vanessa

ONESHOT

summary: suna rintaro is not not popular. when he finds out the reader and her friends, airi and murata, might be plotting, his tactics shift.

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the hallway is loud in that messy, start-of-the-day kind of way.

lockers slam. shoes squeak against the floor. somebody across the hall is laughing way too hard at something that probably wasn’t even that funny.

you’re trying very hard to act normal.

which would be easier if airi and murata weren’t walking on either side of you like two people sent specifically to ruin your life.

“i’m just saying,” airi says, dragging the words out with way too much amusement, “if you kind of like him, you should probably do something about it.”

murata snorts. “yeah. because staring at him from across the classroom clearly isn’t getting the job done.”

you nearly trip over your own shoe.

“i do not stare at him.”

both of them look at you.

then at each other.

then back at you.

murata’s grin turns mean in the way only a best friend’s can. “right. and suna just happens to sit in your line of vision every single day.”

“that is not—” you cut yourself off, lowering your voice. “can you two be quiet?”

airi leans in instead of listening. “all we’re saying is if you sort of, maybe, possibly like him—”

“just a little,” murata adds helpfully.

“—then maybe you should tell him.”

you whip your head toward them, horrified. “why would i do that?”

airi throws her hands up. “because you’ve liked him forever.”

“i have not liked him forever.”

murata gives you a flat look. “since spring.”

“that is not forever.”

airi looks at murata. he smirks.

“for you?” she says. “it kind of is.”

heat crawls all the way up your neck. you can feel it in your cheeks, in your ears, probably in your soul. this is exactly why you never say anything. because the second you do, it becomes real. and liking suna rintarou is already humiliating enough on its own.

mostly because it doesn’t feel original.

too many girls like him.

and honestly, can you blame them?

he’s tall without making a thing of it. quiet in a way that somehow pulls more attention instead of less. always half-lidded, half-bored, like the entire world is mildly entertaining at best. and then he says one dry thing under his breath and suddenly everybody around him is trying not to laugh too hard.

it’s annoying.

he’s annoying.

the fact that you like him anyway is even worse.

“you’re making it weird,” you mutter.

“you made it weird by being in love with a guy who looks allergic to smiling,” airi says.

“i am not in love with him,” you hiss.

murata gasps dramatically. “oh, so now we’re downgrading it to yearning?”

“shut up.”

“crushing?”

“shut up.”

“pathetic pining—”

“stop talking!” you snap, louder this time, enough that a couple people glance over.

and then, because your life is cruel, you realize exactly who else heard.

your stomach drops.

suna is a few steps away, standing with his bag slung over one shoulder like he’d just come around the corner at the worst possible moment. or the best possible moment, if you asked airi and murata, who both go suddenly, suspiciously quiet.

you want the floor to open up and take you.

you pull airi and murata to the side instead of being frozen in the middle of the hallway like idiots. 

instead, what comes out of your mouth is somehow even worse.

“shut up,” you say again, this time to your friends, voice sharp with panic. “then he’ll know i like him.”

silence.

actual, real, terrible silence.

murata makes a tiny choking noise.

airi covers her mouth.

suna looks at you.

just looks.

not shocked. not smug. not even really surprised.

just that unreadable, heavy-lidded stare of his, like he’s taking in every second of your humiliation and filing it away somewhere private.

your face burns so hot you think you might actually die from it.

“wow,” murata whispers beside you, utterly useless. “that was crazy.”

you want to elbow him into a locker.

suna shifts his bag higher onto his shoulder.

for one awful second, you think he’s going to say something. maybe ask you to repeat yourself. maybe laugh. maybe give you that polite, distant look people give when they’re trying to let you down before you’ve even confessed.

instead, his gaze flicks briefly to airi, then murata, then back to you.

one corner of his mouth moves.

barely.

not a smile. not really.

but definitely something.

then he walks past you.

just leaves.

and somehow that’s worse.

you stand there in complete horror, staring after him while the crowd moves around you like nothing life-ending just happened in the middle of the hallway.

airi is the first to break.

“oh my god,” she says, grabbing your arm hard enough to jolt you. “oh my god, you actually said it.”

murata folds in on himself laughing. “not only did you say it, you announced it.”

you cover your face with both hands. “i hate both of you.”

“he looked at you,” airi says immediately.

you groan into your palms. “please don’t make this worse.”

“i’m serious.”

murata nods through his laughter. “and he did that thing.”

you peek through your fingers. “what thing?”

they look at each other.

then grin.

“that thing,” they say together.

you nearly scream.

because yes, he did do that thing.

that tiny almost-smirk. that look that lasted a second too long. that completely unfair expression that somehow says everything and nothing at the same time.

and now you’re going to spend the rest of the day wondering whether suna rintarou knows you like him—

or whether he’s known for a while.

after school, you almost forget about the hallway.

almost.

then airi tosses you a ball during volleyball warmups, and the memory comes back so fast it makes you want to lay down on the gym floor and let it swallow you whole.

“stop making that face,” airi says from across the court.

you catch the ball one-handed. “what face?”

“the one that says you’re replaying your public humiliation in high definition.”

you send the ball back clean to her platform. “i’m not.”

airi bumps it to you again, easy. “you absolutely are.”

you are, but she doesn’t need that satisfaction. you smack the ball down with your palm, and she curses under her breath as she dives to the side to pick it back up.

practice has barely started. the gym still has that in-between feel to it—girls stretching off to the side, a few balls rolling where they shouldn’t be, sneakers squeaking over polished floor. you and airi started peppering early, just to get loose.

well. that had been the plan.

now it’s become a challenge.

airi’s an outside hitter, so even her warm-up touches have weight behind them. yours come back steadier, lower, cleaner. libero work. controlled. quick. all instinct. your oversized shirt hangs off one shoulder every now and then when you move, and your shorts are short enough that the shirt mostly covers them when you’re standing still.

not that you’re thinking about that.

or about anything else.

“left,” airi calls.

you slide, platform angled, and send the ball right back up to her.

“nice,” she says.

you grin a little despite yourself. “again.”

a few rounds turn into a few minutes.

a few minutes turn into ten.

and somewhere in there, your body starts moving before your brain can get in the way. airi hits, you receive. you send one a little off, she chases and saves it. she tips short, you fly forward and scoop it up before it dies. back and forth. back and forth. the rhythm gets addicting.

then the gym doors open.

you don’t look at first.

you only notice because airi does.

her eyes flick past you for half a second, and the ball thumps awkwardly off her forearms.

you blink. “what?”

airi catches it before it rolls too far, then looks toward the entrance again.

something cold slides into your stomach.

you turn.

three boys walk in first with bags slung over their shoulders, like they own the place just by stepping into it.

atsumu in the middle, loud even when he’s not talking yet. osamu beside him, looking like he got dragged here against his will. and suna—

of course suna is there too.

you freeze so obviously that airi’s expression immediately goes sharp with alarm.

“why are they here?” you hiss.

airi hisses right back, panicking now too. “i don’t know.”

“joint practice?”

“we don't have joint practice today.”

your heart drops. “then why are they here?”

she gives you a look that says she’s two seconds from joining you in death. “maybe they’re spectating?”

you stare at her.

then toward the boys.

then back at her.

“oh my god,” you groan.

because they are absolutely spectating.

more players file in behind them—kita, aran, ginjima, and the rest of the boys’ team, all filtering into the gym with that loose after-practice energy. some of them stay standing near the back. some head for the side. a few of them move toward the bleachers.

and somehow, some awful way, your pepper with airi has become the most interesting thing in the room.

“keep going,” airi mutters through clenched teeth.

“are you insane?”

“if we stop now, it’ll be worse.”

she’s right, which is annoying.

so you toss the ball up again.

airi sends it back.

you receive.

and suddenly every touch feels ten times more noticeable than it should.

the girls on your team are starting to slow their own drills, glancing over. one by one, conversations in the gym thin out. sneakers squeak. a ball bounces somewhere else on the court. then even that starts to fade.

because people are watching.

really watching.

you risk the fastest glance toward the bleachers and immediately regret it.

the boys have sat down.

all of them.

atsumu’s elbows are on his knees. osamu looks half-awake. suna sits a little farther toward the other side, one leg stretched out, one arm draped over it, gaze fixed in your direction with that same unreadable calm that always somehow makes things worse.

you snap your eyes back to the ball.

“don’t look at them,” airi says.

“i wasn’t.”

“liar.”

“just hit the ball.”

airi does.

harder this time.

you absorb it cleanly and pop it right back. she sends one to your right. you lunge and save it. she adjusts. you recover. every contact gets sharper, faster, more automatic. there’s this weird pressure in it now, this rising energy that has the whole gym gone quiet enough for you to hear the ball hit skin.

thump.

thump.

thump.

three minutes in, maybe more, and neither of you lets it drop.

you hear a low whistle from somewhere in the bleachers.

ignore it.

airi sends one deep. you shuffle back and fist it up.

she grins despite herself. “nice.”

“less talking,” you shoot back.

then the ball starts getting away from you.

just a little.

airi reaches for one with too much arm and sends it long.

instinct takes over before dread can. you sprint back, throw one fist up, and somehow manage to punch it high enough to keep the rally alive.

there’s a small sound from the bleachers—surprise, maybe.

you don’t have time to care.

airi adjusts under it and sends another one, too much again.

“airi—”

you turn around and run, fast, eyes on the ball, too committed now to stop. your calves hit the front of the bleachers and you nearly lose your balance, but your fist comes up again and the ball shoots back into the air.

this time people definitely react.

not loudly. just enough.

a few impressed laughs. a sharp “oh—”

you hear atsumu say something you don’t catch.

suna says nothing.

of course he says nothing.

which somehow makes you more aware of him than everyone else combined.

airi gets under the ball and, because she apparently wants you dead, sends another touch too far.

you have approximately one second to decide whether dignity matters.

it doesn’t.

you dive backward straight into the bleachers.

metal rattles under your weight. your legs get caught awkwardly for a second, shirt riding up at the waist as you twist, but your arm still manages to get under the ball and pop it up again.

somebody in the gym actually gasps.

you push hair out of your face, untangling your legs from the bench as fast as you can. from the corner of your eye, you catch suna watching you from farther down the row, his focus sharper now, less lazy. like you’ve finally managed to surprise him.

that alone almost kills you.

the ball is still up.

still playable.

airi, saint or demon, takes it and sends it over again.

short.

way too short.

you’re still half in the bleachers.

there’s no way.

the ball drops.

the rally dies.

and for half a second, the whole gym just stares.

then everybody claps.

actual applause breaks out across the court.

girls on your team cheering. a couple of the boys whistling. ginjima laughing. atsumu clapping way too loud like he’s at some live event. even some of the second-years standing off to the side join in.

you stay there for one deeply humiliating second, still tangled in the bleachers, breathing hard.

airi bends over laughing with both hands on her knees. “oh my god.”

you cover your face. “i hate this gym.”

“no you don’t,” she says, still laughing. “that was insane.”

more clapping.

more voices.

your coach is definitely saying something to someone, but you can’t hear it over the sound of your own pulse.

you lower your hands just enough to look up.

mistake.

because suna is still sitting there, watching you.

and unlike everybody else, he isn’t clapping.

he just leans back slightly against the bleachers, gaze fixed on you, then lifts his brows once like that explained everything.

which, somehow, it does not.

later, practice ends with the usual noise.

sneakers dragging. balls getting tossed into carts. girls calling bye over their shoulders on the way to the locker room. the air feels warmer now, heavier with that post-practice exhaustion that makes everything a little slower.

you and airi are posted by your bags in front of the locker rooms, both drinking water like you just survived something catastrophic.

which, honestly, you kind of did.

“i’m never peppering with you again,” you say, lowering your bottle.

airi snorts. “you’re welcome, by the way.”

“for what?”

“for making you look cool.”

you stare at her. “i was in the bleachers.”

“exactly. memorable.”

you groan and lean down to mess with the zipper on your bag. your shirt is sticking lightly to your skin from practice, and your legs still feel a little shaky from diving around like your life depended on it.

murata had texted that he was outside already, here to pick both of you up, so really, all that’s left is grabbing your stuff and leaving before anything else humiliating can happen.

which is apparently too much to ask.

because airi’s expression changes first.

just slightly.

her eyes flick up over your shoulder.

you go still.

“no,” you murmur.

airi tries and fails to hide the grin pulling at her mouth. “yes.”

you close your eyes for half a second before straightening up and turning around.

suna’s walking toward you from the gym entrance, one hand hooked around the strap of his bag. his hair’s a little messy, probably from changing after class, and he has that exact look on his face that makes your chest tighten for reasons you deeply resent—

calm.

knowing.

faintly amused.

like he already has the upper hand and doesn’t even need to prove it.

very nick wilde, annoyingly enough.

he stops in front of you and airi, gaze landing on you first.

“hey,” he says.

that’s it.

just hey.

and somehow it still feels like a trap.

inside, your brain completely loses structure.

outside, though, you take a sip of water like this is the most normal thing in the world.

“hi,” you say back, easy.

airi goes weirdly silent beside you, which is useless, because now it’s obvious she’s listening.

suna’s mouth tilts at one corner.

not enough to be called a full smile. definitely enough to make him look smug.

his eyes flick over your face like he’s checking for something. maybe panic. maybe guilt. maybe any sign at all that you’re still thinking about the hallway.

you give him nothing.

at least, you hope you do.

“you recover fast,” he says.

your brows lift. “from what?”

he shrugs one shoulder. “public confessions. and diving into bleachers."

airi makes the tiniest choking sound into her water bottle.

you keep your face smooth with effort that should count as athletic training. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“really?” he says, voice mild.

there’s something sly in it. dry. teasing in that way that doesn’t push too far, just enough to let you know he sees more than he says.

he definitely suspects something.

or knows something.

or worse, enjoys watching you pretend he doesn’t.

“really,” you repeat.

his eyes narrow just a little, like he’s entertained now.

then he says, “you played really well.”

and just like that, everything in your head blanks.

completely.

your mouth parts before you can stop it.

because what?

suna rintaro just walked up to you after practice, looked like a fox with a secret, and then complimented you like it was nothing.

you stare at him for one full second too long, caught somewhere between disbelief and the sudden, awful haze of being noticed by the exact person you did not want noticing you.

airi smacks your arm.

hard.

you flinch.

“oh,” you say, blinking back to earth. “thanks.”

smooth.

so smooth.

you want to die.

suna actually laughs a little at that—quiet, low, brief.

but it’s real.

and somehow that feels more dangerous than if he’d laughed outright.

“see you,” he says.

then he shifts his bag higher on his shoulder and walks past, heading toward the locker rooms like he didn’t just ruin the entire balance of your day in under thirty seconds.

you turn your head just enough to track him for half a step before forcing yourself to stop.

airi is already staring at you.

you stare back.

then both of you explode at once.

“oh my god—” she hisses.

“did that just happen?” you whisper-shout.

“he came up to you.”

“he talked to me.”

“he complimented you.”

“he remembered the bleachers!”

airi grabs both your shoulders and shakes once. “and you forgot how to function.”

“i know!”

“you literally opened your mouth and just stood there.”

“i know!”

you’re both still freaking out when murata leans around the corner from the front doors, car keys looped around one finger.

“are you two getting in the car or starting a podcast?” he asks.

the second you and airi pile in, it’s over for him.

because the beans are spilled immediately.

“suna came up to her,” airi says from the backseat before the doors have even fully shut.

murata, in the driver’s seat, pauses with his hand on the wheel. “no way.”

"yes way,” you say, still half in shock.

“he said hi all smug,” airi adds, twisting toward him. “like he knew exactly what he was doing.”

murata glances at you in the mirror. “you folded?”

“i did not fold.”

airi gasps. “she absolutely folded.”

“i was calm.”

“you blanked so hard i had to hit you.”

murata starts laughing immediately. “that bad?”

you sink lower into your seat. “he told me i played really well.”

murata makes a face like that explains everything. “ah. so yeah. you folded.”

you cover your face with one hand while airi cackles beside you.

outside, the gym doors swing open again as more boys head in for practice, but you refuse to look.

because your heart is still beating too fast.

and worse—

you keep hearing that quiet laugh in your head.

school starts again like nothing happened.

which is rude, honestly. because after the hallway incident, then practice, then suna actually coming up to talk to you after, you feel like the universe should’ve at least given you one dramatic weather event or minor fire drill to reset your life.

instead, first period happens. then second. then by the time you get to the class right before lunch, you’re mostly normal again.

mostly.

you’re halfway through pulling out your notebook when the classroom door slides open again.

your teacher looks up from his desk with the kind of expression that already says somebody has been a problem.

and then in walks miya atsumu.

you blink.

he has his bag slung over one shoulder and that familiar careless posture that somehow still looks polished. his expression is easy, but there’s something in the room that shifts immediately anyway, because he’s miya atsumu, and even people who don’t know him know of him.

the teacher sighs.

“since you and your brother apparently can’t survive sharing the same class period without disrupting everyone else,” he says flatly, “you’ll be sitting here from now on.”

a few people laugh.

atsumu grins like that’s a compliment.

your teacher points.

“empty seat. next to (y/n) (l/n).”

and then atsumu looks over.

right at you.

his brows lift in instant recognition.

oh no.

he walks over, drops into the seat beside you, and before you can even pretend this is a normal day, he leans back a little and says, “well, if it isn’t bleacher girl.”

you turn slowly. “please don’t call me that.”

his mouth twitches. “why not? it’s memorable.”

you stare at him.

he stares back.

then he breaks into a grin and sets his book down. “ya played good, though. all that hustlin’ yesterday? insane.”

your face warms a little, which is annoying because you had actually gotten over that. mostly.

“thanks,” you say, trying for casual.

atsumu props his cheek against his hand and looks at you like he’s already decided this class just got way more entertaining. “didn’t know ya were that good.”

you glance at him. “didn’t know i needed your approval.”

that gets a laugh out of him immediately.

not polite. not fake. a real one.

“oh, ya got jokes,” he says.

you look back down at your notebook to hide the tiny smile threatening at the corner of your mouth. “unfortunately.”

you know about miya atsumu.

everyone does.

the reputation comes first: loud, talented, arrogant, pretty, impossible, annoying, brilliant. volleyball obsessed. troublemaker. somehow both insufferable and magnetic enough that people keep orbiting him anyway.

so you’re a little surprised he’s talking to you like this.

more surprised that it’s easy.

you’d expect someone like atsumu to dominate every conversation just because he can, but instead, he slides into yours like he’s been there the whole time. one comment turns into another. then another. then five more. by ten minutes in, you’ve stopped feeling weird about it and started feeling entertained.

which is dangerous.

because atsumu is funny.

worse, he’s funny in a way that keeps catching you off guard.

the teacher starts talking at the front of the room, and you’re both mostly pretending to listen. mostly.

atsumu glances down at the worksheet. “this is easy.”

you hum. “for us.”

he looks at you. “for us?”

you shrug one shoulder. “you’re in the smart class too, aren’t you?”

he grins. “so that’s what this is? ya think i’m smart?”

“i think you got moved here because your teachers were tired of you ruining osamu’s education.”

he bites back a laugh and fails.

you do too.

badly.

it starts with a snort. then a badly hidden smile. then his shoulders shake once, and suddenly both of you are trying not to lose it while your teacher is still talking.

“stop,” you whisper, horrified.

“me?” he whispers back. “yer the one who said it like that.”

you smack his arm under the desk.

he looks offended for half a second before dissolving again.

you’re both bent over your desks by then, trying to stay silent and failing miserably. atsumu wheezes into his sleeve. you clap a hand over your mouth. he taps the table twice like that’s going to help somehow. it does not. you end up laughing harder just looking at him trying not to laugh.

“oh my god,” you whisper. “we’re gonna get in trouble.”

“worth it,” he says instantly.

you elbow him.

he elbows you back.

the teacher says both your names.

that only makes it worse.

by the time lunch rolls around, your face hurts.

“yer funnier than ya look,” atsumu says as you both stand up.

you sling your bag over your shoulder. “that’s one of the rudest things anyone’s ever said to me.”

“nah,” he says, keeping pace beside you. “it’s a compliment.”

“you’re bad at those.”

“i’m great at ‘em.”

you glance over. “is that what that was?”

he grins. “that and me askin’ if ya wanna hang out.”

you slow for half a beat. “today?”

“sure.”

he says it so casually, like it’s obvious you’d say yes.

which, embarrassingly, you kind of want to.

so you look ahead and say, “okay.”

atsumu’s grin sharpens like he won something.

you regret letting him have that.

airi and murata are waiting near the usual lunch spot, and both of them look up the second they see you walking over with atsumu beside you.

airi’s eyes go huge.

murata nearly chokes on nothing.

you stop in front of them. “i have to split today.”

murata stares. “because of...miya atsumu?”

atsumu gives him a lazy wave. “hi.”

airi looks between the two of you like this is the best day of her life. “what is happening?”

“nothing,” you say too fast.

“that’s a lie,” murata says.

atsumu slings an arm over the strap of his bag. “i borrowed her.”

you give him a look. “you what?”

he ignores that. “i’ll return her later.”

airi presses her lips together so hard they nearly disappear.

murata looks at you with open delight. “good luck.”

“why are you saying it like that?”

“because,” he says, already stepping away with airi, “this is insane.”

airi points at you. “text me if you survive.”

then they leave you there with atsumu, who looks way too pleased with himself.

you end up on a grassy patch off to the side of the school where students sometimes eat when the weather’s nice. atsumu had, of course, brought a volleyball. because of course he did.

“you carry one around?” you ask.

“what, you don’t?”

“not like a freak.”

“that's mean.”

still, you take your position across from him.

peppering with atsumu is different than with airi. faster in some ways, more playful in others. he keeps trying to throw you off on purpose, adding a little too much spin, grinning when you send him a flat look and save it anyway.

“show-off,” you mutter after one particularly annoying touch.

“you got it, though.”

“that’s not the point.”

“kinda is.”

you roll your eyes and bump the ball back harder.

he laughs.

it goes on like that for a while, easy and bright and weirdly fun. enough that by the time two familiar figures start walking over, you’re actually disappointed.

osamu gets there first, hands in his pockets. “knew we’d find ya doin’ somethin’ stupid.”

atsumu catches the ball. “this isn’t stupid.”

suna comes up beside him, quieter, gaze moving first to atsumu and then to you.

there’s the briefest pause there.

small.

but you feel it anyway.

osamu takes in the scene once, then snorts. “so this is why ya ditched.”

“i did not ditch,” atsumu says. “i’m socializing.”

“you?” osamu says. “thought that was beyond ya.”

atsumu throws the ball at him.

osamu catches it one-handed.

then, because apparently chaos loves you, the rest of the boys’ team starts drifting over too, called by osamu with one lazy shout and the gravitational pull of volleyball.

now there are too many of them. kita, aran, ginjima, the others. somebody has another ball. then another. suddenly the grassy patch turns into a mess of overlapping pepper circles and voices and shoes digging into the ground.

you stand there for half a second, taking it in.

this was not lunch.

this was not remotely the plan.

and yet.

it’s kind of fun.

the boys start getting stupid with it almost immediately. one ball gets sent too high, another too short, someone misses and takes it straight to the shoulder. atsumu deliberately sends one at osamu’s face. osamu returns the favor. ginjima catches a ball badly and yelps. aran tells them all to grow up. nobody does.

somewhere across the lawn, airi and murata finally appear after doing a loop around campus and finishing their food.

they stop dead.

you can see the exact second they register you standing with the boys’ volleyball team.

then both their heads turn slightly.

off to the side, a cluster of girls is very clearly watching.

not casually, either.

just staring.

some at atsumu. some at osamu. some—more than you’d like—at suna.

and now, apparently, at you.

airi and murata exchange a look.

a long one.

then, with the kind of mutual understanding built only by friendship and bad decisions, they finish the rest of their food and come over anyway.

airi reaches you first. “this is psychotic.”

murata follows. “i leave you alone for one lunch period.”

“you’re being dramatic,” you say.

atsumu points at murata. “can he play?”

murata points at himself. “me?”

airi answers for him. “badly.”

“rude,” murata says.

“true,” she says back.

then she drags him into a loose circle and starts showing him how to pass, which immediately becomes hilarious because murata is terrible at first. his platform’s wrong. his timing’s worse. the ball bounces off his arms and nearly hits him in the face.

atsumu loses it.

you do too.

soon enough everybody is laughing at something. balls get smacked into shoulders, chests, faces. one clips atsumu’s jaw and he acts like he’s been mortally wounded. osamu tells him to shut up. airi keeps correcting murata’s stance while he complains she’s being mean. kita somehow still looks composed in the middle of all of it.

you end up next to atsumu again, both of you laughing over murata’s latest failed receive.

“that was tragic,” atsumu says, half bent over.

“be nice,” you say, laughing anyway.

“i am bein’ nice.”

“no, you aren’t.”

he grins. “fair.”

you’re still smiling when you feel it again.

that awareness.

the one that tends to show up before you even look.

your eyes shift.

suna’s on the edge of the group, ball tucked against one hip. he’s already looking at you.

not at the game.

not at atsumu.

you.

there’s something quieter about him than the rest of the lunch chaos. less messy. less loud. which, predictably, makes him easier to notice.

he says something then—low enough that it doesn’t belong to the whole group, only to your side of it.

“you laugh a lot more with him than you did with me.”

your breath catches.

it’s not accusatory.

not exactly.

and that somehow makes it worse.

because it lands soft. dry. almost careless. but there’s a thread under it that pulls tight somewhere in your chest before you can name it.

atsumu hears it too.

or maybe he just sees your face.

either way, his expression changes for one quick second—sharp with understanding.

then he straightens, spins the ball once on his palm, and says way too casually, “i’m gonna go bother osamu.”

and slips away.

just like that.

leaving you standing there with all your attention hopelessly caught on suna.

he steps a little closer once the noise of the others swells up around you again.

“i didn’t mean that like a complaint,” he says.

you blink, still trying to recover. “then how did you mean it?”

suna looks out toward the others for a second, watching atsumu yell at osamu over something stupid.

then his eyes come back to you.

“just noticed it.”

you don’t know what to do with that.

so you say, softly, “you don’t exactly make it easy.”

one of his brows lifts. “for you to laugh?”

“for anyone to know when you’re joking.”

“you usually know.”

that catches you off guard all over again.

he shifts the ball in his hands, then lets it drop into the grass by his shoes.

“you wanna walk?” he asks.

not really a question.

and for some reason, you go.

you leave the others behind with their noise and volleyballs and bad passes. the lunch crowd has thinned by now, students already starting to head back inside. beside you, suna walks at an easy pace like he isn’t affecting your ability to think.

the halls feel cooler after outside.

quieter, too.

your footsteps echo a little as you walk side by side.

“atsumu likes you,” you say before you can stop yourself.

suna glances over. “atsumu likes everybody.”

you smile despite yourself. “that’s true.”

“doesn’t mean i wanted to leave you with him all lunch.”

you look at him.

really look at him.

his expression hasn’t changed much, but there’s that same subtle thing in his voice as before. calm on the surface. something else underneath.

“what?” you ask.

he looks ahead again, hands in his pockets.

then, after a beat, “thought i should talk to you when you weren’t busy pretending you didn’t like me.”

you almost stop walking.

almost.

instead, your heart kicks hard enough to make your whole body feel suddenly too light.

you stare at him. “that’s a crazy thing to say.”

“is it?”

yes.

horrifically yes.

but he says it like he already knows the answer.

you reach your classroom too soon.

students are filtering in. chairs scraping. voices blending together before the next class starts. suna stops with you just outside the door.

for once, he looks completely unsurprised by your silence.

like maybe he expected it.

“see you later,” he says.

you manage, somehow, “yeah.”

he gives you one last look—that same steady, unreadable, unfair look—then turns and heads down the hall.

you stand there for a second after he leaves, still trying to process the fact that your lunch somehow started with atsumu and ended with suna walking you to class like he had every right.

and worse—

you think maybe he did.

the next morning, airi and murata corner you before first bell like they’re conducting an investigation.

which, to be fair, they kind of are.

you barely make it to your locker before murata plants one hand against the metal beside your head and airi slides in on the other side, both of them looking way too awake for this hour.

“debrief,” airi says immediately.

you stare at her. “good morning to you too.”

“debrief,” murata repeats.

you shut your locker halfway, then open it again just so you have something to do with your hands. “there is nothing to debrief.”

airi’s face goes flat. “you disappeared at lunch with miya atsumu, somehow ended up with the entire boys’ volleyball team, then got weird and vanished with suna.”

murata points at her. “and then came back looking like you’d seen the face of god.”

you blink. “that is dramatic.”

“is it inaccurate?” he asks.

you open your mouth.

close it.

airi narrows her eyes. “that’s what i thought.”

so you tell them.

not all at once. not gracefully, either. they keep interrupting every ten seconds, and you keep having to correct them.

“atsumu was normal,” you say.

“impossible,” murata says.

“he was.”

“for him,” airi adds. “which still isn’t normal.”

you continue anyway. the grassy lunch. osamu and suna finding you. everybody joining in. the fan club girls staring like they wanted to set you on fire. murata laughs so hard at that he has to bend over. airi looks vindicated about the hater energy. you get to the part where atsumu slipped away, and both of them lean in.

“and then?” airi says.

you hesitate.

murata points at you. “don’t do that.”

“i’m not doing anything.”

“you’re doing the face.”

“what face?”

“the face you make when you’re deciding whether to lie.”

you hate that they know you.

so you sigh and say, “then suna talked to me.”

airi grabs your wrist. “about what?”

you look away. “stuff.”

murata gasps like a grandmother at bad television. “stuff.”

“he said—” you stop, then start again. “he said i laugh more with atsumu than i did with him.”

both of them go silent.

like, actually silent.

which is worse than the yelling.

airi’s eyes widen. “oh.”

murata’s mouth falls open. “oh, that is crazy.”

you wish they’d both relax. “it wasn’t like that.”

they look at you.

then at each other.

then back at you.

“it was exactly like that,” they say together.

you groan. “you weren’t even there for it.”

“did he say anything else?” airi asks.

you shift your books around for no reason. “not really.”

another lie.

you definitely do not tell them the part where he walked you to class.

not yet.

probably not ever, if you can help it.

which is why, when two shadows fall across the floor beside the three of you, you nearly jump out of your skin.

osamu and suna.

of course.

murata straightens first. osamu gives him the easiest look in the world, like they’ve already been mid-conversation somewhere else and just happened to run into each other. beside him, suna’s gaze lands on you first, then drifts over the rest of the little group.

“what’re ya talkin’ about?” osamu asks.

airi and murata both go weirdly blank.

you feel instantly guilty, which makes no sense because it’s not like you were doing anything wrong. unless recounting every second of your life to your friends counts, which maybe it does.

murata clears his throat. “uh. nothing.”

osamu gives him a look. “that’s a lie.”

murata shrugs. “okay. a lot of things.”

the air hangs there for a second.

then murata, apparently deciding that if this is getting awkward he’s at least going to meet it halfway, says, “did you guys need anything?”

osamu opens his mouth, but suna answers first.

“i’m walking (y/n) to class.”

you freeze.

airi freezes.

murata freezes.

even osamu glances sideways at him.

your head turns so fast toward suna it nearly hurts. he looks completely calm, one hand in his pocket, like he did not just drop that directly in front of your two closest friends who did not know that information yet.

your face heats instantly.

you know you look guilty because airi makes this tiny, stunned sound, and murata’s jaw drops so visibly it would be funny if it weren’t happening to you.

you can practically feel the question marks radiating off both of them.

you don’t dare look directly at them.

osamu, on the other hand, recovers fast.

he snorts and nudges murata once with the back of his hand. “ya look like yer about to pass out.”

murata points at you. “why did i not know that?”

you make a helpless face.

airi points too. “you skipped details.”

“i forgot,” you lie.

“you did not forget,” she says.

osamu looks between the three of you, amused now. “airi, right?”

airi blinks. “yeah.”

he jerks a thumb at murata. “this idiot talks about y’all all the time.”

murata sputters. “that makes it sound weird.”

“It is weird,” osamu says.

airi laughs despite herself, and just like that the tension breaks enough for everybody to breathe again.

murata and osamu start talking immediately after that, easy and familiar in a way that makes sense now that you’re seeing it up close. murata introduces airi properly. osamu nods at her, easygoing, and she recovers fast enough to match the vibe. it all smooths out so quickly it’s almost suspicious.

then the bell warning goes off.

everybody starts shifting.

“i gotta go,” murata says.

“me too,” airi says, though not before shooting you a look that promises this conversation is not over.

osamu jerks his head down the hall. “later.”

airi and murata say goodbye to you with way too much meaning packed into it, and then they’re gone with osamu peeling off in another direction soon after.

which leaves you alone with suna.

you sling your bag higher on your shoulder and look at him flatly.

“nice timing.”

his mouth tilts. “i thought so too.”

you start walking. “you did that on purpose.”

“did what?”

you glance over at him. “you know what.”

he doesn’t answer right away, just falls into step beside you like this is already routine.

then, “they were gonna find out eventually.”

“that wasn’t your decision.”

“seemed efficient.”

you stare ahead, trying very hard not to smile.

he notices anyway.

of course he does.

he walks you to math.

again.

and this time it somehow feels both less shocking and worse, because now you know he’ll do it in front of people and act like it means nothing while leaving you to deal with the fallout.

at the door, he pauses.

“see you.”

you exhale through your nose. “you’re irritating.”

“yeah,” he says, entirely unbothered. “see you.”

by the end of the day, you’ve almost recovered.

almost.

the halls are crowded with after-school noise, lockers opening and slamming, conversations bouncing off the walls, shoes squeaking over tile. you’re at your locker switching out books, sliding one stack in and tugging another free, already halfway thinking about homework and whether murata is driving today.

a few lockers down, suna is talking with aran.

you only notice because you can feel it a little.

not his attention exactly.

just the possibility of it.

aran’s saying something while leaning against the row of lockers, easy and polite as usual. suna answers without looking like he’s putting much energy into the conversation, but from the corner of your eye you catch him glancing your way once.

then again.

you pretend not to notice.

you’re grabbing your math folder when a pair of lowerclassmen approach.

small.

nervous.

they stop just short of your locker like they’re afraid of being a bother.

“um,” one of them says, clutching a notebook to her chest. “are you (l/n)?”

she says your name a little timidly.

you turn fully toward them. “yeah?"

the other one speaks up this time. “we heard you tutor? sometimes?”

your expression softens immediately. “sometimes, yeah.”

they both visibly relax, just a little.

the first girl nods quickly. “we need help with math. and chem. if that’s okay.”

“that’s fine,” you say. “what units?”

they tell you, stumbling over the names a little, and you ask a few questions after that—what class period, which teacher, where they’re stuck. by the time the conversation settles, you’re giving them the details without even thinking about it.

“bring your notes, your last quiz if you have it, and the practice packet,” you say. “meet me in the library after school tomorrow. back tables near the windows.”

they both nod like they’re memorizing every word.

“thank you,” one says.

“seriously, thank you,” the other adds.

“don’t worry about it.”

they leave looking much less scared than when they walked up.

you turn back to your locker just in time to see aran and suna approaching.

aran gets there first, polite as ever. “you tutor?”

you shrug, casual. “sometimes.”

suna’s standing beside him with that same smug, fox-like look that always makes you suspicious.

“what was that?” he asks.

you shut your locker halfway, then reopen it to tuck one last notebook inside. “two underclassmen needed help.”

“with math and chem,” aran says, sounding impressed.

you glance at him. “it’s not a huge deal.”

suna’s eyes stay on you a second longer than necessary. not unreadable this time, exactly. more like he’s adjusting to a new piece of information.

“didn’t know you did that,” he says.

you shoulder your bag. “there’s a lot you don’t know.”

one of his brows lifts at that.

aran smiles a little. “that was cold.”

“it wasn’t meant to be.”

“sure,” suna says.

you look between them. “what, were you guys taking attendance?”

aran laughs softly. “nah. just curious.”

he checks the time after that and straightens away from the lockers. “i gotta go. i’m on a tight schedule.”

then, because aran is aran, he nods at both of you with the exact right amount of courtesy. “see you.”

“bye,” you say.

suna lifts a hand once.

aran heads off, leaving you alone with the worst possible person to be alone with when your heart is trying to act up over nothing.

you adjust your grip on your bag. “well. i’m leaving too.”

you reach back and finally shut your locker.

the metal door clicks closed.

and right as you turn, suna leans in just enough for his voice to drop under the noise of the hallway.

“didn’t know you liked helping people that much.”

you blink at him.

he’s close enough that the words don’t feel like they belong to the hallway at all.

then he adds, quieter, with that infuriating almost-smile, “guess i should ask nicer next time.”

your breath catches so suddenly it almost hurts.

you stare at him.

shocked. fully shocked.

because that was absolutely flirting.

blatant enough to make your face go hot, subtle enough that if you called him on it he could probably act innocent.

suna watches it happen in real time.

and grins.

actually grins this time—small, satisfied, devastating.

then he steps back and walks away like he didn’t just throw your entire nervous system into traffic.

you stay there for a second, frozen in front of your locker.

airi finds you first.

murata’s right behind her, keys already in hand.

airi takes one look at your face. “what happened?!”

you turn to her slowly. “i...think he just flirted with me.”

murata stops dead. “what.”

in the car, you tell them everything.

everything everything this time.

the debrief interruption this morning. him saying he was walking you to class right in front of them. math. the lowerclassmen. aran. the tutoring. the whisper.

by the time you get to the end, airi is folded into herself in the passenger seat and murata has one hand over his mouth while driving like he’s trying not to yell.

“that’s insane,” airi says.

“that is actually insane,” murata agrees.

you sink lower in the backseat. “i know.”

“no,” airi says, turning around to point at you. “i don’t think you do.”

“he’s messing with me.”

murata lets out a disbelieving laugh. “girl.”

airi shakes her head. “you are so far past that.”

you look out the window, trying and failing to cool your face.

because the worst part is—

you think they might be right.

you start keeping your distance after that. at first, it’s small things—taking a different route to class, sitting a few seats away whenever he’s around, pretending your headphones are glued in even when they’re not. you tell yourself it’s rational. someone like suna rintaro wouldn’t ever go for someone like you. popular, effortless, able to have any girl he wanted—he’d only be toying with you. just because he could.

and it scares you more than you want to admit.

you notice him sometimes, though. always there after your tutoring sessions, lingering outside the library, watching quietly while you help the younger underclassmen. 

you look unreal, beautiful, important. he watches you more than he'd like to. except you slip out of his gaze whenever you can, ducking down halls, leaving the library last, keeping your interactions minimal.

in turn, you grow closer to osamu and atsumu and aran. you eat lunch with them sometimes, practice drills together, laugh at dumb jokes. anything to fill the space suna used to occupy in your mind. you make it routine, safe. weeks pass.

every time he notices you, you’re gone. every time his eyes flick your way, you’re already slipping from his line of sight. you’re not trying to be cruel—just careful. careful not to fall into whatever trap he might set for someone like you.

and still, you can’t stop feeling like he’s always there. somewhere in the background. watching. waiting.

you avoid suna after fourth period so obviously that it almost circles back around to subtle.

almost.

the problem is, you know he’s been trying to catch you between classes again. not in some huge dramatic way, just enough that you’ve started recognizing the pattern. a turn down the usual hall. a familiar figure falling into step beside you. that calm voice asking where you’re headed like he doesn’t already know.

so today, you don’t give him the chance.

you cut left instead of right, take a back stairwell you’ve literally never used before, and end up in some weird quiet stretch of the school that feels unfinished somehow. the floors are too clean. the hallway is too empty. there are barely any posters on the walls.

you slow down.

“where the hell am i?” you mutter.

you’ve barely taken another step when a hand catches your wrist.

you gasp.

then you’re pulled sideways—fast, but not rough—through a doorway and into an empty classroom. the door shuts behind you with a soft click, and for one panicked second all you can register is darkness.

“what—”

light spills in from the windows on the far side of the room, pale and angled, enough for your eyes to adjust.

and there he is.

suna.

standing between you and the rest of the room, shoulders tense, one hand still on the doorknob.

you stare at him.

he stares back.

and for once, he doesn’t look smug.

he looks worried.

actually worried.

your confusion falters around the edges.

“rintaro?”

his jaw shifts once. “what happened?”

you blink. “what?”

he takes a step closer. “did i do something?”

the question lands harder than it should.

because this isn’t teasing. it isn’t one of those dry little comments of his meant to push your buttons and watch what happens.

he means it.

you look at him, and for maybe the first time since all this started, he looks as thrown off as you feel.

“did i do something wrong?” he asks, quieter this time. “why are you avoiding me?”

your chest tightens.

you hate that he noticed. hate that he cared enough to corner you in some mystery classroom you didn’t even know existed. hate that he’s standing there looking at you like this matters.

“there’s nothing wrong,” you say automatically.

his expression changes.

not a lot.

just enough.

you take one step toward the door. “i-i should go.”

you reach for the handle.

it doesn’t move.

you blink, try again, then turn toward him. “rintaro. let me out."

suna doesn’t answer that part. he steps in closer instead, slow enough that you could move if you wanted to.

you don’t.

not really.

he backs you toward the door without touching you, just with presence alone, until your shoulders nearly brush the metal. his eyes stay on yours the whole time, heavy and intent and impossible to escape.

“stop lying,” he says.

you look away first.

of course you do.

because there’s no room left for pretending in a dark classroom with him standing this close and sounding like that.

your throat feels dry.

“fine,” you say, and your voice comes out smaller than you wanted. “yes.”

he waits.

you laugh once, but there’s no humor in it. “yes. i was avoiding you.”

still, he waits.

your hands curl uselessly at your sides. “because...i like you, okay?”

the words land between you and stay there.

you force yourself to keep going.

“i like you, and i thought…” you swallow. “i thought maybe i was just convenient. or funny to mess with. or some game if you got bored.”

his face tightens immediately.

you press on before you can lose your nerve.

“you flirt. girls like you. you know that. everybody knows that. so i thought maybe i was just…” you shake your head once. “easy.”

for a second, all he does is look at you.

then he sighs softly, like he’s been holding something in for way too long.

“you really thought that?”

you let out a weak breath. “it made sense.”

“no,” he says. “it didn’t.”

you lift your chin a little. “to me, it did.”

his gaze drops for half a second, then comes back to your face.

"(y/n). you're beautiful, and funny, and smart, and talented."

you laugh before you could stop yourself. 

“when i first noticed you,” he says, “i figured you wouldn’t notice me.”

you blink.

that was not what you expected.

"but... you did. you noticed me."

he almost smiles, but it’s faint. disbelieving. more at himself than anything else.

“you looked right past me half the time,” he says. “or at atsumu. or osamu. or whoever was louder that day.”

you stare at him. “rintaro.”

“i’m serious.”

you almost laugh from sheer confusion. “why would i look past you?”

one shoulder lifts in the smallest shrug. “same reason everyone doesn’t. loud people are easier.”

that gets you.

because that is so absurdly him—so unfairly honest in the quietest possible way—that your chest aches.

you shake your head. “i liked you before half of this even started.”

his brows lift.

“i really, really like you,” you say, voice steadier now, because if this is happening, then it’s happening. “...and me, airi, and murata have literally been putting together some scheme for weeks trying to figure out if you were serious or not.”

that finally gets a real reaction out of him.

he laughs.

low at first, then fuller, warm enough to make your stomach flip.

your eyes narrow. “don’t laugh.”

“i’m not laughing at you.”

“you are absolutely laughing at me.”

he leans one shoulder against the door beside your head, grinning now. “only because i can’t believe you thought you were the only one doing that.”

you frown. “doing what?”

“scheming.”

you stare.

suna’s grin goes smug again, but softer this time. earned.

“atsumu figured it out first,” he says. “after that one practice.”

your mouth falls open.

“no.”

“yeah.”

“oh my god.”

he nods once, enjoying this way too much. “then the rest of the team caught on.”

“the rest of the team?”

“more or less.”

“you let the boys’ volleyball team know i liked you?”

“i didn’t have to. they have eyes.”

you close your eyes. “i’m gonna die.”

“bleacher girl was a whole thing for a while.”

you cover your face with both hands. “please stop talking.”

he laughs again, gentler now, and this time when his hands catch your wrists and pull them away from your face, your breath catches for a completely different reason.

you look at him.

he looks at you.

no teasing now. no smug line waiting in the wings.

just him.

“so,” he says quietly, thumbs brushing once against your skin, “can you stop avoiding me?”

you exhale a laugh, shaky and helpless and relieved all at once. “maybe.”

“bad answer.”

“i’m serious.”

“i know.”

his hands slide down to yours, loosely, like he’s giving you every chance to pull away.

you don’t.

instead, you tilt your head a little and say, “you dragged me into a dark classroom.”

“worked, didn’t it?”

you almost roll your eyes.

almost.

but then he smiles that small, impossible smile of his, and suddenly it’s very hard to think about anything except the fact that he’s right here.

“you’re irritating,” you whisper.

“you said that already.”

“because it’s true.”

“you still like me.”

you hate that he’s right.

worse, you love that he’s right.

“yeah,” you say softly. “i do.”

something in his expression gives then—just a little, but enough. enough that the room feels smaller. quieter. enough that when he leans in, it doesn’t feel surprising at all.

just overdue.

his mouth brushes yours once, testing.

you lean up first.

that’s all it takes.

he kisses you properly after that, one hand sliding to your waist, the other braced near the door beside your head. you catch at the front of his shirt without thinking, and he makes this quiet sound against your mouth that nearly kills you on the spot.

it’s not slow for very long.

weeks of weird tension and missed chances and almost-conversations hit all at once. your back presses to the door, his hand tightens a little at your waist, and when you kiss him back harder he smiles into it like he was hoping you would.

“wow,” you breathe when he finally pulls back just enough.

he looks amused again. “that good?”

you stare at him. “don’t ruin it.”

he laughs softly and drops his forehead against yours for a second.

outside, somewhere down the hall, the bell rings.

neither of you moves.

then you groan. “great.”

“you’ve got class,” he says.

“whose fault is that?”

“yours, probably.”

you smack his shoulder lightly.

he catches your hand before you can pull it back and presses one quick kiss to your knuckles just to be annoying.

you stare at him again.

“oh, you’re insane.”

“and you still like me.”

you hate how much you smile.

when he finally unlocks the door and opens it, the hallway outside is empty enough to make this feel even more unreal.

you step out first.

then glance back at him.

“so,” you say, trying for casual and failing a little, “what now?”

suna tilts his head. “now i walk you to class. and this time you don’t run.”

you laugh.

ONESHOT

notes: this is like an enemies to lovers trope? I LOVE WRITING SUNA I CANT

-----

the hallway is loud in that restless, pre-first-bell way.

lockers slamming. sneakers squeaking. someone yelling across the corridor like they’re allergic to using their inside voice.

you don’t look up.

airpods in. eyes forward. skirt swaying with your stride.

to your right, footsteps fall into place.

you don’t need to check.

atsumu’s careless drag.

suna’s measured pace.

they’re close enough that you can feel the heat off their shoulders.

you keep walking.

three steps.

four.

then—

impact.

suna’s shoulder knocks into yours, deliberate and solid.

you stumble into the lockers with a metallic crash, apologizing quickly to the freshman you nearly flatten.

behind you, atsumu laughs under his breath.

“careful,” he says lazily. “wouldn’t want you hurt.”

you pull one airpod out slowly.

turn.

suna’s already looking at you.

head slightly tilted. expression calm. that quiet, infuriating smirk sitting on his mouth like he owns it.

“you’re in the way,” he says mildly.

“you’re six foot something,” you reply flatly. “go around.”

atsumu grins. “attitude this early? exhausting.”

you step closer instead of backing off.

“don’t you have practice to disappoint at?”

suna’s eyes flicker — not offended. interested.

“you talk a lot,” he says.

“you listen too much.”

for a second, it’s just eye contact.

then atsumu nudges him. “c’mon. she’s not worth it.”

that’s the part that makes your jaw tighten.

they turn first.

they start walking like they’ve already won.

like shoving you into lockers is just part of their morning routine.

you let them get three steps ahead.

you catch up and grab both their backpack handles and yank hard.

fabric jerks tight. atsumu stumbles with a sharp “what the—” while suna catches himself a split second faster.

they both turn.

you’re already close.

close enough that your perfume catches in the space between you.

you lean in just slightly, like you’re about to say something harmless.

instead, you murmur — low, just for them.

“tell your setter to ice his left wrist before friday.”

atsumu's expression drops instantly.

suna’s eyes sharpen.

the volleyball team hasn’t said a word about atsumu tweaking his wrist during scrimmage.

you pull back before they can ask how.

“wouldn’t want nationals scouts seeing that,” you add lightly.

you walk away like nothing happened.

the sway of your skirt is subtle but deliberate.

atsumu’s stomach twists.

not because you touched him.

because you know things.

“she’s so damn nosy,” he mutters. “swear she thinks she’s part of the team or somethin’.”

suna doesn’t answer right away.

still a little too aware of the space you just occupied.

the faint scent you left behind.

something soft and clean and annoyingly addictive.

you’d been close enough that your voice brushed his ear instead of just reaching it.

close enough that he could’ve leaned in half an inch and—

he exhales slowly.

“she’s just fishing,” atsumu continues. “probably heard it from ‘samu. she hangs off him enough.”

that makes suna finally look away from where you’re disappearing down the hallway.

“she doesn’t hang off him,” he says automatically.

atsumu snorts. “please. she definitely likes him.”

you’re already too far ahead to hear it clearly.

but you catch enough.

you don’t turn around.

you just lift your hand over your shoulder and flip them off without breaking stride.

atsumu scoffs. “see?”

but suna doesn’t laugh this time.

he’s still watching you.

the way you don’t look back.

the way you walk like you’re untouchable.

and for the first time, the feeling in his chest isn’t irritation.

isn’t smug satisfaction.

isn’t that familiar competitive spark.

it’s something heavier.

he doesn’t hate that you pay attention.

he doesn’t hate that you notice details.

he doesn’t even really hate that you talk about him.

he hates that you see him.

and somehow still walk away first.

atsumu nudges him. “you good?”

suna blinks once. then he shoves his hands into his pockets.

“yeah,” he says evenly.

but as he turns the corner, he can still smell your perfume.

whatever.

he tells himself he still hates you.

later that day, atsumu and osamu are having more than a discussion.

“i didn’t tell her.”

atsumu’s walking like he’s trying to outpace his own anger.

osamu isn’t bothered.

“i didn’t tell her,” he repeats, calm.

“she knew about the scouts,” atsumu snaps. “she knew about my wrist.”

“maybe she’s not stupid.”

“maybe you talk too much.”

osamu stops. “don’t pin that on me.”

atsumu exhales sharply, jaw tight.

“whatever. you goin’ to the joint practice?”

optional boys and girls volleyball practice.

fan club central.

osamu rolls his eyes. “nah.”

atsumu blinks. “nah?”

“busy.”

“with what.”

“stuff.”

atsumu narrows his eyes. “you’re lyin’.”

osamu just smiles and walks away.

after school, atsumu drags suna through the hallway.

“he’s skipping,” atsumu mutters. “i know he is.”

“practice is optional,” suna says lazily.

“yeah, but he never skips.”

they check classrooms.

empty.

library.

nothing.

then atsumu mutters, “soccer field.”

they cut across campus.

and there he is.

front row of the bleachers.

leaning over the metal fence.

you jog up to him, slightly breathless, cheeks flushed from running drills.

short soccer shorts.

jersey clinging in a way that makes it obvious you’ve been moving.

hair up in a messy ponytail, strands stuck to your temple.

osamu hands you your water bottle without even looking away from you.

you bump your shoulder lightly against the fence when you take it.

atsumu’s face tightens.

“you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

suna doesn’t answer.

he’s watching.

the whistle blows.

you’re back on the field.

and you’re—

fast.

but not reckless.

clean touches. sharp turns. you read the field before the ball even reaches you.

you steal possession mid-pass and send it downfield with precision.

goal.

your teammates cheer.

you jog backward, grinning.

atsumu blinks. “…she’s annoyingly decent.”

suna’s eyes follow you.

he doesn’t understand the rules.

doesn’t know what counts as impressive.

but he knows athleticism.

and he knows balance.

and you move like you know exactly where you’re supposed to be.

“let’s go,” atsumu mutters, already climbing the bleachers.

suna follows.

osamu hears them but doesn’t turn.

“practice gym’s the other way,” he says casually.

“what the hell are ya doin’?” atsumu demands.

“sittin’.”

“go to practice.”

“it's optional.”

“you never skip.”

“i am today.”

atsumu gestures toward the field. “for this?”

“yeah.”

atsumu throws his hands up. “the fan club’s gonna be there.”

“yup.”

suna leans against the railing beside them.

“you’re ditching for soccer?” he asks mildly.

osamu shrugs. “i’d rather watch her.”

atsumu makes a noise of betrayal.

on the field, you glance up.

you smile when you see osamu.

then you notice the other two.

your smile falters slightly.

you jog over.

suna rests his forearms on the railing, looking down at you.

close enough to see the sweat along your jaw.

close enough to notice the way your chest rises and falls.

“didn’t know volleyball players scouted soccer now,” you say lightly.

atsumu answers first. “just makin’ sure you don’t embarrass the school.”

you grin. “then you’re wasting your time.”

suna tilts his head.

“you missed something earlier,” he says, bluffing completely.

you raise a brow. “missed what?”

he gestures vaguely toward the field.

“that… thing.”

atsumu squints at him. “what thing?”

suna doesn’t look at him. “when you… kicked it wrong.”

you stare at him.

then laugh.

“you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

his mouth twitches.

“i could,” he says smoothly.

“you absolutely could not.”

osamu snorts behind them.

atsumu folds his arms. “you absolutely are terrible at your sport.”

you glance at him innocently. “how’s your wrist?”

atsumu stiffens immediately.

osamu covers his mouth, clearly amused.

suna’s eyes flicker to atsumu for half a second.

“don’t overdo it,” you add sweetly.

atsumu points at you. “see? this is what i’m sayin’.”

you shrug. “i’m thoughtful.”

suna studies you.

“so what was that thing earlier?” he asks casually.

you cross your arms.

“that ‘thing’ was a through ball.”

“obviously.”

“sure.”

you look up at him, leaning into your hip.

“you don’t know the rules, do you?”

he doesn’t answer.

which is answer enough.

your lips curve slightly.

“figured.”

atsumu makes a gagging sound. “i think i'm gonna be sick."

osamu grins behind them, making exaggerated kissy faces that you barely notice.

the whistle blows again.

you take a step back.

“try not to get too confused watching,” you tell suna.

he smirks faintly.

“try not to trip.”

you grin.

then turn and jog back onto the field.

atsumu exhales sharply. “i hate her.”

osamu hums. “do ya?”

suna doesn’t respond.

he’s still watching.

not because he understands the game.

but because he wants to.

and that’s new.

later that day, plans were not communicated.

that becomes very obvious the second you step into the miya house and see suna already there.

“why is he here?” you ask flatly.

“why are you here?” atsumu shoots back.

osamu looks between you both like this is free entertainment.

“i told ya,” osamu says. “you just don’t listen.”

“ya said you were busy,” atsumu snaps.

“i am.”

he gestures to you.

you shrug. “not my fault you schedule sleepovers like you’re twelve.”

suna is leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, watching this unfold with mild interest.

“relax,” he says lazily. “i’m just here to suffer through your personality.”

you roll your eyes.

“please. you’re obsessed.”

“with what?”

“annoying me.”

“it’s a hobby.”

atsumu groans. “can we not do this in the hallway?”

between joint volleyball practice and soccer, all four of you are gross.

showers need to happen.

atsumu, being atsumu, immediately declares, “i’m first.”

no one argues.

schedule lands like this:

atsumu.

you.

suna.

osamu last.

atsumu disappears into the bathroom with way too much confidence.

you already know something’s up.

freshman year flashbacks are loud.

the “accidental” shampoo spills.

the loose towel rack.

the stupid cling wrap over doorways.

so when you step into the bathroom after he’s done, you don’t miss it.

the shower floor is suspiciously glossy.

you lean down.

touch it.

soap.

of course.

you sigh.

“grow up,” you mutter to yourself.

you rinse the floor before stepping in.

atsumu’s laughter from down the hall tells you he was listening for a crash.

your shower is quick.

efficient.

when you step out, steam still fogging the mirror, you wrap a towel securely around yourself and start combing through your wet hair.

the house is loud outside the door.

atsumu talking. osamu arguing back.

you barely hear the bathroom door open.

until—

fabric drops to the floor.

you freeze.

slowly look toward the doorway.

suna is standing there.

holding a towel and t-shirt.

now not holding them.

your brain short-circuits.

“are you insane?” you hiss, cheeks burning instantly. “get out.”

his eyes flick over you for half a second.

not lingering.

just enough.

“thought you were already out,” he says mildly.

“the door was locked.”

“was it?”

you glare.

he doesn’t move.

instead, one corner of his mouth lifts.

“you’re red,” he comments.

“leave.”

“relax. it’s just a towel.”

you grab a bottle of body wash and throw it at his chest.

it hits.

hard enough to make him take a step back.

“ow.”

“out.”

he laughs under his breath and finally steps out, shutting the door behind him.

you exhale sharply.

“unbelievable,” you mutter.

then your stomach drops.

your clothes.

you left them in osamu’s room.

you stare at the counter.

you are not walking down that hallway in a towel.

you hesitate for three seconds.

then—

“suna,” you whisper-shout toward the door.

no answer.

you crack it open an inch.

he’s standing right outside.

like he knew.

arms crossed.

waiting.

“what,” he says quietly.

you lower your voice.

“i forgot my clothes.”

his eyebrows lift slightly.

“that sounds like a you problem.”

“do you have extra?”

you can literally hear the smirk in his silence.

“…maybe.”

“suna.”

“what?”

“please.”

that does something.

he hums softly.

“i’ve got a shirt.”

“and?”

“sweatpants.”

you exhale. “fine.”

there’s a pause.

then he holds them out through the crack without looking inside.

a graphic t-shirt with an arctic monkeys album.

gray sweatpants.

“don’t say anything weird,” you warn.

“wasn’t going to.”

“liar.”

a quiet chuckle.

you shut the door and change quickly.

his shirt hangs slightly oversized on you.

the sweatpants pool just a little at your ankles.

you open the door.

the hallway is chaos.

atsumu and osamu arguing about something dumb — probably who ate the last popsicle.

suna is leaning against the wall again.

all three of them look over at once.

there’s a beat of silence.

atsumu squints.

“…that shirt looks familiar.”

osamu’s mouth curls immediately.

suna doesn’t say anything.

“was the floor slippery?” atsumu asks casually.

you stare at him.

“very.”

“did ya fall?”

you walk forward.

“no.”

and then you shoulder-check him hard.

except he stumbles sideways—

straight into suna.

they both go down in a tangle of limbs and offended noises.

osamu bursts out laughing instantly.

“worth it,” you say, stepping over them.

atsumu groans from the floor. “you’re the worst.”

suna, on his back now, looks up at you.

hair slightly messed.

expression unreadable.

“…you’re wearing my shirt,” he says.

you don’t miss a beat.

“you literally gave it--”

atsumu and osamu's head whip towards you.

you shut your mouth.

and you walk away.

osamu is laughs.

suna—

suna is still on the floor.

thinking.

because he swore he hated you.

swore he was just playing with you.

swore he didn’t care.

but seeing you in his clothes—

that didn’t feel like hatred at all.

but it’s friday.

that means no one’s rushing home.

sleepover energy fills the miya house whether anyone admits it or not.

“so,” atsumu says, spinning the volleyball in his hands, “we’re all stayin’, right?”

you’re cross-legged on his floor upstairs, scrolling aimlessly through your phone.

suna shrugs from the doorway. “i already told you i am.”

osamu looks at you. “you?”

“i was invited,” you reply calmly.

“unfortunately,” atsumu mutters.

“cry about it.”

suna’s mouth twitches faintly.

later, osamu and you are in his room.

door half-closed.

music low.

you’re laying on your stomach, chin in your hands.

“so,” osamu says casually, not looking at you, “what’s goin’ on with you and suna?”

you stiffen.

“nothing.”

“you wearin’ his shirt says otherwise.”

"it's just a shirt."

"he got it from their tour two years ago."

you roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling.

“it was convenient.”

“sure.”

silence stretches.

you sigh.

“…i kinda like him.”

osamu doesn’t react dramatically.

just nods once.

“figured.”

you groan. “is it that obvious?”

“to me? yeah.”

“he’s so annoying.”

“yeah.”

“and smug.”

“yep.”

“and i think he hates me.”

osamu turns to look at you now.

“he doesn’t hate you.”

“he shoved me into lockers.”

“you pulled his backpack so hard he almost fell.”

“…that was justified.”

osamu laughs.

“you’re both idiots.”

you laugh too.

it feels normal up here.

downstairs, you can hear the dull thump of volleyball against grass.

atsumu and suna peppering in the backyard.

“what if he’s just messing with me?” you ask quietly.

osamu shrugs. “then he’s dumber than i thought.”

“that’s comforting.”

“you like him?”

you hesitate.

“…yeah.”

osamu nods again.

“then i’m on your side.”

you smile softly. “thanks.”

an hour later, suna and atsumu come back inside, jumpy and loud.

they settle on the couch to review game tape.

you and osamu exchange a look.

“prank?” he mouths.

you nod and grin.

you sneak downstairs quietly.

you both crouch behind the couch where atsumu and suna are sitting.

the tv is playing footage from their last match.

“rewind that,” atsumu says.

“you were late,” suna replies.

“i wasn’t late.”

“you were.”

there’s a pause.

then atsumu casually says, “so what’s with the shirt?”

your stomach tightens.

suna doesn’t answer immediately.

“what shirt?” he asks lazily.

“don’t act dumb. the one she’s wearin’.”

a beat.

then—

“it's not a big deal. i’m just playing with her.”

your heart drops so fast it almost feels physical.

like missing a stair in the dark.

you lose your balance and immediately clutch the back of the couch trying to steady yourself.

atsumu snorts. “figured.”

“it's not hard,” suna continues lightly. “she's sensitive.”

it’s said so casually.

so effortlessly.

like it means nothing.

like you mean nothing.

beside you, osamu’s head turns instantly.

he looks at you.

your face is completely still.

you don’t feel like you’re breathing.

it’s not dramatic.

it’s not loud.

it’s just—

empty.

osamu gently taps your wrist.

you nod once.

you both quietly crawl backward and slip upstairs before either of them notices.

back in his room, you sit on the edge of the bed.

osamu stands in front of you.

“…hey.”

you shrug.

“it’s fine.”

it doesn’t sound fine.

“he’s stupid,” osamu says.

you nod again.

you want to cry.

you can feel it sitting right behind your eyes.

but nothing comes out.

it’s like your body refuses.

like if you start, you won’t stop.

so you don’t.

“let’s go get snacks,” you say suddenly.

osamu blinks.

“…now?”

“yeah.”

he studies you for a second.

then nods.

“okay.”

you sneak out the side door.

the air is cool.

the convenience store down the street is lit up like a beacon.

inside, it smells like sugar and freezer air.

you grab chips.

candy.

ramen cups.

ice cream sandwiches.

osamu tosses random things into the basket just to make you roll your eyes.

at one point he chases you down an aisle with a bag of marshmallows.

you almost crash into a display of energy drinks.

you’re both laughing too hard to care.

for ten minutes, it’s easy again.

the two of you walk back with plastic bags cutting into your fingers.

“feel better?” osamu asks softly.

you nod.

“yeah.”

it’s not fully true.

but it’s enough.

when you reach the house, the porch light is on.

atsumu is leaning against the railing.

suna beside him.

both staring at you like they’ve been waiting.

atsumu raises a brow. “where were ya?”

“out,” osamu replies simply.

“real specific.”

you walk up the steps without stopping.

suna’s eyes track you.

when you try to pass, he reaches out lightly, fingers brushing your wrist.

“hey.”

you don’t look at him.

you pull your hand back.

and push past him.

he stills.

osamu follows you inside without a word.

atsumu looks between them, confused.

suna remains on the porch for half a second longer.

something unsettled creeping into his chest.

because you didn’t glare.

didn’t snap.

you just—

walked away.

and suddenly, “just playing”,

doesn’t feel so funny anymore.

you dump the plastic bags onto the coffee table.

“okay,” you say, kneeling down. “we need a system.”

osamu immediately drops beside you.

“priorities first.”

atsumu eyes the pile greedily.

“open the sour cream ones.”

“no,” you and osamu say at the same time.

you start sorting.

chips in one pile.

candy in another.

ramen cups lined up like soldiers.

“these are mine,” you say, sliding two chocolate bars aside.

“absolutely not,” osamu replies, pulling one back.

“you didn’t even grab them.”

“i contributed emotional support.”

“that doesn’t count.”

atsumu huffs. “why are y’all calculatin’ it like a math exam?”

“because strategy matters,” you reply without looking at him.

you overanalyze expiration dates.

portion sizes.

what’ll hit best at 2 a.m.

you’re laughing.

it's loud. and bright.

suna watches from the couch.

quiet.

studying the way your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

eventually, you stand.

“bathroom,” you mumble.

no one questions it.

the second the door locks behind you, your hands find the counter.

you lean forward.

head dipping.

your shoulders shake before you can stop them.

tears fall fast.

you press your palm over your mouth to swallow the sound.

it hurts in a stupid way.

not loud.

not dramatic.

just heavy.

you stare at your reflection through blurred vision.

“she’s sensitive.”

you let yourself cry for exactly one minute.

maybe two.

then you rinse your face.

cold water.

over and over.

you wait until your breathing evens out.

when you walk out, you’re composed.

your eyes are slightly red.

puffy.

your nose faintly pink.

your hands tremble if someone looks too closely.

suna does.

you drop onto the floor beside the table and rip open a bag of chips.

no hesitation.

you start eating them too fast.

like if your mouth is full you won’t have to talk.

suna sits down across from you.

watches for a second.

then casually slides his hand into the bag.

you don’t look at him.

you just grab the bag and shove it hard into his chest.

he barely catches it.

you don’t wait to see if he does.

you stand.

and walk down the hall.

osamu is up immediately.

he glances between atsumu and suna.

then calmly sweeps almost every snack off the table into his arms.

he leaves one bag behind.

the one atsumu hates.

atsumu stares at it in betrayal.

“seriously?”

hours later, the house quiets.

osamu falls asleep mid-sentence, sprawled across his bed.

atsumu passes out on the couch downstairs, game footage still flickering across the tv.

suna lingers.

he stares at the screen for a second.

then shuts it off for him.

the house goes dim.

you slip out of osamu’s room quietly.

bathroom light on.

you check the mirror again.

eyes still faintly swollen.

you press your fingers beneath them.

you think about middle school.

how suna was always just—

there.

not loud like atsumu.

not easy like osamu.

just present.

leaning against doorframes.

sometimes walking you home without making it obvious.

sometimes annoying you on purpose.

you always thought it meant something.

you turn off the bathroom light.

open the door.

a hand catches your wrist instantly.

you gasp softly before you’re pulled into atsumu’s room.

the same room you hadn’t stepped into since seventh grade.

since he tried locking you in the bathroom and you chased him down the hallway with a butter knife.

the lights are off.

the door shuts.

you can barely see him.

“what are you doing?” you whisper-shout.

he’s quiet for a second.

then—

“…were you crying?"

“i have a cold.”

silence.

he steps closer.

not touching.

just near enough that you feel it.

“you don’t.”

you swallow.

“go to sleep, rintaro.”

he doesn’t move.

“did you hear us?”

the question lands heavy.

when you don't answer, he speaks.

“…it wasn’t like that.”

you let out a small laugh.

it’s not amused.

it’s not angry.

“it sounded exactly like that.”

he runs a hand through his hair.

this isn’t how he usually operates.

“atsumu was pushing,” he mutters.

“so?”

“so i said something.”

“you said i was sensitive.”

your voice is too steady.

“you are,” he says quietly.

that makes you look at him.

“that’s not an insult.”

“didn’t sound like a compliment.”

he hesitates.

and that hesitation is real.

“i didn’t mean it like that.”

“how did you mean it?”

he doesn’t answer right away.

you can barely see his face in the dark, but you can hear the shift in his breathing.

“i meant,” he says slowly, “that you react. you feel things.”

you cross your arms.

“wow. groundbreaking.”

“stop.”

that word comes out sharper than he intended.

you still.

he steps closer again.

“i said i was playing,” he continues, lower now. “because it’s easier than explaining.”

“explaining what?”

he looks at you.

really looks at you.

like he’s weighing whether to ruin himself.

“that i don’t hate you.”

your chest tightens.

“congratulations.”

“that’s not the part i was avoiding.”

you don’t breathe.

“…then what is?”

he swallows.

you hear it.

“i don’t mess with people i don’t care about.”

your heart stutters.

“that’s a terrible system.”

“i know.”

he lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

“i didn’t think you’d hear that.”

“well i did.”

“yeah.”

a beat.

“and it wasn’t fair.”

that lands differently.

he doesn’t apologize easily.

you know that.

“so you don’t think i’m just… easy to mess with?” you ask.

he steps even closer now.

close enough that if you leaned forward an inch—

“no,” he says.

the silence stretches.

your throat burns.

“then why say it?”

he hesitates again.

and this time, he doesn’t dodge it.

“because if atsumu thinks i’m serious about you, he won’t shut up about it.”

your stomach flips.

“serious?”

“don’t.”

“don’t what?”

“make me say it like that.”

you almost smile.

but it still hurts.

“you’re a coward,” you whisper.

he exhales through his nose.

“yeah.”

he doesn’t argue it.

that’s new.

you look down at your hands.

still slightly trembling.

he notices.

“you were crying,” he says again.

“i told you—”

“don’t.”

he reaches out this time.

careful.

slow.

his fingers brush your wrist.

not grabbing.

just there.

“i’m not playing,” he says quietly.

your eyes sting.

“prove it.”

the words slip out before you can stop them.

there’s a long pause.

then—

he closes the distance.

not dramatic.

not rushed.

just enough that his hand slides from your wrist to your waist.

hesitant.

like he’s giving you time to push him away.

you don’t.

his other hand lifts.

hesitates near your face.

then gently wipes beneath your eye with his thumb.

you freeze.

“you don’t cry over things that don’t matter,” he murmurs.

his voice is different.

soft.

unguarded.

“you matter.”

your breath catches.

he doesn’t kiss you.

doesn’t make it cinematic.

he just rests his forehead lightly against yours.

like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

like he’s been thinking about doing it for months.

“i’m not just playing,” he repeats.

this time, it doesn’t sound like a defense.

it sounds like a confession.

your hands slowly curl into the fabric of his shirt.

“…you’re still a jerk,” you whisper.

he huffs softly.

“yeah.”

but he doesn’t let go.

and for the first time,

neither do you.

the hallway floor creaks.

footsteps.

closer than they should be.

you and suna both hear it at the same time.

his head snaps toward the door instantly, body going alert in a way that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with instinct. years of reacting to spikes, to serves, to sudden shifts in movement — it’s second nature. his eyes scan the room in a split second, calculating angles, space, timing.

the doorknob rattles faintly.

“shoot,” you whisper.

the door starts to open.

without thinking, you grab his wrist and point toward the far wall — the large built-in closet lining the side of atsumu’s room.

he doesn’t hesitate.

you both move at once.

quick, quiet, controlled.

the closet door shuts just as atsumu pushes into the room, yawning.

“why’s it hot in here…” he mutters to himself, half-asleep.

you’re pressed into darkness.

the air is warm.

close.

you can hear atsumu shuffling around, dropping something onto the desk, mumbling about chargers.

your back hits the inside wall of the closet as suna shifts to make space.

there isn’t much.

your knees brush his.

your hands are still tangled loosely in his shirt from earlier.

neither of you let go.

outside, atsumu flops onto the bed with a heavy sigh.

“stupid optional practice,” he grumbles.

silence.

then his breathing evens out.

steady.

asleep.

you don’t realize how tense your shoulders are until you exhale.

suna’s face is inches from yours in the dark.

“you always cause this much trouble?” he whispers.

you almost smile.

“you followed me in here.”

“you dragged me.”

“you moved first.”

“i’m fast.”

“i noticed.”

his hand finds your waist again.

slower this time.

intentional.

the earlier edge between you is gone, replaced by something warmer. softer. but no less intense.

you swallow.

“you were saying something,” you remind him quietly.

he doesn’t dodge it now.

doesn’t deflect.

doesn’t smirk.

the darkness makes it easier.

“i love you.”

it’s simple.

no buildup.

no performance.

just truth.

it hits you harder than anything he’s said all night.

your fingers tighten in his shirt.

“say it again,” you whisper.

he leans closer, breath warm against your cheek.

“i love you.”

your throat burns.

you don’t hesitate.

“i love you too.”

it feels terrifying.

and right.

for a second, neither of you move.

like you’re both waiting to see if the world shifts.

it doesn’t.

it just narrows down to this.

to the heat between you.

to the way his hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him.

he kisses you first.

not rushed.

not aggressive.

just sure.

your hands find his shoulders, then his hair.

the kiss deepens slowly, breath hitching between you when you bump into a shelf.

you gasp softly.

he swallows the sound.

backs you gently into the wall of the closet.

his palm spreads against your waist, grounding you.

his mouth drifts from your lips to your jaw.

then to the side of your neck.

you tilt your head instinctively.

his breath warms your skin before his lips do.

you feel it everywhere.

the space is too small.

too close.

your heartbeat is louder than it should be.

he kisses back up to your mouth, slower now, like he’s memorizing it.

you’re both breathing harder.

soft gasps between kisses.

your fingers curl into his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you don’t hold on.

“you drive me insane,” he murmurs against your lips.

“you shoved me into lockers,” you breathe back.

“you pulled my backpack.”

“you said i was sensitive.”

“you are.”

“shut up.”

he kisses you again before you can argue.

it feels competitive in a way that makes sense.

like soccer and volleyball always running parallel on the same campus — different courts, different rules, same hunger to win.

you’ve both been circling each other for years.

passing.

serving.

returning.

waiting for someone to make the first real move.

finally—

someone did.

outside the closet, a floorboard creaks.

voices.

“…where’d they go?” osamu’s voice, quieter than usual.

“she was just here,” atsumu mutters.

your lips part abruptly.

you both freeze.

you can hear footsteps moving closer.

closet door inches away.

you’re still pressed together.

breathing uneven.

suna’s forehead rests against yours for one last second.

“guess we should play it cool,” he whispers.

you almost laugh.

“since when do you play it cool?”

“since now.”

the closet handle rattles lightly.

“you think they’re in here?” atsumu’s voice is suspicious.

osamu hums.

inside the dark, suna squeezes your waist once.

steady. certain.

you let out a quiet breath you didn’t know you were holding, feeling the press of his body behind yours. his forehead rests against yours, warm, heavy, grounding. your hands curl into his shirt instinctively, nails digging just slightly, as if by holding him you can anchor yourself to something real.

“you’re not…playing...?” you whisper, barely audible.

“never,” he murmurs back, thumb brushing over the curve of your hip.

you tilt your head slightly, enough to let your lips brush his. it starts slow, searching, teasing — the kind of kiss that builds from years of stolen glances, locker collisions, and quiet hallway skirmishes. the small space of the closet makes every movement feel more electric, more urgent.

his hands slide up from your waist to your back, pulling you flush against him. the wall presses behind you, solid, unyielding. your knees brush together, shins lock briefly — every inch of proximity sharp, precise, like a practiced serve or spike in volleyball. he moves with instinct, like he knows exactly how to keep you tethered without hurting you, like every step and shift is measured.

he kisses down your jaw, brushing over your neck, then returns to your lips, deeper, harder. breaths come fast. hearts race. you gasp against him, and he hums low, teasing, possessive. your hands reach up into his hair, tangling gently, and he tilts your head just enough to deepen the kiss again, murmuring your name against your lips.

you both break for air, foreheads pressed together, chests heaving, eyes half-closed, sharing tiny, shaky laughs.

then, from outside: a floorboard creaks.

“…you think they’re in here?” atsumu’s voice, laced with suspicion and sleep-deprivation.

osamu hums quietly behind him.

he kisses the side of your cheek with a grin. 

you shove gently against him. “what now?”

“now we hide,” he replies, voice low and teasing. his hands stay on your waist, but he shifts you to stand slightly sideways, pressing you just enough behind him.

the closet door shakes slightly as atsumu pokes it.

suna leans into you, chest to back, murmuring: “just breathe."

you laugh softly, breathless.

“i think they know we’re in here,” you whisper.

he snickers.

the door creaks again. atsumu and osamu glance around, then sigh, clearly realizing something is off. atsumu’s forehead wrinkles, and osamu’s smirk spreads slowly.

“ohhhhhh,” osamu says. a beat. "i wonder what you guys were doing..."

atsumu groans loudly. “i swear, if this is another one of your dumb plans—”

“shhh,” osamu hushes, still grinning. “look at them. they’re… serious.”

and at that, suna presses just slightly more, lips grazing your neck again, and you bite back a gasp.

atsumu’s voice rises in exasperation: “you’re kidding me! get out of there right now!”

osamu just laughs quietly, shaking his head. “yep… can confirm. it’s happening.”

the two of them linger outside the closet, muttering back and forth, peeking occasionally, completely unable to interfere without exposing themselves.

inside, the world narrows again to just the two of you. hands, lips, quick gasps for breath, stolen warmth, silent confessions.

he brushes your hair back from your face, eyes flicking to yours in the faint light slipping under the closet door.

“i love you,” he whispers, just for you this time.

“i love you too,” you breathe back, fingers tightening on the fabric of his shirt.

a laugh escapes him, low and incredulous, like he’s amazed he’s allowed to feel this, to be here with you.

outside, atsumu mutters something incoherent, probably about being “done with life,” while osamu just chuckles and shakes his head.

ONESHOTTT

notes: wait i think im addicted i LOVE this one <333 (this is like enemy's brother x reader kinda thing)

-----

everyone thought you were the problem.

you weren’t.

daichi morimoto — mizuki’s boyfriend — started it.

it began with small things. eye contact held too long. unnecessary compliments. sitting a little too close during group work.

you never reciprocated.

never flirted.

never laughed too hard.

never entertained it.

if anything, you ignored him harder the more obvious he got.

but when mizuki found out he “had feelings,” she didn’t confront him.

she confronted you.

maybe because it was easier.

she’d slam her locker when you passed. whisper insults just loud enough for you to hear. accuse you of “playing innocent.”

the funny thing?

you were innocent.

you didn’t want him. didn’t need him. didn’t even think about him outside of being mildly inconvenient.

but mizuki didn’t believe that.

and honestly?

you didn’t care enough to make her.

present day

you’re halfway to class when someone grabs your sleeve and pulls you to the side of the hallway.

“what is wrong with you?” mizuki snaps.

you steady yourself easily. calm.

“you’ll have to be specific.”

her eye twitches.

“stop acting dumb. daichi told me you’ve been ignoring him to make him chase you.”

you blink once.

that’s… new.

“that sounds like his imagination,” you reply evenly.

“don’t lie to me!”

you glance around briefly. people are slowing down. watching.

she steps closer. “you think you’re better than me?”

you shrug lightly.

“i don’t think about you enough to compare.”

that does it.

her voice rises, sharp enough to echo down the hallway.

“you’re doing this on purpose!”

and just as she’s about to escalate—

a hand wraps around your wrist.

firm. warm. steady.

“that’s enough.”

the voice is lazy but edged with something colder.

you turn your head.

blond hair. glasses. tall. vaguely familiar from passing by in the halls.

kei tsukishima

mizuki freezes.

“…what?”

he doesn’t look at her.

he looks at you.

then back at her.

“she’s with me.”

the hallway quiets just enough to notice.

mizuki stares between you two. “since when?”

“recently,” he answers flatly.

you open your mouth.

he tightens his grip slightly — subtle. warning.

mizuki’s pride kicks in before logic does. She scoffs.

“whatever,” she mutters, glaring at you. “you’re pathetic.”

she turns sharply and disappears down the hall.

the second she’s gone—

you yank your wrist free.

“what the hell was that?” you demand.

he looks down at you, unimpressed.

“you’re welcome.”

“i didn’t ask for help.”

“you didn’t need to. she was about to scream.”

“and?”

“and teachers don’t enjoy hallway theatrics.”

you fold your arms. “so your solution was to lie?”

“it worked.”

“that’s not the point.”

he studies you for a second, like he’s recalculating something.

“you weren’t handling it,” he says.

you laugh once — humorless. “i was fine.”

“you looked bored.”

“i was bored.”

that seems to amuse him.

a faint smirk touches his mouth.

“you’re either very confident,” he says, “or very detached.”

“does it matter?”

“not really.”

there’s a beat.

then you narrow your eyes slightly. “why did you even step in?”

he shrugs. “She was being loud.”

“that’s it?”

“that’s it.”

you don’t believe him.

but he doesn’t elaborate.

the late bell rings.

students begin rushing past.

you start to move away, but his voice stops you.

“if she keeps bothering you, we can keep it up.”

you turn back slowly. “keep what up?”

“this.” he gestures lazily between you.

“you want to pretend date?”

“if that’s what you want to call it.”

you stare at him.

“you don’t even know me.”

“i know enough.”

“oh?”

“you don’t react,” he says calmly. “people hate that.”

you blink.

that’s… uncomfortably accurate.

“and you?” you ask. “why would you volunteer for this?”

his gaze sharpens just slightly.

“let’s just say,” he replies, “i don’t like seeing pointless drama drag on.”

you tilt your head.

“and you think pretending to date me won’t cause drama?”

his lips twitch.

"probably will.”

there’s something about the way he says it — like he doesn’t mind.

like he might even enjoy it.

you should walk away.

you should tell him to stay out of your business.

instead, you hear yourself say—

“fine.”

his brows lift a fraction. “that was quick.”

“i don’t care enough not to.”

“charming.”

you step closer — not intimidated, not flustered.

“don’t grab me like that again,” you say quietly.

he doesn’t apologize.

but his expression shifts — more attentive now.

“okay.”

another pause.

charged.

interesting.

“what’s your name?” you ask.

He adjusts his glasses.

“tsukishima.”

you hum lightly. “first name?”

“kei.”

you nod once.

“alright, kei,” you say evenly. “if we’re doing this, don’t half-commit.”

his eyes flicker.

"oh?”

“if you’re going to lie,” you continue, “make it convincing.”

for the first time, he looks genuinely intrigued.

“after school,” he says. “we’ll make it believable.”

you raise an eyebrow. “that sounds ominous.”

“it’s not.”

“…you sure?”

he leans in slightly — just enough to invade your space.

“you’ll see.”

and then he walks away like he didn’t just rewrite your entire social situation.

you watch him go.

kei tsukishima.

random tall boy who decided to claim you in the hallway.

you have no idea why he stepped in.

no idea why mizuki went quiet so quickly.

the hallway incident spreads faster than you expected.

not that you care.

if anything, the whispers amuse you. people keep glancing between you and kei tsukishima like they’re trying to solve a math equation.

you don’t give them anything to work with.

you’re walking to class the next morning when a familiar voice slides in beside you.

“you walk fast.”

you don’t look at him.

“you talk too much.”

he hums thoughtfully. “that wasn’t a compliment.”

“wasn’t meant to be.”

he matches your pace easily. longer legs. unfair advantage.

“mizuki’s been quiet,” he says casually.

“good for her.”

“that’s all you have to say?”

you finally glance at him. “what reaction are you hoping for?”

“something interesting.”

“then lower your expectations.”

he smirks.

you hate that it almost suits him.

he steps in front of you suddenly, blocking your path.

you stop short, annoyed.

“move.”

“not yet.”

“tsukishima.”

“that’s my name.”

your jaw tightens.

“you’re irritating.”

“i’ve been told.”

you exhale sharply and step forward, pressing both palms against his chest to shove him out of the way.

solid.

he doesn’t budge.

not even an inch.

you push harder.

nothing.

he looks down at your hands, then at you.

smirks.

“that all you’ve got?”

your eye twitches.

“don’t test me.”

“you’re the one who started pushing.”

you drop one hand, then the other, unimpressed. instead of trying to shove him back, you place one palm against his shoulder and push him sideways just enough to slip past.

“you’re in my way,” you mutter.

“you're being violent,” he calls after you lazily.

“you're just fragile,” you shoot back without turning around.

from down the hall, unnoticed by you, mizuki watches the entire exchange.

her nails dig into her palm.

later that day, karma feels necessary.

you believe in balance.

if he annoys you, you annoy him.

simple.

you spot him in the library.

of course he’s studying.

of course he looks mildly superior about it.

across from him sit shoyo hinata and tobio kageyama, both hunched over notebooks with expressions that scream academic suffering.

you know them.

they know you.

and for reasons you’ve never clarified, they’re slightly afraid of you.

perfect.

you walk straight to their table.

without warning—

you smack both palms down on the surface.

the sound echoes.

hinata yelps.

kageyama physically flinches.

tsukishima just sighs.

slowly, irritatedly, he looks up at you.

“…what.”

you smile sweetly. “miss me?”

“no.”

hinata and kageyama glance between you two like they’re watching a tennis match.

you lean forward slightly. “you didn’t text.”

he blinks once. “we don’t have each other’s numbers.”

“exactly.”

kageyama looks horrified. hinata looks fascinated.

tsukishima goes back to the notebook like you’re background noise.

“as i was saying,” he continues calmly, “if you isolate x—”

you narrow your eyes.

ignored?

unacceptable.

you walk around the table.

hinata’s eyes widen.

kageyama whispers, “don’t—”

too late.

you sit directly on tsukishima’s lap.

the chairs scrape slightly with the shift of weight.

hinata’s jaw drops.

kageyama looks like his soul just left his body.

tsukishima pauses for half a second.

that’s it.

half a second.

then—

“if you isolate x,” he continues evenly, like nothing happened, “you’ll see the coefficient cancels out.”

you stare at him.

he rests one hand lightly beneath your thighs, adjusting you slightly higher so you’re not sliding off.

it’s practical.

annoyingly casual.

then his hand returns to the table.

like this is normal.

like you sitting on his lap during tutoring happens every day.

you lean closer to his face. “are you serious right now?”

“very.”

“you’re not even looking at me.”

“i’m teaching.”

“i’m distracting.”

“unsuccessfully.”

hinata makes a strangled noise.

kageyama is staring at the table like eye contact might end him.

you huff. “you’re no fun.”

“you’re disruptive.”

“you liked it when i pushed you earlier.”

he finally looks at you.

slowly.

measured.

“don’t flatter yourself.”

you squint at him.

he turns back to the boys. “page 42.”

you sit there another five seconds.

ten.

waiting for him to crack.

he doesn’t.

you slide off his lap abruptly.

“boring,” you declare.

hinata exhales loudly like he’s been holding his breath for years.

kageyama still refuses to look up.

you lean down slightly, closer to tsukishima’s ear.

“this isn’t over.”

his voice is quiet when he replies.

“i know.”

you straighten and walk away like you didn’t just cause a scene in the quietest place in school.

behind you, hinata whispers, “are you two actually dating?”

tsukishima adjusts his glasses.

“…study.”

but his ears are slightly red.

it happens three days later.

you’re at your locker when it slams shut in front of your face.

you don’t even need to look.

“what now?” you ask calmly.

mizuki is shaking.

not annoyed.

not irritated.

shaking angry.

“you think this is funny?” she snaps.

you lean against the lockers, unfazed. “i don’t think about you enough for it to be funny.”

her jaw tightens.

“stop acting clueless. you’re doing this on purpose.”

“doing what?”

“getting close to him.”

you frown slightly. “him who?”

she stares at you like you just insulted her entire bloodline.

“kei.”

you blink once.

“…kei?”

before you can process that tone—

a familiar voice cuts in.

“mizuki.”

kei walks up behind her, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.

mizuki whips around. “what?”

"what are you doing?"

she presses her lips into a thin line. "just...talking..."

you raise an eyebrow at that. 

"...talking?" you repeat, humorless.

he looks between the two of you.

then, calmly—

“tell her your name.”

mizuki scoffs. “she knows my name.”

“your full name.”

she frowns. “why does that matter?”

“just say it.”

she rolls her eyes dramatically.

“mizuki tsukishima.”

it feels like the hallway drops ten degrees.

your brain replays it.

tsukishima.

tsukishima.

you look at kei.

then at mizuki.

back at kei.

“…you’re kidding.”

mizuki crosses her arms. “what, you didn’t know?”

your stomach drops.

all the times he intervened.

all the times she went quiet when he showed up.

the way she watched from a distance.

your jaw actually falls open.

before mizuki can say anything else—

“i’m sorry,” you blurt.

and then you turn and walk away.

fast.

you’re down the hall in seconds, heart pounding louder than your footsteps.

this makes no sense.

of all people.

of all possible people.

him?

her brother?

you barely make it to the corner before footsteps catch up effortlessly.

of course they do.

long legs.

annoyingly athletic.

“you run slow,” kei says evenly from behind you.

you spin around.

“why didn’t you tell me?”

he doesn’t pretend to misunderstand.

“you didn’t ask.”

“that’s not funny.”

“i’m not joking.”

you stare at him, angrier than you’ve ever been around him.

he notices.

it’s written all over your face.

you’re never like this.

never reactive.

never loud.

“why does it matter?” he asks quietly.

you laugh once — sharp. “are you serious?”

“yes.”

“she’s my least favorite person in this entire school.”

“i’m aware.”

“and you’re her brother.”

he watches you carefully.

“and?”

“and it’s confusing!” you snap.

there it is.

raw.

honest.

he’s never seen you like this before.

never seen you rattled.

“why?” he asks again, softer this time.

you hesitate.

you hate this.

you hate that you’re about to say this.

but you’re too frustrated to swallow it.

“because i like you,” you admit.

the words hit the space between you and don’t take them back.

silence.

his eyebrows shoot up slightly.

that caught him off guard.

good.

“i like you,” you repeat, quieter now but still angry. “and i didn’t know you were related to her. and now it feels stupid.”

he doesn’t smirk.

doesn’t tease.

doesn’t deflect.

he just steps closer.

“stupid?” he repeats.

“yes.”

“why.”

“because it’s messy.”

“when has that stopped you.”

you glare at him. “don’t.”

but there’s no heat behind it now.

just nerves.

he exhales slowly.

then, without another word, he takes your wrist.

not rough.

not dramatic.

just decisive.

he pulls you down the hall and into the nearest empty classroom.

the door shuts behind you.

quiet.

sunlight through dusty windows.

you barely have time to process before he speaks.

“you like me.”

it’s not a question.

you cross your arms defensively. “don’t make it weird.”

“i’m not.”

he steps closer.

you don’t move back this time.

“i didn’t tell you,” he says calmly, “because i wanted you to choose me without that influencing you.”

your anger flickers.

“what?”

“if you knew,” he continues, “you would’ve pulled away immediately.”

he’s not wrong.

you hate that he’s not wrong.

“i wanted to see what you’d do,” he finishes.

your voice drops. “and?”

his gaze sharpens.

“you sat on my lap in the middle of the library.”

your face warms slightly.

“…that was tactical.”

“sure.”

a small pause.

then—

“i like you too,” he says.

simple.

steady.

your heart stumbles.

“don’t say that just because—”

“i don’t say things just because.”

fair.

he steps into your space completely now.

close enough that you feel his breath.

“she doesn’t control who i like,” he says quietly. “and she definitely doesn’t control who you do.”

your chest rises slowly.

“this is going to make her furious.”

“probably.”

you huff. “you sound happy about that.”

“i’m not unhappy.”

you shake your head slightly, but you’re smiling now despite yourself.

“you’re insufferable.”

“and you still like me.”

you roll your eyes.

but you don’t deny it.

his hand comes up, brushing lightly against your waist — giving you time to pull away if you want.

you don’t.

“last chance,” he murmurs. “this gets complicated.”

you look up at him.

“it already is.”

that’s all the confirmation he needs.

he leans down and kisses you.

it’s not rushed.

not dramatic.

just firm and certain.

your hands slide into the front of his shirt, fisting lightly in the fabric.

for once, you’re not composed.

not detached.

not indifferent.

and when he pulls back, there’s the smallest hint of a smile on his face.

“guess we’re telling mizuki,” he says.

you groan. “don’t ruin the moment.”

he kisses you again anyway.

happy ending.

messy.

ONESHOT!!

notes: wow im spamming sorry and it's kind of crazy how ive never written for akaashi before so i hope i handled his character well

---

everyone likes akaashi keiji.

teachers trust him. underclassmen admire him. girls whisper about him. boys respect him. even the loudest, most chaotic personalities somehow soften around him.

he doesn’t have enemies.

he doesn’t need to.

he’s calm. composed. untouchable.

and then there’s you.

you, who collect boys like trophies.

you, who smile sweetly and leave them ruined.

you, who kiss them in hallways and return their hoodies without warning.

you don’t date.

you entertain yourself.

and everyone knows it.

everyone knows you’re a heartbreaker.

everyone also knows that for some reason—some miracle—you’ve never once toyed with bokuto kotaru.

he’s your best friend. has been since before high school. before popularity. before reputations.

he looks at you like you hung the moon.

you know it.

akaashi knows it.

the entire volleyball team knows it.

bokuto still blushes when you compliment him.

and you’ve never crossed that line.

not because you couldn’t.

but because he’s good.

too good.

it happens on a random tuesday.

you’re pressed up against some guy from the basketball team—tall, decent jawline, forgettable personality. his hands are on your waist. yours are in his hair.

there’s an audience. there’s always an audience.

he pulls away, breathless.

“i got you something,” he says, grinning.

flowers.

of course.

you smile like you’re touched. like you’re special.

you take them.

and then—

the hallway shifts.

not because it gets louder.

because it gets quieter.

akaashi keiji is walking down the hall.

uniform neat. tie straight. bag over one shoulder.

calm.

always calm.

your eyes lock onto him.

and they don’t move.

the guy in front of you keeps talking. something about practice. something about taking you out this weekend.

you don’t hear a word.

akaashi doesn’t look at you.

not directly.

but he knows.

he always knows.

your smile fades.

the flowers feel cheap in your hand.

“…actually,” you cut in smoothly.

the basketball boy pauses.

you hand the flowers back to him.

his face falls. “what?”

“this was fun,” you say lightly. sweet. effortless. “but i’m bored.”

gasps.

actual gasps.

you don’t even look back as you step around him.

straight toward akaashi.

the hallway parts for you like you’re royalty.

he stops walking.

finally looks at you.

his expression doesn’t change.

that’s what irritates you.

“hi,” you say.

he nods politely. “hello.”

no stutter. no fluster. no visible annoyance.

just steady eye contact.

“what’s your name?” you ask, tilting your head.

a flicker.

the tiniest flicker of something in his eyes.

“akaashi keiji.”

“hmm.” you pretend to think. “never heard of you.”

a lie.

you know exactly who he is.

vice captain. setter. top of his class. bokuto’s emotional support human.

he knows you’re lying.

“i’m not interested,” he says calmly.

just like that.

no hesitation.

no cruelty.

just a fact.

the hallway goes dead silent.

you blink.

“…in what?” you ask.

“whatever this is,” he says.

there’s no anger in his voice.

no judgment.

just quiet certainty.

you feel something strange in your chest.

not rejection.

challenge.

you smile slowly.

dangerously.

“you think you know what this is?”

“i think you’re bored,” he replies. “and i don’t intend to be your next distraction.”

your heart stutters.

because he’s right.

he turns to walk away.

you grab his sleeve.

not hard.

just enough.

he pauses.

looks down at your hand.

then back at you.

and for the first time—

you see it.

not dislike.

not fear.

interest.

buried deep. controlled. restrained.

“i don’t give up easily,” you murmur.

“i know,” he says quietly.

and then he gently removes your hand.

“but you’ll give up eventually.”

and walks away.

the hallway explodes into whispers.

you’re still standing there.

for the first time in your life—

you weren’t the one who walked away first.

and it does something to you.

something unfamiliar.

something dangerous.

akaashi doesn’t look back.

but he feels your eyes on him the entire way down the corridor.

and you?

you’ve never wanted something more.

but bokuto doesn’t see it.

he never does.

he sees you the way he always has — loud, brilliant, shining. his best friend. his biggest cheerleader.

he doesn’t see the way your gaze lingers somewhere else.

he doesn’t see the way akaashi subtly stiffens when you walk into the gym.

and akaashi?

akaashi sees everything.

you’re captain of the girls’ volleyball team.

you’re top of your class.

you’re beautiful in a way that isn’t loud — it’s devastating.

and he could not care less.

at least, that’s what he tells himself.

joint practice is always chaos.

bokuto is yelling about cross shots.

you’re laughing across the net, calling him dramatic.

“that was out!”

“it was in!!”

you beam at him anyway when he scores.

he beams back like you handed him the point personally.

akaashi sets.

steady.

precise.

predictable in the way only geniuses are.

and then you do it.

you adjust your ponytail.

not once.

twice.

you know exactly how it frames your neck.

how it exposes just enough.

akaashi notices.

he hates that he notices.

the next rally, you jump for a hit.

you never miss.

never.

but somehow, the ball clips your palm wrong.

it drops short.

you land smoothly, acting mildly annoyed.

“my bad,” you say lightly.

akaashi already has the ball in his hands.

he sets again.

perfect height.

perfect placement.

to you.

you crush it this time.

the gym erupts.

you don’t look at your teammates.

you look at him.

“thanks, akaashi,” you call.

he nods once.

neutral.

controlled.

inside, he’s irritated.

not at you.

at himself.

because he knows you didn’t miss.

you’re too sharp for that.

and you’re too strategic.

sometimes you cheer for him.

not loudly.

not like you do for bokuto.

but when he dumps the ball unexpectedly or places a setter’s second touch just right—

you clap.

once.

deliberate.

“nice read.”

it does something strange to him.

because you’re not stupid.

you understand the game.

you understand him.

and that’s dangerous.

after practice, you corner him.

not dramatically.

just casually.

“akaashi.”

he’s packing up his bag.

“yes?”

“can you tutor me?”

he pauses.

raises an eyebrow.

you’re ranked first in your class.

you beat him in math last semester.

“in what subject?” he asks evenly.

you hesitate for half a second.

“english.”

his eyes narrow slightly.

“you’re struggling in english?”

you sigh dramatically. “why does everyone assume i’m perfect?”

because you are, he almost says.

instead, he holds out his hand.

“grades.”

you don’t argue.

you pull up the portal on your phone and hand it over.

he scans.

a’s.

a’s.

a’s.

science.

math.

history.

another a.

and then—

english.

c.

his brow furrows.

you watch him carefully.

“i don’t get it,” he mutters.

“me neither,” you say softly.

it’s not fake.

that part isn’t fake.

you’ve always been good with logic. structure. numbers.

words feel different.

messier.

harder to control.

he hands the phone back.

studies you.

you don’t look smug.

you don’t look like you’re plotting.

you look… mildly frustrated.

and that unsettles him more than flirting ever could.

“when is your next exam?” he asks.

your heart jumps.

you keep your face composed.

“next friday.”

a pause.

he exhales quietly.

“fine.”

you blink. “fine?”

“i’ll tutor you.”

your smile starts small.

then grows.

bright.

real.

it hits him in the chest harder than any attempt you’ve made before.

“thank you, akaashi,” you say, softer this time.

less teasing.

more sincere.

he shoulders his bag.

“this is strictly academic.”

“of course,” you reply smoothly.

but your eyes say something else entirely.

as he walks away, he tells himself this changes nothing.

he won’t be distracted.

he won’t be another name on your list.

he won’t fall for a girl who plays games for fun.

what he doesn’t realize—

is that you stopped playing the moment he said he wasn’t interested.

and this?

this isn’t a game anymore.

akaashi’s dorm room is exactly what you expected.

neat. minimal. everything in its place.

his desk is organized down to the angle of his pens. textbooks stacked. laptop centered. the faint scent of laundry detergent lingering in the air like he plans his breathing pattern too.

you stand just inside the doorway for a second longer than necessary.

“you can come in,” he says without looking up from where he’s clearing space on his desk.

“i’m appreciating the aesthetic,” you reply lightly. “it’s very… akaashi.”

he exhales through his nose.

not quite a sigh.

not quite amused.

“sit.”

so you do.

bokuto had texted the group chat earlier about going out for ramen with some volleyball friends. dramatic selfies. too many exclamation points. you reacted with a thumbs up and nothing else.

akaashi noticed.

of course he did.

now it’s quiet.

just the hum of the air conditioner and the scratch of paper as he slides a worksheet toward you.

“we’re starting with rhetorical devices,” he says. “you lose points because you identify them, but you don’t explain their effect.”

you lean forward, resting your chin in your palm.

“so you’re saying i’m smart but lazy?”

“i’m saying you’re capable of better.”

you smile slowly.

“wow. is that praise?”

“it’s an observation.”

you try.

actually try.

he walks you through tone versus mood again, this time with examples pulled from novels instead of textbooks. he explains symbolism in a way that connects to volleyball strategy, and you stare at him like he just solved world hunger.

“that’s annoyingly effective,” you admit.

he ignores the word annoyingly.

“authors are intentional,” he continues. “just like setters.”

you grin.

“so what you’re saying is, you’re the author.”

“…that’s not what i said.”

“but you didn’t deny it.”

he gives you a flat look.

you burst out laughing.

and something shifts.

your flirting isn’t sharp tonight.

it isn’t calculated.

it’s playful.

you tap your pen against his notebook when he gets too serious. you lean a little too close when reading over his shoulder, just to see if he reacts. you nudge his knee under the desk and pretend it was an accident.

he doesn’t blush.

not at first.

if anything, he looks faintly irritated.

“focus,” he says when you start dramatically misreading a sentence.

“i am focused.”

“on being disruptive.”

you grin.

“you’re no fun.”

he pauses.

then, almost reluctantly—

“that’s inaccurate.”

your eyebrows lift.

“oh?”

“i simply prefer efficiency.”

“boring.”

he shakes his head.

but there’s the faintest hint of something softer at the corner of his mouth.

an hour in, you stop joking.

you’re reading a passage silently, lips moving just slightly as you process it. your brows knit together. you underline a phrase. circle a metaphor.

“okay,” you say slowly. “the storm isn’t just weather. it’s mirroring the protagonist’s internal conflict.”

akaashi looks up from his notes.

“explain.”

you do.

not perfectly.

but clearly.

and when you finish, he studies you for a long second.

“good,” he says.

just that.

good.

it shouldn’t matter.

but it does.

you sit back in your chair, satisfied in a way that feels unfamiliar. not because you impressed him. not because you won.

because you understood.

“you’re a really good tutor,” you tell him.

it’s not flirty.

it’s not teasing.

it’s honest.

he blinks.

“…thank you.”

“no, seriously. you explain things without making me feel dumb.”

a pause.

something in his expression softens almost imperceptibly.

“I wouldn’t agree to tutor you if I thought you were incapable.”

you smile at that.

“wow. that was almost sweet.”

“don’t misinterpret it.”

you laugh again.

and this time—

he laughs too.

quiet. brief. but real.

it catches you off guard.

you stare at him for half a second too long.

he notices.

clears his throat.

“we’re moving on.”

“yes, sir,” you murmur dramatically.

he rolls his eyes.

but he’s not annoyed anymore.

by the time you pack up, your notes are filled.

actual notes.

highlighted. organized. understood.

“same time tomorrow?” you ask, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

he hesitates only slightly.

“Yes.”

you beam.

and for once, you don’t try to linger.

you don’t push.

you don’t provoke.

you just pause at the door.

“thanks, akaashi.”

soft.

genuine.

then you leave.

the room feels quieter after you’re gone.

akaashi looks down at the chair you were sitting in.

at the indent your elbow left in his notebook margin.

at the pen you forgot.

he picks it up.

sets it neatly on his desk.

and exhales.

he tells himself this is manageable.

it’s academic.

structured.

safe.

but he can still hear your laugh echoing faintly in the room.

and he doesn’t entirely mind it.

---

akaashi tells himself he doesn’t notice you.

that he’s simply observant.

that there’s a difference.

but one afternoon, on his way to the library, he sees you sitting cross-legged on the floor with three nervous first-years huddled around you. their notebooks are open. pencils tapping anxiously. you’re explaining something with patient hands, breaking down a math formula step by step, your voice steady and encouraging instead of sharp or superior.

he slows down without meaning to.

you don’t sound bored.

you don’t sound condescending.

you sound… kind.

“it’s not that you’re bad at it,” you tell the smallest one gently. “you just skipped a step. look — if you isolate the variable first, it’s way easier.”

they light up like you handed them the world.

you grin like their relief matters.

and that—

that doesn’t fit the image he built of you.

not the hallway kisser.

not the heartbreaker.

something else.

a few days later, he sees you again.

this time outside the lockers, holding up two different skirts while a sophomore girl anxiously twists her fingers together. you’re giving advice like it’s a science, explaining how proportions balance, how colors complement skin tone, how confidence changes everything.

“wear what makes you feel like you own the room,” you say finally. “people follow confidence.”

you adjust the girl’s collar softly.

she beams.

akaashi looks away before you notice him staring.

his chest feels tight.

not because you’re beautiful.

he already knew that.

because you’re generous with it.

and then there’s the part he hates.

the part he cannot rationalize.

the jealousy.

it’s subtle at first.

a boy from class laughing too loudly at something you said. you leaning in slightly, resting your chin in your palm while you listen. not flirting — just engaged.

akaashi’s jaw tightens.

he doesn’t know why.

he tells himself it’s irritation.

that you’re probably toying with him.

but the boy walks away smiling too wide.

and you don’t look victorious.

you just look… normal.

lunchtime is worse.

because that’s when you and bokuto pepper volleyball outside like you have since middle school.

it’s instinctual between you two.

fluid.

easy.

bokuto laughs when you fake him out. you clap when he adjusts mid-air to save a bad toss. your high-fives are loud, unapologetic, palms smacking together like sparks.

akaashi watches from the bench, pretending to scroll through his phone.

you shove bokuto lightly when he brags.

bokuto throws an arm around your shoulders dramatically.

you don’t shrug it off.

and something ugly curls low in akaashi’s stomach.

it’s ridiculous.

bokuto has liked you for years.

everyone knows it.

but you’ve never crossed that line.

akaashi knows that too.

still—

when bokuto grabs your wrist to spin you around after a rally, when you laugh with your head thrown back, when your hands linger a second too long after a high-five—

akaashi feels it.

sharp.

unexpected.

territorial.

he hates it.

practice doesn’t help.

you don’t miss on purpose anymore.

you don’t adjust your ponytail theatrically.

you don’t flirt.

you just play.

focused. commanding. sharp.

you correct your teammates gently. you praise them louder than you praise yourself. when one of your underclassmen messes up a receive and looks like she might cry, you walk over immediately and squeeze her shoulder.

“reset,” you murmur. “next ball.”

akaashi hears it from across the net.

and for the first time—

he wonders if he misjudged you.

that evening during tutoring, you’re quieter.

less teasing.

more attentive.

you actually struggle through a passage analysis, brows pulling together in real frustration. when he explains tone versus theme, you listen like it matters.

because it does.

when you finally get it, your face lights up — not triumphant, just relieved.

“oh,” you breathe. “that makes so much more sense.”

you look at him like he did something impressive.

he looks away first.

it’s gradual.

annoyingly gradual.

he starts noticing the way you thank the cafeteria staff.

the way you always return borrowed pencils.

the way you stay after practice to lock up even when you don’t have to.

the way you cheer for him without exaggeration, just once, precise and sincere.

“nice set.”

two words.

and somehow they echo.

the worst part?

he still gets jealous.

when a guy holds the door for you and you smile warmly.

when bokuto drapes himself over you during a movie night with the team.

when your fingers brush someone else’s wrist in conversation.

it’s irrational.

he knows it’s irrational.

but it’s there.

quiet.

growing.

and one afternoon, as he watches you laugh at something bokuto says — sunlight catching in your hair, expression open and unguarded —

akaashi realizes something unsettling.

he doesn’t dislike you.

he doesn’t distrust you.

he doesn’t think you’re playing a game anymore.

he’s afraid.

because if you’re not playing—

then neither is he.

and that changes everything.

---

it starts at lunch on friday, like most chaos does.

you and bokuto are hunched over the table, trays pushed aside, whispering dramatically about the party everyone keeps talking about. apparently it’s at some senior’s rented house. apparently there’s going to be a dj. apparently the guest list is selective.

bokuto is practically vibrating.

“i heard haruto yamamoto has the invites,” you murmur, stirring your drink with a straw.

akaashi looks up from his book at that.

he doesn’t interrupt at first. he just listens, eyes flicking between you and bokuto, observing the way you lean forward when you’re excited about something. observing the way bokuto mirrors you without realizing.

finally, he closes the book softly.

“what are you talking about?” he asks.

you turn toward him slowly, as if you’ve just remembered he exists.

“a party,” you say.

there’s something deliberate in the way you hold his gaze.

bokuto beams. “you should come, akaashi! it’ll be fun!”

you tilt your head slightly.

“would you like to?”

the question is calm. not teasing. not sharp.

just open.

akaashi hesitates. not because of you — because he’s already anticipating the noise, the crowd, the chaos.

but bokuto leans across the table, practically clasping his hands together.

“please? i don’t wanna go alone.”

akaashi sighs very quietly.

he was never going to say no.

“fine.”

bokuto cheers. you smile — small and satisfied — and look away first.

you find haruto yamamoto after school near the lockers.

you don’t approach him like you used to approach boys.

there’s no slow circling. no cutting remark. no calculated pause.

you just step into his space like you belong there.

“i heard you have invites,” you say lightly.

he straightens immediately.

you smile, but it isn’t predatory. it’s easy. warm.

“i’d love to go.”

he folds faster than expected.

“yeah, yeah, i’ll send you the address.”

you hand him your number. his phone buzzes seconds later as he sends it through.

when you walk away, you glance back once and wink.

you don’t notice akaashi standing down the hall.

but he notices you.

the way you never beg. never chase.

you simply decide.

friday night feels different.

you take your time getting ready.

your hair falls in soft curls around your shoulders. the black mini skirt fits perfectly. the blue sequined tank catches the light whenever you shift. you don’t overdo it. you never have to.

you look at yourself in the mirror.

not to admire.

to prepare.

akaashi is driving.

bokuto is already talking the second you open the car door, mid-story about something ridiculous from practice.

akaashi doesn’t look at you when you slide into the back seat.

“hi,” you say.

“hello,” he replies evenly, eyes still on the road.

the silence stretches for a moment before he checks the rearview mirror.

his gaze flickers over you.

then freezes.

it’s subtle — but you see it.

he looks away almost immediately.

“it’s too cold for that,” he says.

you blink. “for what?”

“your outfit.”

you laugh softly. “i’ll survive.”

he exhales through his nose, something between annoyance and concern, and starts the car.

he doesn’t bring it up again.

but he notices when you rub your arms in the driveway.

the party is loud.

too loud.

music pulses through the walls. the air smells like cheap perfume and something stronger.

you slip away almost immediately.

“i’ll grab drinks,” you say over your shoulder.

akaashi watches you disappear into the crowd.

he tells himself he isn’t tracking you.

but he is.

when you come back, your steps are lighter.

your smile is looser.

there’s a faint scent of alcohol when you speak.

not overwhelming.

just enough.

akaashi notices instantly.

before he can say anything, two guys edge closer to you. one places a hand at your waist like he’s testing boundaries.

you don’t look uncomfortable.

you just look… unfocused.

akaashi steps forward.

“she’s with me.”

his voice isn’t raised. it doesn’t need to be.

the guys hesitate.

something about his expression makes them back off.

you sway slightly.

he steadies you with one hand at your elbow.

“we’re leaving.”

bokuto looks concerned but nods quickly. “i’ll stay here. text me when you get back.”

akaashi doesn’t argue.

he just guides you out.

his dorm room feels quiet in comparison.

safe.

you sit on the edge of his bed while he hands you water. you drink it without complaint.

he places a hoodie and sweatpants beside you.

“change. and shower.”

you look up at him, eyes hazy but curious.

“yes, sir,” you murmur.

he doesn’t react.

he just turns away to give you privacy.

when you return, your hair is damp and your makeup mostly gone.

you’re wearing his clothes.

they hang loosely on you.

you look softer like this.

you sit on his bed and pat the space beside you.

“movie?”

he hesitates.

then nods.

you start the film. halfway through, you lean into him without asking. your head rests against his shoulder. your hand brushes his arm.

he feels every inch of it.

you tilt your face slightly toward him.

it would be easy.

too easy.

but he knows your eyes are heavy.

your thoughts blurred.

so he doesn’t move.

he stays still until you fall asleep.

then he gently lowers you onto the pillow, pulls the blanket over you, and turns off the lights.

he sleeps on the couch.

morning sunlight fills the room.

you wake slowly.

confused.

then aware.

his bed. his room.

you sit up quickly.

fully dressed.

untouched.

you find him in the living area, already awake.

when he sees you, something in his shoulders relaxes.

“good morning,” he says.

“did we…?”

“no.”

it’s immediate.

clear.

he explains quietly. the drinks. the guys. leaving.

you listen without interrupting.

when he mentions the couch, you stare at him for a long moment.

“you could’ve,” you say softly.

“i know.”

he doesn’t elaborate.

he doesn’t need to.

something settles in your chest.

something steady.

by the next week, the rumors shift.

people talk about how you left with him.

about how he stood up for you.

about how he’s not just bokuto’s quiet friend.

girls begin noticing him.

really noticing him.

they linger longer. laugh softer. stand closer.

you watch.

not jealous.

just aware.

after practice one evening, he approaches you.

you’re wiping sweat from your neck when he stops in front of you.

“are you free?” he asks.

“maybe,” you say.

“ice cream.”

simple.

direct.

you smile.

“okay.”

the air is cool.

you walk side by side beneath the fading sky.

halfway there, you glance at him.

“you could’ve kissed me that night.”

he doesn’t look surprised.

“i know.”

“why didn’t you?”

now he looks at you.

steady.

certain.

“because when i do, i want you to remember it.”

your breath catches slightly.

you step closer.

“authors are intentional,” he says quietly.

you smile.

“so were you.”

“about what?”

you reach for his hand.

this time, he doesn’t hesitate.

“about loving me.”

there’s a pause.

not dramatic.

just real.

“yes,” he says.

and when you kiss him—

it isn’t rushed.

it isn’t for show.

it isn’t a game.

it’s slow.

deliberate.

intentional.

as he pulls away, he leans his forehead against yours. "no more heart-breaking?" he asks.

ONESHOT!!!

inspired by the victorious song best friend's brother (u should go listen)

notes: another oneshot bc idk but anyway i might start doing these a LOT more & i hope u enjoyyy

-----

you’ve liked your best friend’s brother for an embarrassingly long time.

not the kind of silly, two-week hallway crush that disappears after midterms.

no — the kind that settles into your bones and makes itself comfortable.

it started when you and kiyomi were freshmen and he was a sophomore. you were over at the suna house for the first time, shoes kicked off at the door like you’d been taught, when he walked past the living room in a loose black t-shirt, towel slung around his neck from practice.

you remember thinking, oh.

that’s kiyomi’s brother?

because somehow you’d never really looked at him before. he’d always just been there — background noise, the quiet older sibling who barely spoke and stayed locked in his room.

but that day he glanced at you.

and didn’t look away.

his half-lidded eyes dragged over you in a way that made your stomach dip. not rude. not obvious.

just aware.

from then on, it became routine.

you’d sit at the suna kitchen island doing homework with kiyomi.

he’d pass through, grabbing water from the fridge.

you’d pretend to focus on your math sheet.

he’d lean against the counter a little too long.

you told yourself he didn’t notice the way you stared.

the way your eyes followed the line of his jaw.

the way your breath hitched when he’d mumble a quiet “hey” as he walked by.

the way you’d freeze whenever he brushed past you in the hallway.

there was no way he noticed.

right?

(he did.)

years pass like that.

little glances.

almost-smiles.

you pretending you’re normal.

now he’s a senior. you and kiyomi are juniors. and somehow you’re still hopelessly, pathetically, undeniably crushing on rintaro suna.

friday night.

sleepover at the suna house like always.

you don’t even knock anymore. kiyomi’s mom just calls out a cheerful greeting from the kitchen while you head upstairs, knowing exactly which floorboard creaks and which step to skip.

kiyomi is sprawled dramatically across her bed, scrolling through her phone when you walk in.

“took you long enough,” she groans.

you drop your bag and slide down to the floor, leaning your back against her mattress. it’s familiar — this position, this room, the glow-in-the-dark stars still stuck to the ceiling from middle school.

“i live fifteen minutes away,” you say. “calm down.”

you both dissolve into easy conversation. school gossip. who’s dating who. which teacher is failing half the class. kiyomi complaining about some guy in chemistry who won’t stop staring at her.

and then, somehow — inevitably — it shifts.

“okay but,” kiyomi says, propping herself up on her elbows, “you still haven’t told me who you think is the hottest in our grade.”

you hesitate.

because technically…

it’s not someone in your grade.

you try to play it cool. “i mean. there are options.”

“name one."

you open your mouth.

close it.

open it again, and groan.

“…what about someone not in our grade?”

kiyomi narrows her eyes. “that’s suspicious already.”

your heart pounds. this is stupid. she’s your best friend. you’ve known her for years. but admitting it out loud feels illegal.

“it’s not weird,” you mumble.

“if you have to say that, it’s weird.”

you huff and tilt your head back against the mattress. “okay, fine. i just think your brother is—”

before you can finish, kiyomi lets out a dramatic shriek and launches a pillow at your head.

“ABSOLUTELY NOT.”

you sputter, catching it. “what?!”

“he’s literally the most annoying person alive.”

“he is not!”

“he’s gross!”

“he is not gross!”

“he leaves dishes in the sink!”

“that has nothing to do with his face!”

kiyomi gapes at you like you’ve betrayed her. “you cannot be serious right now.”

you feel heat creeping up your neck but you’re committed now.

“RINTARO’S HOT, OKAY—”

the bedroom door clicks open.

silence.

actual, suffocating silence.

your soul leaves your body.

standing in the doorway is rintaro.

leaning lazily against the frame. hands in his pockets. expression unreadable.

you don’t move.

you don’t breathe.

kiyomi slowly turns her head toward him.

“what do you want,” she says flatly.

he doesn’t answer right away.

his eyes are on you.

not confused.

not surprised.

just… lingering.

slow.

intentional.

your ears burn so hot you’re convinced they’re glowing. you’re still sitting on the floor like an idiot, clutching the pillow you just used to defend his honor.

did he hear that?

he definitely heard that.

but he acts like nothing happened.

“mom said she’s not cooking,” he says casually. “i’m doordashing something. you guys want anything?”

kiyomi rolls her eyes. “yeah, whatever. get me fries.”

he nods once.

still looking at you.

“what about you?” he asks.

your voice comes out smaller than you’d like. “i— um. anything’s fine.”

his mouth twitches.

like he knows.

like he’s filing something away.

“anything?” he repeats softly.

your stomach flips.

“…yeah.”

his gaze drags over you one more time — slower this time — before he pushes off the doorframe.

“cool,” he says. “i’ll order.”

and then he leaves.

the door shuts.

the silence lasts exactly two seconds before kiyomi lunges off the bed.

“YOU HAVE A CRUSH ON MY BROTHER.”

you shove your face into the pillow. “i’m moving schools.”

but downstairs, in the kitchen, rintaro is leaning against the counter staring at his phone — not actually ordering anything yet.

and for the first time in a while,

he’s smiling.

twenty minutes later and nothing has been mentioned.

not the pillow.

not the yelling.

not the fact that you essentially confessed your feelings to the air while rintaro stood in the doorway.

kiyomi, bless her dramatic soul, decided to “spare you” and changed the subject.

so now you’re both downstairs in the living room, curled up on opposite ends of the same couch but somehow still tangled together — your legs thrown over hers, her arm lazily draped over your stomach.

the same rom-com plays on the tv.

the one you’ve watched every year since freshman year. the one you both know word for word. the one that makes kiyomi sob every single time even though she swears she won’t.

you don’t even need subtitles.

you’re already mumbling along.

“don’t you dare—” you whisper.

“—leave me at the airport like that,” kiyomi finishes.

on screen, the male lead says it half a second later in the exact same tone.

you both dissolve into giggles.

it’s stupid. it’s comfortable. it’s yours.

the soft glow of the tv lights the room while outside the windows it’s fully dark now. the house is quiet except for the movie and the occasional distant sound of a cabinet closing from the kitchen.

you try not to think about who’s probably in there.

you fail.

when the movie finally ends and the credits start rolling, kiyomi stretches dramatically.

“ugh. cinematic masterpiece.”

“you cried,” you mumble.

“shut up.”

she sits up, rubbing her eyes. “wait — can you grab us water? i’m gonna pee before the doordash gets here.”

“yeah,” you say, grateful for something to do.

something normal.

you head into the kitchen.

and there he is.

leaning against the counter like he lives there or something. phone in hand. sleeves pushed up just enough to show his forearms.

you pause for half a second.

then give him a small, silent nod.

nonchalant.

casual.

cool.

your cheeks are absolutely not burning.

he notices immediately.

the corner of his mouth lifts — subtle, crooked.

you turn away quickly and grab two glasses from the cabinet.

act normal.

act normal.

the sink runs as you fill the first glass. the sound feels too loud in the quiet kitchen.

you can feel his eyes on you.

not even subtle about it.

when you finish filling the first glass and set it down on the counter, he clears his throat.

it’s quiet.

soft.

but it hits you like a siren.

you freeze for half a second, then slowly look up at him.

expectant.

waiting.

he’s still leaning there.

still watching you.

he doesn’t say anything.

just holds your gaze.

and the eye contact is—

heavy.

thick.

like the air shifted.

your heart pounds against your ribs. you press your lips into a thin line and give a small, almost imperceptible shake of your head.

nope.

we are not doing this.

you turn back to the sink and start filling the second glass.

the water splashes against the rim.

you hear him inhale.

“so…”

your entire body stills.

the glass nearly overflows.

you shut the water off quickly, grabbing both glasses like they’re life preservers.

“i heard—”

nope.

absolutely not.

you pivot so fast you almost slam into the counter. you don’t look at him. you don’t acknowledge him. you just—

escape.

and in your haste, you nearly trip over your own foot near the doorway.

it’s not graceful.

it’s not smooth.

it’s deeply humiliating.

behind you—

he exhales a quiet laugh.

low.

amused.

to himself.

and for the first time all night,

rintaro suna looks entertained.

you make it back to the living room without spilling the water.

barely.

kiyomi is already flopped back onto the couch when you hand her a glass.

“why do you look like you just ran a marathon?” she squints at you.

“i didn’t,” you say too quickly.

she hums suspiciously but lets it go.

for about five minutes.

because then, like the universe refuses to let you live in peace, she nudges your knee with her foot.

“so,” she says, dragging it out. “my brother.”

you groan immediately. “we’re not doing this.”

“we are absolutely doing this.”

you bury your face into a pillow. “i hate you.”

“since when?” she presses. “be specific.”

you hesitate.

because this part is embarrassing.

“i don’t know,” you mumble. “since… high school?”

“that’s not specific.”

you sigh dramatically and stare at the ceiling.

“…maybe the summer before.”

kiyomi gasps like you just admitted to a crime.

“THE SUMMER BEFORE?”

“shut up!”

you laugh, shoving her with your foot.

“he was still kind of small then,” you say. “like. awkward. his hair was weird. and i was almost taller than him.”

“you were taller than him for like three months,” she corrects.

“exactly!” you sit up slightly. “and then he just—”

you make a vague upward motion with your hand.

“grew,” kiyomi deadpans.

“yeah,” you say helplessly. “he grew.”

and you remember it so clearly.

how one summer he came back from training leaner. broader. quieter. how his voice dropped just enough. how the angles of his face sharpened.

how he stopped looking like your best friend’s annoying brother and started looking like—

well.

kiyomi rolls her eyes so hard you’re surprised they don’t get stuck.

“he’s not even that cute.”

you stare at her.

“be serious.”

“he’s literally crusty.”

“you’re lying to yourself.”

she laughs, shoving you again. “you are so down bad.”

“i am not!”

“you are!”

you both dissolve into giggles, whisper-shouting insults back and forth until your stomach hurts.

it’s easy. it’s warm. it’s safe.

eventually, though, kiyomi’s mom yells upstairs that it’s past midnight.

lights out.

you change into pajamas. an oversized t-shirt that kiyomi gave you years ago. (you're pretty sure it's actually suna's.) kiyomi turns off the lamp. the room falls into darkness except for the faint glow of streetlights bleeding through the curtains.

she’s asleep in ten minutes.

you are not.

you toss.

you turn.

you flip your pillow.

you’re thirsty again.

and now you have to pee.

this is torture.

you sigh quietly and slip out of bed, careful not to wake kiyomi.

the hallway is dim. familiar. quiet.

you walk toward the bathroom first, passing the line of framed family photos on the wall.

there’s one of kiyomi and rintaro as kids — missing teeth and awkward bangs.

one from middle school.

one from his first volleyball tournament.

you slow down.

your eyes linger on him in each frame.

he looks different in every one.

you smile to yourself.

pathetic.

after using the bathroom, you head downstairs for water.

the house is dark now. quieter. heavier.

you step carefully on the stairs to avoid the one that creaks.

you round the corner into the living room—

and freeze.

he’s there.

sprawled on the couch.

phone in hand. tv off. just the faint blue glow lighting his face.

you make a face at yourself.

okay. fine. be normal.

just be quiet. grab water. leave. don’t make eye contact.

you tiptoe toward the kitchen like you’re in a spy movie.

one step.

two.

three—

his head turns.

immediately.

you’re caught mid–tiptoe.

like an actual cartoon character.

you straighten so fast it’s embarrassing.

he looks at you.

and grins.

slow. amused.

then — like he didn’t just catch you sneaking around his house — he casually looks back at his phone.

your lungs deflate in relief.

okay.

fine.

this is survivable.

you hurry into the kitchen, grab a glass, fill it with water as quietly as possible.

don’t look back.

don’t look back.

you turn on your phone screen as you pivot to head back upstairs, eyes down, pretending you’re deeply invested in whatever notification just popped up—

and suddenly the light from your screen disappears.

a shadow falls over it.

you look up.

and nearly collide with a chest.

boom.

rintaro suna.

close.

way too close.

you inhale sharply.

he’s standing right in front of you, blocking the path out of the kitchen. hands in his pockets. head tilted slightly down at you.

you try to step to the left.

he steps the same way.

you try the right.

same.

you swallow.

his eyes flicker with something dangerous and entertained all at once.

“wait,” he says softly.

and it’s not a suggestion.

you swallow.

“…what.”

he studies you for a second. then—

“i heard what you said earlier.”

your heart stops.

the glass in your hand wobbles. water sloshes dangerously close to the rim.

“i don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say immediately.

too fast.

too defensive.

his eyebrow lifts.

“rintaro’s hot, okay—?” he repeats lazily.

you nearly drop the glass.

“you—” your voice cracks. you clear it. “you weren’t even in the room.”

“door was open.”

you stare at him in horror.

he clicks his tongue softly.

“you’re a bad liar.”

your mouth opens.

closes.

nothing comes out.

because he’s right.

and he knows he’s right.

you look away from him, cheeks burning so hot it feels like your whole face is on fire.

“…you misheard,” you mumble.

“did i?”

you don’t answer.

he steps closer.

just enough that you have to tilt your head slightly back to keep eye contact.

you hate that you have to tilt your head.

he notices.

of course he notices.

“say it again,” he says.

you stare at him like he’s insane.

“absolutely not.”

“why?”

“because it’s not true.”

he hums.

“so i’m not hot?”

you press your lips into a thin line.

trap.

he knows it.

you know it.

you stay quiet.

he clicks his tongue again.

then, gently — almost absentmindedly — he hooks his index finger under your chin. his thumb braces lightly against your jaw.

it’s not rough.

it’s not teasing.

it’s deliberate.

he angles your face back toward his.

your eyes go wide.

the world narrows to just the two of you in the dim kitchen light.

you’re suddenly very aware of what you’re wearing.

shorts that are way too short to be worn outside. kiyomi’s oversized t-shirt.

no.

not kiyomi’s.

his.

you’re almost sure of it.

and he’s looking at you like he knows that too.

“what do you like about me?” he asks.

not flirty.

not playful.

precise.

you blink at him.

“what?”

“you said i’m hot.” his voice is calm. steady. “why.”

this is torture.

“i don’t know,” you whisper.

“that’s not an answer.”

“why do you care?”

“because i want to know.”

your throat feels dry.

"well..." you start and he looks at you expectantly.

you stare at his collarbone instead of his eyes.

“…you changed,” you admit quietly. “after middle school. you grew. your voice got deeper. you started playing better. you looked different.”

“different how?”

“just—” you exhale. “older.”

his gaze softens.

“when did it start?”

you hesitate.

“…summer before freshman year.”

he nods slowly, like that confirms something for him.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “i noticed.”

your head snaps up.

“noticed what?”

“you.”

your stomach flips violently.

“you grew too,” he continues, almost casually. “kiyomi started bringing you to my matches more. you used to sit in the second row.”

your breath catches.

“you’d go wide-eyed every time i scored,” he says. “like it surprised you.”

you can’t even deny it.

because he’s right.

he remembers.

“i started looking for you,” he adds quietly. “in the crowd.”

the kitchen feels too small.

too warm.

“why?” you ask, barely audible.

his thumb shifts slightly against your jaw.

“because i liked when you looked at me like that.”

your pulse is pounding in your ears.

he glances down suddenly.

“…you wearing my shirt?”

you freeze.

of course he noticed.

“it’s just a shirt,” you say weakly.

“it’s mine.”

your cheeks flush deep red.

“…maybe.”

his eyes darken just slightly.

“looks better on you.”

that does it.

your composure snaps.

“why are you doing this?” you whisper. “you’ve ignored me for years.”

he exhales softly.

“i didn’t ignore you.”

“you never said anything.”

“you’re my sister’s best friend,” he says simply. “i wasn’t gonna make it weird.”

your heart aches.

“so why now?”

he studies you for a long moment.

“because you said i’m hot.”

despite everything, a laugh escapes you.

he almost smiles.

“and because,” he adds quieter, “i like you too.”

the words hit harder than anything else tonight.

you stare at him.

“since when?”

“since you stopped looking like a kid.”

your stomach flips again.

“since you started looking at me like i was more than just kiyomi’s brother.”

you don’t remember moving.

one second you’re standing.

the next, you’re stepping closer.

his hand drops from your jaw to your waist.

hesitant.

waiting.

you don’t pull away.

that’s all the permission he needs.

he leans down.

and when his lips meet yours, it’s not soft and unsure.

it’s months — years — of tension snapping at once.

you gasp slightly into it, and he deepens it immediately, one hand sliding to the small of your back.

your fingers curl into his shirt.

he walks you back without breaking the kiss.

you barely register the cool edge of the kitchen island behind you before he lifts you — effortlessly — setting you up on it.

your breath catches.

he steps in between your thighs, torso fitting perfectly there.

close.

so close you can feel the warmth of him through thin fabric.

his hands settle at your waist. yours slide up to his shoulders.

the kiss grows heated — desperate, almost. like you’re both trying to make up for lost time.

skin to skin.

his palm brushes the bare skin of your thigh and you shiver.

your forehead rests against his.

both of you breathing hard.

the kitchen is silent except for the hum of the fridge and your pulse thundering in your ears.

“this is a bad idea,” you whisper.

“yeah,” he murmurs.

neither of you moves.

your fingers are still curled into his shirt. his hand is still warm against your thigh.

“kiyomi will actually kill us.”

a faint huff of laughter leaves him. “probably.”

you search his face.

“…you’re my best friend’s brother.”

there it is.

the line you’ve repeated in your head for years like it was some kind of rule.

some boundary.

some reason not to feel this.

his eyes don’t waver.

“i know.”

your throat tightens.

“that’s messy.”

“yeah.”

“complicated.”

“a little.”

he leans in slightly, brushing his nose against yours — not kissing you yet.

just close.

too close.

“worth it, though,” he says quietly.

your heart stutters.

you hesitate.

“…are you sure?”

his hand slides from your thigh to your waist, steady. grounding.

he looks at you like he’s not guessing. like he decided a long time ago.

“i’ve been sure.”

and this time when he kisses you again,

it’s slower.

intentional.

not rushed.

not reckless.

just certain.

and upstairs, kiyomi is asleep —

completely unaware

that her best friend,

and her brother,

ONESHOT!!

notes: hi guys im finally back!!! what better way to return than with a oneshot <333

ok starting now

-----

the bass is loud enough to rattle the chandelier crystals.

you like it that way.

the bar glows gold and sinful, tucked into some polished corner of downtown, the kind of place where the lighting forgives and the drinks don’t. your reflection follows you in the glass door before it swings shut — silky dark red clinging to your waist, hem cut dangerous and deliberate. the dress doesn’t ask for attention.

it commands it.

black heels click against marble, red bottoms flashing with every step. you don’t rush. you never rush. princesses don’t hurry.

the bartender notices you immediately. they always do.

he’s tall, sleeves rolled to show off veined forearms, a little too eager when you take the stool at the corner.

“what can i get you?”

you tilt your head slightly, curls spilling over one shoulder. glossy. soft. expensive. “surprise me,” you murmur, tracing the rim of a cocktail napkin with one manicured finger. “but make it worth my time.”

he laughs. nervous. intrigued.

you hold his gaze just long enough.

the drink arrives two minutes later — something amber and dramatic, no charge. he slides it toward you like an offering.

“on the house,” he says.

of course it is.

you smile like you expected nothing less, thank him with a lazy hum, and take a slow sip. sweet. sharp. dangerous.

perfect.