#toru

The gym at Aoba Johsai High School smelled like sweat, rubber, and the faint metallic tang of the volleyball nets that had been up since morning. It was always the same after school: the squeak of sneakers on polished wood, the sharp thwack of serves, and the low rumble of voices calling plays that echoed off the high ceiling. You had been the team manager for three months now, long enough that the chaos felt like background noise instead of something that made your heart race.

You moved along the sidelines with the same quiet efficiency you brought to every practice. Clipboard in one hand, a tray of water bottles balanced on the other. Your uniform which consisted of a white polo with the team logo, dark shorts, and the lanyard that held the spare keys to the equipment room had become your second skin. The boys had stopped staring at you like you were some kind of outsider weeks ago. You were now their manager. Reliable. There when they needed tape, or stats, or someone to remind them that the bus left at 6:15 sharp.

Most of them treated you like a little sister. Harmless teasing, the occasional “Thanks, Manager!” shouted across the court. But there was one player who had never quite settled into that easy rhythm.

Oikawa Tooru.

He was mid-serve when you set the tray down on the bench. His form was perfect, as always. Back arched just so, wrist snapping like a whip. The ball rocketed across the net and slammed into the far corner with a sound that made even Iwaizumi grunt in approval. Oikawa landed lightly, already spinning on his heel, already flashing that million-watt smile that could make half the school’s fan club melt on the spot.

“Oi, Manager-chan!” He called, voice light and singsong as he jogged over. Sweat glistened at his temples, darkening the strands of his brown hair that always looked artfully messy no matter how hard he practiced. “Did you remember my special electrolyte mix today? The one with the extra potassium? I felt a little sluggish on that last set.”

You didn’t look up right away. You were too busy labeling the bottles with the players’ numbers in your neat, blocky handwriting. “It’s the same mix as yesterday, Oikawa. And the day before. And the day before that. You’re not going to die from a lack of potassium.”

He leaned one forearm on the bench, close enough that you could smell the faint citrus of his shampoo mixed with the salt of his skin. His grin widened, the kind of grin that usually had girls giggling behind their hands in the bleachers. “So cold! I’m your captain, you know. A little favoritism wouldn’t kill you.”

You finally glanced up. His eyes–those sharp, honey-brown eyes that always seemed to be calculating three moves ahead–were fixed on you with playful expectation. Most of the team would have blushed or stammered by now. You just arched a brow.

“Favoritism is what gets managers fired. Here.” You held out his bottle. “Drink it or don’t. I’m not your mom.”

Oikawa took it, fingers brushing yours for half a second longer than necessary. He twisted the cap off with a dramatic flourish. “Harsh. But I like it. Keeps me humble.” He took a long swig, throat working, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know, most people would’ve at least pretended to be flattered by now. You’re really not going to give me anything?”

You capped the last bottle and straightened, clipboard tucked under your arm. “I give you stats, schedules, and enough medical tape to wrap the entire starting lineup twice. That’s plenty.”

He laughed. Soft, genuine for once, not the polished one he used for the crowd. It made something in your chest tighten, but you shoved it down. You had seen the way he operated. The charm was a weapon, same as his serves. You weren’t interested in being another target.

Across the court, Iwaizumi shouted, “Shittykawa! Stop flirting and get back here! We’re running that quick set again!”

Oikawa rolled his eyes theatrically but didn’t move. Instead he tilted his head, studying you like you were a particularly interesting puzzle. “You’re different, you know that? Everyone else either swoons or tells me to shut up. You just… hand me water and call me out. It’s refreshing.”

You shrugged, already turning back toward the equipment bag. “Someone has to keep you grounded. Otherwise you’d float away on your own ego.”

He barked out another laugh, louder this time, and finally jogged back to the court. But you felt his eyes linger on your back for a beat longer than they should have. You told yourself it was nothing. Just Oikawa being Oikawa.

Practice dragged on for another hour. You kept your usual rhythm: noting down serve percentages on your clipboard, refilling bottles when they ran low, quietly reminding the second-years not to slack on their stretches. Every so often your gaze drifted to Oikawa. He was in his element. Calling plays with that sharp, commanding voice, setting the ball so perfectly it looked effortless. But you’d been around long enough to notice the little things the others missed.

The way his smile faltered for half a second when a receive went wide. The way he flexed his fingers after every block, like the joints were starting to ache. The way his shoulders stayed just a fraction too tense even when he was laughing with the team.

When Coach finally blew the whistle and called it a day, the gym emptied fast. The boys slapped each other on the back, chattering about dinner and weekend plans. You stayed behind, as always, gathering stray balls and wiping down the benches. It was peaceful when it was just you and the echo of the gym lights humming overhead.

You didn’t hear him approach until his voice cut through the quiet.

“You’re still here.”

Oikawa stood at the edge of the court, towel slung over one shoulder, gym bag at his feet. He wasn’t smiling now. His expression was softer, almost curious. The usual sparkle in his eyes had dimmed into something more real.

You straightened, wiping your hands on your shorts. “Someone has to lock up. And someone has to make sure the equipment log is updated before tomorrow’s morning practice.”

He nodded slowly, but he didn’t move to leave. Instead he walked over and dropped onto the bench beside the tray of empty bottles. Close enough that his knee almost brushed yours. “Most managers would’ve bailed the second Coach said we were done. You never do.”

You shrugged again, but this time it felt a little less casual. “It’s my job.”

“No,” He said quietly. “It’s more than that. You actually care if we win or not. Not just because it looks good on a college app.” He leaned back, arms stretched along the back of the bench, and let out a long breath. “Everyone else sees the captain who never misses a serve. You… you see the guy who stayed an hour late last week practicing alone because one of his sets felt off by two centimeters.”

You didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched between you, comfortable in a way it shouldn’t have been. Outside, the sky had turned the deep indigo of early evening, and the gym lights cast long shadows across the court.

Finally you said, “Two centimeters is a lot when you’re aiming for nationals.”

Oikawa’s head snapped toward you. For a second his eyes widened, even if it was just a fraction, before that familiar grin slid back into place. But it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “See? That’s what I mean. You get it.” He stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder, but he paused before walking away. “Hey, Manager-chan.”

You looked up.

“Thanks for the water. And… for not swooning.” His voice dropped, almost teasing, but there was something underneath it. Something warmer. “Makes me work harder to impress you.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Just gave you that little two-fingered wave and disappeared through the gym doors, sneakers squeaking once on the floor before the sound faded.

You stood there for a long moment, heart beating a little too fast, clipboard forgotten in your hands.

He notices, you realized.

And for the first time since you’d taken the job, you wondered if maybe you’d noticed him right back.

The next two weeks blurred into a familiar rhythm of early-morning practices, afternoon drills, and late-night equipment checks. You had grown used to the way Oikawa’s teasing became a constant undercurrent. Little comments thrown your way whenever he passed the bench, always delivered with that signature bright smile and a dramatic flourish of his hand. “Manager-chan, if you keep ignoring my charm like this, I might actually have to start working on my personality instead of my serves!” or “Careful, or I’ll think you’re immune to me on purpose.”

You never gave him the reactions he was fishing for. No blushing, no flustered giggles, no extra attention. Just a dry “Focus on your footwork, Captain” or a quiet “Your bottle’s on the left today, same as always.” It seemed to frustrate and intrigue him in equal measure. You could feel his gaze linger longer each time, as if he were trying to peel back the layers of your calm exterior to find whatever lay beneath.

But beneath the surface, something was shifting. He started seeking you out in small, almost imperceptible ways. After a particularly grueling block drill, he’d wander over to the bench under the pretense of grabbing water, only to linger and ask about the stats you’d scribbled down. “How many of my jump serves landed in today? Be honest, I can take it.” His tone was light, but his eyes were sharper, watching your face as you answered.

You answered honestly every time. No sugarcoating. And strangely, he seemed to like that.

Tonight, though, the air in the gym felt heavier than usual. Practice had run long because Coach wanted to perfect a new combination play before the upcoming practice match against Date Tech. The team was exhausted with shoulders slumped, breaths coming in short gasps but Oikawa pushed harder than anyone. His serves were sharper, his sets more precise, but there was an edge to his movements now, a tension that hadn’t been there in the softer early days.

You watched from the sidelines as the final set unfolded. Oikawa called the play, voice ringing out clear and commanding. The ball spiraled toward him for the set. He jumped, arm extended but the timing was off by a fraction of a second. The spiker mistimed the hit, and the ball slammed into the net instead of the opponent’s court.

Silence fell for a beat.

Then Oikawa landed, and the mask slipped.

“Dammit!” His voice cracked through the gym like a whip. He slammed his hand against the net post, the sound echoing sharply. Sweat dripped from his brow, and his chest heaved with more than just exertion. “That was my fault. If I’d been faster– if the set had been cleaner–”

“Oi, Shittykawa,” Iwaizumi started, stepping forward with his usual gruff concern. “It’s just practice. Calm down.”

But Oikawa wasn’t listening. His eyes were distant, jaw tight, the usual sparkle completely gone. “No. We can’t afford mistakes like that. Not if we want to beat Karasuno. Not if we want nationals.” He turned away from the team, shoulders rigid, and stalked toward the far corner of the gym where the spare balls were stacked. “Run it again. I’ll set until it’s perfect.”

Coach blew the whistle. “That’s enough for today. Hit the showers. We’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

The team exchanged uneasy glances but obeyed, filing out with quiet murmurs. Iwaizumi lingered for a moment, shooting Oikawa a look that said don’t be an idiot, but eventually even he left, clapping you on the shoulder as he passed. “Make sure he doesn’t stay all night again, Manager.”

You nodded silently.

The gym doors swung shut, leaving only the low hum of the overhead lights and the faint squeak of Oikawa’s sneakers as he paced near the ball cart. He didn’t acknowledge your presence. Instead, he grabbed a ball, tossed it up, and set it to himself with vicious precision–again, and again, and again. Each motion was flawless on the surface, but you could see the frustration bleeding through: the way his fingers trembled just slightly on the release, the way his breathing grew ragged, the way he muttered under his breath between sets.

You didn’t leave.

Quietly, you moved around the gym, gathering stray water bottles, coiling the measuring tape used for court lines, and updating the practice log on your clipboard. You stayed on the periphery. Close enough that he knew you were there, but not so close that it felt like intrusion. The minutes stretched into nearly an hour. The sky outside the high windows had turned from orange to deep navy, and the only sounds were the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the ball against Oikawa’s hands and the occasional sharp exhale when a set didn’t satisfy him.

Finally, he stopped. The ball rolled away across the floor, forgotten. Oikawa stood there, hands on his knees, head bowed, brown hair falling into his eyes. His shoulders shook–not from cold, but from the weight of whatever storm was raging inside him.

You set your clipboard down on the bench and walked over slowly, your footsteps deliberate so he could hear you coming. You stopped a few feet away, near the edge of the court.

He didn’t look up at first. When he did, his eyes were red-rimmed, not from tears exactly, but from the sheer exhaustion of holding everything together. The perfect, charming captain was gone. In his place was someone raw, someone who looked like he’d been carrying the expectations of an entire prefecture on his back for far too long.

“You’re… still here?” His voice was hoarse, stripped of its usual theatrical flair. It came out quieter than you’d ever heard it, almost disbelieving.

You nodded, keeping your tone even and gentle. “Someone has to lock up. And I figured you might need water.” You held out a fresh bottle you’d refilled earlier, condensation still beading on the plastic.

Oikawa stared at it for a long moment, then at your face. Something flickered in his expression. Surprise, then a flash of vulnerability that made your chest ache. He took the bottle but didn’t drink. Instead, he sank down onto the polished floor, back against the padded wall, legs stretched out in front of him. “You don’t have to do this, you know. Pretend like you care about my little meltdowns. Everyone else leaves when I get like this.”

“I’m not pretending,” You said simply, lowering yourself to sit a respectable distance away–close enough to talk, but not crowding him. The wood was cool beneath you, the gym vast and empty around you both. “And it’s not little. You push yourself harder than anyone on the team. That kind of pressure… it builds up.”

He let out a bitter laugh, short and hollow. “Pressure? That’s an understatement. Every serve, every set, it has to be perfect. Because if it’s not, then what am I? Just another pretty boy who peaked in high school?” He ran a hand through his damp hair, tugging at the strands. “Iwa-chan yells at me to rest, the team looks at me like I’m some kind of machine… but you, you just stay. You don’t tell me to calm down or that it’ll be okay. You just… hand me water and exist.”

You let the silence settle for a moment, the kind of comfortable quiet that didn’t demand filling. Outside, a distant car horn sounded, but inside it felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of you under the dimming lights.

“I don’t need to fix it for you,” You said softly. “I just don’t think you should have to sit in it alone.”

Oikawa’s head turned toward you slowly. His eyes searched yours, really searched, as if looking for the catch. The moment you’d laugh it off or walk away. When he didn’t find it, something in his posture softened. He took a slow sip of water, then set the bottle aside. “You’re dangerous, you know that? Most people want the version of me that smiles and wins. You… you see the version that’s scared he’s not enough.”

Your heart stuttered at the admission. It was small, barely a crack in the armor, but coming from Oikawa Tooru–the boy who charmed his way through life like it was a stage. It felt monumental. You didn’t reach out to touch him. You didn’t offer empty reassurances. Instead, you simply stayed, letting your presence be the answer.

The minutes ticked by. Oikawa’s breathing evened out, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. He talked a little more. Fragmented thoughts about the upcoming match, about the fear of letting the team down, about how sometimes the cheers from the stands felt like chains rather than encouragement. You listened without interrupting, offering only quiet nods or the occasional gentle question that showed you were paying attention.

Eventually, the gym lights flickered once in warning. The automatic timer signaling it was time to wrap up. Oikawa pushed himself to his feet first, offering you a hand up. When your palm slid into his, his grip lingered, warm and surprisingly gentle for someone who could spike a ball with such force. His thumb brushed the back of your hand once, almost absentmindedly, sending a quiet spark up your arm.

“Thanks,” He murmured, voice low and rough around the edges. For the first time, there was no teasing lilt, no dramatic flair. Just sincerity. “For not leaving. Most people would’ve.”

You squeezed his hand once before letting go. “I’m not most people.”

A small, tired smile curved his lips–the real kind, the one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle softly. “No… you’re not.”

He walked you to the doors, carrying the equipment bag you usually handled alone. The night air was cool when you stepped outside, stars faint above the school grounds. Oikawa paused under the glow of a streetlamp, turning to face you fully. The light caught in his hair, softening the sharp lines of his face into something almost ethereal.

“See you tomorrow, Manager-chan?” He asked, but the nickname sounded different now–warmer, less like a joke and more like an anchor.

You nodded, a small smile of your own tugging at your lips. “Bright and early. Don’t stay up practicing sets in your head all night.”

He chuckled softly, the sound wrapping around you like a secret. “No promises. But… I’ll try. For you.”

As you watched him walk away, shoulders a little less burdened, you felt the first real flutter of something deeper than duty. Not just concern. Not just friendship.

Something that felt dangerously like the beginning of falling.

The days that followed the late-night gym incident carried a new, unspoken weight. Practice no longer felt like just another item on your schedule. There was a thread now–thin but undeniable–connecting you to Oikawa Tooru in a way that went beyond water bottles and clipboard notes.

He started seeking you out more deliberately.

It began subtly. During morning warm-ups, instead of lounging with the second-years or trading barbs with Iwaizumi, Oikawa would drift toward the manager’s bench. He’d drop onto the spot beside you, close enough that the heat from his body after stretches radiated against your arm. At first he kept the teasing intact, “Manager-chan, you look especially unimpressed with me today. Did I do something to deserve that beautiful scowl?” but the jokes landed softer now, laced with genuine curiosity rather than performance.

You responded the same way you always had: calm, honest, unimpressed by the charm. “Your left knee is still favoring that old twist from last month. Stretch it properly or I’ll tape it myself and make it ugly.”

He laughed every time, but his eyes stayed on you longer, drinking in the way you didn’t flutter or fawn. It was as if your refusal to treat him like the star everyone else saw made him want to prove he was worth more than the surface.

Afternoons brought longer conversations. After Coach called time, while the rest of the team headed for the lockers in noisy clumps, Oikawa would linger. He’d help you gather cones and balls which was something he’d never done before. Not because he didn’t want to, but because this was your job and not theirs. Their job was to perform well during games and focus solely on that. His tall frame moving with lazy grace beside yours. The gym would empty until it was just the two of you under the humming lights, the distant sound of footsteps fading down the hallway.

One Thursday, after a particularly clean practice where every set landed exactly where it needed to, he sat on the bench next to you while you updated the attendance log. His shoulder brushed yours as he leaned in to peer at your clipboard.

“You’re really meticulous about this stuff,” He murmured, voice quieter than his usual broadcast tone. “Dates, percentages, who needs extra conditioning… It’s like you’re keeping the whole team together with just a pen and paper.”

You capped your pen, glancing sideways at him. His hair was still damp from sweat, curling slightly at the nape of his neck. Up close like this, you could see the faint freckles across the bridge of his nose that the bright gym lights usually washed out. “Someone has to remember the details. You’re all too busy being dramatic geniuses.”

Oikawa’s lips curved into a small, private smile. Not the flashy one for the crowd, but the softer version that made your stomach do a slow flip. “Dramatic genius. I like that. Has a nice ring to it.” He paused, then added, almost shyly, “You notice everything, don’t you? Not just the mistakes.”

You shrugged, but your cheeks warmed despite yourself. “It’s my job to notice.”

“No,” He said, turning his body toward you so his knee pressed lightly against yours. The contact was innocent, yet it sent a spark through you. “It’s more than that. You notice when I’m pushing too hard. When Iwa-chan’s shoulder is acting up. When Kindaichi needs a confidence boost. You see the team… but you see me too. The parts I don’t show on the court.”

The air between you thickened. The gym felt smaller, the space between your bodies charged with something new. Something that had been building since that night he’d snapped and you’d stayed anyway. You met his gaze steadily, refusing to look away even as your pulse quickened.

“Maybe I do," You admitted softly. “But only because you let me.”

Oikawa’s eyes darkened, honey-brown deepening to something warmer, more intense. For a moment he didn’t speak. He just looked at you, really looked, like he was memorizing the curve of your lashes or the way your lips pressed together when you were thinking. Then he leaned back, breaking the spell with a light laugh that didn’t quite hide the flush creeping up his neck.

“You’re going to ruin me, Manager-chan. How am I supposed to focus on volleyball when my manager keeps being this… steady?”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your mouth betrayed you. “Focus on your serves instead of flirting. Nationals aren’t going to win themselves.”

He stood up then, offering you a hand like he had that night. When you took it, he didn’t let go immediately. His fingers curled around yours, thumb tracing a slow, absent circle against your skin. The touch lingered, warm and deliberate, sending little shivers up your arm. “You’re still here,” He whispered, echoing the words from before, but this time they carried a different weight–gratitude mixed with something deeper, almost wondering.

“I’m not going anywhere,” You replied, voice barely above a murmur.

His grip tightened for half a second before he released you, stepping back with that familiar playful grin. But his eyes told a different story. They were softer now, unguarded in a way that made your heart ache with the realization that this wasn’t just teasing anymore. Not for him.

The pattern continued over the next several days. He started walking you to the school gates after locking up, the two of you falling into easy conversation about everything and nothing. Stupid team anecdotes, the latest drama in the fan club, even quiet complaints about upcoming exams. One evening, as rain began to patter softly against the covered walkway, he held his jacket over both your heads like an umbrella, his arm brushing your shoulder with every step. The proximity made the air feel electric. You could smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with rain and the clean sweat from practice. When you reached the gate, he didn’t pull away right away. Instead, he looked down at you, droplets clinging to his lashes, and said, “Thanks for today. For every day.”

You nodded, throat tight. “Anytime, Oikawa.”

He smiled. Slow, genuine, the kind that made the world tilt just a little. “Tooru.”

Your eyebrows rose. “What?”

“Call me Tooru. When it’s just us.” His voice dropped, intimate in the quiet rain. “I like how it sounds coming from you.”

Your heart hammered. The nickname felt like a door opening, a step deeper into whatever this was becoming. “Alright… Tooru.”

The way his name rolled off your tongue made his eyes flutter half-closed for a moment, as if savoring it. He stepped closer under the jacket, the space between you shrinking until you could feel the warmth of his breath. For a heartbeat, you thought he might lean in further. The tension coiled tight–romantic, charged, full of all the things neither of you had said yet.

Then he pulled back, laughing softly to cover the moment. “Goodnight, Manager-chan. Dream of perfect sets… or me. Whichever keeps you warmer.”

You watched him jog off into the rain, heart racing, the ghost of his touch still lingering on your shoulder.

By the following week, the reliance had deepened. He’d text you late at night sometimes. Simple things like “Did I leave my knee pads in the gym?” or “Tell me honestly, was today’s practice as bad as it felt?” You always answered. And every time, the conversations stretched longer, moving from team matters to personal ones. He told you about the pressure from alumni, the fear of being compared to former captains, the quiet terror that one bad tournament could erase everything he’d built. You listened, offering no grand solutions, just your steady presence through the screen or in person the next day.

One Friday evening, after everyone else had left, you found him waiting for you by the equipment room. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking unusually contemplative.

“You’re still here,” He said again as you approached, but this time it was accompanied by a small, almost shy smile.

You stopped in front of him, close enough to see the faint shadows under his eyes from late practices. “Always.”

He pushed off the wall and stepped into your space, not quite touching but near enough that the air hummed. His hand rose slowly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear with a gentleness that made your breath catch. The touch was feather-light, but it burned. “I don’t know what I did to deserve someone who stays,” He murmured, voice low and rough with emotion. “But I’m starting to think I don’t want to figure it out without you.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. The romance that had been simmering beneath the surface. The quiet touches, the lingering gazes, the way his voice softened when he said your name–felt ready to spill over. You looked up at him, heart open in a way you hadn’t planned.

“Tooru…” You whispered.

He leaned in just a fraction, forehead almost resting against yours, the moment heavy with possibility. The gym was silent except for the sound of your breathing and the faint drip of a leaky faucet somewhere in the distance. Everything else–the team, the pressure, the upcoming matches–faded away until there was only him and you and the slow, inevitable pull between you.

But he didn’t close the distance. Not yet.

Instead, he pulled back with visible effort, eyes dark with restrained longing. “Not tonight,” he said softly, almost to himself. “I want to do this right. When I’m not half-broken from practice.”

You nodded, swallowing hard, the anticipation leaving you breathless. “Whenever you’re ready.”

He smiled then–slow, beautiful, and full of promise. “Soon.”

As you locked up together and walked into the cooling evening air, his hand brushed yours once, fingers intertwining for just a few steps before letting go. The contact was brief, but it spoke volumes. The shift had happened. What started as duty had become something deeper, something romantic and tender and terrifying in its intensity.

Oikawa Tooru was no longer just the captain you managed.

He was becoming the person you couldn’t imagine the days without.

The week leading up to the practice match against Date Tech had been brutal. Coach had doubled the intensity–extra serving drills, endurance circuits, and endless repetitions of the new quick-attack combinations. The team was running on fumes, but Oikawa pushed hardest of all. You watched it happen in real time: the way his usual bright laughter grew forced by Wednesday, the way his perfect sets started carrying a razor-sharp edge, the way his eyes lingered on the court even after practice ended, as if he could bring perfection into existence through sheer force of will.

You noticed everything. The subtle wince when he landed from a jump serve. The way he rotated his right shoulder a little too often. The quiet moments when he thought no one was looking–staring at the net like it had personally betrayed him.

By Friday, the rest of the team had cleared out by 7:30 PM, grumbling about sore muscles and the promise of weekend recovery. Iwaizumi had clapped Oikawa on the back a little harder than usual, muttering, “Go home and sleep, Shittykawa. Don’t make me drag you out tomorrow.” Oikawa had waved him off with his trademark grin, but you saw the exhaustion etched beneath it.

You stayed, of course. Equipment logs didn’t update themselves, and someone had to make sure the gym was properly secured. Or at least, that was the excuse you told yourself as you moved through the familiar routine: wiping down benches, coiling nets, stacking balls with methodical care.

The gym felt different when it was empty like this. The high ceilings swallowed sound, turning every footstep into a soft echo. The overhead lights had dimmed to their night setting–only half the fixtures on, casting long, golden pools across the polished wooden floor. The air smelled of lingering sweat, rubber, and the faint citrus cleaner the janitors used. It was peaceful. Almost intimate.

You didn’t hear Oikawa enter at first. You were kneeling by the ball cart, counting inventory, when his voice cut through the quiet like a gentle serve.

“You’re still here.”

There it was again–that phrase. But tonight it sounded different. Softer. Weighted with something that made your pulse skip.

You looked up. Oikawa stood near the baseline, still in his practice gear: Seijoh jersey clinging slightly to his chest from dried sweat, shorts riding low on his hips, knee pads pushed down to his ankles. His brown hair was tousled, damp strands falling across his forehead. The usual sparkle in his honey-brown eyes was muted, replaced by a quiet vulnerability that made your chest tighten.

“Yeah,” you replied, standing slowly and brushing your hands on your shorts. “Figured I’d finish up. You should head home, Tooru. You look like you could sleep for a week.”

He didn’t laugh at the nickname the way he used to. Instead, he walked over, each step deliberate, sneakers squeaking faintly. He stopped just a few feet away, close enough that you could see the faint shadows under his eyes and the way his shoulders carried the invisible weight of every expectation placed on the “Great King.”

“I tried,” he admitted, voice low. “Went home. Ate. Stared at the ceiling. Couldn’t stop thinking about that last set today. It was off by half a second. Half a second, and Date Tech’s blockers will eat us alive.”

You set the clipboard down on the bench and turned to face him fully. The space between you felt charged, the empty gym amplifying every small sound–your breathing, his, the distant hum of the building’s ventilation.

“It wasn’t that bad,” you said gently. “Your form was still cleaner than most setters I’ve seen. The team followed your lead perfectly.”

Oikawa shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. He leaned against the bench beside you, arms crossed, but his body angled toward yours. “You always say things like that. Honest, but kind. Everyone else either hypes me up or tells me to chill. You just… see it. The cracks.” He paused, eyes drifting to the court. “I hate geniuses, you know? Guys like Ushijima or that stupid Tobio-chan. They make it look effortless. Me? I have to claw for every inch. Every perfect set. Every win. And if I slip even once…”

He trailed off, jaw tightening. The confession hung in the air, raw and unpolished. This was the real Oikawa–the one who hid behind flirtation and theatrical charm, the one terrified that his hard work would never be enough if it wasn’t flawless.

You didn’t rush to fill the silence. Instead, you stepped a little closer, mirroring his posture against the bench. Your shoulder brushed his lightly. The contact was small, but it sent warmth spreading through you.

“You’re not slipping,” you murmured. “You’re carrying the whole team on your back and still making it look beautiful. That’s not nothing, Tooru. That’s everything.”

He turned his head toward you slowly. The dim lights caught in his eyes, turning them into warm amber. For a long moment, he just looked at you–really looked, the way he had that first vulnerable night, but deeper now. There was no teasing grin to hide behind. No audience to perform for. Just him, and you, and the quiet intimacy of the empty gym.

“You make it sound so simple,” he whispered. His voice had dropped, rough around the edges with exhaustion and something softer. Something that made your heart stutter. “Like I’m not a mess underneath all the smiles.”

“You are a mess,” you said, a small smile curving your lips. “But you’re my mess. The team’s mess. And I like the mess. It means you care.”

Oikawa let out a soft laugh–genuine, tired, but warm. He shifted closer, until your arms were nearly pressed together. The scent of him surrounded you: faint citrus shampoo, clean sweat, and the subtle warmth of his skin. “Dangerous words, Manager-chan. Keep talking like that and I might start believing I deserve someone who stays through all of it.”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze without flinching. The air between you thickened, heavy with unspoken feelings. The slow burn that had been building for weeks–through teasing, through late-night talks, through lingering touches–felt ready to ignite. “You do deserve it. You just have to let yourself believe it.”

He swallowed visibly, Adam’s apple bobbing. His hand moved almost on its own, rising to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. His fingers lingered at your temple, tracing down to tuck the strand behind your ear with exquisite gentleness. The touch was feather-light, yet it burned, sending sparks racing across your skin.

“You’re too good to me,” he breathed, voice barely above a whisper. His eyes dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second before flicking back up. “Everyone sees the captain. The pretty setter who never misses. You see the guy who stays late because he’s scared one bad day will prove he’s not enough. And you still stay.”

The silence that followed was thick, electric. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears. The gym felt smaller, the world narrowed to the space between your bodies. Oikawa leaned in just a little, forehead nearly resting against yours. His breath mingled with yours–warm, slightly ragged. The tension coiled tight: romantic, aching, full of all the things you both had been circling for weeks.

Your hand found its way to his arm, resting lightly just above his elbow. His skin was warm under your palm, muscles taut from hours of practice but relaxing slightly at your touch.

“Tooru…” you whispered, his name like a secret in the quiet.

He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring it. When he opened them again, they were darker, filled with a longing that made your knees feel weak. “I keep waiting for the day you finally get tired of this. Of me. But you never do.” His free hand came up, hovering near your waist before gently settling there–barely a touch, giving you every chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

Instead, you leaned into it, the warmth of his palm seeping through your shirt. The moment stretched, romantic and tender, the kind of slow-burn intimacy that made every previous glance and brush of fingers feel like foreplay. His thumb traced a slow circle against your side, sending shivers up your spine.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said softly, echoing your earlier promise. “Not when you need someone who sees all of you.”

Oikawa’s breath hitched. He tilted his head, nose brushing yours in the barest whisper of contact. So close. The air crackled with possibility–his lips inches from yours, the heat of his body enveloping you, the quiet gym wrapping around you both like a cocoon.

But he didn’t kiss you. Not yet.

Instead, he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead fully against yours, eyes closed, breathing you in. “God, you’re going to be the death of me,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion. “In the best way.”

You stayed like that for what felt like forever–foreheads pressed, hands lightly touching, hearts beating in sync. The romance wasn’t rushed or dramatic. It was quiet. Deep. Built on the foundation of all the times you’d stayed when he was at his worst.

Eventually, he straightened, but he didn’t step away. His hand slid from your waist to intertwine with yours, fingers lacing together naturally. “Come on,” he said, voice still low and intimate. “Let’s lock up. I’ll walk you home tonight. No arguments.”

You nodded, a soft smile on your lips, cheeks warm. As you gathered the last of the equipment together, his presence beside you felt different now–steadier, warmer, charged with the promise of more.

Outside, the night air was cool against your flushed skin. Oikawa kept your hand in his for the first few blocks, only letting go when you reached a busier street. But his shoulder brushed yours with every step, and his gaze kept finding yours under the streetlights.

At your door, he paused, turning to face you fully. The moonlight softened his features, making him look almost ethereal.

“Thank you,” he said simply. “For tonight. For everything.”

You reached up, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone once. “Anytime, Tooru.”

He caught your hand, pressing a lingering kiss to your palm–soft, reverent, full of all the romance he hadn’t yet voiced. His lips were warm, sending heat flooding through you.

“Sweet dreams,” he whispered against your skin. Then, with visible reluctance, he stepped back. “See you tomorrow. Brighter and better than today.”

You watched him walk away until he disappeared around the corner, heart full and fluttering.

The shift had deepened. What began as duty had become something profoundly romantic–an emotional intimacy that wrapped around your heart and refused to let go.

And you knew, deep down, that the breaking point was coming. But for now, in the quiet afterglow of the late-night gym, it felt like the beginning of something beautiful.

The Saturday morning practice before the Date Tech match felt heavier than usual. The gym buzzed with a different kind of energy–nerves mixed with determination. The team moved with sharper focus, voices echoing louder as they called plays and encouraged each other. Oikawa was in full captain mode: barking orders with that bright, commanding tone, his smile flashing whenever a set landed perfectly. But you could see the toll the week had taken on him.

His movements were still precise, but there was a slight stiffness in his right shoulder. The one he’d been favoring since that extra serving session two nights ago. You’d noted it in your log the night before, a small star beside his name with the words monitor shoulder.

During the third rotation of blocking drills, it happened.

Oikawa went up for a block against Kindaichi’s spike. The timing was perfect–his hands formed the wall exactly as planned–but when he landed, his right foot twisted awkwardly on the edge of the mat. A sharp hiss escaped his lips as he stumbled, catching himself on the net post. The ball rolled harmlessly away.

“Shit–” he muttered, low enough that only those nearby heard.

Iwaizumi was at his side in an instant. “Oi, you good?”

Oikawa waved him off with a forced laugh, rolling his shoulders experimentally. “Just a little tweak. Nothing serious. Let’s keep going.”

But Coach noticed. “Oikawa, bench. Manager, check him.”

You were already moving, medical kit in hand before the words fully left Coach’s mouth. The team continued practice at a slightly slower pace, but all eyes flicked toward the sidelines where you guided Oikawa to the bench.

“Sit,” you said firmly, tone leaving no room for argument.

He obeyed, dropping onto the wooden bench with a dramatic sigh that didn’t quite hide the wince when his shoulder shifted. “Manager-chan is so strict today. I’m fine, really. Just need a minute.”

You ignored the teasing and knelt in front of him, opening the kit with practiced efficiency. Up close, you could see the faint sheen of sweat on his collarbones, the way his jersey clung to his chest from exertion. His brown hair was messy, strands sticking to his forehead. Those honey-brown eyes watched you intently as you gently took his right arm.

“Arm up,” you instructed.

Oikawa complied, but his gaze never left your face. Not even when you carefully rotated his shoulder to assess the range of motion. His skin was warm under your fingers–hot from practice, slightly damp. You probed gently around the joint, feeling for swelling or tightness. Every touch was professional, but the proximity made the air feel thicker.

“It’s a minor strain,” you murmured, voice low so the team wouldn’t overhear. “Not torn, but you pushed it too hard again. Ice, tape, and rest for the rest of today’s drills.”

He let out a soft breath, almost a chuckle. “You always know. Even when I try to hide it.”

Your hands worked steadily–applying the cold pack first, then wrapping the athletic tape with careful, even pressure. You started at his wrist, working upward in smooth spirals, your fingers brushing the sensitive skin of his inner arm. Each pass of the tape brought your hands closer to his shoulder, closer to the firm muscle there.

Oikawa’s breathing had changed. It was shallower now, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that didn’t match the casual way he lounged on the bench. His eyes were fixed on you–dark, unwavering. Not on your hands, not on the tape, but on your face. On the way your brows furrowed in concentration, on the slight parting of your lips as you counted the wraps, on the focused intensity in your expression.

“You’re really good at this,” he said quietly, voice rougher than usual. “Your hands… they’re steady. Gentle.”

You didn’t look up immediately, but you felt heat creep up your neck. “It’s part of the job. Hold still.”

But he didn’t. Not really. His free hand rested on the bench beside him, fingers twitching once when your thumb pressed lightly against a knot near his deltoid. The contact sent a spark through both of you–you could feel it in the way his thigh tensed under your knee where you’d braced yourself for balance.

The gym noise faded into background static. The thwack of balls, the shouts of plays, the squeak of sneakers–all of it dulled compared to the quiet intimacy of this moment. Just you, kneeling between his legs, hands on his arm, his gaze burning into you like he was seeing you for the first time all over again.

When you finished the last wrap and secured the tape, you sat back on your heels to inspect your work. Your hands lingered a second longer than necessary, palms resting lightly on his bicep. The muscle was solid under your touch, warm and alive. You could feel his pulse thrumming steadily beneath the skin.

“There,” you said softly. “That should hold for now. But no more heroics today, Tooru. I mean it.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his left hand came up slowly, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair away from your cheek. The touch was tender, almost reverent–the same gentleness he’d shown in the late-night gym, but amplified by the daylight and the way your hands were still on him. His thumb traced the line of your jaw once, light as a feather, before dropping away.

“You’re always taking care of me,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded, voice dropping into that intimate register that made your stomach flutter. “Even when I’m being an idiot. Even when I don’t deserve it.”

You met his gaze then. The honey-brown had darkened to something richer, warmer, filled with an emotion that went far beyond gratitude. The tension crackled between you–physical now, layered on top of all the emotional intimacy you’d built. His legs bracketed you where you knelt, creating a small, private world amid the chaos of practice.

“You do deserve it,” you whispered back, hands still resting on his arm. Your fingers flexed once, unconsciously tracing the edge of the tape you’d just applied. “You push so hard for everyone else. Someone has to push back a little. Someone has to remind you to breathe.”

Oikawa’s throat worked as he swallowed. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, bringing his face closer to yours. The scent of him–sweat, the faint citrus of his shampoo, the clean warmth of his skin–wrapped around you. His breath ghosted across your cheek.

“I think about that night in the gym a lot,” he confessed, so quietly only you could hear. “About how close we were. How you didn’t pull away. How your voice saying my name makes everything feel… quieter. Better.” His eyes dropped briefly to your lips before returning to yours. “You have no idea what you do to me when you touch me like this. When you look at me like I’m not just the captain.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs. The romance that had been simmering for weeks now felt dangerously close to boiling over. Your hands on his arm, his face so near, the way his voice wrapped around you like a caress–it was intoxicating. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the subtle shift of his muscles under your palms as he fought to keep control.

“Tooru…” you breathed, the name slipping out like a secret.

He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, as if savoring the sound. When he opened them, the longing was unmistakable. “Keep saying it like that and I won’t be able to stop myself from kissing you right here in front of everyone.”

The words sent a rush of heat through you–sweet, aching, full of promise. But practice was still going on behind you. Voices called out. Balls smacked against the floor. You both knew this wasn’t the place, not yet.

Instead, you gave his arm one final gentle squeeze before pulling your hands away. The loss of contact felt immediate and disappointing. Oikawa’s eyes tracked the movement, a small, frustrated smile tugging at his lips.

“Later,” he said softly, almost a vow. “When it’s just us again. When I can show you how much this means.”

You nodded, standing up slowly, knees a little shaky. “Later. But for now, ice on that shoulder and no spiking until tomorrow.”

He caught your wrist before you could fully step back, thumb stroking once over your pulse point. The touch was brief but electric. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For seeing me. For staying. For these hands that always know exactly what I need.”

You pulled away gently, but the smile you gave him was soft and full of the same unspoken feelings. As you returned to the sidelines to update your notes, you could feel his gaze following you the entire way–warm, intense, and heavy with the romance that was no longer just budding.

It was blooming.

And the next time you were alone, you both knew the tension wouldn’t stay contained.

Practice continued, but the air between you and Oikawa had changed once more. Every glance across the court carried new weight. Every time he called for water, his fingers brushed yours with deliberate slowness. The slow burn had gained fuel, and the fire was getting harder to ignore.

By the time practice ended, Oikawa’s shoulder was taped and iced, but the real ache was somewhere deeper–somewhere in the space that had opened between captain and manager, player and the one person who truly saw him.

And you both felt it pulling you closer.

The practice match against Date Tech arrived on a humid Saturday afternoon, the kind where the air in the gym felt thick enough to chew. Bleachers were half-filled with curious students and a scattering of alumni, their cheers bouncing off the walls in waves. You stood on the sidelines as always, clipboard tight in your grip, water bottles lined up like soldiers, medical kit ready at your feet. The tension in the air was palpable–Date Tech’s iron wall of blockers had a reputation for grinding down even the best offenses, and everyone knew Oikawa had been dissecting their patterns for weeks.

He looked every inch the captain: Seijoh jersey sharp, hair styled just enough to look effortlessly perfect, that signature confident grin flashing as he rallied the team during warm-ups. But you saw the cracks. The way his taped shoulder rolled a fraction too carefully. The subtle tightness around his eyes when he glanced at the opposing side’s tall middle blockers. The way his laughs came a beat too late.

The first set started strong. Oikawa’s sets were poetry–precise, deceptive, rising exactly where his spikers needed them. Iwaizumi’s spikes slammed through gaps, and the team fed off his energy. Seijoh took an early lead, the crowd roaring. From the bench, you watched Oikawa’s form: back arched beautifully, wrists snapping with that trademark flair. For a moment, he looked untouchable.

But Date Tech adjusted. Their blocks grew tighter, reading his tempo like a book. A few sets sailed just a hair too high. One spiker mistimed and the ball clipped the net. The score evened, then tipped.

Oikawa’s smile never faltered in front of the team, but you caught the micro-expressions: jaw clenching after a blocked serve, fingers flexing repeatedly as if trying to shake off invisible doubt. By the end of the second set–lost 25-22–his shoulders had that rigid set you’d come to recognize. The one that meant the pressure was piling on, layer by heavy layer.

Third set. The gym grew louder, the humidity making sweat sting eyes and slick floors. Oikawa pushed harder. His jump serves were vicious, but one went long. Another receive from the libero forced a desperate adjustment, and his set to Matsukawa floated awkwardly, easily stuffed. The points slipped away.

“Focus!” Oikawa called, voice still bright on the surface, but you heard the strain underneath. “We’ve got this–next point is ours!”

They didn’t. Date Tech’s wall swallowed another attack. The final whistle blew. Seijoh lost the set 25-18. The practice match ended in a 2-1 defeat for Aoba Johsai.

The gym erupted in polite applause from the visitors, mixed with disappointed murmurs from the home side. The teams lined up for bows, handshakes exchanged with forced sportsmanship. Oikawa kept his head high, smiling that polished smile, clapping his teammates on the back with words of encouragement. “Good fight. We’ll get them next time. Analyze the footage tonight–learn from it.”

But as the Date Tech team filed out and Coach gave a short debrief, the mask began to fracture.

You stayed behind as usual, gathering equipment while the boys slowly dispersed toward the lockers. Iwaizumi shot Oikawa a long look, muttering something about “not beating yourself up,” but even he eventually left with the others, sensing the storm brewing.

The gym emptied fast. Echoes faded. Only the low hum of lights and the distant drip of a water fountain remained.

Oikawa didn’t head for the showers. Instead, he walked to the far end of the court, back turned, and slammed a ball down with brutal force. It bounced wildly across the floor. Another followed. Then another. Each thwack sharper than the last.

You paused by the bench, heart sinking. You knew this version of him–the one that emerged when the perfection he chased slipped through his fingers. The one haunted by the ghosts of “geniuses” like Ushijima or that shadow from his past, Kageyama. The one who believed every loss proved he wasn’t enough, no matter how hard he clawed.

“Tooru,” you called softly, setting your clipboard down.

He didn’t turn at first. His shoulders heaved, fists clenched at his sides. When he finally spun around, his eyes were wild–honey-brown darkened with frustration, self-doubt, and raw exhaustion. Sweat still glistened on his skin, hair disheveled now from running anxious fingers through it.

“Why?” His voice cracked, louder than intended in the empty space. “Why can’t I just… make it perfect? One match. One stupid practice match, and I let them read me like an open book. My sets were sloppy. My timing–off. If I’d been better, sharper, we would’ve swept them. But no. I dragged everyone down again.”

He paced, sneakers squeaking angrily. “I train longer than anyone. I watch more footage. I push until my shoulder screams. And for what? So some iron wall can make me look average?” A bitter laugh escaped him, hollow and painful. “Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m just flashy. All charm, no substance. The pretty captain who peaks in high school while the real talents move on.”

The words poured out, each one laced with the insecurities he buried so deep under smiles and teasing. He wasn’t snapping at you–he was unraveling around you, the pressure finally cracking the armor wide open. His voice rose, echoing off the rafters, hands gesturing sharply as if arguing with invisible critics.

You didn’t interrupt. You moved closer slowly, staying in his periphery so he knew you were there, but not crowding. Your presence had become his anchor in these moments–the one constant that didn’t demand perfection or offer empty praise.

When he finally ran out of steam, chest heaving, he sank onto the bench, elbows on knees, head in his hands. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by his ragged breathing.

You sat beside him, close enough that your thigh pressed against his. Quietly, you reached out and rested a hand on his back, rubbing slow, soothing circles between his shoulder blades. The tape you’d applied days ago was still there, a silent reminder of all the times you’d patched him up–body and otherwise.

He stiffened at first, then leaned into the touch with a shaky exhale.

“You’re still here,” he whispered, voice hoarse and disbelieving, repeating the phrase that had become a lifeline between you. But this time it sounded broken. “After that mess… you’re still here. Why? Everyone else leaves when I get like this. They tell me to shake it off or go home. But you…”

His head lifted. His eyes met yours–red-rimmed, vulnerable, stripped of every layer of charm. In that moment, he wasn’t the Great King or the flirtatious captain. He was just Tooru: ambitious, terrified of not being enough, and desperately in love with a sport that kept demanding more than he sometimes had to give.

You kept your voice gentle but steady, the same way you always did. “Because losing one practice match doesn’t erase everything you are. You carried the team through two strong sets. You adjusted mid-game even when it hurt. You care so much it scares you, and that’s not a weakness, Tooru. That’s why they follow you. That’s why I stay.”

He searched your face, looking for the lie, the pity, the moment you’d finally walk away like the others. He didn’t find it.

Instead, when you started to stand–intending to give him space to breathe–he moved faster than you expected.

His hand shot out, fingers wrapping firmly around your wrist. Not hard enough to hurt, but tight enough to stop you. The grip was warm, slightly trembling, grounding.

“Don’t go.”

The words came out raw, almost pleading. His thumb pressed against your pulse point, feeling the steady beat there as if it could calm the storm inside him. He stood with you, pulling you gently but insistently closer until barely any space remained between your bodies. The gym lights cast soft shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead, the raw emotion swimming in his eyes.

“Please,” he added, softer now, forehead dropping to rest against yours the way it had in the late-night gym. His free hand came up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek with heartbreaking tenderness. “Don’t leave me alone with this. Not tonight. I… I can’t do the ‘perfect captain’ act right now. Not with you. You’re the only one who sees all of it–the ugly parts, the fear–and you still look at me like I’m worth staying for.”

Your heart clenched, then swelled. The breaking point had stripped him bare, and in that vulnerability, the romance you’d been circling for weeks finally surged forward. His breath mingled with yours, warm and unsteady. The hand on your wrist slid down to intertwine your fingers, squeezing once as if afraid you’d vanish.

You didn’t pull away. You leaned in, free hand rising to rest over his heart, feeling its frantic rhythm beneath your palm.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered against his lips, so close now the words felt like a promise. “Not when you’re like this. Not ever. You’re enough, Tooru. More than enough. And I see all of you–the genius who works harder than anyone, the one who smiles through the pain, the one who lets me in when no one else does.”

A shudder ran through him. His eyes fluttered closed, lashes brushing your skin. The tension that had built through every late conversation, every lingering touch, every quiet “you’re still here” finally crested. He tilted his head, nose brushing yours, lips hovering in that agonizing, beautiful almost-kiss space.

“You’re going to ruin me,” he breathed, voice thick with emotion and something deeper–longing, affection, the first edges of love. “In the best possible way. Because you stay. God, you always stay.”

The moment hung suspended, romantic and intense, the empty gym wrapping around you like a private world. His grip on your hand tightened, bodies pressed close enough to share warmth and heartbeat. The air crackled with everything unsaid: the slow burn finally reaching its peak, vulnerability turning into attachment so strong it felt inevitable.

He didn’t kiss you yet, not in the raw aftermath of his breakdown. Instead, he pulled you into a tight embrace, arms wrapping around your waist as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. You held him back just as fiercely, one hand stroking through his damp hair, the other rubbing his back.

Minutes passed like that–silent, intimate, healing. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were clearer, softer, filled with a quiet wonder directed only at you.

“Thank you,” he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. Then another to your temple. His lips were warm, reverent. “For not leaving. For seeing the worst and choosing to stay anyway. That… that means more than any win ever could.”

You smiled up at him, heart full and aching in the most wonderful way. “Anytime, Tooru. Always.”

He didn’t let go of your hand as you slowly gathered the last of the equipment together. The walk out of the gym that night was quiet, his shoulder brushing yours with every step, the night air cool against flushed skin. At the gates, he stopped under the streetlight, turning to face you fully.

The romance wasn’t resolved in grand declarations–not yet. But in the way he cupped your face again, in the soft “Stay with me a little longer?” he whispered, it was clear: the breaking point had pushed you both over the edge.

What came next would be messy, real, and profoundly yours.

The walk back to the school gates after the practice match felt heavier than usual, even though the night air was cool and carried the faint scent of rain on the horizon. Oikawa hadn’t let go of your hand since the moment he’d grabbed your wrist with that desperate “Don’t go.” His fingers stayed laced with yours the entire way through the empty hallways, only loosening when you both had to carry equipment bags, but even then his shoulder kept brushing yours like he needed the constant reminder that you were still there.

Neither of you spoke much. The loss still lingered in the air between you–raw, unresolved–but something else had shifted in the gym. The breaking point had stripped away the last careful distance you’d both been maintaining. Every glance he stole at you under the flickering hallway lights carried weight. Every time your fingers tightened around his, his breath hitched just slightly.

When you reached the equipment room to lock up for the final time that night, the school grounds were almost completely dark. Only a few security lights glowed softly, casting long shadows across the courtyard. You fumbled with the keys, hyper-aware of Oikawa standing close behind you, his presence warm and solid at your back.

The door clicked shut.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then Oikawa spoke, voice low and rough in the quiet. “Come with me. Just… for a bit. I don’t want to go home yet.”

You turned to face him. His usual polished charm was nowhere to be found. His hair was still messy from practice and from running his hands through it in frustration earlier. Sweat had dried on his skin, leaving faint salt lines along his collarbone where his jersey collar dipped. Those honey-brown eyes looked tired, but they burned with something deeper–something that had been building for weeks and had finally cracked open in the empty gym.

You nodded. “Okay.”

He led you not toward the main gate, but around the side of the gym to the small outdoor seating area tucked behind the building–a quiet spot with a weathered wooden bench under an old cherry tree that bloomed beautifully in spring but now stood bare and skeletal in the late season. The two of you sat side by side, close enough that your thighs pressed together. The night was still, broken only by the occasional distant car and the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze.

Oikawa stared at the ground for a long time, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped tightly between them. You waited, the same way you always had–patient, steady, not pushing but not leaving either.

Finally, he broke the silence.

“You’re the only one who sees this,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. The words came out raw, unsteady, nothing like the smooth lines he usually delivered with a wink and a grin. “The version that falls apart after a loss. The one who lies awake wondering if all the extra practice, all the videos, all the nights I stay late… if any of it actually matters. Or if I’m just fooling everyone into thinking I’m something special.”

He laughed once, it was short, bitter, self-deprecating. “Even Iwa-chan only sees half of it. He yells at me because he cares, but he doesn’t… he doesn’t stay in the silence with me afterward. Not like you do.” Oikawa turned his head to look at you then, eyes searching your face with an intensity that made your chest ache. “You see the worst parts. The insecurity. The fear that one day everyone will realize I’m not the genius they think I am. That I’m just… me. Flawed. Desperate. And you still stay.”

Your heart twisted at the vulnerability in his voice. This wasn’t the flirtatious captain anymore. This was Tooru–stripped bare, messy, and terrified of what admitting any of this might cost him.

You reached over and gently pried one of his hands free, threading your fingers through his. His grip was immediate and tight, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

“I stay because I want to,” you said softly, thumb stroking the back of his hand in slow circles. “Not because I have to. Not because it’s my job. I stay because the real you–the one who works harder than anyone, who cares so much it hurts, who smiles even when he’s breaking, is worth staying for. All of it. The charm, the meltdowns, the late-night sets, the way you look at me like I’m the only steady thing in your world… I see it. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Oikawa’s breath shuddered out of him. He turned fully toward you on the bench, one knee drawn up so he could face you properly. The moonlight filtered through the bare branches above, catching in his eyes and making them gleam with unshed emotion.

“And you’re still here,” he whispered, repeating the phrase that had become sacred between you. His free hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly across your skin. The touch was gentle but trembling slightly, full of all the feelings he’d been holding back. “Even after tonight. After I lost it in there. After I showed you how ugly it gets. You’re still here, looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” you asked, voice barely audible.

“Like I’m enough.” His voice cracked on the last word. He leaned in closer, forehead resting against yours the way it had so many times before, but this time there was no hesitation, no pulling back at the last second. “You have no idea how much that scares me. Because I think… I think I’m falling in love with you. Messy. Stupidly. Completely. And I don’t know how to do this right. I don’t have a perfect script or a charming line that makes it all clean. I just know that when you touch me–when you patch me up, when you listen, when you say my name like it matters–everything else gets quieter. The pressure. The fear. It all fades when you’re around.”

The confession spilled out in a rush, unpolished and real. No grand romantic speech under stars. No perfectly timed kiss in the rain. Just Oikawa Tooru, captain of Aoba Johsai, sitting on a worn bench behind the gym, voice thick with emotion, admitting that the one person who saw through every layer had become the center of his world.

Your own heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could feel it. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes–not from sadness, but from the overwhelming tenderness of the moment.

“It’s not messy in a bad way,” you whispered back, your hand sliding up to rest against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palm. “It’s real. And I… I feel it too, Tooru. The way you seek me out after practice. The way your voice softens when it’s just us. The way you look at me like I’m the only one who truly understands. I’ve been falling for you for weeks. Slowly. Every time you let me see the parts you hide from everyone else.”

He let out a shaky laugh, relief and disbelief mixing in the sound. “God, we’re both idiots, aren’t we? Dancing around it for so long. Me with my stupid teasing because I didn’t know how else to get close to you. You with your steady calm that drove me crazy because you never reacted the way I expected.”

You smiled, the expression soft and full of affection. “You drove me crazy too. In the best way.”

Oikawa’s hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading gently into your hair. He pulled back just enough to look at you properly–eyes dark, lips parted, the tension between you finally snapping after weeks of slow burn. The air felt electric, charged with everything you’d both been holding back.

“I want this,” he said, voice low and earnest. “You and me. Not just late-night talks or patching me up or quiet walks home. I want all of it. The good days when I’m insufferable and charming. The bad days when I’m like tonight. I want you to keep calling me out when I push too hard. I want you to keep staying when I fall apart. And I… I want to be the one who makes you smile when practice is over. Who walks you home. Who kisses you goodnight when no one else is watching.”

The words hung between you, messy and honest and beautiful in their imperfection.

“Then stay,” you whispered, echoing the word that had become his quiet plea to you so many times. “Stay with me. Like this.”

Oikawa’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, as if savoring the permission. When he opened them again, the look in them was pure, unguarded longing.

He closed the distance slowly, giving you every chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

His lips met yours in a kiss that was everything the slow burn had promised–soft at first, almost hesitant, like he was afraid it might break the fragile thing you’d built. Then deeper, warmer, filled with weeks of restrained touches and lingering gazes and quiet confessions in empty gyms. His hand tightened gently in your hair while the other slid to your waist, pulling you closer on the bench until you were nearly in his lap.

You kissed him back with equal tenderness, pouring into it all the times you’d stayed, all the times you’d seen through the charm to the real boy underneath, all the quiet moments where your heart had quietly chosen him.

When you finally parted, both of you breathing unsteadily, foreheads still pressed together, Oikawa let out a soft, wonder-filled laugh.

“Wow,” he murmured against your lips, voice husky. “That was… not how I imagined my first kiss with you going. I thought it would be more dramatic. Maybe after a big win. With fireworks or something.”

You laughed quietly, the sound mingling with his. “This is better. Real. Messy. Us.”

He smiled–that genuine, crinkly-eyed smile that made your stomach flip every time. “Yeah. Us.” His thumb traced your lower lip once, reverent. “I’m still scared, you know. Nationals are coming. Pressure won’t magically disappear. I’ll probably have more nights like tonight.”

“I know,” you said, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “And I’ll still be here. Patching you up. Listening. Staying.”

Oikawa’s arms wrapped around you fully then, pulling you into a tight embrace. He buried his face in your neck, breathing you in like you were the only steady thing in his chaotic world.

“Thank you,” he whispered against your skin. “For seeing me. For staying. For letting me love you like this.”

You held him just as tightly, heart full in a way you hadn’t known was possible.

The confession wasn’t clean. It wasn’t wrapped in perfect romance with sweeping declarations and no loose ends. It was two people who had slowly, carefully built something real through vulnerability and quiet presence. It was messy, honest, and deeply romantic in its imperfection.

And as you sat there under the bare cherry tree, wrapped in each other’s arms with the night stretching quietly around you, it felt exactly right.

Oikawa Tooru–the captain, the perfectionist, the boy who hid so much–had finally let someone stay.

And you had chosen to stay with all of him.