the fact that if I look up, even for a second, I will give myself away.

The bottle spins again.

Another pair.

The closet door shuts.

Time stretches. Thick. Slow. Heavy. Each second settling into the next like it’s pressing down on my chest. The room feels warmer. Brighter. Smaller. The air tastes faintly of alcohol and citrus and something sweet that makes my stomach turn.

I tell myself it won’t be me.

I tell myself it can’t be.

And in the same breath, traitorous and desperate, I beg for it.

Because what if it does?

What if it lands on him?

What if, just once, the universe is reckless enough to give me what I’ve been pretending I don’t want?

The thought alone makes my throat tighten.

What happens if he sees my face up close?

What happens if he notices the way my breath stutters when he’s near, the way my hands shake, the way my eyes refuse to meet his because if they do, I might not survive it?

What happens if he finally believes what he’s already been living with—that I’m scared of him?

That he’s too much?

That I don’t want him near me?

The lie sits heavy in my chest, a thing I never meant to build and don’t know how to tear down.

The bottle spins again.

The room cheers.

And then Kuroo’s voice cuts through it, bright and sharp and entirely too pleased.

“Your turn.”

My head lifts before I can stop it, eyes snapping to him, then dropping just as fast. The circle feels tighter suddenly, like the space has closed in. The air presses against my skin. The bottle in the center of the floor looks innocent and dangerous at the same time, a stupid piece of glass holding too much power.

I hesitate.

Just for a second.

Then I reach out.

My hand is shaking.

Not violently. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just enough that I feel it, a subtle tremor in my fingers as I touch the cool glass. The sensation grounds me and unravels me at the same time.

I spin.

The bottle moves, scraping loudly, the sound echoing in my ears. It turns and turns and turns, the room blurring at the edges, faces melting into color and light. Everything narrows to that single point of motion, that one fragile line between safety and disaster.

It slows.

My breath catches.

It slows more.

My heartbeat climbs up my throat, thick and loud and impossible to ignore.

And then—

It stops.

Pointing straight at him.

For a moment, the world goes empty.

Not quiet.

Empty.

No sound. No warmth. No room. Just the image of Tendou across the circle, tall and still, his gaze fixed on the bottle like it’s betrayed him. Like it’s made a joke at his expense. Like it’s cruel.

Then his eyes lift.

They meet mine.

And everything inside me collapses.

My face locks up, muscles pulling tight, expression going blank in that horrible way people mistake for disgust when it’s actually my body trying not to fall apart. Heat floods my skin, sharp and immediate, crawling up my neck, across my cheeks, down my spine. My breath turns shallow, trapped somewhere between my chest and my throat. Sweat prickles at my hairline like I’ve been dropped into something boiling.

I can’t speak.

I can’t move.

I sit there, frozen, while my pulse batters inside me, wild and frantic and humiliating, like my body is screaming something my mouth is too cowardly to say.

Around us, the room explodes.

Kuroo laughs first, loud and delighted. “Oh, that’s brutal.” His grin is wide, sharp, merciless. “Looks like you’re stuck with the monster.”

Oikawa’s voice cuts in immediately, playful and cruel in that effortless way he has. “No re-spins! Rules are rules!”

Laughter ripples through the circle. Teasing. Whistles. Someone claps.

It all washes over me like I’m underwater.

Muffled. Distant. Heavy.

Because Tendou isn’t laughing.

He isn’t teasing.

He’s looking at me like something just cracked behind his eyes.

His mouth flattens, the easy curve gone. His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping near his cheek. His shoulders go rigid, broad and tense, like he’s bracing for impact. There’s something restrained in him suddenly, something tightly held, like he’s keeping himself contained with sheer will.

He looks… wounded.

And I don’t understand why.

Then he stands.

The movement is sudden, clean, final.

The room quiets just a fraction as he steps out of the circle, not looking at anyone, not looking at me, like if he does he’ll see something he can’t unsee. He walks toward the closet with long, controlled strides, his back straight, his hands loose at his sides, like he’s pretending this doesn’t matter.

Like it doesn’t hurt.

My chest caves in.

No—

Not like this.

Not this misunderstanding.

Not him thinking—

I push myself up too late, legs unsteady, the floor tilting beneath me like I’m walking on something unreal. People are still laughing, still calling after me, still tossing jokes into the air like confetti. Someone says my name. Someone whistles. Someone says “good luck.”

I barely hear them.

I walk because I have to.

Because he went in there.

Because if I don’t follow, the lie becomes permanent.

Because if I don’t follow, he will walk away believing I was afraid of him.

My hand is shaking as I reach the closet door, fingers curling into the edge of it like it might steady me. Kuroo opens it with a grin, ushering me forward like I’m a performance.

“Seven minutes,” he says, voice bright with expectation. “Good luck.”

The door shuts behind me.

Darkness. Warmth. Silence.

The space is small, cramped, the air thick with the scent of detergent and dust and him. Tendou stands inside like a shadow made human—tall, tense, facing the wall like he’s giving me space, like he’s trying to be careful, trying to be gentle in the only way he knows how.

I press my back against the door without meaning to, like I need something solid to keep me upright.

My breath stutters.

My fingers curl.

And the air between us is heavy with everything neither of us has ever said.

No one outside expects anything to happen.

That much is obvious in the way the laughter fades instead of sharpens, in the way no one presses closer to the door, in the way the energy of the room settles back into itself like the moment has already been written off. It’s treated like a joke. A mismatch. A punchline.

The monster and the girl.

I can almost hear what they’re thinking. Poor thing. She’s probably terrified. This is awkward.

The door shuts and the sound of the party dulls instantly, music and voices swallowed by the walls, leaving only the hum of the house and the sound of my own breathing — too loud, too fast, too uneven.

Tendou doesn’t turn.

He stands with his back to me, tall enough that his shoulders nearly brush the doorframe, hands loose at his sides, posture rigid in a way that doesn’t look relaxed at all. He looks like he’s bracing. Like he’s waiting for something bad to happen.

I stay where I am, back pressed to the door, fingers curling into the fabric of my sleeves like they might anchor me. The space between us feels enormous and impossibly small at the same time, stretched thin with everything I want and can’t say.

He doesn’t move.

I don’t move.

Seconds pass. Heavy ones. Thick ones. The kind that press into your chest and make you aware of your own heartbeat.

I try to inhale properly.

I fail.

My breath keeps catching halfway, stuttering like it doesn’t know what it’s supposed to be doing. My lungs feel too full and too empty at once. I focus on the scent of him — something clean, something faintly sharp, something that makes my head go light.

God, pull it together.

This is ridiculous. It’s just him. Just Tendou. Just a closet. Just—

My hands shake.

Not violently. Not enough for anyone to notice. But enough that I notice. Enough that it feels like a betrayal.

He notices too.

I know he does because his shoulders tense even more, like he’s heard something break.

Still, he doesn’t turn.

Still, he gives me space.

And that — that does something dangerous to me. The fact that he’s trying. The fact that he’s careful. The fact that he’s standing there like he’s afraid of being too much.

My throat tightens.

Finally, he exhales.

It’s slow. Controlled. Like he’s steadying himself.

“I’m not gonna…” he starts, then stops. His jaw tightens. He tries again. “I’m not gonna touch you.”

The words land low. Rough around the edges. Not gentle. Not soft. There’s something tight in them. Something restrained. Something angry, but not at me.

“You don’t have to… do anything,” he continues, still facing the wall, voice clipped, contained. “We can just stand here. Wait it out. Seven minutes. That’s it.”

He shifts slightly, like even that much movement might be too much. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The sentence hangs there.

Sharp.

Heavy.

And wrong.

My breath catches — not in fear, not in shock, but in pure, bewildered confusion. My brows knit together without me realizing it. I stare at his back, at the tension in his shoulders, at the way his hands curl slightly like he’s gripping onto patience.

Hurt me?

The idea doesn’t fit. It doesn’t make sense. It slides off me like water off glass.

Slowly, cautiously, I lift my head.

He’s so tall. Taller than I ever let myself really acknowledge. Taller than me, and I’m not short. Up close, the difference feels bigger, more pronounced, like he takes up space I didn’t realize was there. Like he belongs in a way I never quite do.

My voice feels lodged in my throat.

I have to force it out.

“I… I know you won’t.”

The words come out small. Uneven. A little breathless.

He freezes.

Actually freezes.

The tension in his shoulders spikes, visible, like something electric just ran through him. He turns his head slightly, not enough to face me, but enough that I know he heard me. Enough that I know it mattered.

I swallow, the sound loud in the quiet. “I know you won’t,” I repeat, softer, because suddenly everything feels too loud. Too exposed. “I just… I just—”

My voice stutters.

God.

I clamp my mouth shut, heat rushing to my face, the familiar humiliation creeping up my spine. My fingers curl tighter into my sleeves like I can physically hold myself together.

For a second, he doesn’t say anything.

Then, slowly, he turns.

Not all the way.

Just enough.

His eyes find me.

And something in his expression falters.

Not sharp. Not teasing. Not amused.

Confused.

“…Then why,” he asks quietly, “do you look like you’re about to bolt?”

The question isn’t cruel. It’s not mocking.

It’s genuine.

It hits me in the chest like a misstep.

I open my mouth. Close it. Try again. Nothing comes out. My thoughts scatter like startled birds, all noise and no shape.

He watches me struggle, something flickering behind his eyes — uncertainty, maybe. Frustration. Something wounded.

“You’re always like this around me,” he says, not accusing, just… stating. “You won’t look at me. You won’t talk to me. When I tried, you looked like you couldn’t breathe.” His brow furrows. “So yeah. Forgive me for thinking you’re scared.”

The word lands wrong.

Scared.

I shake my head immediately, the movement sharp, instinctive. “No—” My voice cracks. I wince, swallow hard, then try again. “No. I’m not.”

His eyes narrow slightly. Not in suspicion — in confusion.

“…You’re not?”

The silence stretches.

The space between us feels tighter now. Charged. Alive.

I hesitate, then blurt, “Are people supposed to be?”

He blinks.

The sound of it is soft in the quiet.

“…What?”

I shift my weight, the door pressing into my back, grounding and suffocating at the same time. “I mean—” I gesture vaguely, uselessly. “You. Are people… supposed to be scared of you?”

The question feels ridiculous the second it leaves my mouth, but I don’t take it back.

He stares at me like I’ve just spoken in another language.

“No,” he says immediately. Then hesitates. “I mean— no. But you always—” He stops, frowns, clearly trying to line things up in his head. “You always act like you are.”

I shake my head again, slower this time. “I’m not.”

He studies me, really studies me, like he’s trying to solve something that’s been bothering him for a long time. “Then why,” he asks, carefully now, “do you avoid me? Why won’t you look at me? Why do you go silent every time I’m near you? Why did you look like you were about to pass out when I tried to talk to you?”

Each question lands heavier than the last.

I open my mouth.

Close it.

The truth rises up in me like a wave — hot, terrifying, impossible — and I choke on it.

Because how do you tell someone that the reason you can’t look at them is because looking feels like falling?

How do you admit that the reason your voice disappears is because your heart is screaming?

I go quiet.

My gaze drops.

The space fills with everything I’m not saying.

He watches it happen.

Sees it.

And something changes.

The corner of his mouth twitches.

Then he exhales a short, incredulous laugh.

“…You know,” he says slowly, tilting his head, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say it sounds like you have a massive crush on me.”

The words are light.

Teasing.

A joke.

A shield.

I don’t laugh.

I don’t deny it.

I don’t move.

And in the silence that follows, his smile falters.

Just a fraction.

Then completely.

The air shifts.

His stomach drops — I can see it in the way his posture changes, in the way his eyes widen just slightly, in the way the joke dies in his throat.

“…Oh,” he breathes.

And suddenly he’s looking at me like I’m something fragile and dangerous all at once.

“Wait,” he says, stepping closer before he can seem to stop himself. Just one step. Not touching. Not invading. But closer. “Is that why?”

My breath stutters.

I can’t answer.

I don’t need to.

He tilts his head, studying me, eyes searching my face with a new intensity. “Is that why you can’t look at me?” he asks quietly. “Is that why you freeze up?”

My chest tightens.

I nod.

Barely.

His breath leaves him in a slow exhale, something like disbelief, something like relief. A slow, crooked smile pulls at his mouth, soft and stunned and… warm.

“…You’re kidding,” he murmurs.

I’m not.

He takes another step.

I take one back.

My shoulders hit the wall.

He doesn’t touch me. Not yet. But he’s close enough now that I can feel the heat from him, close enough that his presence fills the space, close enough that my knees threaten to give.

He lifts his hand.

Two fingers under my chin.

Gentle. Barely there.

Tilting my face up.

“Then why,” he asks, voice low, amused now, “can’t you look at me?”

I try.

I really do.

I last half a second before my gaze flickers away.

He chuckles.

Soft. Dangerous.

He steps closer again. My back presses harder into the wall. He leans down slightly so I don’t have to look up at him anymore, so our faces are level, so the space between us is… gone.

“Why are you so quiet?” he murmurs. “Why are you shaking?”

“I’m not,” I say immediately.

My voice shakes.

He smiles.

“Then why is your voice shaking?”

I open my mouth to lie.

Stop.

Because he’s right there.

Because he’s looking at me like he already knows.

He dips his head closer, just enough that his breath brushes my cheek. “You don’t believe your own excuses,” he says softly. “Neither do I.”

My thoughts dissolve.

My body is a live wire.

He straightens just a little, eyes dark with understanding now. “It all makes sense,” he murmurs.

The teasing edge sharpens.

And it sends me spiraling.

The tension coils too tight.

I can’t stand it.

I can’t breathe like this.

“Are you,” I blurt, voice breathless, “are you going to keep teasing me, or are you going to be a man and kiss me?”

He stills.

Then he laughs.

Low. Warm. Delighted.

“Oh,” he says softly. “Gladly.”

He kisses me like he’s been starving.

Like every second he’s ever watched me from across a room, every time I’ve looked away from him, every moment he thought I was afraid, is pouring into the pressure of his mouth against mine. There’s no hesitation in it now. No restraint. Just want — raw and unfiltered and overwhelming.

His hand tightens at my waist, fingers digging in like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he loosens his grip. I gasp into the kiss, the sound small and helpless, and he answers it immediately, deepening it, swallowing it, tilting his head to fit me closer, closer, closer.

There is no space.

There is only him.

The wall is cold against my back. His body is heat. Solid. Unavoidable. He crowds into me without apology, all height and strength and intent, and my brain short-circuits under it. My thoughts dissolve into sensation — the press of his chest, the scrape of his breath, the way his mouth moves like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

He groans when I cling to him.

The sound is low. Uncontrolled. It vibrates through his chest and straight into me, and my knees buckle in response, traitorous and weak. He notices immediately.

A sharp breath leaves him.

And then—

He lifts me.

Just… lifts me.

Like I weigh nothing.

Like it’s instinct.

My back hits the wall again, higher this time, his body pinning me there with ease, one hand braced beside my head, the other locked around my thigh, holding me up like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The movement knocks the breath from me, a broken sound leaving my mouth before I can stop it.

His eyes darken.

“God,” he murmurs, and it’s not a joke. It’s not teasing. It’s reverent. Dangerous. “You make the prettiest sounds.”

My face burns.

I open my mouth to say something sharp, something clever, something that proves I still exist as a functional human being—

Nothing comes out.

He smiles.

Slow.

Knowing.

And then his mouth is on me again.

Harder. Hungrier. Like he’s lost interest in pretending this is anything other than what it is. His kiss is all teeth and heat and pressure, his lips moving with an urgency that steals the air from my lungs. I cling to him automatically, arms sliding around his shoulders, fingers digging into his back through his shirt.

And oh—

He’s solid.

Not just tall. Not just big.

Built.

My hands trace muscle without permission, feeling the hard lines of his back, the strength under my palms, and it sends a shiver through me that I can’t control. I melt into him, completely, every part of me leaning closer, closer, like I’m trying to crawl inside his skin.

He makes a sound at that.

Sharp.

Low.

Dangerous.

His grip tightens, body pressing in, and I feel it — the tension in him, the restraint, the way he’s holding himself back by force. His hands move, restless, sliding over my sides, my waist, my hips, like he doesn’t know where to put them, like everywhere feels right and wrong at the same time.

He kisses down my jaw.

Slow.

Deliberate.

My head tips back without me meaning to, giving him access, and he takes it immediately, mouth hot against my skin, breath warm, leaving shivers in his wake. His lips trail lower, unhurried but intent, like he’s mapping me, learning me.

My breath breaks.

A soft, helpless sound.

His hand slips lower, gripping my hip, anchoring me there, and the closeness of it — the proximity — makes my stomach tighten, my thoughts blur, my body lean into him without shame.

“Tendou…” I breathe, and it comes out like a plea.

He hums against my neck, pleased. “Yeah?”

His voice is rough now. Stripped down. Real.

I don’t answer.

I don’t need to.

He knows.

Because he presses closer, because his mouth moves slower, because his hands flex like he’s fighting himself. He kisses along my throat, my jaw, my cheek, teeth grazing just enough to make my pulse spike, just enough to make me gasp.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs, and there’s laughter in it, but it’s thin, strained. “You know that?”

My fingers curl tighter in his shirt.

I nod because it feels easier than thinking.

He chuckles softly, then bites my lower lip — not hard, not gentle, just enough to make me gasp and clutch at him like he’s gravity.

The sound that leaves him in response is feral.

He shifts, pressing me more firmly to the wall, body caging me in, hands sliding with clear intention — not careless, not clumsy, but restrained, controlled, like he knows exactly how far he can go and is dancing right on the edge of it.

My head is spinning.

My body is on fire.

Every nerve feels awake.

I can feel him everywhere — his chest, his arms, his breath, his mouth — and it’s too much and not enough at the same time. I’m drowning in him. In the closeness. In the way he touches me like he’s been waiting.

Because he has.

I can feel that too.

His mouth finds mine again, and the kiss turns rougher, deeper, like he’s lost patience with himself. His hand slides along my side, lingering, almost too low, and I inhale sharply, the sound betraying me.

He freezes.

Just for a second.

A breath.

A pause.

His forehead drops to mine, his breath heavy, uneven, his eyes closed like he’s steadying himself.

“…We’re in a closet,” he murmurs, voice low and strained. “With, like, a minute left.”

I laugh weakly, breathless. “Right. Because that’s what matters right now.”

He smiles, but it’s tight. Controlled. His jaw clenches like he’s physically restraining himself.

“Trust me,” he says quietly, brushing his thumb along my jaw, gentle now. “If we weren’t… I wouldn’t be stopping.”

The honesty in it hits me harder than any touch.

My breath catches.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dark, intent, searching. “You okay?” he asks, softer, like he’s checking in, like he actually cares.

I nod, still dazed, still caught in him.

He smirks. “Good. Because you look like you forgot how to stand.”

I shove his chest weakly. “Shut up.”

He laughs, low and warm, steadying me as my feet touch the floor again, hands still firm on my waist like he’s not quite ready to let go.

The door handle rattles.

Voices outside.

Light and sound bleed back in as the door opens.

He steps out first, completely unapologetic, glancing back at me with a grin that is entirely too pleased with itself.

And when I follow, breathless and flushed and absolutely wrecked—

as the matches started, tendou kept stealing glances at the bleachers where y/n sat. she was talking to yaku at first, then fukurodani’s manager, then lev. but every time he looked her way, her eyes were already on him.

sometimes, she smiled. sometimes, she looked amused, probably at something dumb he did. other times, her gaze held something softer, something that made his heart stutter.

but tendou was tendou, and he overthought everything.

coincidence, he told himself. 'she’s probably just watching the match. i mean, i’m on the court, obviously she’ll look sometimes.'

but the more it happened, the harder it was to ignore.

semi noticed first. during a quick break, he handed tendou a water bottle and smirked.

“y/n hasn’t taken her eyes off you since we started.”

tendou almost dropped the bottle. “huh?”

“she’s literally staring at you.”

tendou scoffed. “nah, she’s watching the game.”

“no, dumbass. you.”

tendou opened his mouth to argue, but semi grabbed his shoulders and physically turned him toward the bleachers.

y/n was still looking at him. the second their eyes met, she smiled.

his brain short-circuited again.

semi patted his back. “you’re hopeless.”

ushijima, ever direct, added, “y/n is interested in you. it’s obvious.”

tendou shook his head, taking a long drink of water. “nah. impossible.”

shirabu groaned. “holy shit, you’re an idiot.”

by the end of the night, shiratorizawa had won their match. as the teams wrapped up and started heading toward the train station, tendou walked alongside y/n at the very back of the group.

he draped an arm over her shoulder, pulling her close in a lazy side hug. “man, did you see that one block i got? beautiful, right?”

y/n hummed. “mmhm. very nice.”

“only nice? ouch. my feelings.”

“okay, very nice.”

he grinned. “that’s more like it.”

a comfortable silence settled between them as they walked. tendou kept his gaze ahead, but he felt y/n shift beside him.

then, he felt her eyes on him.

he didn’t turn his head, but he glanced to the side, meeting her gaze.

she was looking at him with that same warmth from earlier. the kind that made his stomach twist in ways he didn’t fully understand.

he smiled. “what’s up?”

y/n tilted her head slightly, a small smile playing at her lips.

“…nothing.”

but the way she looked at him said everything.

-------

the train station was bustling with movement, players splitting off in different directions as they caught their respective trains home. tendou and y/n walked side by side, his arm still draped loosely over her shoulders, the warmth of the moment lingering.

but as they reached the spot where they had to part ways, tendou sighed dramatically, letting his arm slip away.

"tragic," he muttered. "our journey ends here."

y/n snorted. "you're so dramatic."

semi, who was a few feet away, glanced over. "hurry up, y/n. i’m not waiting all night."

ushijima, standing next to tendou, was already talking about their next match, his voice calm and steady. tendou tried to focus, but then—

y/n leaned in, pressing a soft peck to his cheek.

his entire brain short-circuited.

“bye, satori,” she murmured, stepping back before he could process what just happened.

his mouth opened, then closed. his face felt hot. he blinked rapidly, trying to reboot his system.

before she could fully turn away, his body moved on instinct. he leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to the top of her head, pulling her into a brief but tight hug.

“b-bye, y/n,” he stammered.

she grinned against his chest, then pulled away, jogging over to semi without another word.

tendou stood frozen for a second, watching her go, his heart pounding. ushijima, unbothered as ever, continued talking.

“…tendou?”

“huh?” he snapped back to reality.

“are you listening?”

“yeah, yeah,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “just… processing.”

ushijima gave him a slow, assessing look. “…you should walk faster. you are moving very slowly.”

tendou groaned, dragging a hand down his face as he started walking again.

yeah. he was definitely gonna need some time to process this. afterall, the seemingly impossible, just became his reality.