the second the words âsmall dickâ leave your lips and send the room into fits of laughter, youâre already sealing your fate. itâs supposed to be funny â a stupid little jab you toss out while tipsy and giddy, just to make your friends laugh.
but the shift in his expression is instant. that easy grin he always wears turns sharp, his bright eyes suddenly unreadable. he doesnât say anything. not even a word. he just sits there, one long leg crossed over the other, sipping his drink with a smile that doesnât reach his eyes while the others howl around you. apparently, your friend gojo satoru doesnât like his name and the word âsmallâ in a sentence.
you try to ignore the weight of his gaze for the rest of the night â the way it clings to your skin whenever you look away, the way his jaw ticks when someone else repeats your joke. but he stays quiet. polite. calm. almost too calm. and thatâs almost terrifying.
the party starts to thin out an hour later. everyoneâs drunk and scattered, and you sneak off to the empty hallway to freshen up, trying to shake off the awkward tension. you donât even hear the footsteps behind you until you turn around â and there he is, leaning lazily against the doorframe, watching you like a predator thatâs finally cornered its prey.
âdone laughing?â he asks, voice smooth, too casual.
âjesus! you scared me,â you breathe out, rolling your eyes to hide how hard your heart is pounding. âif this is about the joke, relax. everyoneâs already forgotten about it, gojo.â
âeveryone?â he echoes, pushing himself off the frame and sauntering closer, each step deliberate, heavy. âfunny. i havenât.â
you open your mouth, some weak attempt at a defense already forming, but he cuts you off with a quiet laugh â low, dark, and dripping with something that makes your stomach flip.
âyou think iâm sensitive? that i canât take a joke?â he murmurs, now close enough for you to feel the heat of his body. ânah, iâm not mad. iâm just wondering how confident youâll sound with my dick in your mouth.â
your breath hitches. your back presses against the wall before you even realize youâve moved, and his hand lands beside your head, caging you in. the lazy grin that spreads across his face is infuriatingly confident.
âsmall, huh?â he tilts his head, eyes dropping briefly to your lips before locking with yours again. âthen open that pretty mouth and let me ruin that little opinion.â
âwhat the hell, gojoââ
âah, ah,â he hums, the edge in his voice sharp enough to slice through your words. âyou had no problem running it in front of everyone. letâs see if you can still do that when iâm shoving every inch of what you mocked down your throat.â
he tugs your head back with a firm grip, a thin strand of spit still connecting your swollen lips to his thick, aching cock â and fuck, the sight of you like that only makes him throb harder.
you suck in a shaky breath, voice barely steady as you whisper, âgojoââ
âno, no,â he interrupts, a low, dangerous edge curling around every word. âdonât call me that. itâs satoru when youâre like this.â
he motions for you to keep going, that cocky look on his face practically saying, did i say you were done?
you bite your lip, glancing up at him through your lashes before dragging your tongue slowly from the base of his cock all the way up. then you start bobbing your head, easing him deeper into your mouth.
but gojo is not patient tonight.
a low groan rumbles from his chest as he begins thrusting upward, slow at first â letting you adjust, forcing you to feel every thick inch stretching your mouth open.
it doesnât stay slow for long. his pace picks up, the slick, obscene sounds filling the room with every thrust. âwhatâs wrong? canât talk now?â he taunts, his voice rough and dripping with mockery. âi thought it was small? if it really was, youâd still be able to get out at least three syllables, yeah?â
you canât answer â your mouth is too full, stuffed past what you think you can handle. your jaw aches as you try to relax it, stubbornly determined to prove you can take him, that you wonât back down.
he loosens his grip on your hair for just a second â and you take that tiny window as a chance to sink lower, taking more of him into your mouth.
âfuuuuckâŚâ he groans, head tipping back slightly as he watches you, his breath hitching at the sight of you struggling to take him deeper, eyes watering just a little but refusing to pull away.
when you finally do, a wet pop echoes in the air. a thin strand of saliva still clings to your lips as you wrap your hand around him, stroking his cock slowly. your lips are flushed and swollen, glossy from the mix of spit and precum.
âsatoruâŚâ you breathe out, voice trembling but needy.
âfuck, babyâwhat the fuckâŚâ he rasps, the sound of his voice wrecked and breathless. he leans down before you can even respond, crashing his mouth against yours. the kiss is deep and filthy, all tongue and teeth, and when he catches your bottom lip between his teeth, he tugs just hard enough to make you gasp before pulling away.
he laughs softly, the sound low and dangerous, as his thumb wipes the mess from the corner of your mouth. âdonât ever say shit like that again, âkay? we both know itâs not trueâŚâ his lips ghost over yours again, âbut i donât like being humiliated.â
all you can do is nod, nod, and nod again, your hand still working him slowly â twisting a little at the tip, dragging a moan out of him that sends heat pooling low in your stomach.
his voice dips lower, rougher. âgood girl.â a pause, and then, ânow finish what you started⌠make me cum,â he growls, his hand curling around the back of your neck, guiding you back down. âand when you do, iâll make sure every inch of thisââ he thrusts slightly into your fist ââfits inside your cunt next.â
Hi! To ride of the coattails of that other anon, are there any Kuroo blogs or fics that you recommend? Iâve recently got into Haikyu and heâs my favorite character. Thank you in advance!
first blogger to come to mind is naturally @detetsu ( this recent one is a currently a fave of mine )
@kuroosthings is on a break from writing rn but she has some really cute kuroo stuff in her masterlist!
and i am in love with @/kuroosweakness 's dad!kuroo au ahhhhh
as for fics!!
this college!kuroo longfic, Castles In The Air by @amjustagirl is an all time fave <3 it's a chaptered fic but i definitely highly recommend it if you have the time to read bc nikki is an incredible writer!!!
another all time fave is champagne (angst to fluff) by @chimielie
and theres childhood best friends to lovers by @kairakeiji
and remembering sunday by @/prettyboykatsuki is really sweet too aaaa (please check their rules before following!!)
- you never called it what it was (pt1) (pt2) â sakusa kiyoomi â @willowfolksong
+summary : in which you and sakusa are in a fwb situation, you're in love with him while he's still in love with his ex.
- meet me (under the stars) â miya atsumu â @touyangel
+summary : despite starting off on the wrong foot, you canât help but be taken with the very handsome stranger who you brush paths with while on holiday.
- the hunt â miya atsumu â @heich0e
+summary : when you get sent a brief for a inz hookup
- the burden of being â miya osamu â @sashimiyas
+summary : there was an osamu who loved you once. who loved onigiri miya so much he spent most of his waking hours there, supported loyally by the members of hyogo ward. a fire changes that and he and his twin brother adopt their old high school motto: we donât need the memories. now theyâre gone and memories are all you have. so as an homage to the man you love, you reopen his restaurant back up for him.
- down the drain â miya atsumu â @getoswhore
+summary : your big brother's best friend has always quirked an interest to you everytime he's around, and this time, he makes sure it's even more the obvious for you tonight.
- from me to you â koutaro bokuto â @flyingraijin
+summary : The strip club isnât the kind of place youâd usually go to meet people. Really, youâre just there to do your job. And even after you do run into a kind of nice guy one night, it doesnât really matter. Itâs not like youâll ever see him again⌠right? (In which you fall flat on your face for Bokuto as he begins to teach you that you are, in fact, truly beautiful)
drabbles
- married under 25 (1) (2) â miya atsumu â @neoheros
+summary : kuroo tetsurou is your co-worker, cubicle neighbour, and the bane of your existenceâŚbut only he would trick you into going on a date with him. (or, office rivals/enemies to lovers)
- wicked crown â sakusa kiyoomi â @iwas-baby
+summary : forced into an unwanted marriage, the prince and now princess must learn to overcome their quarrels as bigger threats are on the rise
- the walls are thin â miya atsumu â @a-kaash-me-outside
+summary : in which atsumu is your college neighbor with whom you share a wall. [ i love this series eee, i'm reading it as it comes out ]
- lover be good to me â kita shinsuke â @pantowone
+summary : you meet kita shinsuke on a rainy summer day, with a sea of hydrangeas swirling at your feet. you know him instantly, as only a soulmate can. he seems like a good man. like a good soulmate. but it's your wedding day.
- bottom of the deep blue â suna rintaro â @samuskitchen
+summary : sirens, creatures of unmatched beauty and cunning charm, they lure men in with their voices and grace, taking advantage of all the gullible fishermen and pirates. mermaids, the peacekeepers of the deep blue sea, naive and kind to a fault at times. a fated encounter between the two underwater dwellers leads to a difficult situation and a love that shouldnât be.
- the agreement â suna rintaro â @noosayog
+summary : the best part about the agreement was how good he made you feel. the worst part about the agreement is that you probably like him more than you should and he definitely doesn't feel the same way
- as friends â suna rintaro â @animatedrapture
+summary : sure, you have more than just a tiny crush on suna Rintarou, but that doesnât mean you canât get to know him as friends... right? Or, in which: Itâs hard to get Sunaâs attention when heâs at the center of it all, especially not if he might have someone else he already likes.
- no title â miya atsumu â @noosayog
+summary : university au, enemies(ish) to lovers
- no title (pt1) (pt2) (pt3) â miya atsumu â @shoulmate
+summary : in which atsumu rejects you without knowing he did..
- little miss cherry chaser â various â @
smau
- don't smile at me â suna rintaro au â @atzuums
+summary : when you become the photographer for famous model suna rintaro you were excited. your dreams are soon crushed when you realize heâs an asshole, but maybe thatâs just how he flirts.
- plug walk â miya osamu au â @splitontendo
+summary : in honor of your friends birthday your friends and you all decided to get high. buying the drugs from no other than osamu miya. the most attractive dealer youâve ever laid eyes on.
- traitor â sakusa kiyoomi au â @rinslutz
+summary : sakusa had a new girlfriend exactly 3 hours 10 minutes and 55 seconds after you broke up. he moved on so quickly itâs hard to believe that he ever loved you, or that he wasnât cheating thought your whole relationship. you heavily believed that he was, so you set out to make his life a living hell.
- 40 days 2 love â suna rintaro au â @zephestia
+summary : it's the second year of high school, and everyone are either in a relationship or is getting into one. everyone except you. it's not like you care anyways, you've got better things to worry about. but when your seat mate offered you a deal to provide you lunch for the next 40 days of school in exchange for you to be his (fake) girlfriend, it's hard for you to turn the offer down.
- say it back â suna rintaro au â @animatedrapture
+summary : l/n y/n has been pining for her very best friend, suna rintarou, since high school. now theyâre in college and nothing much has changedâthat is, until she finally confesses to him after a deal with her friends. will he say it back?
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⨠genre; college!au, friends-with-benefits to lovers
⨠pairing; sakusa kiyoomi x fem!reader
⨠word count; 12.7k
⨠description; as it turns out, you and sakusa are the only people who truly understand just how much stress it is to run a student government, and well⌠you two find a way to blow off steam.
⨠warnings; a lot of suggestive content, no graphic stuff tho sorry to disappoint this is Not smut, explicit language
⨠a/n; i've decided sakusa is officially the most difficult person i've ever written abt which means y'all r gonna have to suffer through some horrible fics before i finally figure out the secret to kiyoomi. in the meantime, until i get to the level of being able to write him to my satisfaction, enjoy this part 2 of the asu trilogy :)
song i listened to writing this: 'don't wake me up' by mercer henderson
one.
Furudate University is, in one word, loud.
Itâs one of its biggest charms, reallyâthereâs something oddly comforting about being one in a crowd of thousands, about the constant hum of a campus that never fully sleeps. The lively debates over coffee-stained notes, the skateboarders who tempt fate on the cobblestone paths lining the central road, the professors who could be world-class researchers but still have to remind students to submit assignments in PDF format and not screenshotsâitâs chaotic, itâs exhausting, and despite everything, you love it here.
That being said, at 1:47 AM, when youâre still in the ASU office drowning in a sea of unread emails and budget spreadsheets, you think maybeâjust maybeâyou should have picked a smaller school. One with fewer students. Fewer problems. Fewer reasons for you to be awake at this ungodly hour, questioning every life choice that led you here.
Because youâre the ASU president, and behind the lofty title is an overworked, drained, pitiful student who is really at her wits end, shoulder-deep in stupid complaints about the dining halls and unreasonable requests from faculty and alumni. And at this current moment in time, youâre stressed out about an event more than a month away, but already causing you significant problems in your life: the annual Spring Festival.
Itâs a week-long ordeal, ending with a massive fundraiser gala thatâs all dazzling lights and delicate floral arrangements; you spend half the budget on catering and the other half praying the student performers donât ruin the atmosphere with an impromptu drum solo. Itâs supposed to be the ASUâs shining achievementâproof that this student government is more than a glorified complaint department.
But right now? Right now, itâs a logistical nightmare.
And sitting across from you, flipping through a thick folder with all the enthusiasm of someone reading Terms & Conditions, is the only other person suffering through this hell with you.
Sakusa Kiyoomi, ASUâs executive vice president.
Sakusa, who has been in this office with you for hours, sifting through the same mountain of paperwork, answering the same stupid emails, keeping everything in order with his obsessive attention to detail.
Sakusa, who somehow manages to look completely fine while doing all of this.
You have personally descended into full goblin mode. Youâre hunched over your desk, hair slipping out of your bun, posture absolutely horrendous. There is a growing stack of empty coffee cups by your desktop and a pad of post-its covered with scribbled reminders and notes; your workspace is as much of a mess as you are right now. Sakusa, meanwhile, is sitting up straight, scrolling through his tablet with an air of absolute indifference, looking like he could walk out of here and into a corporate meeting without breaking a sweat.
You hate him a little bit for that.
âThis is a disaster,â you mutter, rubbing your temples.
âIt is,â Sakusa agrees. âBut thatâs not new information.â
You glare at him. âOkay, but if one more person asks if we can move the gala to a rooftop venue, I might actually lose my mind.â
âThey want a rooftop?â he asks, flipping to another page. âIn April? In a city where it rained last year?â
âApparently, âthe ambiance would be breathtaking.ââ
Sakusa stares at you. âThe litigation would be breathtaking.â
âRight?â You throw up your hands. âI give it an hour before someone drinks too much and falls off the side.â
âOr before you push them.â
â...Iâm not saying I would, but Iâm not saying I wouldnât.â
He hums, unimpressed, before pushing a document across the desk toward you. âFacility contracts,â he says. âPick a venue so I can start drafting agreements.â
You groan, dropping your head dramatically against the table. âI canât make any more decisions tonight.â
âTough.â
âI physically cannot. I am a husk of a person.â
âThen drink some water.â
You lift your head just enough to frown at him. âDid you just tell me to hydrate? Thatâs your solution?â
âYes,â he says simply.
âFuck that. I need wine or something,â you huff, annoyed.Â
Sakusa doesnât even blink. âThen go get some.â
You narrow your eyes at him. â...That sounded suspiciously close to permission.â
âIâm not your parent.â He finally looks up from his tablet, arching a brow. âYouâre an adult. If you want to drink yourself into oblivion because of a student event, thatâs on you.â
Thatâs all the encouragement you need.
Five minutes later, youâre sitting cross-legged on the office couch, the wine bottle freshly uncorked between you. Sakusa had taken exactly one look at the cup you found in the ASU storage cabinet (which had definitely been used for some underclassmenâs illicit party at some point) before deciding to drink straight from the bottle instead.
Fine by you.
You take a long sip before passing it back, watching as Sakusa tilts the bottle back with far less hesitation than you expected. You almost comment on it, but then againâif anyone needs to drink, itâs him.
The office is dimly lit, the overhead lights flicked off in favor of the warm glow of a single desk lamp. The exhaustion weighs heavy in the air, mingling with the soft clink of glass and the low rustle of Sakusa flipping a page in his binder.
For a while, thereâs just silence.
Comfortable, in a way.
And maybe thatâs why, when you finally tilt your head back against the couch, wine warm in your veins and pink in the cheeks, you finally break it. âThis job is killing me,â you mutter.Â
Sakusa exhales, rubbing his temple. âJoin the club.â
âYouâre the only other person who gets it,â you murmur, staring at the ceiling. âEveryone else just sees the power trip. They donât see the fucking bureaucracy, the politics, the alumni breathing down our necks. I swear to God, if one more administrator calls me âsweetieâââ
âThey donât respect us,â Sakusa says simply. âThey never will.â
The words sit heavy between you. Itâs the truth, the unspoken reality of student government. You have influence, sure. Responsibility, absolutely. But at the end of the day, youâre just placeholdersâstudents playing pretend at running an institution that will outlive you by centuries.
And itâs exhausting.
Your eyes flicker to Sakusa. The furrow of his brows, the tight set of his jaw. Heâs exhausted too.
You shift slightly, your knee brushing against his. He doesnât move away.
The warmth of the wine lingers, but itâs not enough to explain the heat creeping up your neck. You tell yourself itâs just the exhaustionâjust the absurdity of being awake at nearly 2 AM, drowning in bureaucratic bullshit with the only person who understands. But when you glance at him again, catching the way his fingers press absently into the label of the bottle, the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze lingers on the floor for a second longer than necessary before meeting yoursâŚ
Something flips in your stomach.
A mistake, your brain whispers. A complication waiting to happen. You have to work with him. See him every day. Endure another semester of late nights in this very office, drowning in deadlines and bad coffee and biting remarks that somehow still feel like companionship. You donât even want to think about what happens if this goes wrong.
But he doesnât pull away.
Your breath catches. You can hear it, the quiet sound in the stillness of the office. Your heart is an unsteady drumbeat in your chest, something traitorous stirring beneath your ribs. His gaze flickersâdown, then upâhis throat bobbing in a quiet swallow.
Then he moves.
His lips meet yours, firm and deliberate. Thereâs no hesitation, no second-guessingâjust the sharp edge of tension snapping between you, unraveling all at once.
You donât think. You just react, your fingers threading into his dark hair as he pulls you closer. The empty wine bottle slips from your grasp, landing with a muffled thud against the couch cushions, but you barely notice.
Heâs warm. Solid. His hands donât just grip your waistâthey press, anchor, claim. A slow, deliberate pull, like he wants you here, exactly here. Thereâs something controlled about the way he moves, like heâs holding back, like heâs measuring every touch, every breath.
It makes your skin burn.
You shift, legs draping over his lap, the fabric of his shirt soft under your fingertips as you tug him closer. When your hips roll against his experimentally, his breath stuttersâa sharp inhale, his fingers flexing against your sides. The sound sends something electric through you, a shiver that starts at the base of your spine and spreads outward, curling hot in your chest.
Your breath is ragged when he finally pulls away, lips swollen, eyes dark and unreadable. He stares at you for a moment, something flickering across his expressionâsomething unspoken, something dangerous.
âWe shouldnâtââ he starts, voice hoarse.
You cut him off with another kiss, hands sliding under his shirt, nails skimming lightly over the firm plane of his stomach. He exhales sharply against your mouth, grip tighteningânot just on your waist now, but your hips, your thighs, the fabric of your sweater bunched between his fingers like heâs trying to ground himself.
Maybe you shouldnât. Maybe this is reckless, a mistake in the making.
But right now, it doesnât feel like one.
Right now, you just need this.
And judging by the way Sakusa exhales, tilts his head back slightly as your lips trail along his jaw, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your sweater, so does he.
two.
You wake up to warmth.
The blankets are too heavy, too soft; the pillow beneath your head isnât yours, and the mattress is firmer than what youâre used to. The air smells faintly of laundry detergent, crisp and clean, and for a few blissful seconds, none of this sets off any alarm bells.
Then you shift.
And your leg brushes against somethingâsomeone.
Your entire body goes rigid.
Slowly, carefully, you open your eyes.
Sakusa is lying beside you, still half-asleep.
Oh. Oh, shit.
Your brain kicks into overdrive, panic slamming into you at full force.
You donât move, donât breathe, donât blinkâlike maybe if you stay perfectly still, reality will reset itself and youâll wake up in your own bed, like none of this ever happened.
You rub your eyes. Nope. No, youâre still here. In Sakusaâs bed.
Last night comes rushing back in fragments.
The office, the spreadsheets, the overwhelming weight of responsibility pressing down on you both. The frustration, the exhaustion, the bottle of wine. The way his voice had dipped lower, the sharp inhale when your fingers slipped beneath his shirt. The way he kissed youâdeliberate, controlled, like he was trying to hold himself back but couldn't quite bring himself to stop.
And, apparently, didnât.
Your face burns.
You canât do this. You need to get out of here. Right now.
Very, very carefully, you begin to inch toward the edge of the bed. If you can just get up without waking him, you can grab your clothes, sneak out, and pretend this never happenedâ
âYouâre awake,â Sakusa mutters, voice rough with sleep.
You freeze.
His eyes are barely open, but thereâs enough clarity in them to tell you that heâs fully aware of the situation. He blinks slowly, processing, before exhaling and rubbing a hand over his face.
For a moment, thereâs silence.
You should say something. Address the elephant in the room. Acknowledge that, somehow, you and Sakusa Kiyoomiâthe only other person in ASU who understands your suffering, who you bicker with more than you talk, who is supposed to be your goddamn vice president and right-hand manâwoke up in the same bed.
Instead, the first thing out of your mouth is:
âThis is bad.â
Sakusa lets out a quiet, barely-there groan and turns his head slightly toward you. âI was hoping it was a dream.â
You scoff. âWow. Rude.â
Another silence. Neither of you move.
Your heart is still hammering in your chest, but now that the initial panic is fading, your brain starts working through the situation. Rationalizing.
You and Sakusa donât even like each other. Okay, thatâs not entirely true, but your dynamic has always been built on mutual endurance, on suffering together in the trenches of student government. Exchanging exhausted sighs over idiotic administrative emails and bitter remarks over ridiculous student requests.
This wasnât⌠feelings.
It was stress. Overwork. Too much responsibility and not enough outlets to relieve it.
You sit up slowly, pulling the blanket around yourself. âLook, letâs just⌠not freak out.â
âIâm not freaking out.â
âYou look like youâre contemplating the meaning of life.â
âI always look like that.â
Okay, fair point. Still, you donât miss the way his fingers are curled slightly into the sheets, tension lingering in his posture.
You take a deep breath. âLast night was a mistake.â
Sakusaâs gaze flickers to you. âObviously.â
Something about the way he says it irritates you. You roll your eyes. âWow, again with the rudeness.â
âI just mean it was inevitable,â he exhales sharply, rubbing his temple.
You blink. âWait, you think this was inevitable too?â
He gives you a flat look. âWe spend too many hours locked in an office together. We argue constantly. We both hate our jobs but are too stubborn to quit. We drink after meetings. Statistically speaking, this was bound to happen.â
You stare at him. âThat is the most unromantic thing Iâve ever heard.â
âIâm not trying to be romantic.â
You pause. Something about that statement makes something in your chest loosen just slightly.
Heâs right. This isnât romantic. Itâs not complicated. Itâs not some star-crossed bullshit.Â
Itâs just stress.
And you can work with that.
A thought occurs to you, a ridiculous, stupid, reckless thought, and before you can second-guess yourself, you say it out loud.
âWe could do it again.â
Sakusaâs entire body stills. His dark eyes snap to yours.
âNot right now. I just meanâŚâ You keep your expression neutral, forcing yourself to stay composed as you shrug. âI mean, think about it. Weâre both overworked. We donât have time for relationships. This was just a way to let off some steam, right? It doesnât have to be a big deal.â
Sakusa watches you carefully, expression unreadable. âYouâre sayingââ
âNo feelings. No complications. Just stress relief.â
His brows furrow slightly.
You lift your hands, palms up. âIâm just being practical. We both clearly need an outlet, and this was⌠effective.â You tilt your head, smirking slightly. âUnless you regret it?â
Sakusa exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face before glancing away. âNo.â
Thereâs something in his voiceâsomething almost reluctant, like the admission costs him something. You decide not to dwell on it.
Instead, you grin, ignoring the way your heart picks up slightly at his answer. âSo? Agreed?â
Sakusaâs jaw tenses. He looks at you for a long moment, eyes dark and considering.
Then, finally, he exhales. ââŚAgreed.â
You clap your hands together. âGreat. Now, where the hell are my clothes?â
As you slip out of bed and start gathering your things, Sakusa watches you from the corner of his eye. His expression is neutral, unreadable. Outwardly, he looks composed, unaffected.
But inside, something is twisting in his chest.
This is good. Logical. Youâre too busy for anything more. He doesnât do attachments. This is supposed to be simple.
So why does he already feel like heâs in trouble?
three.
For the first week, you and Sakusa keep it lowkey.
Itâs surprisingly easy. Between the endless meetings, the flood of emails, and the general chaos of festival planning, no one seems to notice that anything has changed. You and Sakusa donât act any differentlyâat least, not in ways that anyone would immediately pick up on. You still bicker, still throw exasperated looks across the office, still exchange sarcastic remarks whenever an administrator sends a particularly idiotic request.
But there are differences. Subtle ones.
The way his hand lingers on your back a second too long when he brushes past you. The way you glance at him when no one else is looking, catching the momentary flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. The way your fingers graze when he hands you a folder during a meeting, a barely-there touch that still sends a jolt up your spine.
Still, youâre both careful. No one knows. And it stays that wayâuntil a week later.
Itâs late.
Too late for anyone to still be in the ASU office, but here you are, wrapping up an executive board meeting that somehow stretched two hours past its scheduled end. The festival is fast approaching, and the stress is at an all-time high. The VP of Finance, Futakuchi, keeps sighing loudly; Ushijima, the sustainability representative, looks entirely unbothered, and Kiyoko, the VP of campus affairs, has the expression of someone who desperately needs sleep but knows she wonât get any. Even the internal VP, Aone, whoâs usually silent and stoic, rubs a hand over his face in a rare display of frustration.
The exhaustion in the room is palpable.
But eventually, mercifully, the meeting ends.
âFinally,â Futakuchi groans, stretching out his arms. âI swear, if I get one more email about the catering, Iâm deleting my inbox.â
âYou canât do that,â Kiyoko mutters, but she sounds just as tired.
âI can and I will.â
Ushijima nods thoughtfully. âThat is not an efficient way to handle the problem.â
âWhatever, man.â Futakuchi waves him off. âIâm going home before I start throwing chairs.â
The rest of the exec board follows suit, shuffling out one by one. Within minutes, the office is emptyâexcept for you and Sakusa.
He doesnât say anything as he shuts his laptop, methodically gathering his things. But you know him well enough by now to catch the slight tension in his posture, the way his fingers flex against the strap of his bag. Heâs tired, too.
And yet, he lingers.
Your heart is already hammering in your chest before you even fully process what youâre about to do.
You wait until the last footsteps fade down the hallway before stepping closer.
âSakusa,â you murmur.
He looks up, expression unreadable, but you catch the flicker of something in his dark eyes before he schools his face into neutrality. âWhat?â
You donât answer.
Instead, you grab the front of his hoodie, pull him toward you, and kiss him.
He exhales sharply against your lips, but he doesnât hesitateânot for a second. One of his hands finds your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch, and then heâs pushing you back, guiding you without breaking the kiss.
You barely register the click of the storage closet door as it shuts behind you.
After that, it becomes a thing.
Not every night. Not every meeting. But often enough.
Enough that you start slipping into supply rooms and empty hallways whenever you get the chance. Enough that you stop pretending itâs just a fluke, stop pretending itâs just a one-time mistake. Enough that you start looking for excuses to stay behind after meetings, just to see if heâll do the same.
The stress of festival planning only gets worse as the days tick down, but somehow, you feel... lighter. And unfortunately, youâre not the only one who notices.
âOkay,â Futakuchi says one afternoon, arms crossed as he leans against the table. âWhatâs up with you?â
You blink at him over your laptop. âWhat?â
âYou.â He gestures vaguely at you. âYouâre⌠less miserable.â
âWow, thank you.â
âIâm serious.â He narrows his eyes, studying you. âA week ago, you were two stress-induced breakdowns away from setting the office on fire. Now youâreââ He squints. âWeirdly calm.â
You scoff, looking back at your screen. âMaybe I just got better at coping.â
Futakuchi snorts. âSure. And Aoneâs secretly a stand-up comedian.â
Across the room, Aone looks up from his notes, blinks, then goes back to writing.Â
Meanwhile, Ushijima watches you with mild curiosity. âIt is true that you seem less fatigued.â
âMaybe sheâs just sleeping more,â Kiyoko suggests.
Futakuchi smirks. âOr maybe sheâs not sleeping.â
You choke on your coffee, the burn in your nose causing you to cough. Kiyoko swiftly hands you a tissue from her desk and sighs. âKenji, please.â
âIâm just saying,â Futakuchi says innocently, shrugging. âSheâs been spending a lot of extra time here after meetings. And so has Sakusa.â
You feel your pulse spike, but you force yourself to roll your eyes. âWeâre working.â
âSure you are.â Futakuchi hums. âJust seems interesting, is all.â
Ushijima nods, ever serious. âYou and Sakusa have been in close proximity more frequently.â
You school your expression into neutrality, ignoring the way your face warms. âNoted.â
Futakuchi snickers. âThat wasnât a no.â
You pretend not to hear him.
Across the office, Sakusa is focused on his laptop, seemingly oblivious to the conversation. But when you glance at him, just for a second, you swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch.
A silent acknowledgement.
A secret you both share, thatâs meant for you two alone.
four.
At first, nothing really changes.
Or at least, thatâs what you tell yourself.
The routine remains the same. Meetings, long nights in the ASU office, the occasional stolen moment in a storage room when stress becomes too much. You and Sakusa still pretend like this is nothing more than convenienceâlike itâs just stress relief, like it doesnât bleed into the rest of your lives.
Except it does.
It starts small. You realize one day, midway through a meeting, that Sakusaâs been sitting closer to you lately. Close enough that his knee brushes against yours under the table, close enough that you can pick up the faint scent of his detergent. Close enough that when you pass him a folder, his fingers linger just a second too long against yours.
You tell yourself youâre imagining it.
But then, the conversations change.
It happens one night in the office.
Youâre both buried under paperwork, exhausted but determined to finalize the last of the festival logistics. Itâs lateâpast midnight, the campus outside empty and still. The only light in the room comes from your desk lamps, throwing soft, golden pools across the stacks of documents between you. The air smells like old paper and Sakusaâs coffee, a little burnt because he never times it right.
The quiet is comfortable, broken only by the rhythmic clicking of his laptop keys and the occasional shuffle of papers.
Then, out of nowhere, he asks, âDo you ever wonder what youâd be doing if you werenât here?â
You blink, caught off guard. âWhat do you mean?â
âIf you werenât ASU president,â he clarifies. âIf you had never run for office.â
You pause, pen hovering over the paper. The thought has never really occurred to you. Student government has consumed your life for so long that the idea of not being in this position feels foreign.
âI donât know,â you admit. âMaybe Iâd have more time to actually enjoy college.â
Sakusa hums, his gaze flickering to you. âSo you donât enjoy it now?â
You sigh, leaning back in your chair. âItâs not that I donât enjoy it. Itâs just⌠exhausting. I feel like Iâm constantly putting out fires. Like Iâm carrying this huge weight, and if I mess up, everything will fall apart.â
For a moment, Sakusa doesnât say anything.
Then, quietly, he says, âI get that.â
You glance at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice.
âVolleyball is kind of the same,â he continues, eyes still on his laptop screen. âI love it. But sometimes, itâs a lot. The pressure, the expectations. Some days, I wonder if Iâd still play if I didnât have to.â
You study him for a momentâthe tension in his posture, the way his fingers tap idly against the desk. Itâs rare for Sakusa to talk about himself like this.
Impulsively, you say, âI could come to one of your games.â
His fingers still. He finally looks at you, brows slightly furrowed. âWhy?â
You shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. âBecause. You put up with all my ASU crap. I can support you, too.â
Sakusa doesnât respond right away. He just stares at you, something unreadable in his expression. Then, he exhales and looks back at his screen.
âIf you want,â he mutters.
But you see the way his ears turn pink.
After that, the changes keep coming.
One night, you fall asleep in Sakusaâs dorm.
Itâs not on purpose.
You were both exhausted, drained from another grueling meeting that had stretched far too late. The weight of festival logistics, last-minute approvals, and endless emails had pressed down on you until neither of you could keep your eyes open. What was supposed to be a brief pauseâa moment to catch your breath before making the trek back to your dormâturned into you lying there, too tired to move.
Youâd meant to get up. You really had.
But then Sakusa had tugged the blanket over you with an almost reluctant kind of care, his movements cautious, deliberate. His arm had settled around your waist, warm and steady, like heâd done it without thinking; his breathing had evened out against the back of your neck, deep and slow, and suddenly, the thought of moving felt impossible.
You donât remember falling asleepâonly that the next thing you know, soft morning light is filtering through the blinds, casting long shadows across the room. For a moment, you forget where you are. The sheets smell like himâclean, crisp, something faintly citrusy beneath it all. The kind of scent that lingers, that sticks to your skin in ways you canât quite shake.
You should get up. You should leave before this gets any weirder.
But then Sakusa shifts beside you, his grip tightening, just for a second. His voice is rough with sleep, barely more than a murmur.
âGo back to sleep.â
And, for some reason, you do.
The lingering turns into something more.
You start walking back to your dorms together after meetings, shoulders brushing in the cold night air. Neither of you talk about it. Neither of you acknowledge the way Sakusa always seems to fall into step beside you, how his hands slip into his pockets but his body angles just slightly toward yours.
The touches that used to be quick, fleeting, become longer. His hand stays on your lower back when he passes by, his fingers ghosting over the fabric of your shirt. When you both reach for the same document, his fingers brush against yours, and he doesnât pull away as fast as he used to.
Itâs not just the physicality that changes.
He starts noticing things about youâthings no one else does.
Like how he always makes sure thereâs an extra bottle of water on your desk because he knows you forget to stay hydrated when youâre stressed. How he starts bringing you food when you work late, tossing it onto your desk without a word. Eat, he mutters, barely meeting your eyes. Youâre going to pass out if you donât.
And then thereâs the morning after another late night in his bed.
You wake up groggy, the lingering warmth of sleep making you slow to realize that Sakusa isnât next to you anymore. The room smells like coffee, and when you push yourself up onto your elbows, you see him standing by the tiny dorm kitchen, placing two plates of food on the counter.
You blink at him sleepily, confused. âDid you make extra on purpose?â
He doesnât look at you as he plates the food, but you donât miss the way the tips of his ears turn pink.
âYouâre already here,â he says simply.
Thatâs all he says.
But when he sets the plate in front of you, something warm settles in your chest.
The first game you go to, Sakusa plays like his life depends on it.
You hadnât planned on sitting so close to the court, but one of his teammates had insisted, ushering you into a seat with a too-knowing smirk. The energy in the gym is electric, the air thick with anticipation. Youâve never really watched him play beforeânot like this.
Heâs already on the court when you spot him, stretching near the net. His head turns slightly, scanning the crowd like heâs looking for something. His eyes pass over you once, then snap back.
For just a second, he falters.
Itâs quickâso quick that if you hadnât been watching him so closely, you mightâve missed it. The moment his gaze locks onto yours, his fingers twitch at his sides, his jaw tightening.
Then, he exhales. Rolls his shoulders back. Locks in.
Youâve never seen him play like this before. Focused, sharp, completely in control. His serves are ruthless, each one hitting its mark with unwavering precision. Every spike is calculated, every movement fluid. The intensity radiating off him is almost palpable.
His team wins, of course.
Afterward, you wait for him outside the locker room, arms crossed, watching as players filter out one by one. When he steps out, fresh from a shower, his hair damp and his bag slung over one shoulder, he stops the moment he sees you.
You raise an eyebrow. âDid you play that well just because I was watching?â
âDonât flatter yourself,â Sakusa scoffs, rolling his eyes.Â
But his lips twitch like heâs fighting back a smile.
You grin. âYou totally did.â
He mutters something under his breath but doesnât argue.
And when you both walk back to your dorms later, shoulders brushing, his fingers graze yours before he pulls away too quickly.
You pretend not to notice.
That night, after another round of pretending this is just stress relief, neither of you move when itâs over.
Youâre lying on his bed, your head turned slightly toward him, watching the way his chest rises and falls with each slow breath. His arm is draped loosely over your waist, fingers resting lightly against your skin. The room is quiet, save for the muffled sounds of students passing by outside and the rhythmic hum of the dorm heater kicking on.
You could get up. You should get up.
But instead, you speak.
âYou know this isnât normal, right?â you murmur.
Sakusa doesnât open his eyes. âWhat?â
âThis,â you say, voice quieter now. âWe donât have to do this.â
His fingers tighten slightly against your hip, just for a second. âI know.â
A beat of silence.
You swallow. âSo why do we?â
Sakusa finally opens his eyes, looking at you. His expression is unreadable, but thereâs something thereâsomething simmering beneath the surface, something unspoken yet unmistakably there.
You expect him to dodge the question, to brush it off the way he usually does. But he doesnât. He just looks at you.
And you realize, in that moment, that you donât really want to hear his answer.
You just want him to keep looking at you like that.
five.
A week before the festival, the networking event is in full swing. The banquet hall is filled with students, alumni, and facultyâmingling, exchanging business cards, and making polite conversation over expensive hors dâoeuvres. The hum of voices, the clinking of glasses, the occasional burst of polite laughterâall of it blends into a constant, low-level buzz, the kind that starts to wear on you after the first hour.
And it has been an hour. An exhausting one.
Youâve spent most of it bouncing between conversations, smiling until your cheeks ache, engaging with donors who are all too eager to talk about their latest ventures. Itâs tedious, but necessary. Part of the job. You, as much as you sometimes wish you werenât, are the face of the ASU, and that means standing here, playing nice, keeping people happy.
Across the room, Sakusa is lurking near the back, a glass of water in his hand, his expression unreadable. He never cared for these kinds of events, and youâre not sure why he bothers attending in the first place. Maybe because youâre here. Maybe because itâd be more suspicious if he didnât. Either way, heâs kept his distance all night, watching the room with the sharp, observant eyes you know so well.
Youâre halfway through an exhausting conversation with a donor when someone sidles up beside you, close enough that the scent of his cologneâsomething expensive, overly strongâsettles in the air between you.
âDidnât think Iâd see you here,â he says smoothly, his voice carrying just enough self-assurance to set you on edge. âYou look good tonight.â
You barely remember his nameâTerushima, maybe? Some business major, someone who always carries himself like heâs the most interesting person in the room. Heâs charming, in that forced, calculated way, and itâs clear he expects the same back.
You force a polite smile, instinctively taking a step back. âThanks,â you say evenly. âAre you enjoying the event?â
He barely acknowledges your words. His eyes linger. Itâs not overtly inappropriate, but itâs enough to make your skin prickle with discomfort.
âYou know, Iâve been meaning to askââ
Before he can finish, a hand lands on the small of your back. Warm. Steady. Familiar.
You glance up just in time to see Sakusa step in beside you, his expression unreadable but his presence unmistakably possessive. His fingers flex slightly against your waistânot hard, not urgent, but firm enough to ground you.
The guyâs smirk falters.
âOh,â he says, glancing between you and Sakusa, processing. âDidnât realize you were⌠with someone.â
Sakusa doesnât say anything. He doesnât need to. The air around him shifts, a quiet warning woven into the sharpness of his gaze.
The guy clears his throat, mutters something about catching up later, and disappears into the crowd.
Sakusaâs hand doesnât move.
âYou didnât have to do that,â you murmur, tilting your head up at him.
He exhales sharply, finally letting go. âHe was annoying.â
You bite back a smile. âYouâre grumpy.â
He gives you a lookâflat, unimpressedâbut thereâs something unreadable in his expression, something tense, something simmering just beneath the surface.
You donât think much of it. Not until later.
That night, everything feels different.
Sakusaâs touch is rougher than usual. Not careless, not cruelâjust⌠more. Harder. His grip on your hips is firm, his fingers pressing deep into your skin, like heâs trying to anchor himself. His kisses are deeper, hungrier, laced with something unspoken, something desperate. Like something inside him has snapped, like he needs to prove somethingânot to you, but to himself.
You notice immediately.
The way he pushes you back onto the mattress, the way his body moves against yours, the way his lips chase yours with a kind of urgency youâre not used toâitâs different. Thereâs a tension in him that wasnât there before, a weight behind his touch that makes your breath hitch. Itâs not impatience, not exactly. Itâs more like restraint fraying at the edges, barely holding together.
When he settles between your legs, when he pulls you against him like heâs afraid you might slip through his fingers, you smirk against his lips.
âSomeoneâs in a mood,â you murmur, voice teasing, but thereâs an underlying curiosity there too. A question you donât quite ask.
He exhales sharply against your neck, a breath that sounds almost like a laughâbut he doesnât respond. Instead, he tilts your chin up, kisses you harder, swallowing whatever words might have come next. And just like that, the conversation ends.
You donât tease him after that.
Later, long after the room has gone quiet again, your breath is still uneven, your body still humming in the aftershocks of it all. The warmth of his skin lingers against yours, the feeling of his touch still imprinted in every place heâs been.
You expect him to roll away like he usually doesâto shift onto his side, to put that familiar distance between you. Sakusa isnât distant, not in the way that people assume, but heâs careful. Careful with his space, with his touch, with how much of himself he lets you see.
But tonight is different.
Instead of moving away, he stays close. One arm draped loosely over your waist, his fingers resting against your skin. His breathing is slow, deep, steady. When you shift slightly, his grip flexesâjust barely, just enough to keep you there.
You blink, caught off guard.
Sakusa is guarded, meticulous, composed. He doesnât do things without reason, doesnât let his guard slip without meaning to. And yet, right now, heâs letting himself be close. Letting himself stay.
You watch him for a moment. His curls are messier than usual, some strands falling over his forehead. In the dim glow of the night, his features are softer, more open than they usually are. Thereâs something about seeing him like thisâunguarded, still half-lost in the haze of sleepâthat makes something tighten in your chest.
Without thinking, you reach up, brushing the hair away from his face.
Sakusaâs eyes flutter open.
You freeze. âSorry.â
He doesnât move, doesnât look away. His gaze lingers on you, dark and unreadable. Then, after a moment, he exhales, his eyes slipping shut again.
You take that as permission.
Your fingers move again, slower this time, threading through his hair. His breathing evens out, his shoulders relaxing beneath your touch. You donât think he even realizes it, the way he melts into the warmth of your palm, the way his body unconsciously shifts closer.
A strange warmth settles in your chest. Something soft. Something quiet.
The urge to be closer to himâto feel more of himâcreeps in before you can think better of it. And so you donât think. You just act, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek.
Sakusaâs eyes snap open again.
He stares at you, startled, like heâs not sure if he imagined it.
âWhat?â you ask, amused. âI canât kiss you?â
His brows furrow, his expression unreadable. Then, quietly, he says, âYou never have before.â
The words sit heavy between you.
You blink, lips parting slightly. You donât know why his voice sounds like thatâsoft, careful, like heâs treading over unfamiliar ground. You donât know why it makes your heartbeat stutter, why it makes your chest feel tight in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion.
You swallow. âDid you⌠not like it?â
A beat of silence. Then, just as quiet: âNo.â
Your breath catches.
He exhales, turning his face slightly into the pillow, but not before you catch the faintest hint of red blooming across the tops of his ears.
So you take a chance, leaning in againâthis time pressing a softer kiss against his temple, then another against the bridge of his nose.
He lets you.
And when you settle back down beside him, his fingers find yours, hesitant but deliberate.
Neither of you say anything.
You donât need to.
six.
Sakusa isnât paying attention at first.
Heâs in the ASU office, sorting through the last of the Spring Festival budget reports while the others talk idly around him. The voices blend into the usual hum of conversationâbackground noise, nothing worth listening to. At least, not until he hears your name.
Thatâs what makes his focus shift, what makes his fingers still slightly on the paper in his hands. His head doesnât lift, his posture doesnât change, but his ears tune in before he can stop himself.
âAre you guys dating?â
Kiyokoâs voice. Calm. Casual. A simple question, but one that makes his grip tighten around the page in his hands before he even knows why.
Thereâs a pauseâjust long enough for something to stir uneasily in his chest.
Then you laugh.
âOh, no,â you say, amused. âItâs not like that.â
His stomach drops.
The feeling is sharp, unexpected. Foreign.
He doesnât know what he was expecting. Itâs not like youâve ever talked about this. Itâs not like thereâs anything to talk about. You both agreedâno feelings, no complications. Just stress relief.
Still, the way you say itâso easily, so effortlesslyâit makes his throat tighten.
Not like that.
Not even close.
Sakusa forces himself to breathe, shifting slightly in his seat as he stares at the document in front of him. He clenches his jaw, willing himself to let it go, to shake off the strange weight settling over his chest. It shouldnât matter. It doesnât matter. The festival is next week. His schedule is packed. He doesnât have time to dwell on things that shouldnât even be a problem in the first place.
But for the first time in weeks, his brain refuses to cooperate.
The conversation continues around him, but itâs as if everything has dulledâlike the words are passing through a filter, muffled and distant. All he hears is your voice. The casual certainty in your tone. The way youâd dismissed the thought so easily, like it wasnât even worth considering.
Like the idea of being with him was ridiculous.
He exhales slowly, his grip on the budget report tightening until the edges of the paper crumple under his fingers. He doesnât let go, doesnât ease his hold, just stares down at the page as if forcing himself to refocus will make the feeling go away.
It doesnât.
It lingers.
All through the rest of the meeting, as he signs off on expenses and finalizes last-minute festival details. As you talk to him like nothing has changedâlike heâs still the same Sakusa youâve always known, the one you donât have to think twice about, the one who isnât even worth a second glance.
By the time the meeting ends, he feels restless.
Then, later, you invite him to a party.
Itâs casualâone of your friends is hosting, nothing too fancy, just a small gathering with drinks and music. The kind of thing you donât usually ask him to go to.
âCome with me,â you say, nudging him lightly with your elbow as you both leave the office. âYou never go out.â
He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. âI donât have time.â
You groan. âOh my god, Sakusa, for once in your life, stop being responsible and just come have fun.â
But he shakes his head. âIâll pass.â
You stop walking. Turn to face him.
âWhy?â
The question is simple. Easy. Youâre not even upsetânot really. Just confused. Because he never used to turn you down before.
He hesitates.
He could lie. Say heâs busy, that he has too much work to do, that heâs too tired.
But thatâs not the real reason.
The real reason is this: if he goes, he canât pretend itâs not real anymore.
He canât keep pretending this is just stress relief. That it doesnât mean anything. That he doesnât want more than what youâre willing to give.
Because if he goes, heâll see you in a setting where youâre not just the ASU president, not just the person who collapses into his bed after long meetings, not just the person who understands him better than anyone else.
Youâll be you. Loud, laughing, electric.
And heâll look at you, and heâll want. And he canât afford that, not when he already knows how this ends.
So instead, he meets your gaze and says, âI just donât feel like it.â
Something flickers across your expression. Itâs quickâso quick that if he wasnât looking at you so closely, he mightâve missed it.
But he doesnât.
He sees the brief drop of your shoulders, the slight shift in your posture. You donât push. You donât ask again.
You just nod once, tight and short, and say, âOkay. Whatever.â
And then you turn and walk away, sparing only a quick glance over your shoulder.
The moment youâre gone, Sakusa exhales, running a hand down his face. He tells himself itâs fine. That this is what he wanted. That this is better.
But he feels like shit. His head hurts. He feels like he canât breathe.
And for the first time since this whole thing started, Sakusa wonders if he just made a mistake.
seven.
Sakusa starts pulling away first.
Itâs subtle in the beginning. Little things.
You donât notice it immediatelyânot with how chaotic the week leading up to the Spring Festival is, how much there is to do, how many fires there are to put out. The days are long, packed with meetings, last-minute approvals, and problem-solving. Youâre too busy running from one crisis to another to really stop and think about it.
But then it starts becoming undeniable.
He stops lingering after meetings. Stops staying late in the office with you. Stops brushing his fingers against yours when he hands you documents, stops nudging your knee under the conference table, stops looking at you when he thinks no one else is watching.
And, most noticeably, he stops touching you.
Thatâs when it really sinks in.
Because you had started to grow used to itâthe warmth of his hand on the small of your back, the way heâd reach for you without thinking, the way he used to pull you into his side when no one was around. It had become second nature, a quiet, unspoken thing between you.
You had never questioned it before, had never asked what it meant, because you didnât think you had to.
But now? Now itâs like none of it ever happened. And you, despite all your reasoning, donât understand why.
At first, you try to be patient. Try to tell yourself itâs just stress, that heâs just overwhelmed with work, that once the festival is over, things will go back to normal.
But then another day passes.
And another.
And another.
And suddenly, you canât ignore it anymore.
The shift between you is undeniable. Itâs in the way he moves around you nowâdistant, calculated, careful. In the way he answers you with clipped, impersonal responses. In the way he keeps space between you, never standing too close, never reaching for you like he used to.
You wait for him to snap out of it.
He doesnât.
And when another day ends with nothingâno lingering glances, no easy, familiar touch, no warmthâyou start to wonder if you imagined it all. If it had only ever been real for you.
So the night before the festival, you finally snap.
The office is empty, save for the two of you. The exec board has long since gone home, leaving behind stacks of paperwork, half-empty coffee cups, and the heavy silence between you.
Sakusa is seated across from you, scrolling through his tablet, looking as calm and composed as ever. You, on the other hand, are vibrating with frustration.
You donât know how to bring it up. You donât know how to phrase it, how to put into words the mounting tension, the frustration, the confusionâthe gnawing ache in your chest that has been growing with every passing day.
So you wait. You tell yourself youâll wait for him to say something, to acknowledge the change between you, to explain why things feel so different now.
But he doesnât. Instead, he closes his tablet, grabs his bag, and stands upâjust like that, like nothing is wrong, like he hasnât been slowly pushing you away without a single explanation.
And thatâs what finally breaks you.
âThatâs it?â you blurt out.
Sakusa pauses, glancing at you with a frown. âWhat?â
âThatâs it?â You stand, crossing your arms. âYouâre just gonna leave?â
He exhales, clearly exhausted. âItâs late.â
âThatâs not what Iâm talking about and you know it.â
Silence.
He looks at you, expression carefully blank, and for the first time, you realize how much that pisses you off. How much you hate that unreadable look, how much you hate that heâs acting like he doesnât know exactly what youâre talking about.
Your stomach twists. âWhy are you acting like this?â
âLike what?â
âLike I donât⌠like I donât exist.â
Sakusa exhales sharply, rubbing his temple. âIâm notââ
âYes, you are.â You take a step forward, your pulse racing. âYouâve been avoiding me all week. You donât talk to me. You donât even look at me anymore.â Your voice wavers slightly, but you push forward. âWhat the hell, Sakusa?â
He stays silent, staring at you.
You shake your head, frustration mounting. âYou know what? Fine. If somethingâs wrong, just say it. If I did something, just tell me. But donâtââ Your throat tightens. âDonât just shut me out.â
Something flickers across his face, but itâs gone before you can place it.
Then, he says, âYouâre overthinking it.â
You blink.
And then, you laughâsharp, bitter. âOh, Iâm overthinking it?â
âYes.â His voice is calm, infuriatingly so. âIt was never meant to mean anything, remember?â
The words hit harder than they should.
Something cold settles in your stomach. You stare at him, suddenly unable to breathe properly.
He doesnât even flinch as he says it, doesnât even hesitate. Just looks at you like this is nothing, like the past few weeks have been nothing, like the way he used to kiss you like he needed it, like the way he held you close at night, like none of it mattered.
Like you donât matter.
You swallow, forcing down the lump in your throat. âRight,â you say quietly. âI forgot. Youâre good at that, arenât you? Pretending things donât matter.â
Sakusaâs jaw tightens, but he doesnât respond.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. You should really leave. You should walk away before you say something you canât take back. But you canâtânot yet.
So instead, you inhale sharply and take one last shot, your voice softer now. âDid any of it mean anything to you?â
Sakusaâs fingers tighten around the strap of his bag. His posture is rigid, his face unreadable. But he doesnât answer.
And that tells you everything you need to know.
You let out a shaky breath, blinking fast. âOkay, then. If it doesnât mean anything, then letâs just stop.â
Something shifts in his expressionâsomething small, something almost imperceptible. But you donât wait to figure out what it is.
You turn before he can say anything else, before he can twist the knife even further, before you can say something youâll regret.
Youâre the one who walks away.
This time, you donât look back.
eight.
You pretend everything is normal.
Meetings are professional. Efficient. Painfully, excruciatingly polite.
Sakusa hands you reports with a clipped, âHere.â His voice is devoid of warmth, of the quiet familiarity that used to live there. You take them without glancing up, without acknowledging the way his fingers twitch as if resisting the impulse to linger. When you slide budget breakdowns across the table, youâre carefulâso carefulânot to let your fingers brush his, even by accident.
Once, you might have laughed together at the absurdity of this project, whispering half-serious bets about which department head would crack under the stress first. Once, you might have stayed late in the ASU office, shoulders brushing as you worked through spreadsheets in the dim glow of your laptop screens, stealing moments of shared exhaustion, shared silence, shared something.
Now, thereâs nothing.
Now, thereâs only distance.
It kills him.
At first, he thought this would be easier. That shutting you out would make it hurt less when you eventually drifted away. That if he built a wall between you first, he wouldnât have to watch you build one later. He thought he was protecting himself.
But thisâthis is so much worse.
Because youâre still here, but youâre not his anymore.
And itâs all his fault.
You distract yourself with the festival. Thereâs no time to dwell on things that donât matter, you tell yourself. Vendors need coordinating. Performers need confirming. Alumni need charming. A hundred little details claw at your attention, demanding focus, pulling you away from thoughts that ache too much to touch.
You throw yourself into the work like itâs a lifeline, like drowning in logistics and schedules will somehow silence the restless thoughts that gnaw at the edges of your mind. If you keep moving, if you keep planning, if you keep pushing forward, then maybeâjust maybeâyou wonât feel the weight of whatâs missing.
And yet, the stress is worse now.
Because Sakusa used to help carry it.
He used to take half the burden without being asked. Without expectation. Just because he could, because he wanted to. Because he used to look at you and see someone worth helping.
Now, the weight is suffocating.
You feel it in the silence of the ASU office late at night, the way the empty chair beside you seems colder than before. You feel it in the exhaustion that clings to your skin, sinking into your bones. You feel it in the dull ache that settles in your chest every morning, never quite fading, never quite leaving you alone.
But worst of all, you feel it every time you see him.
He looks fine. Composed, indifferent, the same as always.
It infuriates you.
Because really, how dare he? How dare he act like nothing happened, like nothing changed? Like you werenât tangled up in his sheets just days ago, like he wasnât tracing circles against your skin in the quiet hours before dawn, like he wasnât the one who pulled away first?
How dare he pretend you never meant anything, when he was the one who made you feel like you did?
You hate him for it. You hate him for leaving, for walking away.Â
But more than anything, you hate that deep down, under your hurt, you donât hate him. Not even a little bit. Not really at all.
Sakusa is miserable.
Volleyball used to be his escape. His sanctuary. The only thing that made sense.
But now, even that feels wrong.
Because before every match, before every practice, he used to look for you in the stands. It wasnât even consciousâjust instinct, muscle memory. A habit woven into his routine, as natural as breathing.
He knew you didnât come to every game. But you did, a lot. Sometimes heâd glance up and catch you pretending not to watch him too closely, pretending not to care, even as your gaze lingered a little too long. Sometimes heâd meet your eyes, and youâd smirk, and heâd knowâknow that later, when the dust settled, youâd have some sharp-witted comment about his form, his plays, his post-game interviews.
But now, he looks, and youâre never there.
It fucking sucks. It ruins his whole routine.
It starts to show, too. His blocks are sloppy. His serves lack precision. His reactions are just a half-second too slow, and he knows it. He can feel it in the way the ball doesnât quite connect the way it should, in the way the court doesnât feel like home anymore.
And his teammates notice.
âYou good, man?â Bokuto asks one afternoon, frowning after another off-target spike.
Sakusa exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. âIâm fine.â
âYouâre not, though,â Hinata says, watching him carefully. âYouâve been playing like shit.â
Sakusa glares. âIâm notââ
âYa are,â Atsumu cuts in, arms crossed. âAnd itâs not just yer game. Youâve been miserable for weeks. If somethinâs wrong, deal with it.â
Sakusa clenches his jaw. Says nothing.
Because what is there to say? That heâs miserable because of you? That heâs the one who ruined everything? That he made this choice, and now he has to live with it? That he doesnât even know if youâd forgive him, even if he tried to fix it? That the only person who could make him feel like himself again is the one person who wonât even look at him anymore?
No.
He canât say any of that.
So instead, he just exhales, picks up the ball, and mutters, âLetâs run it again,â and pretends like everything isnât falling apart.
nine.
The festival, despite everything, begins.
It should be thrilling. It should feel like a triumph, the culmination of months of relentless work, late nights spent hunched over planning documents, and a hundred tiny decisions that should have amounted to something seamless, something grand.
Instead, it feels like hell.
Everything that can go wrong does. Vendors arrive late, throwing the entire setup into disarray, their excuses flimsy and their apologies meaningless when the delay sends a ripple effect of chaos through the carefully arranged schedule. The sound system glitches in the middle of the first student performance, transforming the singerâs voice into a garbled mess of static before cutting out entirely, leaving behind a stunned silence. Booths sit empty, their intended attendants missing due to some logistical oversightâsome failure of coordination that has faculty members exchanging exasperated looks, their whispers dripping with disapproval.
You are drowning.
By the second day, you are running on caffeine, frustration, and the sheer willpower not to completely unravel. Your feet ache from hours of pacing across campus, your temples throb from the unrelenting onslaught of problems, and your patienceâalready stretched thinâis now nonexistent. The pressure is suffocating, bearing down on you like a weight you were never meant to carry alone.
And Sakusa?
He is just as miserable.
You see it in the rigidity of his posture, in the way his fingers curl into fists whenever another problem arises, in the exhaustion darkening his gaze. He moves through the chaos with his usual efficiencyâquiet, methodical, unreadableâbut you know him. You know him better than anyone.
And you know he is barely holding it together.
Neither of you acknowledge it. Neither of you mention how your interactions have been reduced to clipped exchanges, words stripped of warmth, spoken with as much distance as possible. Neither of you admit that this weekâthis godforsaken weekâhas been unbearable without the other.
Unfortunately, your executive board notices.
âOkay,â Futakuchi announces, arms crossed as he surveys the two of you like a detective piecing together a crime scene. âSomething is wrong.â
âYouâre imagining things,â you mutter, flipping through the latest stack of vendor complaints. The words blur slightly, but you refuse to let anyone see just how exhausted you are.
âIâm not,â he insists, undeterred. He gestures between you and Sakusa, who is seated across the room, fingers flying over his keyboard as he types with a level of aggression usually reserved for his worst enemies. âYou guys are acting weird. Weirder than usual.â
âWeâre fine,â you snap.
Kiyoko adjusts her glasses, her sharp gaze cutting through your defenses. âYou havenât smiled in days. Youâre constantly on edge. And Sakusaââ she tilts her head towards him, ââhasnât insulted Futakuchi even once today.â
âThatâs actually a huge red flag,â Futakuchi adds helpfully.
Ushijima, ever serious, nods in agreement. âThe dynamic of the team has shifted.â
Sakusa exhales sharply, rubbing his temple. âCan you all not? We have actual work to do.â
Aone, silent until now, observes the two of you with his usual quiet intensity. Then, after a painfully long beat, he gives a single, solemn nod. âTension,â he murmurs.
You groan, dragging a hand down your face.
Futakuchiâs smirk is infuriating. âSee? Even Aone notices.â
You donât bother responding. You donât even have the energy to argue. Instead, you gather your paperwork, shove your laptop into your bag, and storm out.
You donât look back.
If you did, youâd see Sakusa watching you leave.
You hit your breaking point halfway through the week.
It happens during the alumni networking fairâthe crown jewel of the festival, the event that was supposed to impress donors, alumni, and potential sponsors. The one you poured every ounce of your energy into perfecting, sculpting each detail with the precision of a master craftsman.
Instead, it crumbles.
A venue miscommunication leads to seating chaos, leaving guests aimlessly wandering, confused and increasingly irritated. The guest speakerâs flight is delayed, the catering companyâdespite weeks of prior confirmationâchooses now to re-verify their payment processing, and as if fate itself is conspiring against you, an administrator corners you minutes before the event, droning about âexpectations for student leadershipâ and how âthis level of disorganization reflects poorly.â
You canât do this.
You feel it buildingâthe pressure, the exhaustion, the sheer weight of everything going wrong all at once. Your chest tightens, your vision blurs at the edges, and for the first time all week, you recognize a terrifying truth:
You cannot do this alone.
Then, before you can completely shatter, Sakusa steps in.
One moment, you are teetering, barely keeping yourself upright. The next, he is there.
He moves swiftly, seamlessly, fixing problems before you can even register them. He handles the seating issue with a few clipped instructions. He calls the speakerâs team, negotiating a workaround before you can even reach for your phone. He takes charge of the caterers, shutting down their nonsense with two curt sentences and a glare sharp enough to cut steel.
He moves through the chaos with the same unshakable precision he always hasâcalm, efficient, controlled. He has always been good under pressure, but this is different. This is not just problem-solving. This is something else.
And it hits you all at once: you miss him.
Not just the arrangement. Not just the late nights, the convenience, the way his touch had always lingered longer than necessary.
Him.
The way he always knewâknew exactly when you were on the verge of unraveling. The way he kept things from falling apart, even when you felt like you were. The way he understood youâtruly, deeply, in a way no one else ever had.
And it is terrifying, because it is not just missing him. Itâs needing him.
Sakusa realizes it too.
Not just that he still wants you, not just that ignoring you has made this entire week unbearable. Those things were obvious. What he realizes now is that none of thisânone of the work, none of the stressâwas ever what exhausted him.
It was pretending. Pretending he didnât care. Pretending it was just an arrangement. Pretending he didnâtâ
Well.
Pretending he didnât love you.
And now, watching youâwatching the way your shoulders finally loosen as you let him help, watching the way your eyes flicker with something unreadable when you look at himâhe knows it is too late.
Heâs in too deep. Heâs always been in too deep.
And the worst part?
He doesnât even care anymore. He misses you too much to care.Â
ten.
Itâs as if the universe has finally gotten its act together.
For once, everything aligns. As if things have finally conspired in your favor, the remainder of the festival unfolds with an almost unsettling ease. No vendor catastrophes, no logistical nightmares, no alumni with their impossible demands.
Thursday slips into Friday, Friday into Saturday morning, each day a seamless rhythm of events ticking by without incident. Your executive board exhales in collective relief, tension unspooling from their shoulders. Your own pulse, which has been a metronome of stress all week, finally settles into something resembling normalcy. You even manage to sleepâfive full hours, a luxury that feels like an eternity compared to the restless snatches of rest youâve been surviving on.
And now, the final night is here.
The Spring Gala. The grand finale. The last orchestration of the festivalâa beast of an event that had consumed endless planning meetings, countless revisions, and more compromises than youâd care to admit. And yet, somehow, impossibly, everything is running smoothly.
The ballroom glows with golden light, strands of soft illumination draped elegantly across the ceiling, casting a warm haze over the room. Candlelight flickers along the tables, their delicate floral arrangements arranged with meticulous care, petals unfurling under the glow like they, too, are basking in the perfection of the night. The gentle hum of a live string quartet weaves through the space, their melody twining through laughter and the quiet clink of champagne glasses. Students and faculty glide through the room in their finest attire, the men crisp in tailored suits, the women draped in silks and satins, everyone engaged in the carefully curated illusion that deadlines and responsibilities donât exist beyond these gilded walls.
Everything is perfect.
And yet, your focus narrows to one thing.
Him.
Sakusa looks good. Too good.
The sharp lines of his black suit mold effortlessly to his frame, the dark fabric absorbing the ambient light, making him appear even more striking. His curls are tousled, just slightly, as though he had run a hand through them absentmindedly before walking in. He stands with practiced ease, scanning the room with the same sharp, unreadable expression he always wearsâone that betrays nothing, yet youâve always found yourself trying to decipher. And itâs infuriating, because youâve spent the entire week meticulously avoiding the gravitational pull he seems to exert, trying not to let your eyes linger too long, trying not to remember the weight of everything unsaid between you.
But right now? Right now, heâs making it impossible.
Especially when his gaze finally lands on you.
Itâs just a flickerâa secondâs pause, a shift in his expression so fleeting you might have missed it if you werenât already attuned to him. But you see it. The way his dark eyes sweep over you, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary. The way something unreadable flickers in his gaze before he schools his features into careful neutrality.
Your throat tightens, but you force yourself to move, bridging the space between you with a measured ease you donât quite feel. Every step feels deliberate, a careful choreography masking the unease curling in your stomach.
âDidnât think youâd actually show up,â you say, tilting your head slightly, voice lighter than the weight pressing against your ribs.
Sakusaâs brow liftsâjust barely, the movement almost imperceptibleâbut you catch it. âI planned half of this.â
A smirk tugs at your lips as you cross your arms over your chest, trying to steady yourself in the face of his presence. âYeah, but you hate these things.â
He exhales, his gaze sweeping over the grand spectacle around you as if only now acknowledging the elaborate displayâthe glittering chandeliers, the swirl of expensive fabric, the low hum of conversation filling the air like static. âFigured it would be suspicious if the EVP didnât make an appearance.â
âMhm.â You hesitate, just for a beat, before speaking again. âSo⌠whereâs your date?â
His eyes snap back to yours, something sharp and immediate in the way he looks at you, like the question caught him off guard. âWhat?â
âYour date,â you repeat, forcing nonchalance into your tone even as your pulse betrays you, drumming against your skin. âSomeone as charming as you must have one, right?â
Sakusaâs expression flattens, unreadable yet telling in ways you donât have the words for. âNo.â
The single syllable lands heavier than it should. You had expected a different answerâassumed he would have someone by his side, someone who had effortlessly captured his attention in the time you had spent pushing him away. And yet, here he stands. Alone.
You donât know why that realization makes your heart stutter.
âWell,â Sakusa says, his exhale quieter this time. âNeither did you.â
You blink, caught off guard. âWhat?â
His gaze remains steady. âYou didnât bring a date either.â
âYeah, because I was working.â You scoff, deflecting without hesitation.Â
He tilts his head slightly, studying you in that way that makes you feel like heâs seeing more than you intend to show. âStill.â
Itâs just a single word, but it lingers, curling around you like an unspoken challenge, seeping beneath your skin, sparking something warm and restless in your chest.
Before you can unpack it, before you can shield yourself from whatever this is, he speaks again.
âDance with me.â
You freeze. âWhat?â
Sakusa sighs, shoving his hands into his pockets, like he hates what heâs about to say. âDance with me,â he repeats, softer this time. âSince neither of us brought dates.â
For a moment, all you can do is stare at him, trying to decipher the layers of meaning beneath the words.
Sakusa Kiyoomiâwho loathes social events, who avoids unnecessary physical contact, who has spent the entire night lingering at the edges of the roomâis standing here, asking you to dance.
And for some reason, against all logic, you say, âOkay.â
The music shifts into something slow, something delicate, a melody spun from soft strings and quiet longing. It doesnât demand anything extravagant, only movement, only presence.
You expect him to be tense, awkward, but when his hand finds your waist, his fingers curling against the fabric of your dress with a touch more certain than you anticipated, there is no hesitation. His other hand finds yours, warm and sure, his grip anchoring. His movements are smooth, practiced, betraying a familiarity with this kind of closeness that feels at odds with the person you thought you knew.
You, however, are acutely aware of everything.
The warmth of his palm burning through the layers between you. The faint press of his fingertips against your lower back, light yet possessive. The scent of his cologneâcrisp, clean, laced with bergamot and something deeper, something uniquely him.
And then thereâs his gaze, dark and unreadable, flickering down to meet yours, searching for something youâre not sure youâre ready to name.
Itâs too much.
And suddenly, before you can stop yourself, the words slip out, quiet, hesitant, but real.
âIâm sorry,â you say softly.
Sakusa blinks, his grip tightening ever so slightly. âFor what?â
You inhale, fingers curling against his shoulder, grounding yourself in the press of fabric and muscle beneath your touch. âFor how things have been. For the way I acted. For⌠shutting you out. I really did miss you, you know.â
For a long moment, he says nothing. Then, so quiet you almost miss it: âI missed you too.â
Something in your chest loosens, a tether unspooling, unraveling the knots that had been holding you in place. But before you can fully breathe it in, before you can settle into the tentative relief of it, he continues.
âI just⌠couldnât pretend anymore.â
You frown, caught on the way his voice shifts, the way something raw bleeds into his words. âPretend what?â
Sakusa hesitates. His fingers flex slightly against your waist, his grip shifting as if trying to hold onto something unseen. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, rougher, like heâs forcing the words out before he loses the nerve to say them.
âThat I didnât care about you.â A beat of silence. Then, quieter, weightierââThat I didnât⌠want more.â
The world tilts.
Your breath catches, your pulse tripping over itself, something dangerous and inevitable clawing its way up your throat.Â
You donât think. You donât hesitate. Itâs like when you first kissed him in the office so many weeks ago: you, despite everything, just moveâheedless, reckless, drawn forward by something deeper than reason.
Your lips find his in a collision of heat and longing, tentative at firstâa question whispered in the language of touch, of all the words left unsaid, of all the moments spent waiting, wanting.
For a single, breathless heartbeat, the world hangs in stillness. A hesitation. A precipice. Then Sakusa exhales, a sharp, punched-out sound like heâs just had the wind knocked from his lungs, and something in him snaps like a wire pulled too taut for too long.
His grip tightens at your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress, pulling you against him with a desperation that makes your pulse stutter. His other hand finds the back of your neck, calloused fingers threading through your hair, tilting your head just so as he deepens the kissâno longer a question, but an answer.
The world outside of this moment ceases to exist. The only thing real is the warmth of his mouth against yours, the steady, insistent press of his body, the scent of himâhis detergent, his cologne. He tastes like something intoxicating, something you want to drown in.
Sakusa kisses you like he needs to remember this very feeling, like this time away from you has been centuries rather than daysâlike heâs tracing the shape of your lips into the fabric of his being, like heâs afraid youâll slip through his fingers if he so much as loosens his hold. Thereâs something achingly restrained in the way he moves, like heâs been waiting for thisâfor youâfor far longer than heâs willing to admit.
And the thing is, you donât want to let go.
Not now.
Not ever again.
eleven.
The final night of the festival is winding down, and the fundraiser gala is drawing to a close. The speeches are about to begin. The crowd falls into a hush, the hum of conversation quieting as attention shifts to the podium.
You grip the podium, clear your throat, and begin your speech. It's the usual stuffâthank-yous to the faculty, acknowledgements of the hard work that went into the festival, and a few light jokes to keep the atmosphere warm.
And through it all, he's there.
You feel Sakusa before you see him, his presence quietly grounding you. His hand brushes against yours just as you step up to the stage, a small, subtle touch that sends a wave of calm through you. Itâs enough to settle your nerves, even if just a little.
The speech goes on. You focus, but in the back of your mind, youâre aware of the quiet weight of him standing beside you, unmoving but unwavering, just like always. Then, under the podium, his fingers curl around yours. The touch is light, hidden from the crowd, but itâs there.
Your breath hitches for a moment, but you keep going, squeezing his hand once in quiet reassurance. You keep speaking, maintaining your composure.
Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Futakuchi freeze. His eyes flicker to your joined hands, and you catch the brief, silent exchange between him and Aone. Futakuchiâs soft exhale is followed by a rustling of bills, Aone accepting his twenty-dollar winnings without a word.
Across the room, Kiyoko watches with a knowing smile, her gaze flicking between you and Sakusa.
When the speech ends, the applause fills the room, warm and inviting. You turn slightly, feeling Sakusaâs hand slip away, but before it fully retreats, his pinky brushes against yours for just a moment longer than necessary. Your heart stumbles again.
âFinally,â Futakuchi groans the second you step offstage. He throws up his hands in exaggerated relief. âDo you have any idea how painful itâs been watching you two not be together?â
You blink in surprise. âExcuse me?â
Kiyoko hums, setting her drink down. âHeâs right.â
Ushijima offers a solemn nod. âIt was inevitable.â
âYou guys knew?â Sakusa asks, furrowing his brow.
Futakuchi scoffs. âObviously. Everyone knew.â He sighs dramatically, shaking his head. âYou two always fit together, even before you realized it yourselves.â
Aone gives a single, affirming nod.
Kiyoko just shrugs. âYou just took your time getting there.â
You glance at Sakusa, and to your surprise, he doesnât seem annoyed. Heâs not irritatedâjust thoughtful. His fingers twitch slightly at his side before he exhales quietly. âYeah. We did.â
You smile, feeling the weight of the moment.
The gala lights shimmer above you, casting a warm glow over the ballroom. The noise of the crowd rises around youâthe low hum of laughter, clinking glasses, the soft notes of a song playing from the dance floor. The air smells of champagne and wax from the flickering candles, mingling with the floral arrangements around the room. But none of it feels overwhelming. Not with him beside you.
Sakusa stands next to you, solid and constant, just like he always has been. You glance at him again, noticing how the light hits his sharp features, how his dark eyes flicker with something unreadable. He exhales slowly, and then shifts just enough for his shoulder to brush against yoursâa small, silent reassurance.
The conversations around youâFutakuchiâs exasperated muttering, Kiyokoâs quiet amusement, Aoneâs rare nods of agreementâbecome distant, secondary. In this moment, it doesnât matter. Because here, with him beside you, you realize one thing.
You donât have to hide. Thereâs no more second-guessing, no more wondering.
No more pretending.
You are here, beside him. And heâs here, beside you.
Sakusa exhales again, barely audible over the music. His fingers brush against yours once moreânothing more than a whisper of a touch. But the warmth it brings lingers in your chest, steady and real.
He doesnât pull away. Neither do you.
The night goes onâthe laughter, the clinking of glasses, the celebration. The festival is over, the gala winding down, the world moving forward as it always does.
But for now, in this moment, standing next to him, you know something for sure.
You donât have to walk alone anymore.
And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.
⨠closing notes; special thanks to @megapteraurelia for beta reading!! veryyyy meh abt this one so far but who knows lol. ngl i'm not a sakusa girl so i hope i did him justice if u guys have any suggestions for improvement pls let me know!!! btw i am working on smth lowk crazy so i may not have a new fic for a hot sec but when im back it'll be w smth SPECIAL
⨠genre; fluff, childhood best friends!trope, valentineâs day special!
⨠pairing; kuroo tetsuro x fem!reader
⨠word count; 18.5k
⨠description; kuroo suggests a âpalentineâs dayâ when you both admit to being adults with no sense of a love life on valentineâs. that being said, obviously he becomes yours.
⨠a/n; guys i made this over the course of like one day. it's literally NOT proofread at all (i am not sober rn and will do so tomorrow morning) so if ur early, deal with it. jk thank u so much for reading my bullshit on ur valentine's if ur reading this also check out 'in full bloom' aka pt 1 of my valentines gift to tumblr
edit; gave up on proofreading so if u find any mistakes. well
song i listened to writing this: 'pretty in pink' by lostboycrow
one.
JFK stands for âJohn F. Kennedyâ International Airport, but as you wait in the masses outside the pick-up zone, you canât help thinking that it should really stand for âJust Fucking Killâ yourself.
You tend to avoid the airport as much as humanly possible since TSA agents are evil and you always get lost, but today, youâre forced to be here: Kurooâs flight lands in ten minutes, and he whined so much about the cost of an Uber to your apartment that you finally gave in and agreed to pick him up yourself.
Predictably, youâre already regretting it.
The arrivals area is a literal zoo: people standing way too close, aggressively waving handmade signs that say things like Welcome home, Papa! and Jorge & Melissa 4Ever!, and a seemingly endless stream of passengers getting on and off flights. A man in a suit shoves past you, nearly smacking you in the face with the obscenely large bouquet of roses heâs carrying, and an elderly woman parks herself directly in front of you with a luggage cart, as if she has no idea that you exist. Meanwhile, Kuroo is nowhere in sight.
Leaning back against a pillar, you sigh and clutch your coat tighter around yourself, because despite being a major international airport, JFK still hasnât figured out how to keep the cold air from blasting in through the automatic doors. The little icon next to Kurooâs flight says baggage claim, which means you probably have another fifteen minutes before he actually appearsâmaybe more, if heâs being slow (which he always is).
You pull up your messages.
(3:27 PM)
y/n: hurry up
tetsu: awh, miss me? đ
y/n: keep it up and iâm leaving without u
Shoving your hands back into your coat pockets does little to restore warmth, and the irritation building in your chest isnât helping. You shouldâve just let him suffer through the Uber surge pricing. He deserves it: youâre already letting him crash at your place for the week, rent-free.
Your phone buzzes again.
(3:32 PM)
tetsu: omw. donât leave me đĽş
tetsu: remember when u were a baby and followed me everywhere?
You scoff, choosing not to dignify that text with a response.
What a bitch. Itâs been years since you last saw him, ever since you moved to NYC for your PhD and he stayed in Japan to work for the JVA, but some things never change: heâs still the same guy who kept you humble your whole childhood, who was your older brotherâsâand by extension, yoursâsole and only friend, who was the coolest person you knew as a kid because he was in second grade and you were still a kindergartener. You grew out of it by the time you both hit middle school (though he, unfortunately, never grew out of reminding you).
And now heâs here, in your city for a full two weeks as he promotes some upcoming tournament. You guys call semi-regularly, but it really is different when heâs here in real life and in person, because you can no longer just hang up when he starts to get annoying.Â
Thatâs when a pair of arms suddenly loop around your waist.
A startled jolt runs through you, heart seizing in your chest before the familiar scent of his overpriced department store cologne registers. Funny how smells bring back memories; heâs been using the same Armani Acqua Di Gio bottle since your undergrad years (youâre both shocked and impressed that he hasnât finished it yet). His arms squeeze lightly, then drop away.
âHi, babyface,â he coos, smirking.
Spinning around, you glare at him for still clinging to that dumbass childhood nicknameâhe overheard your parents call you that literally once, and has insisted on it ever since. Heâs probably the sole person left in the world who refers to you that way, but whateverâyouâll tolerate it for two weeks.
Kuroo stands there, dragging a comically oversized suitcase behind him. Honestly, he doesnât look all that different from the last time you saw him, three years ago when he and Kenma sent you off at Haneda Airport. Heâs still got the same stupidly tall frame, same messy bedhead that somehow makes him look effortlessly cool instead of disheveled and gross, like it should.
But heâs older now. More⌠grown up. His face is leaner, more refined, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners when he smirks, as smug as always. Itâs not that heâs annoyingly attractive, you tell yourself: his confidence is just so in-your-face, itâs impossible not to notice.
âTook you long enough,â you huff, crossing your arms.
He holds up a paper cup from some overpriced coffee joint inside the airport. âIn my defense, I needed this. Been up since three in the morning.â
âOh, poor you.â You roll your eyes. âLetâs just go. Iâm sick of this crowd.â
âYou Kozumes are all the same,â he grins, but when you turn to lead the way, he swings an arm around your shoulders with easy familiarity, guiding you through the herd of people clamoring for their reunions. The crush of bodies is suffocatingâsomeone smacks into your elbow with a backpack, and you shoot them a dirty look. Kuroo just laughs and steers you closer to him, like heâs shielding you from a crowd of middle schoolers who havenât learned personal space.
âWhereâre you parked?â he asks, glancing around. The overhead speakers crackle as an announcement for a flight to Chicago booms through the terminal.
âGarage 4,â you say, just loud enough to be heard over the noise. âItâs, like, a mile from here, so get ready to hike.â
âSounds like fun,â he drawls. âCanât wait.â
A scoff slips out, but the tug at the corner of your mouth betrays youâthereâs something about him that makes you nostalgic for days when running around after him and your brother was your favorite activity. You guess old habits die hard; he still reaches back when you fall behind, still makes sure youâre not lost in the crowd.
When you finally reach the elevator, the two of you squeeze in with half a dozen other travelers plus an extremely disgruntled-looking airport employee. Kuroo tries to maneuver his luggage behind him without bumping everyoneâs ankles, which, of course, is a losing battle.
âSorry,â you mutter to the group while jabbing the button for the garage level.
The elevator lurches upward. From the corner of your eye, you catch Kurooâs sideways grin.
âWhatâre you staring at?â you ask after a moment, realizing his gaze is fixed on you.
His lips twitch. âYou. I havenât seen you in forever, remember? Trying to see whatâs changed.â
You resist the urge to smack him because this space is way too cramped for violence. âWhatâs changed is that I have zero tolerance for your bullshit now.â
He lets out a loud laugh, drawing a few curious glances from the other passengers that should make him feel more embarrassed than it does. âSure, you do,â he murmurs, leaning in. âThatâs why you came to pick me up, right?â
âI shouldâve let you take the subway. Youâre lucky Iâm so kind and benevolent.â
Unfazed, he grins. âIâm very lucky,â he agrees, voice dropping an octave that sends a weird heat through your cheeks.
Thankfully, the elevator dings and the doors slide open, saving you from having to come up with a retort.
Stepping into the parking garage, the cold air slams into you instantlyâJFK has no business being this miserable in February. Tucking your chin deeper into your coat, you exhale sharply and brace yourself against the wind.
Kuroo whistles low under his breath, dragging his suitcase along the pavement with a clatter. âDamn. This city really doesnât give a shit about warmth, huh?â
âWelcome to New York,â you deadpan. âNow shut up and walk faster before I lose feeling in my fingers.â
He chuckles, shoving one hand into his coat pocket while gripping his suitcase handle with the other. You can hear the low hum of an airplane overhead, the distant honking of taxis below, the way his footsteps fall in sync with yours. Itâs strangeâhow easily he slots back in, like no time has passed at all.
Your car is parked at the far end of the lot, tucked between an SUV and a sedan thatâs way too close to the line. âThere,â you say, pointing.
Kuroo groans. âYou werenât kidding about the hike.â
You ignore him, fishing your keys from your pocket as you approach the driverâs side. âJust get in, princess. Your chariot awaits.â
He snorts but doesnât argue, tossing his suitcase into the trunk before sliding into the passenger seat. The moment you settle in behind the wheel, you blast the heater, letting the warmth seep back into your body. Kuroo exhales in exaggerated pleasure.
âAh, yes,â he sighs, holding his hands up to the vents. âThis is the hospitality I deserve.â
You shoot him a look as you adjust the side mirrors. âBuckle your seatbelt. I wanna go.â
âSo eager to get me home already? At least buy me dinner first.â
âGet out.â
Kuroo smirks, clicking his seatbelt into place. âNot a chanceâyouâre stuck with me now, babyface.â
And you just sigh and kick your car into gear, promptly backing up and heading out of the maze of a parking lot, because even if you were to argue, it would be a lie. Youâve been stuck with him for almost two decades, and whether for better or for worse (definitely for worse), you donât see that changing anytime soon.
two.
Your apartment buildingâs leasing office has plastered pink and red hearts on just about every open space in the hallway, so itâs safe to say that youâre slightly annoyed as you lug Kurooâs freakishly huge suitcase to the door of your flat. The wheels squeak in protest, and youâre 99% sure you hear something clanking around insideâlike maybe heâs sneaking free weights in there, or some equally ridiculous item youâre going to have to store somewhere in your already-cramped closet.
âSeriously,â you grumble, pausing to readjust your grip, âwhat did you pack? An entire gym? A small car? Did you kidnap Bokuto or something?â
Kuroo, trailing behind you with his coffee cup thatâs somehow still not finished yet, lets out an overdramatic groan. âOh, come on. I need my suits, my shoes, and, of course, my extremely heavy hair-care products. Gotta keep thisââ he gestures at the bedhead that somehow counts as a hairstyle for him ââlooking flawless for the cameras.â
âYouâre insufferable,â you say.
âItâs okay,â Kuroo replies, stepping around a giant pink heart taped to the floor. âYou love me anyway.â
You roll your eyes, key in hand as you finally reach your door. Jamming the key into the lock and wriggling it furiously, you mutter, âI canât believe Iâm letting you stay with me. Your fancy JVA job couldnât get you a hotel?â
âThey could, but the Marriott doesnât have you,â he says proudly as you drag the suitcase over the threshold and inside your apartment, propping the door open with your hip. âIâd rather stay with my darling friend in her little one-bedroom place on the Upper East Side.â
You fight the urge to roll your eyes againâhalf because youâre exhausted, half because your heart is doing that annoying stutter-step in your chest, and you really donât want to analyze why. Instead, you drop your keys on the small side table by the door and flick on the overhead light.
âMake yourself at home,â you say, and the words come out more begrudging than you intend. Despite this, he kicks off his shoes very casually, setting his half-empty coffee on your kitchen counter and taking a quick scan of the place. Inside, your apartment is as cozy as everâsmall, but comfortable, and the warmth from your radiator is a welcome contrast to the drafty hallway. You drop the suitcase in the living area, exhaling with relief.
He smirks, reaching out to flick one of the pink paper hearts taped to your kitchen cabinet. âDidnât know you were such a fan of love.â
âThe leasing office gets way too into seasonal themes. They gave us all these cut-out hearts to tape up, like weâre in grade school,â you scoff, crossing your arms. âI figured it was better to play along than have them slip passive-aggressive notes under my door.â
âAh, yes, the joys of city living,â he intones. He peels one heart off the cabinet and sticks it onto his own chest like a ridiculous badge. How appropriate.
âThe bathroomâs down the hall to the right. Towels are in the cabinet.â You pause momentarily, considering. âDo you think you can fit on the couch?â
Kuroo regards the couch in questionâlumpy cushions, old springs, barely big enough for someone your sizeâthen flicks his eyes to you, expression dry as if to say obviously not. In truth, you arenât totally surprised. Heâs always been freakishly tall, and the piece of furniture doubling as your âguest bedâ is basically a glorified loveseat.
âUh,â you say, slightly distracted as you take in the way his broad shoulders fill your kitchen, âmaybe if you sleep diagonally, you could?â
He gives you a slow, sarcastic clap. âWow, babyface. Thank you for that helpful geometry lesson.â
Your cheeks warm, partly in annoyance and partly because something about him looking so large in your space sets your nerves on edge. âWell, then I donât know what to tell you,â you mumble. âUnless you wanna sleep standing up against the wall.â
Kuroo crosses his arms over his chest, raising an eyebrow. âThatâs not exactly comfortable, either.â
You throw up your hands. âThen what do you expect me to do? I only have a full-sized bed in my room, and thatâs barely big enough forââ You stop yourself, but itâs too late. You can practically see the grin forming on his lips.
âOh?â He shifts his weight, the corners of his mouth tilting upward. âI donât mind sharing. We used to all the time.â
You open your mouth to retort, but no sound comes out. You canât deny that a part of you has already considered this possibility. Sure, youâve known him forever, but the last time you shared a bed, Kenma was also there, and you were eleven-years-old having a sleepover because you were all way too invested in Monsters, Inc.âvery different from sharing a bed with him now.Â
âTetsu,â you start, forcing yourself to sound composed, âmy bed is also a tight squeeze. Thereâs no guarantee weâll both fit comfortably.â
Kuroo shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. âIâm not picky. I can do my best to take up minimal space.â
You snort. âYou? Minimizing anything? Please.â
He laughs, and the rich sound echoes in your small living area. âIâm not that tall.â
âPretty close,â you counter. âBut fine.â You exhale, feeling the weight of two weeksâ worth of future awkwardness settle on your shoulders. âIf you promise not to kick me in your sleep, you can share the bed.â
He smiles with infuriating smugness, like heâs won some big debate or secured a massive deal. âNoted. No kicking, no thrashing. I can be a good boy when I need to.â
At that, you turn away and take a sip of your water, because if you let yourself stare at him any longer, youâll start overthinking everything (you already are). Like how youâre going to handle waking up next to him. Or how itâll feel if one of you accidentally rolls over onto the other in the middle of the night.Â
âGo shower. You reek,â you say instead, tersely and very much avoiding eye contact.Â
Kuroo salutes you with two fingers. âYes, maâam.â He starts unzipping his massive suitcase, rummaging around for clothes. When he locates what looks like sleepwear, he straightens and tosses them over one arm. âIâll be quick. Donât fall asleep before I get back.â
âYeah, sure,â you say, heart still fluttering at the reality of what youâve just agreed to.Â
Youâre about to share a bed with your old friendâyour insufferable old friend, who shows up with enough luggage to stock a small department store, calls you babyface, and then makes your heartbeat skip whenever he so much as looks at you a certain way.
So in other words, you think youâre probably fucked.
three.
He emerges from the bathroom a little while later, hair damp, wearing a rumpled t-shirt and basketball shorts that show off way too much of his long legs. You pretend you donât notice. In the meantime, youâve perched on the edge of your bedâboth of your bed, you remind yourself, trying not to linger on that detailâflipping through your phone for the best takeout options.
âYou hungry?â you ask, keeping your voice casual. âIâm too tired to cook.â
Kuroo sets his towel on the back of a chair and rubs at his damp hair a final time. âAbsolutely. I owe you for picking me up anyway. Let me buy dinner.â
âDeal,â you say, pulling up a nearby Mexican jointâs online menuâyou can almost taste the cilantro and lime already. âI vote burritos. Guac and chips on the side. Whaddya think?â
He moves to sit beside you on the mattress, leaning in to read the menu on your phone. Your shoulders nearly brush, and you feel a flicker of awareness at the close proximity.Â
âLetâs do it,â he says. âIâm a sucker for a good burrito. Extra beans, though, or itâs not worth it.â
You snort, tapping in your order. âFine. But donât complain if you regret it later.â
He laughs proudly. âI have no regrets. Order some chips and salsa, too.â
You roll your eyes, but youâre smiling as you finalize your selections on the app. âFried plantains or no? They have them here.â
âAbsolutely. Throw âem in.â
Satisfied, you place the order. âAlright, burritos en route. They said itâll be here in about twenty-five minutes.â
Kuroo drops onto his back for a moment, groaning dramatically into one of your pillows. âI might not last that long.â
âQuit being dramatic or Iâll eat your half when it arrives.â
He pops back up, smirking. âYouâd miss me if I starved to death.â
âSure,â you say dryly, setting your phone aside and hugging your knees to your chest, getting comfortable. âAnyway, whatâs been up with you lately? Aside from the glorious JVA life. You havenât actually told me much.â
Kuroo shifts, propping himself up on one elbow, humming nonchalantly. âMostly traveling, setting up events. Lately itâs been a lot of PR for an upcoming international tournamentâmaking sponsor deals, meeting with potential partners, that sort of thing. Itâs never-ending.â
âSounds exhausting,â you say, and mean it. âBut you seem to thrive on that chaos.â
He smiles. âI like keeping busy, yeah. What about you? Kenma mentioned something about you publishing an article in a big journal.â
A self-conscious warmth settles in your chest. âItâs not that big,â you insist. âJust a decent academic journal. But yeah, Iâm pretty proud. Trying to balance that with my research duties and teaching labs at university is⌠a lot.â
He bumps your shoulder gently with his own. âStill, thatâs impressive. Your parents must be bragging left and right.â
You exhale, a small smile tugging at your lips. âThey are. Kenma, too, apparently.â
âHeâs proud,â Kuroo confirms, then yawns. âMan, Iâm wiped. But I gotta stay conscious long enough to demolish this burrito.â
As if on cue, thereâs a buzz from your phone. You glance down to see a delivery notification: Your order is arriving soon.
âPerfect,â you murmur. âIâll grab it in a minute. Might as well eat in hereâitâs more comfortable than the couch.â
He grins, reaching to grab his wallet from his bag and handing you a few twenty-dollar bills. âIâm not opposed to an in-bed picnic.â
A few minutes later, youâre answering the knock at your door. Your hallway briefly fills with the mouthwatering scent of fresh tortillas and spices; youâre only realising now that this is practically the only thing youâve had all day. Once you pay the delivery person, you lug the paper bag back to the bedroom. Kuroo shifts to sit cross-legged, making space for the containers between you.
âDig in,â he says, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.
You unwrap your burrito, steam curling upward, and suddenly youâre reminded of all those nights you spent eating junk food with him and Kenma back in Tokyoâlate-night convenience store runs, microwaved meals shared on the couch while you watched random movies. It feels oddly nostalgic; you almost want to put on Shrek 2 (the best one) just for the sake of it.
âMm,â you manage around a mouthful of seasoned rice and beans. âThatâs gas.â
Kuroo tears into his own burrito, letting out a satisfied hum. âNew York burritos arenât half bad. Who knew?â
You smirk. âTheyâre still not exactly authentic, but theyâre decent. We have some good Mexican places nearbyâif you stick around long enough, Iâll take you to this hole-in-the-wall joint in Queens thatâs even better.â
He perks up. âYou sure know how to show a guy a good time.â Then he gestures at one of the pink hearts still taped to your wall. âSpeaking of good times, we got Valentineâs Day coming up, right?â
You pause, taking a sip of your soda to stall, humming. âYeah, next week. Not exactly my favorite holiday.â
âYou doing anything?â he asks, fishing out a chip to scoop some guacamole.
You shrug, eyes fixed on your burrito. âNo. Iâm, uh⌠single. So itâll just be another Tuesday for me. Maybe a glass of wine and some Netflix.â
He nods slowly, as if absorbing that information. âRight. Me too, actually. Single, I mean.â
You hazard a glance at him. âReally? I figured youâd have someone lined up,â you tease, trying to keep your tone light. âYouâre always bragging about how charming you are.â
He snorts, looking faintly amused. âNo takers at the moment, guess I gotta step up my game.â Then he sets his burrito down, brushing stray bits of rice from his fingers. âHonestly, though, Iâm not looking to date just anybody. Iâm picky.â
The confession sends a flicker of warmth through you. Donât read into it, you warn yourself. âWell, guess that means weâll both be alone on V-Day.â
Kurooâs face brightens with an idea. âDoesnât have to be alone-alone. We should hang out! Watch a movie, go ice-skating, corny shit like that. Weâre in New York City, after all.â
Your stomach does a little flip, and you hope he canât see the sudden rush of heat in your cheeks. âYou want to hang out with me on Valentineâs Day?â
He shrugs, looking casual, but thereâs a softness in his eyes. âWhy not? Better than moping around separately. We can do the whole anti-Valentineâs vibe. Or, yâknow, a Palentineâs Day.â
âPalentineâs Day,â you echo, rolling the phrase around. Part of you wants to jump at the chance, but youâre also cautiousâbecause this is Kuroo. Kuroo, whoâs seen you when you were still climbing into Kenmaâs bed every time you had a nightmare. Kuroo, who carried you home on his back when you twisted your ankle playing tag at the park. Kuroo, who knows about every embarrassing photo of you in your entire house and is featured in practically half of them.Â
Kuroo, who was your first childhood crush, who took you to your senior year formal, who still makes your heart stutter like no one else.
Jesus fuck.
âSure,â you say at last, trying to sound nonchalant. âThat could be fun. As long as youâre not too busy with your JVA stuff.â
He offers a crooked grin, the one that always makes your pulse pick up. âIâll make time. Promise.â
A comfortable silence settles between you, broken only by the sound of wrappers crinkling and the hum of traffic outside. You focus on your burrito, but every so often, you peek at him from the corner of your eyeâhow his long lashes cast faint shadows on his cheekbones, how he smirks just before taking another bite.
When you finally polish off the last of your dinner, you exhale in satisfaction, leaning back against the headboard. Kuroo does the same, patting his stomach. âThat really hit the spot,â he says. âMight have to get seconds tomorrow.â
âWe canât keep eating like this,â you tease, crumpling up your napkin. âWeâll both end up broke, living off takeout.â
He shrugs one shoulder. âWorse ways to go, babyface.â
You give him a mock glare, but you canât hide your faint grin. Babyface. Somehow, it doesnât annoy you the way it used to. Maybe itâs the nostalgia, you think, or maybe youâre just too used to it by now.
âAnyway,â he adds, glancing at the clock on his phone, âyou ready to crash? âCause Iâm about to pass out any second.â
A twinge of nervous excitement flutters in your chest. Youâd momentarily forgotten the whole bed situation. You clear your throat, stacking up the empty takeout containers so you can toss them. âYeah, I guess so. Letâs clean this up, then⌠bed.â
He nods, stretching his arms overhead. His shirt lifts slightly, revealing a sliver of toned abdomen, and you quickly look away, pretending to focus on tidying up. Two weeks, you remind yourself. Heâll only be here for two weeks, and then things go back to normalâwhatever normal means when it comes to the two of you.
But for now, as you glance up to see him smiling at youâfond, amused, and something else you canât quite nameâyou have the strangest feeling that nothing about this trip will be normal. And youâre not sure if that terrifies you or thrills you.
Considering itâs Kuroo, the answer is probably both.
four.
As it turns out, Kuroo lied about being a supposed âgood boyâ, because he grabs just about everything in his sleep, including your comforter, your pillow, and you.
The first thing you notice upon waking is that your arm is asleepâcompletely, pins-and-needles numb. The second thing you notice is that itâs probably because Kuroo is draped all over you like an overgrown cat: one arm slung across your waist, a leg hooking over yours, and his face half-buried in the pillow you share.
Itâs still early. The faint gray glow of dawn filters through your curtains, and the radiator in the corner hisses quietly, pushing lukewarm air into the room. You try to moveâgently, so you donât jostle him too muchâbut his grip tightens reflexively, pulling you closer.
Your pulse hammers a little faster. Not exactly the start to the morning you pictured when you offered to share a bed. Hesitantly, you lay there, blinking sleep from your eyes as you let the situation sink in. On one hand, heâs so much warmer than the drafty air swirling around you. On the other⌠well, this is Kuroo. Â
He shifts in his sleep, mumbling something unintelligible. You canât help noticing how his dark hair flops forward onto his forehead, or how his breathing sounds steady, almost comforting against your ear. A little flutter stirs in your chest, and you decide itâs definitely the awkwardness. Or maybe hunger. Definitely not anything else.
You inch your free arm over to nudge him carefully in the side. âHey,â you whisper, cringing at how scratchy your morning voice sounds, âmind letting me breathe?â
He stirs again, blinking blearily. When he opens his eyes, for a split second, he looks adorably confusedâlike heâs forgotten where he is. Then the realization dawns, and a slow, smug grin spreads across his face.
âMorninâ,â he drawls, voice husky from sleep. And he still doesnât move his arm.
You clear your throat, refusing to let your face heat up too obviously. âCare to explain why youâre suffocating me?â
âAm I?â he says, sounding wholly unrepentant. âSorry, babyface. Didnât realize you were so delicate.â
Rolling your eyes, you lift your numb arm and give him another nudge. âAt least release my limbs so I can feel them again.â
He finally relents, scooting back a few inches but still remaining obnoxiously close, the mattress dipping under his weight. You sit up, wincing at the twinge in your shoulder, and rub at the pins-and-needles sensation. Meanwhile, Kuroo stretches luxuriously, arms overhead, shirt riding up just a fraction.
âNot a bad nightâs sleep,â he remarks, yawning. âThis bedâs cozier than it looks.â
âNo thanks to you,â you grumble, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. Despite your best efforts to stay composed, you canât quite suppress a tiny shiver at the morning chill. âNext time, keep your limbs to yourself.â
âHey, itâs not my fault you make a great pillow,â he counters, smirking.
Before you can toss a pillow at him in retaliation, your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You reach over, scanning the screen: a news alert and an email from your department. With a sigh, you set it aside for now.
You flick your gaze back to him, noticing how the sunlight is slowly brightening the angles of his face. âWhatâs your schedule like today?â you ask, if only to give yourself something normal to focus on.
He scrubs a hand through his sleep-mussed hairâsomehow, it still looks frustratingly coolâand shrugs. âMeeting at noon with the local organizers. Press conference in the late afternoon. After that, Iâm free.â
âAlright,â you say, pushing yourself off the bed. âI have a lab to teach at eleven, so Iâll be gone most of the morning and early afternoon. Iâll give you a spare key in case you need to step out while Iâm goneâjust donât get lost.â
âAw, youâre giving me a key to your place?â His grin turns positively wolfish. âThis relationship is moving so fast.â
You scowl, but the corners of your mouth twitch. âShut up,â you say, grabbing a sweatshirt from a nearby chair and tugging it on. âIâll make coffee, then we can figure out breakfast.â
Behind you, you hear the creak of the bed as Kuroo stands. âCoffee sounds great,â he says, padding after you. âBut only if you have the good stuff. None of that cheap instant brand.â
He catches up to you in the hallway, and for a moment, youâre hyper aware of how tall he is, how his eyes are still a bit sleepy, how your bedhead probably resembles a hedgehog. Yet, thereâs a comforting ease in the way he fits into your spaceâlike heâs been here a hundred times before, even though itâs been years since you last lived in the same city.
You toss him a lazy glare over your shoulder. âYouâre lucky I still have some leftover beans from when Kenma visited. Otherwise, youâd be stuck with the dreaded instant.â
Kuroo feigns a dramatic shudder, but his grin stays easy. As you flick on the kitchen lights, he leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. It strikes you again how right he looks here, in your cramped little kitchen, sporting wrinkled sleep clothes and bed hair youâd tease him about if he didnât look so⌠comfortable.
âBy the way,â he says, voice lower, still thick with morning grogginess. âThanks for letting me crash here. And, yâknow⌠for not kicking me out of bed for being grabby.â
âDonât get used to it,â you say, ignoring the warmth creeping into your cheeks as you fill the kettle with water. âTonight, you stick to your side, got it?â
âScoutâs honor.â He raises three fingers in a mock salute, the picture of insincerity.
You roll your eyes and turn on the stove, waiting for the water to boil. He shuffles a little closer, peering at the kettle. Heâs definitely invading your personal space again, but maybe youâre starting to get used to it, if the jump in your heartbeat is anything to go by.
Itâs a strange, domestic moment: you, still half-asleep, and Kuroo, leaning in with his arms caging you in, braced on the kitchen counter, with the faint hum of traffic outside. Despite the tingle in your arm and the slight ache in your stiff neck, you realize you donât hate the idea of waking up like this. For once, youâre not quite as alone in the big city, you justify to yourself.Â
He meets your gaze, one brow raised. âWhatâre you thinking about?â
âNothing,â you say quickly, dropping your eyes to the kettle. âJust that the coffee needs to hurry up or Iâm gonna be late.â
He chuckles, the soft rumble filling the space. âSure, sure.â
But he doesnât push, just stays close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. And for nowâjust this onceâyou decide to let it be.
five.
Kuroo looks unfairly good in a suit.
You realise this while youâre curled up on your couch, half-watching the new season of Singleâs Inferno on your TV and half-dozing off with a bowl of stale popcorn balanced on your lap. The door swings open without so much as a warning knockâtypicalâand then there he is, in all his post-press-conference glory: crisp blazer, tailored trousers, tie loosened just enough to give off a casual but effortlessly hot vibe.
Your stomach does a funny little flip. Itâs probably the stale popcorn.
âHey,â he says, shutting the door behind him with a nudge of his shoulder. âYou look cozy.â
âI am cozy,â you huff, wriggling deeper into your throw blanket. You drop a piece of popcorn into your mouth and make a face when it crunches unpleasantly. âYou look⌠fancy.â
He glances down at his outfit, as if heâs just remembered it exists. âRight. Forgot I was still wearing this.â A small smirk crosses his face. âDidnât want to keep the fans waiting, so I came straight from the conference.â
You roll your eyes. âIâm sure your admirers really appreciated that.â
âJealous?â he teases, toeing off his polished dress shoes. His shirt collar gapes slightly as he unbuttons the top, revealing a sliver of skin at his throat. Annoyingly distracting, even after all these years.
You pointedly look back at the TV, where two contestants are locked in a tense conversation about who picked whom for a date. âNot even remotely.â
âOuch,â he says, sounding mock-offended. âAnd here I was, about to tell you that I saved you some fancy hors dâoeuvres from the event. But if youâre not interestedââ
You sit up immediately, dislodging your popcorn bowl. âWait. Real food?â
Kuroo snickers, pulling a napkin-wrapped bundle from his pocket. He tosses it onto the coffee table with a flourish. âStraight from the VIP section. Mini sliders and some kind of salmon tartare thing.â
You snatch it up without hesitation, peeling back the napkin to inspect the offerings. âSee, this is why I tolerate you.â
âTolerate?â He feigns a dramatic gasp. âBabyface, weâve been through too much for that kind of slander.â
You grunt, already stuffing a mini slider into your mouth. âI donât know. If I remember correctly, you used to tie my shoelaces together and push me into Kenma just to watch me trip.â
âTomato, tomahto,â he singsongs, shrugging out of his blazer. As he drapes it over the back of the couch and rolls up his sleeves, you glance at him from the corner of your eye, trying not to be obvious about it.Â
Because itâs unfair, really. Heâs always been annoyingly attractive, but thereâs something different about seeing him like thisâsleeves rolled up to his forearms, tie loose, like heâs caught between polished professionalism and the boy you used to know.
Kuroo flops down next to you, stretching out his long legs. âYou know,â he muses, âyouâre getting a little too comfortable trash-talking your own husband.â
You freeze mid-chew. âExcuse me?â
His smirk widens. âOur wedding? First grade? Ring any bells?â
You roll your eyes, but your stomach flutters treacherously. âOh my god, not this again.â
âOh, yes, this again.â He props his chin on his hand, clearly reveling in your reaction. âIt was a beautiful ceremony. You wore that little yellow dress with the flowers on it, I looked dashing in my Spider-Man t-shirt, and Kenma officiated with a PokĂŠmon book instead of a Bible. Very classy.â
You scoff, tossing a balled-up napkin at him. âIt was a fake wedding.â
âThatâs not what you said at the time,â he counters, smug. âYou said weâd be married forever.â
You glare at him, but warmth is creeping into your cheeks. âI was six.â
âAnd yet,â he hums, leaning back against the couch, âyou still havenât divorced me.â
You want to argue. You really do. But the memory of that afternoonâstanding in your backyard, clutching a dandelion bouquet while Kuroo grinned at you with all the unearned confidence of an eight-year-oldâunfolds so vividly in your mind that you go momentarily speechless.
Itâs stupid how much of that day you remember. How he laced his fingers with yours, grinning like he had just won something. How Kenma droned through a âceremonyâ while barely looking up from his Game Boy. How, when it was over, Kuroo had squeezed your hand and whispered, Guess that means youâre stuck with me now, huh?
Heâd been right, even if you both did eventually grow up and start dating around. And yet, as you sit hereâknees almost touching on your too-small couch, the memory of that dandelion bouquet and his smug, gap-toothed grin dangling in the airâyou realize thereâs a piece of you that never truly left that backyard.
You swallow the last bit of the mini-slider, hoping itâll ground you. âSo,â you say, feigning a dismissive shrug, âwe grew up. We definitely child-broke-up.â
Kurooâs dark eyes glint with amusement as he shifts his weight, the couch cushions dipping under his long frame. âMm, I donât recall signing any annulment papers. Actually, I canât recall you ever giving me back my ring.â He holds up his left hand to wriggle his empty ring finger. âI guess I shouldâve at least invested in a proper Band-Aid ring for you.â
You make a face, ignoring how your heart lurches at the implied you he keeps tossing out, like heâs reminding you this is your storyâboth of yours. âBand-Aid ring, huh? How romantic. You really know how to woo a girl.â
âYou always did love PokĂŠmon bandages. Remember how you insisted on Bulbasaur for every scrape?â Thereâs an unmistakable fondness in his tone, and you wonder if heâs indulging in the same wave of nostalgia thatâs been drowning you since you let him through the door.
Trying not to give yourself away, you tilt your head, pretending to examine him. âI see your memory is as annoyingly perfect as ever.â
He flashes a grin. âI have an eye for important detailsâlike your shoe size, your favorite weird pizza topping combo, and the fact that you still havenât actually denied liking me.â
You snort, heat creeping up your neck. âIn your dreams, Tetsu. Where do you get off assuming things, anyway?â
He spreads his hands, tie swaying lightly at his chest. âCan you blame me? You did let me crash at your place. You drove all the way to JFK in rush-hour traffic just to pick me up. If thatâs not love, Iâm not sure what is.â
You open your mouth to argue but close it again when you realize youâve got nothing. Yes, you did pick him up. Yes, you did offer him half your bed. And yes, some traitorous part of you is glad heâs here, sprawled out in your living room, reminding you of all the reasons you used to practically worship him when you were a kid.
âYouâre insufferable,â you say finally, in a voice so soft it barely carries any bite.
Kuroo chuckles, shifting so heâs angled toward youâelbow braced on the back of the couch, one long leg tucked underneath the other. âGoes both ways, babyface. Youâve always driven me insane.â
The word always lingers in the space between you.
You try to distract yourself by flicking the TV volume higher, but the dating show is a blur. âSo how was the press conference?â you ask, setting the empty napkin aside. âAny major breakthroughs? More sponsors falling for your cheesy grin?â
His responding laugh is short, a bit self-conscious. âYou know how it is: they ask the same questionsâhow the tournamentâs being organized, who our top competitors are. I say the same rehearsed lines. Then I shake some hands and get out.â
âBet you loved the attention, though,â you tease, nudging his ankle with your foot.
âOf course,â he deadpans, âyou know me too well.â
A quiet pause descends as you both sink further into the cushions. The overhead lamp is dim, casting long shadows on the walls. It feels intimateâtoo intimate, almost. A far cry from the raucous energy of the press conference he mustâve attended.
âDo youâŚâ Youâre not sure why youâre hesitating. Maybe itâs the sudden vulnerability creeping in at the edges of your rib cage. âDo you ever miss being a kid? Everything felt simpler back then.â
His gaze settles on you, something soft reflecting in his eyes. âYeah. A lot, actually.â He reaches outâhesitates for a secondâthen pokes the side of your thigh. âBut Iâm glad some things havenât changed.â
Your breath catches. âLike what?â
A beat. Then: âLike you still call me out on my bullshit. Youâll still eat half my food if given the chance. You still follow your own weird rulesâlike never paying for Netflix because you say you can mooch off Kenma forever.â He grins. âAnd you still look at me the same way. Even if you wonât admit it.â
He doesnât elaborate further, and youâre too caught off guard to pry. Look at him the same wayâwhat does that mean, exactly? Youâre suddenly hyperaware of how close he is, how heâs studying you in the dim light, how the old tether between you two has always refused to snap, no matter how hard you tried to ignore it.
âAnyway,â he says, shifting back with a little exhale, âgot any more of that stale popcorn? Iâm starving.â
You clear your throat, trying not to sound frazzled. âGo for it, but donât complain when it tastes like cardboard.â
He leans over, snagging the bowl from the couch cushion and taking a bite. âMmm, delicious cardboard.â
His faux-enthusiasm makes you roll your eyesâagain. But thereâs a familiar warmth curling in your stomach, almost like relief that this little moment is yours to share. Like youâve both come home, just for a second, to the world you used to know.
You let the show drone on in the background while the two of you work through the stale popcorn in comfortable silence. Every now and then, one of you drops a sarcastic remark or a joke about the contestants on-screen. But beneath the banter, thereâs something else stirringâa question youâre not sure either of you is ready to ask.
For now, you settle for glancing sideways at him, at the way his profile looks against the glow of the TV. You let yourself wonder, just briefly, what it would mean to take that childhood promise seriously again. And though you push the thought away almost as quickly as it comes, thereâs no denying the giddy little thrill that runs through you when you realize Kuroo might be thinking the exact same thing.
six.
Three days later, itâs the weekend, and youâre free of labs and classes. So obviously, thatâs the night Kuroo manages to wheedle you into going to one of his PR partiesâwith obviously, a Valentineâs theme because the entity in the sky hates you.Â
âI still canât believe I agreed to this,â you say in slight disbelief as you wait in the lobby of your apartment for your Lyft. Youâre just the slightest bit wine tipsy already and are stumbling a tad bit on your three-inch heels. Kuroo stabilises you with an arm, pulling you into him.Â
âYouâre such a lightweight,â he says, amused.Â
You scowl at him, nudging your heel against the toe of his polished dress shoe. âSays the guy who made me do a round of shots before we even left.â
Kuroo lifts his free hand in mock surrender, though the grin playing on his lips betrays zero remorse. âHey, I never forced anything. Youâre the one who decided itâd be a good idea to keep up with me.â
âYou can probably metabolize alcohol through sheer arrogance alone,â you mutter, leaning into him a bit more when your heel wobbles on the slick tile. The buildingâs lobby has a floor so shiny you can see your own reflection. You catch sight of how red your cheeks lookâdefinitely from the wine.
He snorts, sliding his arm more securely around your waist. âArrogance is a powerful superpower.â
Before you can retort, the Lyft driver texts that theyâve arrived, and you and Kuroo shuffle through the lobbyâs sliding doors. The crisp February air slaps you in the face, clearing some of the pinot-fueled haze from your head.
âGod,â you hiss, crossing your arms over your chest as you walk up to the waiting car. âWhy does it feel like itâs negative a thousand degrees out here?â
Kuroo hums sympathetically, tugging you close so you can huddle in his warmth. âIsnât it romantic? Attending a Valentineâs party in frigid weather, half-tipsy, with your beloved husbandââ
You jab him in the ribs. âDo. Not. Start.â
âOw.â He laughs, not sounding at all wounded, and opens the car door for you. âAlright, princess, letâs get you warmed up.â
You slide into the backseat, tucking your purse by your feet. Kuroo follows, closing the door. The car smells faintly of peppermint and some floral air freshener, and the driver has a local pop station on low volume.
âParty tonight, huh?â the driver says, catching a glimpse of your outfits in the rearview mirror. âHappy early Valentineâs Day.â
You force a polite smile. âYeah, itâs a work thing for⌠him.â You gesture vaguely at Kuroo, whoâs already fiddling with the seatbelt.
Kuroo pipes up, flashing an easy grin. âSheâs being modest. Sheâs the star of the show.â
You give him a side-eye, but your stomach flips a little at how casually he includes you in his world. âIâm definitely just background noise. Heâs the big fancy PR guy.â
He drapes an arm across the back of the seat, leaning in with that smug energy you always pretend to hate. âCâmon, babyface, we both know youâre the real highlight.â
The driver chuckles to himself at your banter and pulls out onto the main road.
The city lights blur by, and despite the wine, youâre keyed-up enough to notice just how close Kuroo is. His thigh presses against yours as the car bumps over a pothole, and you catch his scentâstill that overpriced cologne. You almost tease him for using the same brand since undergrad, but some part of you likes the familiarity too much to make fun of it.
Kuroo scrolls through his phoneâlikely checking last-minute details for the eventâand you let your gaze wander. You wonder what youâre walking into: a Valentineâs-themed volleyball PR party probably means pink cocktails, goofy heart-shaped decorations, and sponsors angling to chat up Kuroo for new deals.
You sigh softly, leaning back into the seat. At least youâre not teaching labs tomorrow.
Feeling your eyes on him, Kuroo pockets his phone and glances over. âYou okay?â he asks, voice quieter so the driver canât overhear. âToo tipsy?â
âBarely,â you lie. âIâm fine.â
He studies you for a moment, then nods. âIf you get overwhelmed or bored, just say the word, and Iâll whisk you out of there.â
Your heart does that unfortunate flip again. âI wonât hold you back from schmoozing with your sponsors,â you say, trying to sound casual.
Kuroo just shrugs. âEh. The only person I really need to impress is right here.â
He grins when you roll your eyes for the millionth time, but thereâs a note of sincerity in his gaze that makes your pulse stutter uncontrollably (and feeling less and less like itâs the wine).
seven.
The Lyft pulls up to a sleek downtown hotel with a bright red banner above the entrance: Welcome, Pre-Valentineâs Volleyball Gala! The curbside is abuzz with people stepping out of taxis and rideshares, all dressed in varying degrees of fancy.
You thank the driver and step out. Immediately, the cold hits you again, but Kurooâs hand is there, steady at your back. Together, you make your way through the glass doors into the lobby, which is decked out in pink and red balloons. You spot a heart-shaped ice sculpture near the reception desk and suppress a grimace.
âThis is⌠a lot,â you say under your breath, scanning the crowd. Everyone seems to be brandishing name tags and sipping champagne. A table off to the side offers color-coded wristbands for somethingââSingle,â âTaken,â âOpen to Networking,â and so on.
Kuroo leans in close, lips by your ear so you can hear him over the lounge music. âBrace yourself, babyface. Corporate Valentineâs chic in full force.â
You canât help a snort. âDonât call me babyface in front of everyone,â you hiss, trying not to look self-conscious.
He smirks. âFine. Mrs. Kuroo it is.â
You elbow him gently in the ribs, and he lets out a playful âOw!â just as a man in a suit rushes over to greet you.
âKuroo, hey!â The guy beams and extends a hand. âGlad you could make it. Weâve got the sponsors over by the bar, and the press is setting up in the lounge area.â
âThanks, Daichi,â Kuroo replies smoothly, shaking the manâs hand. âIâll swing by and say hello in a minute. Ohâthis is my plus-one.â
The manâs smile widens. âGreat to meet you!â He doesnât even blink at the slightly flustered expression on your face, just hands you both event badges. âWeâre color-coded, so choose whichever suits your mood. And enjoy the party!â
You glance at the bands in your hand: pink for âSingle,â purple for âOpen to Collaboration,â red for âTaken.â There are even gold ones for âVIP.â
âSeriously?â you mutter, turning to Kuroo. âThis is next-level marketing cheese.â
He laughs, plucking a gold band from a nearby tray and snapping it onto his wrist. âIâm definitely VIP, babe. No shame.â
Rolling your eyes, you settle for a purple oneââOpen to Collaborationâ seems neutral enough, right? You have no intention of wearing the pink âSingleâ band all night.
Kurooâs gaze flicks to it, and you catch a slight smirk before he ushers you forward into the main ballroom.
Which, by the way, is massive: vaulted ceilings, floating heart-shaped lanterns, a champagne fountain at the center. You can practically smell the wealth. A DJ in the corner is playing some inoffensive house music that somehow fits the glittery vibe.
âWow,â you breathe. âThey really didnât hold back.â
âVolleyball PR events rarely do,â Kuroo says, threading his fingers through yours before you can process it. Itâs casual and familiar, like heâs done this a thousand times, but your heart jumps all the same. âLetâs grab a drink, yeah?â
He guides you toward the open bar. A bartender in a bright red bow tie greets you with a grin, asking for your orders.
âChampagne for me,â Kuroo says, then glances down at you. âAnd for my lovely companionâŚ?â
You pause. âChampagneâs fine. Might as well fit the theme.â
As the bartender works his magic, you turn to Kuroo. âSo, whatâs the plan? Do we mingle for half an hour and then dip? Iâm not sure how long I can stand being reminded that Valentineâs Day is literally next week.â
Kurooâs eyebrow quirks. âArenât we hanging out anyway? We promised each other a palentineâs dateâremember?â
You feel your cheeks warm. âI remember. Just⌠these decorations are overkill.â
He hands you a champagne flute, then raises his own in a mock toast. âTo corporate romance,â he says with a smirk.
You clink glasses, taking a sip. The fizzy sweetness bursts across your tongue, and you canât help but think it tastes like anticipationâlike something is about to happen tonight that neither of you saw coming. Then you convince yourself that itâs just the alcohol.Â
Over the next twenty minutes, you watch as Kuroo does his jobâhe introduces you to a cluster of sponsors, some old teammates, and a few local sports reporters. Heâs charismatic in that effortless way heâs always been: breezing through small talk, sprinkling in jokes, and deflecting every flirty comment from others with easy charm.
You mostly hover by his side, alternately sipping champagne and trying not to feel out of place in your heels. Every so often, his fingers brush your elbow or settle low on your back, like heâs silently telling you: Youâre not alone here.
Itâs strangely reassuringâeven if you canât quite decide what it means.
Eventually, the crowd disperses into smaller clusters, and you manage to snag a moment of relative quiet near the pink-lit fountain in the center of the room.
âYou okay?â Kuroo asks again, tucking a stray strand of your hair behind your ear. âNot too bored?â
You shake your head. âIâm fine. Itâs actually kinda funny watching you switch between your used-car-salesman voice and your normal voice.â
He snorts. âYou want me to hit them with the real me? That might be too much for these delicate souls.â
âI can handle it,â you say, surprising even yourself with your boldnessâmaybe itâs the champagne.
Kurooâs gaze flickers, something mischievous in his eyes. âOh, I know you can handle me, babyface. Youâve done it since you were six, right?â
Your heart skips. He just wonât let you live that childhood wedding down. And, annoyingly, you donât really mind.
âStop it,â you say, but thereâs no heat in your voice. âAnyway, whatâs next on the agenda? Are you supposed to give a speech or something?â
He rakes a hand through his hair, making it even more disheveled. âNah, not tonight. Just an appearanceâshake some hands, charm some sponsors.â He shrugs, then lowers his voice. âWe could slip out soon, if you want. Go somewhere elseâsomewhere less⌠pink.â
The offer sits in the air between you. You canât help wondering what exactly heâs proposing. Drinks at a quieter bar? A late-night walk under the city lights? Going back to your apartment to continue that half-finished bottle of wine?
You muster a casual tone. âIâm not opposed. But wonât your absence be noticed?â
âI showed up, I mingled,â he says, brushing off your concern. âThatâs enough for them.â
He flashes that signature grinâso easy, so Kurooâand a flutter of nostalgia collides with the champagne buzz in your bloodstream. You think about how this night started: you, tipsy in your lobby, letting him steady you on your heels. You think about Valentineâs Day looming, and how all of this might be leading to something (which, youâre still trying to figure out if itâs good or bad).
âAlright,â you say, taking another sip from your glass. âOne more round of goodbyes, then we escape.â
Kurooâs eyes linger on you, almost thoughtful. âDeal.â
He downs the rest of his champagne and sets the empty flute on a nearby tray, offering you his arm. The little gesture makes you laugh under your breath; heâs always half-joking, half-serious. But you slip your hand into the crook of his elbow all the same, taking advantage of the moment with a small grin.Â
He is your date tonight, after all.
eight.
You two end up at a 99cent pizza shop.
Itâs one of those shitty ones, where the lights blink every other second and are open 24/7 and catering exclusively to drunk people. You order a pepperoni slice (which is $1.50, absolutely criminal), Kuroo gets a slice with mushrooms and peppers like a weirdo, and a ten-piece garlic knots because youâre both absolute whores for shitty food.Â
The cashier barely looks up as you pass over a crumpled bill, his expression one of pure indifference. Itâs the kind of place where no one gives a shit if you waltz in wearing a ballgown or, in Kurooâs case, an untucked dress shirt and a loosened tie that screams former professionalism turned reckless abandon.
Kuroo nudges your shoulder as he grabs the tray of food. âFind us a seat, babyface.â
You glance around. The booths are occupied by a mix of exhausted bar-hoppers, students pulling all-nighters with greasy paper plates in front of them, and one guy hunched over, presumably contemplating his life choices. Classic New York.
You settle for a two-seater in the back corner, mostly because itâs the only spot that doesnât look like itâll give you tetanus. Kuroo sets the tray down between you, sliding into the seat across from you with that ridiculous, smug expression that hasnât left his face all night.
âYouâre staring,â you say flatly, reaching for a garlic knot.
He props his chin on his hand, unbothered. âYou look cute.â
Your hand freezes mid-air. âWhat?â
Kuroo, the absolute bastard, takes a slow bite of his pizza like he didnât just casually drop a grenade into your bloodstream. âI said, you look cute.â He gestures vaguely at you with his slice. âAll dressed up in a shitty pizza joint. Very Serena van der Woodsen in Gossip Girl vibes.â
You recover quickly, snorting as you take a bite of your garlic knot. âYou did not just compare me to Serena van der Woodsen.â
âHey, I know my pop culture references.â He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. âBut seriously. I like this look on you.â
The warmth in your chest spreads far too quickly. You shove it down with a bite of pizza. âIf youâre trying to butter me up, itâs not gonna work.â
Kuroo smirks. âYou sure? It worked when we were kids.â
You shoot him a look. âI was six. You bribed me with strawberry Pocky.â
âAnd you fell for it every time,â he says, grinning. âYou were so easy to manipulate.â
You kick him lightly under the table, but thereâs no real venom behind it. He just chuckles and takes another bite of his pizza, chewing thoughtfully before glancing at you again.
âSo,â he says after a moment. âWhat was the verdict on tonight? Was it as painful as you thought?â
You hesitate, twirling the crust of your pizza between your fingers. The thing is, you actually had fun. Not just tolerable, get-through-it-and-leave fun, but actual, laughing-with-Kuroo-in-the-middle-of-a-stuffy-corporate-party fun. The realization makes your stomach flip.
âIt was fine,â you say, playing it cool. âDrinks were good. Company was tolerable.â
Kuroo barks out a laugh. âTolerable? Damn, Iâll take it.â
You roll your eyes, but the way heâs looking at youâso easy, so damn fondâmakes it hard to breathe for a second.
You clear your throat, glancing down at your plate. âAnyway, it was nice to see you in work mode. You actually seemed like a functional adult.â
You snort. âI imagine so. Having to use, like, three brain cells at a time.â
âItâs really pushing my limits,â he says with an obnoxious frown.Â
The conversation drifts into easy territoryâinside jokes, exaggerated retellings of childhood disasters, a debate about whether New York pizza is actually better than Tokyoâs (you say yes, he remains stubbornly neutral). It feels natural, like slipping into an old sweater that still fits perfectly despite the years.
At some point, he reaches across the table, swiping a garlic knot straight off your plate.
âHey,â you protest, swatting at his hand too late.
Kuroo just smirks, popping the whole thing into his mouth. âPossession is nine-tenths of the law, babyface.â
âPossession is going to be me slapping you in the face if you steal another one.â
âViolence,â he muses, chewing. âThatâs how you treat your childhood husband?â
Your face heats. âTetsu.â
He winks. âRelax. Iâll buy you more next time.â
Next time.
The words hang there for a second longer than necessary. He says it like itâs a given, like thisâyou and him, nights like thisâis a thing that should keep happening.
And the stupidest part? You donât hate the idea⌠not even a little bit.
You pick up another garlic knot, breaking eye contact like thatâll do anything to slow your heartbeat. âYou better buy me more.â
Kuroo just leans back, watching you like he already knows something you donât, and you are slightly terrified of whatever that implies.
nine.
Monday night, after you get home from an excruciating day of labwork (like⌠you entered at 6 AM and left the next day at 2 AMâyouâre really going through it these days), Kuroo is already changed and in his pajamas, reading a book and playing a vinyl you bought when you went through your #artsy stage. He looks up with a smile from his spot sprawled across your couch as you come in, drop your keys on the side table, and promptly collapse on the floor.
âIâm so tired,â you wail, fake sniffling, slumped against the wall. Kuroo looked momentarily alarmed until your pleading; he lets out an exhale thatâs vaguely close to a laugh when he realises youâre just being dramatic.
âWelcome home,â he says, his smile practically audible in his voice. âTake it you had a long few day⌠days.â
You sigh, nodding, wobbling over to the couch and plopping on top of him. Youâre so tired you donât even care about the proximityâyou want to lie down, right now. âYeah. But I think Iâve discovered something pretty interesting, so Iâm hoping I can get into Neuron this time around.â
âYouâll get it,â Kuroo says completely calmly, sounding insanely confident in you. He doesnât even look away from his bookâjust lifts his arms enough to let you put your head on his chest, and then resting them against your shoulder blades. âSmartest girl I know.â
â...Shut up,â you mutter, burying your face into his t-shirt to hide your embarrassment.Â
You let out a weary groan, face still hidden in Kurooâs t-shirt, and he just chuckles under his breath, shifting slightly so you can get more comfortable. His hand finds its way into your hair, fingers raking through it in a surprisingly soothing motionâlike itâs the most natural thing in the world.
âCanât believe youâre still awake,â he remarks, eyes darting back to his book. âLook like youâre about to pass out any second.â
âVery astute observation,â you mumble into the soft cotton. âNothing gets past you.â
He snorts, lightly tapping your shoulder in retribution before turning a page. âHey, just looking out for my genius scientist here. Big day tomorrow, right?â
Your face scrunches up in confusion. âBig day? I mean, I guess I have more lab stuffâŚâ
Kuroo tilts his head, arching an eyebrow at you like youâve said something ridiculous. âNot that,â he says, exasperated. âValentineâs Day, babyface. Remember?â
Your heart does a quick, uncomfortable skip. Valentineâsânot Palentineâs. The difference lands in your head like a small explosion, especially considering youâve both been referring to it as Palentineâs up âtil now.
âO-oh,â you stammer eloquently, trying to recover. âRight. Valentineâs. Sure.â
He watches you carefully, eyes gleaming with amusement as he gently closes his book. âYou didnât forget our plans, did you?â
Plans. Right. He invited you for somethingâice skating or a movie, or maybe both. Youâd said yes in that flustered, Iâm-pretending-this-is-just-a-friendly-thing way. But the way heâs saying it now, with that particular lilt in his voice, has your mind racing.
You force yourself to sit up slightly, though you donât leave the comfort of lying half-on-top of him. âIâuh. I didnât forget. I guess Iâm just⌠used to calling it Palentineâs.â
Kuroo smirks, brushing a thumb across your cheek with casual familiarity. âOh, right. My bad. I mustâve slipped.â
Slipped, he says, which makes your pulse do an annoying little flutter.
âI mean, itâs not like it matters,â you continue quickly, your words tripping over themselves. âWeâre just hanging outâlike always. Whether we call it Valentineâs or Palentineâs or âTuesdayâ⌠right?â
He hums in responseâlow in his throat, almost thoughtfulâwhile his hand drifts from your hair to the back of your neck in a comforting weight. âSure,â he says, a bit too lightly to be casual. âWhatever you wanna call it.â
The tone in his voice suggests that maybe it does matter, that maybeâjust maybeâhe doesnât want to hide behind the âPalentineâsâ façade anymore.
A moment of silence settles between you, broken only by the faint crackle of your old vinyl spinning and the ever-present traffic outside. Your nerves feel strung tight as a bitch, and you wonder if he can sense how tense youâve suddenly gone.
âAnyway,â he says, clearly trying to alleviate some of the awkwardness, âI was thinking we could do something painfully clichĂŠ tomorrow. Romantic comedy marathon, maybe. Or that ice-skating idea. Hot chocolate, the works.â
You glance up at him, meeting his gaze. âThat sounds⌠nice.â You fidget with a loose thread on his t-shirt, trying not to overthink every micro-expression on his face. âYou sure you wonât be busy with, like, sponsor stuff, orââ
Kuroo rolls his eyes, but thereâs a smile tugging at his lips. âAre you kidding? Iâd rather be with youâbinging Netflix, falling on my face on the rinkâthan stuck in another press conference.â He gives a lazy shrug, but his eyes donât leave yours. âBesides, Iâm all yours tomorrow.â
Iâm all yours.
Thereâs that pesky little flutter in your chest again, ramping up several notches. You wonder if he can feel your heart pounding where youâre still sprawled half-across his torso. Possibly. Probably.
âThatâs⌠good,â you manage, trying not to think too hard about the myriad ways Valentineâs could be interpreted. Trying not to let the prospect of him wanting moreâmaybe wanting youâsend you into a full-blown panic. Because a teeny, traitorous part of you is really hoping thatâs what it means.
âNow,â he says, clearly sensing the rabbit hole your mind might be running down. âItâs past midnight, and youâve had, what, negative hours of sleep?â
âThatâs not even physically possible,â you argue, though your eyelids suddenly feel very heavy.
âSure it is,â he counters, wrapping an arm more snugly around your waist as he tugs a throw blanket from the back of the couch. âIâm pretty sure youâre living proof. Câmon. Letâs just crash right here for a bit.â
You donât have the energy to protest, and honestly? The idea of dozing off to the low hum of the vinyl, warm against Kurooâs chest, is downright tempting. Besides, youâll have to drag yourself to bed eventuallyâbut for now, this cozy bubble is enough.
âFine,â you mumble, feeling your limbs already going slack. âBut if I drool on you, itâs your own fault for not kicking me off.â
He laughs quietly, letting the book he was reading slip onto the coffee table. âIâll live. Iâve survived worse. Like the time you threw up all over me after that carnival ride in middle school.â
You grumble something incoherent in protest, too exhausted to muster a real comeback. The corners of his mouth twitch in amusement, and he shifts just enough to angle you more comfortably against him.
As your eyes flutter shut, you canât stop replaying the word Valentineâs in your head. Tomorrow. Kuroo said it so easily, like it was obvious. Like it was a given that you wouldnât just be celebrating as friends or old childhood buddies. Warmth pools in your chest, a mix of excitement and nerves. Maybe youâll just have to see how tomorrow plays outâmaybe youâll finally figure out if this⌠thing youâve been dancing around for so long is actually real.
Because if thereâs one thing you are sure about, itâs that Kuroo has always had a way of turning your world on its axis. And this time, you really hope he doesnât stop at Palentineâs.
ten.
You wake up to the smell of french toast.
Which, honestly, you lowkey donât love nearly as much as waffles. But you arenât going to be picky after your crash out last night.Â
You stumble into the kitchen, vaguely rubbing your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie, blinking away the sleep to read the Eevee alarm clock Kenma bought you when you moved in. 12:19PM. Honestly not your worst: once, during finals season in your undergrad years, you pulled a three-day all-nighter and passed out for sixteen straight hours after. Kuroo had to practically drag you out of your dorm room after that one; he and Kenma basically froze your phone with the amount of texts they sent in a futile attempt to wake you up.Â
Kurooâs back is to you as he stands at the stove, his compression shirt accentuating his muscle definition. He looks straight up like a model youâd see at the mall in a Calvin Klein billboard, and it makes you flush as you remember he said Valentineâs last night. He senses you without even turning aroundâhe, without even bothering to look up, says, âMorninâ, babyface. Do you want strawberries or whipped cream?â
âYou doubt me. Both,â you snort, stepping closer. Despite your attempt at nonchalance, your stomach flips when you get closer and can see just how freakishly good he looks in that stupid ass shirt. The memory of him casually calling it Valentineâs still sizzles in the back of your mind.
Kuroo casts you a brief over-the-shoulder grin. âBoth it is, princess.â He deftly flips a slice of french toast on the pan, the sweet, eggy aroma curling toward your nose. âHope youâre hungry. I got a little carried away.â
âOh, Iâm starving,â you say, eyeing the small stack of bread slices heâs already prepared on a plate. âSeriously, I might eat all of this. If you donât move fast, you wonât get any.â
He chuckles, dropping another piece of bread into the batter. âNoted. Iâll keep that in mind while I guard my breakfast with my life.â
You open the fridge for the strawberries, and sure enough, thereâs also a can of whipped cream on the shelfâKuroo came prepared. âI canât believe you actually planned this,â you mutter under your breath, rifling around. âIs this your way of bribing me to be your Valentine?â
He pretends to think about it. âMight be. If it works, Iâll make waffles next time, too.â
You huff a laugh, grateful your face is still hidden in the fridge so he canât see the fond smile spreading across your lips. Might be. Itâs clear heâs leaning full-throttle into the idea of spending this entire Valentineâs Day with you. The thought warms you more than you want to admit.
Sliding the carton of strawberries onto the counter, you catch him drizzling a bit of honey on the toast. âFancy,â you tease, dragging out the syllable.
Kuroo shrugs one shoulder. âHey, canât help being an overachiever. BesidesâŚâ He flips off the stove burner and slides the last slice of french toast onto the plate, stacking it neatly. âI missed this.â
You glance up, curiosity and something else tangling in your chest. âThis? Cooking breakfast?â
He sets the spatula aside, turns around, and leans against the counter. âCooking breakfast for you,â he clarifies, pausing as if testing how youâll react. âYâknow, we used to hang out all the timeâbefore you left for New York. I guess it just reminded me of those days. Late nights, lazy mornings, that sort of thing.â
Your cheeks warm at his candidness. âWe still hung out a bit after we graduated,â you offer, though you know it was never the same once youâd moved halfway across the globe for grad school.
Kuroo nods, his hand lingering on the handle of the frying pan as if he needs something to ground himself. âYeah, but once you officially moved here? We both got busy. Kenma did his whole streaming empire thing, I jumped into work. And you wereââ
âNeck-deep in studies,â you finish for him, remembering those endless days in the lab, how youâd chug energy drinks and blink against fluorescent lights until your eyes burned.
Kuroo taps the counter with his knuckles, a soft exhale escaping him. âUh-huh. And Kenma and I, well⌠we kinda promised each other we wouldnât make a big deal about how much we missed you.â He flashes a small, wry grin. âFigured you already had enough to worry about without dealing with our whining.â
You pause, strawberries in hand, staring at him. âWait. You both made that promise?â
He nods, and for once, you catch the hint of sheepishness in his expression. âWe might have texted constantly about how weird it was without you around,â he admits, chuckling under his breath. âBut we agreed to keep it low-key so you could focus on your research. Didnât want you feeling guilty if you started missing home too much.â
Your chest tightens. âIâGod, thatâs so stupid of you guys.â
He arches an amused eyebrow. âStupid?â
âI would have been fine!â you insist, though a pang of fondness (and maybe regret) flickers through you. âYeah, Iâd have been sad, but I wouldâve rather known. Going months without hearing from you two sometimes was way worse.â
He huffs a laugh, pushing off the counter to move closer. âYeah, guess in hindsight, it wasnât the best plan. But we were, what, twenty? Twenty-one? And mostly worried youâd drop out of grad school to come home if we made you feel bad.â
âDrop out?â You roll your eyes. âPlease, as if Iâd ever let you be that important.â
Kuroo tosses you a smirk, but thereâs a gratefulness in his gaze. âHey, Iâm plenty important. Just not more important than a doctorate in neuroscience.â
âDamn straight,â you retort, but your heart is pounding too hard for sarcasm to land with its usual punch. He missed you. More than thatâhe and Kenma both actively hid how much they missed you, just so you wouldnât feel sad or guilty. Thatâs⌠an annoying level of sweet.
Before you can dwell on it, he gestures to the french toast. âAnyway, letâs eat? Unless youâd rather stand here and get all sentimental.â
âShut up,â you mutter, but your tone is more flustered than harsh. âGive me the plate.â
He hands it over with a dramatic bow, then grabs the strawberries and whipped cream to set on the table. You both sit across from each other, and he insists on adding the toppings to your serving, swirling an absurd amount of whipped cream atop each slice.
âSeriously,â you scold, swatting his wrist when he wonât stop pressing the nozzle, âwe donât need that much foam sugar.â
He just laughs. âOh, come on, babyface. Live a little.â
âHmm,â you reply, biting the inside of your cheek to hide your grin. âFine. But if I get a sugar crash in like two hours, youâre dealing with the aftermath.â
He mock-salutes you. âYes, maâam.â
Itâs a small, silly moment, but something in the easy way you banterâespecially right after that confession about how hard it was when you leftâmakes your chest swell with warmth. Perhaps itâs just the Valentineâs vibe that has your mind spinning in circles, but you canât help wondering what heâs getting at here.
You try a bite, letting the sweetness and cinnamon melt on your tongue. âDamn,â you mumble through a mouthful, âthis is actually pretty good.â
âPretty good?â He sets a hand against his heart in mock offense. âI slaved away in the kitchenââ
âWhat, for like ten minutes?â you interrupt, snickering. âYep, truly backbreaking labor.â
He pretends to wipe away a tear. âYour gratitude is overwhelming.â
Despite the teasing, he looks satisfied when you reach for another slice. You donât miss how his eyes follow the movement, nor how his gaze lingers on your face, like heâs taking mental snapshots of you enjoying the meal. Itâs disconcertingly tenderâespecially for a guy whoâs teased you your entire life.
Eventually, when youâve both eaten more than enough, you lean back in your chair, hand resting on your full stomach. âAll right, Chef Kuroo. That was acceptable. Now whatâs the plan for the rest of Valentineâs Day, hmm?â
He clears his throat, fiddling with a piece of crust on his plate. âWell, we could go ice skating laterâlike we talked about. If youâre still up for it. Or we could do that rom-com marathon and eat a bunch of store-bought chocolate. Or both.â
âThatâs⌠definitely an option,â you say slowly, feeling a little thrill ripple through you at how nonchalant youâre trying to be. âWhich one first?â
He meets your eyes, a hint of a smirk curving his lips. âWhy not flip a coin?â
You snort, standing up and collecting the dishes. âNo way. I have the worst luck with coin tosses.â
âThen Iâll rig it so you win.â Kuroo grins, pushing back his chair to follow you to the sink.Â
âAnd you call me the overachiever,â you toss over your shoulder, cranking on the faucet. You start rinsing plates, the soap suds foaming around your fingers.
âMm,â he murmurs, stepping up behind you. âAt least let me help.â
He crowds in, reaching to take the plate from your hand. You donât protestâmostly because your entire body goes rigid at the realization of how close heâs standing. His chin practically brushes your temple, and you can feel the warmth radiating off him in waves.
For a moment, neither of you moves. The only sound is the running water, the faint drip of the faucet, and the thud of your own heartbeat in your ears. You canât help the way your breath catches.
âYou okay?â he asks quietly, noticing your sudden stillness.
âYeah,â you manage, forcing yourself to relax. âJust spacing out.â
His lips twitch into a small, understanding smile. âSame here.â Then, with a deft motion, he takes the plate from you and resumes scrubbing, shoulders barely an inch from yours in your cramped kitchen.
This shouldnât feel so charged, right? Heâs just helping you do dishes. But everything with Kuroo feels different this morningâlike thereâs some invisible line you both keep brushing against, neither one wanting to take the leap but both too invested to step back.
When the last plate is clean, he sets it on the drying rack, shuts off the water, and dries his hands with a dishrag. âSo,â he says, turning to you. âBreakfast? Check. Next item on the Valentineâs agenda?â
You roll your eyesâcanât believe youâre actually calling it Valentineâs now, you think, but you donât correct him. Instead, you tilt your head, as if deep in thought. âWell, you did promise me cheesy romance, so maybe we do the rom-com marathon first and ice skating afterward, if we still have time.â
His grin is immediate. âSounds perfect.â He turns and saunters toward your living room, tossing the dishrag onto the counter. âIâll pick the first movie?â
Youâre about to agree when you suddenly rememberâhe said heâd rig the coin toss. So you raise an eyebrow. âWait, how do I know youâre not just rigging this in your favor?â
Kuroo snorts, grabbing the TV remote. âHey, Iâm giving you exactly what you want, babyface. I call that your favor.â
You roll your eyes for the millionth time, but you canât keep the small smile off your face as you follow him into the living room. For the first time in a long while, you feel lightâlike maybe the missing piece of your life that you left behind in Tokyo is right here, making you french toast and joking about Valentineâs Day.
eleven.
You easily binge Netflixâs Love Is In The Air recommendations for several hours, to the point where, by the time that you wrap up The Kissing Booth 3, the sun has already started to set. Outside your fourth floor apartment, you have a relatively unobstructed view of the way the sky melds into a blend of purples and blues, casting shadows and making your living roomâs lighting feel even warmer.
Somehow (you say, knowing full well that you climbed into this position with full intentions of doing so) you end up curled up in Kurooâs arms, one of your legs draped over his thigh while his arm wraps snugly around your shoulders. His other hand lazily scrolls through the Netflix homepage, searching for the next rom-com victim. You barely pay attention, thoughâtoo busy noticing how ridiculously warm he is, how easy it is to fit against him, and how the dark colors of the setting sun outside look so damn pretty.
Finally, after a half-hearted scroll through the Looking For The One category, you decide: âIâm hungry. Letâs get sushi.â
He perks up, setting down the remote. âNow youâre speaking my language. Which place should we order from?â
âThereâs this little spot a few blocks away that does really fresh rolls,â you say, grabbing your phone from the cushion beside you. âThey deliver in like fifteen minutes, too.â
Kuroo nods, giving you a light squeeze. âCool. Just let me know how much I owe you. Or consider it your Valentineâs gift to me, I guess.â He snickers.
You roll your eyes at the terrible suggestion, pulling up the menu on your phone. âIâve got it, Iâm feeling generous. Plus, this place is kinda special to me anyway.â
He raises an eyebrow. âSpecial? Because the sushiâs that good?â
You shift, trying to type your order without meeting his eyes. âUhh⌠well, an ex brought me here once. That was back in like, grad school.â
Kurooâs hand stills against your arm. âExcuse me?â he says, feigning dramatic outrage. âI canât believe youâd talk about your sordid affairs on Valentineâs Day, babyface. You wound me.â
You snort, giving him a playful shove that doesnât move him even an inch. âRelax, it was ages ago. Itâs not like it was a big deal. I mostly liked him because he kinda looked likeââ You stop mid-sentence, eyes widening.
âKinda looked like⌠what?â Kuroo parrots, amused suspicion lighting up his features. âFinish that sentence.â
You clamp your mouth shut and tap furiously on your phone screen instead. âNothing. Just forget it.â
His eyes narrow. âOh, no no no, you donât get to drop that bomb and then pretend it never happened. Spill.â
âItâs none of your business,â you reply swiftly, your cheeks burning. âAnd for the record, itâs definitely not what youâre thinking.â
He sets his jaw, locking you in place by tightening the arm wrapped around you. âAlright, guess Iâll have to guess. Letâs seeâyou liked him because he kinda looked likeâŚâ He pauses, tapping a finger to his chin in exaggerated thought. âMe?â
âOh my god, no,â you say, maybe a bit too quickly. âThatâd be weird, Tetsu. Youâreâwell, youâre you.â
Something fleetingly vulnerable flashes across his face. He frowns a little, brow knitting. âDo you really think so?â His tone goes quiet, serious in a way that has your stomach dropping.
Your pulse stutters. âWait, no, I didnât meanââ You flail, phone clattering onto the cushion as you try to find his gaze. âI justâlook, itâs not weird. Of course IâI mean, you know Iââ You exhale shakily, feeling your words tumble over themselves. âI like you, Tetsu. Please donât be upset.â
Thereâs a beat of tense silence⌠and then Kuroo bursts out laughing. Actual, stomach-jostling laughter. His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose as he struggles to compose himself, and you realize, with rapidly boiling annoyance, that heâs been messing with you.
âYou jerk!â you sputter, smacking him on the arm. âThat wasnât funny! I thought I actually hurt your feelings.â
He just grins, easily absorbing your weak swats. âAw, sorry, babyface. You shouldâve seen your face, though.â
Your cheeks feel molten. âI hate you sometimes, you know?â
âMm-hmm,â he drawls, pulling you back against him, his palm smoothing over your shoulder. âBut the good news is, now I know you do like me. And that some of your exes looked like me, which is a really nice ego boost.â
You groan, burying your face against his chest. âShut up.â
He keeps talking anyway, voice taking on a more pensive note. âI mean, itâs not like I can judge. I think about you whenever I meet someone new.â
Slowly, you lift your head, eyebrows knitting. âWhat do you mean?â
He shrugs one shoulder, as if itâs no big deal. âJust, like, whenever I go on a date, I find myself comparing them to you. Theyâre never as funny or as smart, or I wonder if theyâd get along with Kenma the way you obviously do⌠that kind of thing.â
You stare at him, mouth slightly open. âTetsuâŚâ Youâre not sure how to respond to that confession. Warmth and a spike of adrenaline rush through you, and you can only open and close your mouth in silence.
At your speechlessness, Kuroo just laughs, scrunching his nose in amusement. âAw, come on. Itâs not that shocking, is it?â
âUh,â you manage, blinking. âIâuh.â
Your brain is short-circuiting, so you do the only thing that makes sense in your frazzled state: you announce, âIâm gonna go pee.â
âWhat?â He snorts. âReally? Thatâs your best response to my heartfelt confession?â
âYou think I chose this response?â you squeak, scrambling to your feet. Your cheeks feel like they could combust. âI donât control your unfiltered romantic drivel, and you donât control my bladder, okay?â
Kuroo just shakes his head in disbelief, though his eyes gleam with delight. âIâm not stopping you, babyface. Go pee. The sushiâll be here in a few minutes anyway.â
You nod, fleeing the scene for the bathroom, heart pounding in your ears. Even as you slam the door behind you, you can hear him chuckling softly in the living room.
Leaning against the bathroom door, you take a steadying breath. He compares everyone to you. You literally admitted you like him, too. And heâs laughing, because this is all apparently just⌠normal. Suddenly, the entire dynamic shiftsâlike everything youâve both been dancing around for so long is right there, out in the open, and youâre not quite sure what to do next.
Well, you do know one thing: you really do need to pee.
âOkay,â you mutter, âpriorities.â
And as you step toward the toilet, part of you wonders how to keep your composure once you walk back out to himâbecause from here on out, thereâs no more pretending you donât both feel something real.
twelve.
After peeing and washing your hands with your favorite bougie ass soap (Christmas gift from your boss; you could never afford it at department store rates), you whip out your phone and call Kenma. You know itâs 8 AM over there, so thereâs a good chance youâll be waking up your brother, but you donât care because you need his objective opinion right now.
It takes until the third call, but on the fourth ring, he finally picks up.Â
âWhat?â he mumbles groggily. âI was sleeping.â
âSorry, but I donât care. Give me some good advice right now,â you hiss into your phone, pacing back and forth in front of your shower like a maniac.
You hear fabric rustling, followed by a prolonged yawn. âFine. I bet it has to do with Kuro.â
You freeze, biting down on your lip. â...Maybe.â
âUgh,â Kenma sighs. âI literally canât believe youâre calling me about him at eight in the morning.â
âItâs not that early, yâknow.â
He grumbles something incoherent under his breath, then says more clearly, âSo whatâs the crisis? Iâm not sure how many brain cells I have at this hour.â
You rub your forehead, letting out a strangled groan. âKenma, is it weird if I kindaâI donât knowâwanna make out with him? Like, a lot? Maybe not just make outâmaybe, like, really make outââ You shake your head vigorously, cheeks flaming. âBut is that weird?â
Thereâs silence on the other end for a long moment. Then Kenmaâs voice, flat as ever: âThatâs my sister and my best friend youâre talking about. Gross. But also not really weird. Because I literally officiated your wedding in second grade, remember? You two are basically old news.â
You squeeze your eyes shut, your free hand clenching at your side. âOh my God, not you too. Kuroo keeps bringing it up, and now youâre enabling him. When did that wedding even become a real memory to everyone but me?â
âUh, itâs always been a memory. You wore a yellow dress, he had a Spider-Man t-shirt, I was reading from a PokĂŠmon handbook.â He yawns. âI was, like, seven, but I still remember, because Kuro wouldnât shut up about it. And apparently, still wonât.â
âYeah, well,â you huff, pacing faster. âHe mentions it daily, I swear, and itâs driving me insaneâlike, I get it, we had a pretend wedding when we were literal children. Does he have to bring it up every chance he gets?â
Kenmaâs voice goes deadpan. âHe brings it up because he likes you, dumbass.â
Your pacing halts so abruptly you almost trip over the bathroom mat. â...Oh.â
A beat passes; the only sound is your heart thudding in your ears.
âYeah,â Kenma continues, dry as day-old toast. âHeâs liked you forever. Youâve liked him forever. Youâre both idiots. Congrats.â
You gawk at the phone, mind spinning. âWaitâheâheâs alwaysâŚ? Does everyone know this except me?â
Kenma yawns again, unperturbed. âProbably. I mean, we werenât exactly subtle growing up. Dad used to tell me he was more worried about you running off with Tetsu than, like, your middle school crushes.â
You gape. âSeriously?â
âMhm.â You hear the faint click of a laptop or a Switchâknowing Kenma, heâs probably opening up a game to pass the time. âAnyway, is that all you needed to ask? Because Iâd like to get at least another hour of sleep.â
You groan, but you canât quell the swirl of hope rising in your chest. âThis is⌠surreal. He just told me earlierâlike, not directly, but he basically said he thinks about me whenever he meets someone new. And I mightâve implied I like him tooâoh God, Kenma, what do I do?â
Heâs quiet for a moment, presumably considering. âMake out with him. I donât know. You literally said thatâs what you want to do.â
âThatâs it? Thatâs your profound, brotherly wisdom?â
âWhat else do you want me to say?â he drones. âYou both already know you like each other. This was the most obvious outcome in the world. Just do your thing, get it out of your system. Or get married again if you want. Could be a nice full-circle moment.â
You let out a mortified noise, pressing your forehead to the cool tile of your bathroom wall. âYouâreâurgh, never mind. Thanks, Kenma.â
âYeah, yeah,â he mutters. âTell Kuro he owes me five bucks for something⌠Iâll think of a reason later. Bye.â
Before you can protest, he hangs up, leaving you with your phone still pressed to your ear. You stare at the blank screen, a mix of exasperation and relief swirling through your chest.
He likes you. You like him. Youâre idiotsâKenmaâs words, not yours. And apparently, neither of you has been hiding it as well as you thought.
You inhale slowly, trying to calm your racing heart. Then you square your shoulders. âOkay,â you say to yourself, âI can do this. Just⌠go out there and act normal. Or as normal as possible while wanting to jump his bones. Easy.â
With that pep talk, you push off the wall, open the bathroom door, and step into the hallway, with completely unfounded confidence in yourself.
thirteen.
That confidence goes straight out the window because as soon as you walk back, you are caught off-guard by Kuroo standing in the middle of your living room, hands behind his back and wearing the guiltiest expression youâve ever seen, obviously hiding something from your view. Youâre scared, and immediately a little suspicious.Â
âWhat are you doing?â you ask warily, taking very slow, careful steps toward him. âWhat is that?â
He ignores the question entirely, instead breaking into a triumphant grin. âBabyface,â he declares, âI have a Valentineâs Day gift for you.â
All the tension in your shoulders uncoils in one quick moment of relief. âOh.â You snort, rolling your eyes. âOkay, this should be good. What is itâa frog? A cricket? Remember when you gave me that cricket in fourth grade?â
Kuroo stifles a laugh, as if recalling the memory of your horrified shriek when you opened a tiny shoebox to find a chirping insect. âI was trying to teach you about biology. You always liked science-y stuff,â he defends. âBesides, a cricket is romantic if you think about it long enough.â
âOh my god,â you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. âPlease donât tell me thatâs whatâs behind your back right now.â
He steps forward, eyes warm with mirth. âI promise. This is way better.â
He produces a small, flat object from behind himâa rectangular folder, sealed by a thin, glossy cover. At first, youâre genuinely perplexed. Itâs too big to be a normal card, and thereâs no way itâs a book, unless itâs some custom print job. The corners are crisp, the material looks like maybe photo paper. Curiosity coaxes you closer.
Catching your confusion, Kuroo grins wider. âLook inside.â
With a hint of skepticism, you slip your fingers under the cover, peeling it back. Inside is a high-quality color printâlike a medical scan or something from a research article. Black-and-gray cross-sections and bright neon highlights fill your vision, and as you blink, trying to parse the image, your mouth goes dry. You recognize the shape of a human brain from an fMRI scan: swirling patterns in vivid oranges and reds indicating activated regions.
âIs this⌠an fMRI?â you breathe, your hand trembling slightly as you lift the print to the light. Definitely an fMRI, your trained eye confirmsâdistinct slices, certain labeling, the faint text from the imaging software. âTetsu, why the hell are you giving meâŚ?â
He shifts, almost shy, scratching the back of his neck. âI asked one of the JVAâs partnered sports med facilities to do a little favor for me.â A pause. âA small, borderline unethical favor.â
Your eyes dart back to the vibrant splotches. âThe nucleus accumbens,â you whisper, tapping a bright orange blob near the center. âAnd the hippocampus. Theyâre⌠lit up.â You draw in a sharp breath. âThese areas activate when youâreââ
ââexperiencing motivation, reward, or strong emotional attachment,â he finishes gently, voice hushed. âLike, for instance, thinking about someone you love.â
Your heart stutters so violently you nearly drop the print. âSo, youâthis is⌠from your brain?â you manage, your throat suddenly tight.
Kuroo nods, looking almost bashful, which is a jarring contrast to his usual smug confidence. âThey scanned me while I was, uh⌠focusing on a particular mental image.â He glances away, expression uncharacteristically shy. âI figured youâd like the hard data. You being a scientist and all.â
You force yourself to swallow past the dryness in your mouth. âYouâre telling me you literally got an fMRI done while thinking about⌠someone?â Your voice trembles on the last word, and you canât quite meet his eye.
He exhales a quick laugh. âUh-huh. Didnât take long. I just, you know, had to fill out some forms, promise it was for a PR stunt about brain health or something. Then I, well, closed my eyes and picturedââ
âWho?â you interrupt, not even caring that you sound breathless. Youâre clutching the fMRI print so hard you can feel the edges biting into your fingertips.
Kurooâs grin turns downright sheepish, and he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear. âTake a wild guess, babyface.â
Heat floods your cheeks, your mind flashing back to all the data youâve read about how the nucleus accumbens is heavily involved in romantic love, addiction, reward. All those nights you taught undergrads about dopaminergic pathways and the hippocampusâs role in forming new memoriesâspecifically, emotional memories.
âYou⌠you were thinking about me?â you ask, voice scarcely above a whisper.
The sheepishness melts into something warmer. âYeah,â he admits, gaze holding yours. âObviously.â
For a moment, your living room goes silentâno hum of traffic or whir of appliances registers in your ears, just the thud-thud-thud of your heart as you stare at the bright orange smears on the print. He was literally focusing on you, flooding his mind with thoughts of you, enough to trigger all these hallmark signs of love and emotional resonance in his brain.
âYouââ you start, but your voice is shaky. You take a breath, dropping your eyes to the image again. âThis is probably the strangest and most⌠scientifically romantic thing anyoneâs ever given me.â
He clears his throat, stepping closer. âI hoped youâd see it that way. I know youâre not into the typical Valentineâs giftsâflowers and cheesy cards. So I thought, you know⌠Iâd show you proof.â He shrugs, but thereâs an earnestness in his eyes that makes your chest tighten. âReal, measurable proof that youâre always in my head.â
Overcome, you tear your gaze from the print to search his face, half expecting him to burst into laughter and say itâs another joke. But thereâs no sign of teasing. Heâs dead serious, a bit vulnerable, and it reminds you painfully of how youâve known him foreverâhow under all the arrogance and jokes, heâs always worn his heart right there on his sleeve.
âIââ You canât find the words, so instead, you lean forward, pressing your forehead gently against his shoulder. The fMRI print stays clutched in your hand at your side, but the rest of you rests against him, trying to steady your breathing.
Kurooâs arms come up, enveloping you. You feel the softness of his shirt and the warmth of his body, and itâs equal parts comforting and electrifying. âSo,â he says softly, voice rumbling through your hair, âwas this too much?â
You lift your head, meeting his gaze. âNo,â you say, the corners of your mouth tilting up in a shaky smile. âItâs just⌠a lot to take in.â You let out a small laugh, one that wobbles on the edge of tears. âYou literally went out of your way to prove youâre thinking about me with actual neuroscience data. How am I supposed to top that?â
He grins, the tension in his shoulders easing. âYou donât have to. Maybe just trust me when I say youâre stuck in my head, yeah?â
A breathless little chuckle escapes you. âYeah,â you whisper. âI⌠can do that.â
For a second, the two of you just stand there, pressed together, the overhead light casting a soft glow on the fMRI print you still clutch in your trembling hand. Then Kurooâs voice breaks the silence:
âHey,â he murmurs, âsince weâre on the subject of your super-scientific interest in my reward pathways⌠maybe we can do a little experiment?â
Your brow arches, a half-laugh catching in your throat. âAn experiment, huh?â
âMhm.â He carefully closes his hand around your wristâthe one holding the printâguiding it so you can set it gently on the coffee table nearby. Then he slides his fingers under your chin, tilting your face up to his. âI wanna see if I can spike some more activity in that region. Because Iâm definitely thinking about you right now.â
Your heart stutters. The last time he teased you about wanting to test something, you were six years old, and he was coaxing you into believing that tying your shoelaces together would make you run faster. This, though? Vastly different stakes.
Still, your lips twitch into a wry smile. âJust⌠kissing me wonât show up on an fMRI unless you, I donât know, plan on hooking up electrodes or something.â
He smirks, fingers trailing up to brush the line of your jaw. âNah, no fancy medical tech needed. I just want an empirical resultâlike, say, a moan or a heartbeat spike.â
A shiver runs through you, and you swear you can feel your pulse jump beneath his hand. âYouâre such a nerd,â you whisper, lips quirking. âBut sure. For science.â
He laughs softly, the sound warm and easy, like the last golden light of sunset spilling through half-open blinds. Then, before you can think too much about it, he closes the distance, tilting his head just slightly as his lips brush against yours in a kiss that is warm, lingering, and unhurried. It steals your breath, not in the way a storm might, but like a tide gently pulling you under, enveloping you in something deep and inevitable.
The taste of him is familiar yet new all at onceâthereâs the faint trace of the toast from earlier, or maybe just the memory of it, mingling with something sweeter, something unmistakably him. His fingers ghost along your waist, their presence featherlight but grounding, like a silent promise that heâs here, heâs real. And when he pulls you closer, his body pressing flush against yours, you feel itâthe way your heart flutters wildly against your ribs, the way warmth spreads through your chest like a sunrise breaking over the horizon.
For a moment, the world holds its breath. Everything fades awayâthe hum of the city beyond the window, the soft glow of the overhead lights, even the thoughts that usually crowd your mind. There is only this: the way his lips move with quiet reverence, the quiet hitch in your breath as your fingers curl instinctively into the fabric of his shirt, the subtle shift of his body as he deepens the kiss just enough to make your pulse race.
And then, suddenly, you realizeâyou donât need a machine or a calculation to tell you how you feel. The answer is already written in the way your entire chest hums, in the way your skin tingles where he touches you, in the way something inside you feels like itâs come alive, like a supernova has replaced your heart.
God, the astrophysics department should be studying this instead.
When he finally pulls backâforeheads brushing, breath minglingâhe searches your eyes, his own half-lidded with affection. âSo,â he murmurs, âdid I succeed in lighting up your hippocampus?â
Your laugh comes out a little breathless. âIf you keep that up,â you say, pressing a palm to his chest, âyou might just rewire my entire brain.â
He grins, leaning in again to drop a quick peck at the corner of your mouth. âGood. Then Iâll have all the data I need.â
You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him in for another lingering kiss, feeling the warmth of his smile against your lips. In the back of your mind, youâre distantly aware that your own reward pathways might be exploding, nucleus accumbens glowing neon, hippocampus forging brand-new memories like a bonfire. And for the first time in a long time, youâre okay with letting the feelings have free rein.
Because sometimes, science can capture how people feel, but it canât fully capture why. And right now, with Kurooâs arms around you and that precious fMRI print still waiting on the coffee table, you think youâve finally found your âwhyâ in the easiest, most obvious place of all:
He loves you, and you love him back.
fourteen.
Three hundred and sixty-four days later, Kuroo is helping you move into a new apartment. In Tokyo. Because Columbia offered you the chance to do an exchange with the University of Tokyo before the end of your doctorate studies. For two entire years, slicing open human brains and figuring out whatâs going on beneath, because your article published in Neuron made the cover page and you got a fat and juicy grant from the school. Two entire years of being close enough to hear your parents bragging about you in person again, and to have shitty takeout dinner with Kenma after his video game streams but before his corporate mojo.Â
And two entire years of getting to live with your boyfriend. Kuroo, your very wonderful boyfriend who you love more than life itself and who you want to be buried with one day. The Kuroo who was the first person you liked at six years old and is still who you like at twenty-six. The Kuroo who you have successfully managed an international relationship with because youâve already went three years apart without the spark dying. Still, youâre absolutely beaming as you carry in boxes and boxes of clothes, because you always love getting to be with him, in person and in real life, and now you get to every single day.
You canât hang up on him when he gets annoying anymore, but itâs worth it when he makes you breakfast daily and reaches for you in his sleep.Â
You heave another box into the apartmentâthis one filled with mismatched mugs youâve collected from half a dozen coffee shopsâand set it down with a groan. Kuroo flashes you a grin from across the living room, one hand resting casually on his hip as he surveys the chaos of half-unpacked boxes and hastily labeled luggage.
âYou brought an entire suitcase just for shoes,â he points out, amused.
âHey,â you protest, wiping sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand, âif Iâm living here for two years, Iâm not just gonna live in sneakers.â
He ambles over and nudges the box with his foot. âI guess thatâs fairâthough Iâm not carrying that one up another flight of stairs if we end up moving again. Youâll have to bribe Kenma for help.â
You roll your eyes, but a laugh slips free. âFine, fine. Now, major question: where are we putting our bed?â
He waggles his eyebrows, eyes bright with mischief. âWe?â he echoes, as if you havenât been living together for all of thirty minutes. âIâm pretty sure I get ultimate bed placement rights, given my extensive experience in interior design.â
âOh, sure, because black-cat-themed t-shirts and old gym hoodies scream âinterior design mogul.ââ
He smirks. âHey, Iâve got taste.â With that, he gestures expansively toward the center of a wall in the room youâd marked for the bed, where the largest patch of light from the window splashes onto the floor. âI say we put the bed there. Weâll get a queen, obviously.â
You raise an eyebrow. âA queen? As if youâre actually gonna stay on your side.â
His grin turns lazy. âExactly. I can find you in the expanse.â
âAnd you wonder why I think youâre annoying.â You toss him a mock exasperated look, which only earns you another chuckle.
âYou still chose to live with me,â he points out, that devilish glint in his eyes returning, âbecause youâre stuck with me, right here.â
âLucky me,â you tease, while your heart still does that stupid flutter thing at the thought of waking up next to him every day.
He walks over and presses a quick kiss to your forehead. Itâs such a simple, tender gesture that you canât help the smile that spreads across your face.
âSpeaking of tomorrow,â you say, turning back to break down an empty cardboard box, âitâs Valentineâs Day. Any big plans, or are we just, yâknow, gonna eat convenience store chocolates while finishing the bed frame?â
Kuroo shrugs, far too casually for someone whoâs obviously up to something. âMmm, I might have a surprise,â he says.
You roll your eyes. âOf course you do. You and your surprises. Is it expensive, by chance?â
His brows lift in feigned innocence. âDepends if you consider a diamond ring expensive.â
You almost drop the box, now flattened and very, very large. âA what now?â
He smirks, crossing his arms over his chest. âYou heard me.â
Heâs kidding. He has to be fucking kidding, right now. He did not spend a small fortune on a rock for your finger.
âFucking return that,â you blurt instantly, your heart skipping not one but multiple beats. âThatâs so expensive. Why would you do that?â
âWell, if Iâm gonna get my future wife a ring, Iâm gonna make it an investment,â Kuroo replies with an ease that makes your chest tighten all over again.
âWaitâwhat the⌠Are youâare you serious?â
He leans closer, lips tilting in a secretive smile. âI guess youâll find out tomorrow.â
Your mind whirls, half in shock, half in outright giddy disbelief. Youâre suddenly hyperaware of everything: his calm breathing, the faint noises from the street outside, the way the newly painted walls catch the late afternoon light.
âAre you messing with me?â you finally manage.
âWouldnât you like to know,â he says, and then taps the tip of your nose affectionately. âBut trust me, youâll like it.â
Itâs maddening and wonderful all at once, and you canât help but wonder how on earth you got lucky enough to stumble into a future that looks a whole lot like happinessâespecially if it involves a ring.
But for now, you tamp down the frantic beating of your heart and glance at the corner of the room. âRight,â you say, clearing your throat. âQueen bed. Got it.â
He laughs. âWeâll get the perfect one tomorrow. After all, we have at least two years of me latching onto you in my sleep, and then⌠maybe forever.â
And you roll your eyes, but you know whatâll happen tomorrow. Because of course youâre going to say yes. Because Kuroo Tetsuro has been the love of your life since you were a kid marrying him with dandelions, and because in every version of your imagined future, heâs still there, standing across from you at the aisle, regardless of if itâs a Band-Aid or an engagement ring heâs putting on your finger. Because he still makes every reward center in your brain light up (and because youâre putting that fMRI in your office at the university).Â
Honestly, love is a system of chemical reactions. Scanners and artificial intelligence will probably take over the world sooner or later, and the scientific community is getting better and better at understanding the whys. You can measure the dopamine flooding your brain, track the firing of mirror neurons, and map out which regions of your cortex light up at the sound of his laugh. But still, science is flawed, because all the scanning techniques in the world canât replicate the soft, certain rhythm of his heartbeat under your palm, or the way his eyes crinkle in tender amusement when he looks at you.
In this moment, your hippocampus diligently encodes every detail: the slight scuff on the floor, the teasing quirk of his lips, the warm press of his shoulder against yours. The memory crystallizes, even before tomorrowâs promise fully forms, because you already know the answer. You always have.
When you finally pull your gaze away, the last rays of sunlight spill over the spot where youâll put your new bedâthe place youâll fall asleep entangled in each otherâs arms, night after night. You picture the days ahead: lazy mornings that begin with his sleepy kisses, evenings spent side by side, peeling back the layers of the human mind and finding new depths in each other all the while.
And as your heart thrums with a rhythm that science canât quite pin downâsomething that defies clean categorization in textbooksâyou realize that in this bright, messy, glorious future, every neuron in your body is wired just for him.
And if thatâs not proof enough of love, youâre not sure what is.
⨠closing notes; i love being able to write bc i can create purely self indulgent things like this. i'm a neuroscientist and my bday is nov 14 (exactly 9 months after valentine's day) and im from nyc so this one really has a lil kick to it. did u notice i made it perfectly 14 chapters cause feb 14 lol i rly used my brain for that one. anyway happy day of love!! whether ur celebrating or not, please know i love u all <3
⨠genre; college!au, childhood best friends to lovers, fluff, minor angst like its there if u squint
⨠pairing; tsukishima kei x fem!reader
⨠word count; 17.3k
⨠description; when you convince your best friend into being the male lead of your film project, you don't expect for it to make you question your whole relationship.
⨠warnings; profanity, alcohol, smoking
⨠a/n; this has been in the works for quite a while now and it is defff the longest fic ive ever written (not saying will ever write yet bc who knows), but i think i like it. i am a sucker for best friends to lovers, ESPECIALLY childhood best friends to lovers, so i hope u guys like it :)
song i listened to writing this: 'being your friend' by katherine li
one.Â
The universe has a top-tier sadism kink, and its living proof is Tsukishima Kei.Â
You know this to be a fact because 1) aside from his bachelor of science in anthropology, heâs pursuing a PhD in sarcasm and uses his learnings primarily to eviscerate your self-esteem, 2) The Umbrella Academy doesnât come out with another season for another few months so your life choices have become the pinnacle of his entertainment, and 3) despite being your Bestie⢠of twelve years, he still makes you beg for his benevolence, even if he does have the annoying habit of showing up when you need him most.
Itâs deeply unfortunate that heâs all youâve got, universe be damned.Â
âName your price. Cake? Head? Money? Câmon, just tell me what you want!â
Tsukishima peers at you over his laptop with disdain, the blue glow of his pirated PDF of The Communist Manifesto reflected in his glasses as he squints at you. His lips are pursed in annoyance, face scrunched up as he seemingly contemplates whether to put himself out of his misery or squash you to little smithereens. âWhat I want is for you to go away.â
True love, honestly. The golden standard for kindness and affection. A picturesque image of camaraderie. Lo and behold, everyone, your best friend.
âOh my god, Kei, please,â you whine, hands clasped together as you look up at him through batted lashes. He doesnât even flinch, looking completely unimpressedâhow pretentious of him. âIâll literally pay you whatever you want.â
The blond rolls his eyes, looking back down at his laptop screen as he briskly retorts, âIâm not a prostitute, idiot. You canât pay me to star in your stupid movie.â
He ignores the several judgmental stares that turn in your direction at his response. You, on the other hand, are praying the libraryâs studious occupants donât assume youâre a pimp preying on broke college students.Â
In all honesty, you probably shouldâve chosen a less populated spot than the libraryâs first floor seats in front of Crowâs Coffee, especially if you actually had any intentions to get work done. But with just a few months left until the end of second semester, you have way too many dining dollars left and not enough places to spend them; in this capitalist world, you refuse to let more money simply be pocketed by the greedy hands of the school. Itâs how you managed to tempt Tsukishima out of the comfort of his apartment in the first placeâwith promises of free coffee and shortcake, courtesy of your four-star meal plan.Â
âTechnically, thatâs a pornstar,â Yamaguchi supplies unhelpfully from his spot buried amongst stacks of math and science textbooks. Heâs the only one of you whoâs effectively completing his assignments because he wonât pass his classes unless heâs in constant fight-or-flight mode (you thank every deity you can think of that you werenât born to be a STEM girlie). âYou know youâve got the time to, Tsukki.â
âYeah, but I donât want to,â he shrugs. You promptly deliver a swift kick to his shins. âOwâwell, now I really donât want to.â
âBe honest, do you hate me?â you sniff dramatically, letting your head hit the table with a soft thud; Yamaguchi pats your head tantalizingly, as if youâre a fuckinâ child, and you want to scream at them both.
âYes,â Tsukishima snorts, not even bothering to glance up. âItâs your own fault for being a film major.â
You shoot him a glare, but no threats come to mind because heâs sadly right.
Being a film major is basically being in a perpetual state of begging: begging your friends to star in your work, begging your professors for an extension because your lead decided to quit the night before shooting, and begging your parents for forgiveness because they didnât send you to college to become a âprofessional movie watcher.âÂ
Sure, you get to watch artsy film-bro movies for homework, but you also spend half your time pulling all-nighters to finish scripts and survive solely off a diet of Shin Ramyun and its complimentary mushroom flakes. Tsukishima likes to tell you how you reek of constant desperation; you concur because no one has a real penchant for the arts these days. In a world where everyone dreams of being the next Spielberg, nothing is truly original, and youâre just barely holding on with the kind of boundless optimism that can only be fueled by sheer willpower.Â
So here you are, offering bribes of cake, coffee, and cold hard cash, trying to convince your best friendâwho has the emotional range of a teaspoon and the patience of a sleep-deprived toddlerâto star in your magnum opus so you can pass the semester. Youâd ask Yamaguchi, but heâs got civil engineering exams and an actual promising future to worry about. Meanwhile, your future, desperation and all, hinges on whether Tsukishima will stop being a pain in the ass for ten minutes and agree to be your leading man.
Luckily, because youâve been #pairbonded for twelve years, you know exactly what buttons to push. You let out a sorrowful sigh, before loudly declaring, âFine. Iâll just ask Shoyo then.â
That does it. Tsukishimaâs jaw twitches, his fingers pausing over the keyboard; you know him too well because the mere thought of the red-head starring in your movie is enough to make Tsukishima reconsider his stance. You never did understand their beef, but Yamaguchi tells you that theyâre just inverse idiots, which seems pretty likely considering theyâre actually both easily provoked and highly competitive. He looks up from his laptop, irritation flashing in his eyes. âAbsolutely not,â he says flatly, closing the lid of his computer with a decisive click.
Yamaguchi snickers, clearly sensing victory in the air. You, on the other hand, suppress your triumphant smile and put on your best wounded-puppy look. âBut heâs so eager to help,â you say, your voice dripping with faux innocence. âHeâll do anything for me.â
Thereâs a moment of silence as Tsukishima contemplates this. His fingers drum lightly on the table, a sign that heâs weighing his options. And then finally, he lets out a long, suffering exhale, head rolled back in exasperation. âFine. Iâll do it. But I swear to God, if this film ruins my life, Iâm holding you personally responsible.â
âYou already hold me personally responsible for most things,â you chirp, practically beaming with delight. âBut thank you, Kei! Youâre the best.â
Yamaguchi looks up from his mountain of textbooks with a bemused smile. âThat was a quick turnaround. Youâre like a married couple.â
âOnly in spirit, âDashi,â you purr, blowing him a playful kiss. The freckled boy pretends to catch your kiss and presses it to his cheek in a dramatic gesture; no wonder heâs your favorite. He really is such a sweetie.
âStop encouraging her,â Tsukishima groans, pushing himself up from the table. âAnd stop saying things like that. People might believe you.â
âWow, not you denying our love,â you scoff, sticking your tongue out at him. âI want a divorce.â
The blond ignores your threat. âI need air. Bye, Tadashi.â
He gives you an unimpressed but telling look, so you roll your eyes and promptly start packing up your things, shoving notebooks and pens into your bag haphazardly. The last things you do are run over to give your beloved âDashi a light squeeze goodbye, swipe your laptop and Owala into your arms (because you are a broke college student who cannot afford to get a new laptop and your New Yearsâ Resolution is to be more hydrated), and skip to catch up with your friend, already halfway out the door. The evening air is a refreshing change from the stuffy library youâve been in for hours; youâre sure if you had any free hands right now youâd bend over and grab a handful of grass, just for the sake of it.Â
âTis is the life of a film major, you guess. Youâre bitchless with a capital âBâ and spend the other half of your time with your equally bitchless friends. And all they do is abuse your dining dollars and mock your miseries in life, so honestly, itâs a good thing youâre in school to write and produce rom coms. You can live vicariously through them, at least.
But whatever. Pathetic love life aside, right now, Kei has agreed, and youâre already one step closer to a successful final project.Â
two.Â
The walk home with Tsukishima is as comfortable as ever, the silence between you two punctuated by the soft crunch of gravel under your shoes and the distant hum of campus life winding down for the night. He doesnât pull his headphones on, but he also doesnât start up a conversation; being alone with him is simply being able to exist.Â
Heâs walked you home everyday since the beginning of middle school, when his mom found out he hadnât waited that day and you had walked home alone in the dark. From your bedroom window in the house next door, directly mirroring his, you had overhead her lecturing both him and Akiteru about the importance of mannersâand to Keiâs credit, heâs dutifully picked you up after your classes and chores ever since, even if he grumbles the whole way home. For some reason, this habit carried over when you, him, and Tadashi committed to the same university, even if it meant standing outside a frat house at two in the morning because you got too fucked up to walk home on your own. You puked out half your stomach on his sweatpants, and heâd made you do his laundry for a month as punishment, but he still waits patiently at the cafĂŠ by frat row every time you get coerced to go out by your roommates.Â
As you reach your dorm building, Tsukishima steps aside, holding the door open for you; you roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at your lips. âSuch a gentleman, Kei. What would I do without you?â
He smirks, letting the door swing closed behind him as you head towards the elevator. âProbably get kidnapped or something. Youâre too trusting.â
âThe only person Iâd let kidnap me,â you say dreamily, pressing the button for your floor with a dramatic swoop. âis Oikawa.â
Youâre only half joking because Oikawa Tooru, the president of Sigma Epsilon Iota (SEI), is in fact extremely pretty and volunteered to be in your film last semester. You later found out that it was because heâs an astronomy major and thus felt compelled to star in your movie (which, yes, was titled Stars); he convinced you to spend many extra weeks in After Effects making sure the sky imagery looked âas perfect as him.â Heâd actually been a really good sport about learning his lines and cues, but youâre pretty sure neither you nor your 2014 Macbook Air would survive that experience again.Â
âRight, fall for the guy who does keg stands at every party,â he drawls, his tone laced with sarcasm. âSmart.â
You huff and stick your tongue out at him, earning yourself a half-shrug and an amused snort. The elevator ride is brief, and soon youâre at your door, fumbling with your keys; as always, Tsukishima stops and stands to the side, waiting for you to invite him in, because again, manners. You turn to him with a playful grin. âYou know, you donât have to stand there like a sentinel every time. You can come in.â
He raises an eyebrow. âIs that an invitation?â
You laugh, pushing the door open and gesturing dramatically. âOh, please, come in. Make yourself at home.â
Not that you had to tell him that. He slouched past you and kicked off his shoes as soon as you gave him the cue. Heâs honestly just as relaxed here as in his own studio, already stretching and making himself comfortable on the couch with your favorite decorative pillow tucked under his head.Â
You two have settled into a pretty comfortable routine. Itâs a Friday night, so chances are that heâll yank out his phone, scroll through his email. Youâll put something on the TV and heâll critique it through mouthfuls of popcorn, only to have it ruin his appetite for whatever you end up ordering for dinner; later, if heâs tired enough, heâll give up on the thirty minute drive home and collapse next to you in your Twin XL. Itâs a mess of limbs and limited space, but you two manageâyou always have. Your suitemates, Yukie and Kaori, have already texted that theyâre bringing home Chinese takeout for four, so you decide against your usual snacks because your twig of a best friend needs actual sustenance.
Swinging by your room to drop off your bag and laptop, you take a pit stop in the kitchen on the way back to pluck two bottles of soju from the fridge. You toss him one; he catches it neatly and observes the flavor with scrutiny.Â
âYou hate strawberry,â he points out. âWhy are you drinking this?â
You shrug, walking over to plop down on the couch by him. âBecause itâs your favorite.â
His head is right up against your thigh because heâs too tall to fit on your shitty university furniture, even with his legs half-dangling off the armrest. You click through Netflix, nursing your drink with a slight pout until you make the executive decision to put on The Bachelor.
âTrying to prove you can love both me and Oikawa at the same time?â Tsukishima comments, watching the screen as he pops open the cap of his bottle. Heâs referring to Ben telling both Lauren and JoJo he loved them in season 20; you lowkey love the series and he highkey loves the drama. Thereâs just something about people finding their supposed soulmates after knowing each other for like a month that really makes life entertaining.
âDonât ever compare me to Ben,â you frown, because you think he was a massive asshole for doing that to JoJo and then not even picking her in the end. These bitches really be throwing each other under the bus. âYouâre so mean to me.â
âYou just bribed me with strawberry soju.â
âItâs not bribery if itâs out of love. Plus, I can tolerate it for one night,â you roll your eyes, taking a sip of the drink. âSo, you wanna know what the filmâs about or not?â
He looks at you over the rim of his bottle, eyebrow raised. âDo I have a choice?â
âNot really,â you grin, patting his head affectionately. âOkay, so, the film. Itâs a romantic short about the progression of a college relationship. Like, from the first meeting to the final stages of being together. Itâs dreamy, very aestheticâyâknow, all those soft hues and hazy shots. A smoking scene thrown in there somewhere.â
âSounds like every other indie film ever made.â
âShut up. This oneâs different,â you insist, lightly tugging on a strand of his hair. âItâs got a great castâYachiâs playing the female lead.â
He nods, seemingly interested. âYachi, huh? Whatâs my role, then?â
âThe male lead, obviously,â you say, not even bothering to look away from the screen. The opening credits have just finished and youâre instantly sucked into the magical world of Malta; God, what you would do to be there right now instead of in your overpriced residence complex.
âOh, great. Falling in love. My specialty,â he deadpans, taking another swig of his drink. âWhat do I have to do?â
You hum absentmindedly. âLearn the lines, cues, whatever. Yachi said sheâs free tomorrow, so maybe we can get coffee with her in the afternoon and run through the working script?â
Tsukishima groans. âWe already have to get started?â
âYeah, thereâs a lot to do,â you retort, giving him a gentle punch on the shoulder. He frowns up at you disapprovingly, and you mockingly frown back. âGet over it. Youâre my main star.â
He shakes his head as you both watch the girls line up in knight costumes to compete in the episodeâs extra-time competition. Modern television is truly unreal. âWhy did I agree to this?â
âBecause you love me.â
You flick your eyes from the TV to him, gauging his reaction. Heâs rolling his eyes, of course, but the small smile and faint blush creeping up his cheeks tells you everything you need to know.
three.Â
The prior night, your suitemates eventually came home with the promised takeout; Kaori even brought home boba orders courtesy of her friend Bokuto closing shift at the campus Broba Tea, so itâs safe to say you have the best roommates ever.Â
Turnabout is fair play, so you and Tsukishima agreed to clean upâtherefore, even after your suitemates retreated to their rooms, you two lingered behind in the living room, sorting away recyclables and compost into their respective places and watching your favorites get eliminated. Friday nights like this are nice: just you and your best friend, making three-pointers with empty soju bottles into the blue plastic bin. Even after you finished the seasonâs finale, you put on some nature documentary (courtesy of his Disney+ subscription, which he exclusively uses for National Geographic like a fuckinâ weirdo) and argued about which ugly fish looked more like each other the whole hour and forty minutes. You mustâve crashed no earlier than one A.M., but the specifics are hazy: you donât actually remember falling asleep.
So the miserable blaring from your phone right now is truly, in short, cruel. Apparently, you forgot to turn off your alarm for your usual Friday 11 A.M. lecture last night, because youâre currently being rudely awoken at a completely unnecessary time on a Saturday morning. Groaning, you slap around the bed until your fingers find your phone, silencing the alarm. As you roll over, you find yourself face-to-face with Tsukishima, whoâs occupying the other half of your twin XL bed, looking every bit as disgruntled as you feel. His hair is a mess, and thereâs a faint crease on his cheek from your pillowcase; his arm is slung loosely over your waist as he grumbles and tries to hide his face from the light. He mustâve carried you to your bed after you dozed off on the couch.
âYouâve got to be kidding me,â he mutters. His voice is hoarse with sleep. âWhy do you set alarms on days you donât have class?â
âI forgot to turn it off,â you mumble back, burying your face in your pillow. âSorry for waking you up.â
He sighs, rolling over onto his side and squinting at you as he makes out the hazy figure of your silhouette through his shitty impaired vision. âMove over. Your greedy ass is hogging all the space.â
Ah yes. Truly, a dreamboat. You roll your eyes, but scooch closer to the wall nonetheless; his grip tightens slightly around the curve of your back as you make space, and you canât help but smile into your pillowcase. Despite his grumpy demeanor, thereâs a warmth to his presence that youâve grown to appreciate over time.Â
âBetter?â you ask, your voice muffled by your cotton pillow.
âA little,â he grumbles. He shifts closer, his body warmth seeping through the thin fabric of your pajamas.
You lay there in comfortable silence for a few moments, listening to the quiet sounds of the morning outside and the soft rhythm of his breathing. Your head kinda hurts; you havenât woken up this early on a Saturday in forever. Maybe in another life, youâre born as one of those matcha latte girls who get up at 6A.M. for a run and have their lives sorted out by noon, but in this one, you love procrastinating and Netflix far too much to have yourself in order like that. Truly, you run off caffeine and spite and Google Calendar remindersâand as if on cue, your phone buzzes with a reminder about the meeting with Yachi.Â
Tsukishima, recognizing the sound of the notification, leans over and hands you the device to read, giving you a minute before he asks, his voice soft to match the stillness of the room, âSo, whatâs on the agenda for today?â
âCrowâs with Yachi at one,â you murmur back. Normally, youâd be giddy to meet with your beloved angel of a friend (you would literally give Yachi your whole life), but truthfully, you donât really want to get out of bed. Keiâs fingers, lightly tracing patterns on your back as he processes the information, feel so comforting and warm. Youâre tempted to cancel and spend the day here, in bed, with him, but you know just as well as he does that you canât.
âRight,â Tsukishima sighs. âGuess we should get up soon, then.â
âMmm, in a bit,â you reply, savoring the warmth of the moment. âJust a few more minutes.â
He doesnât argue, instead allowing the silence to stretch on comfortably. But eventually, it does slow. âWe should get going, or weâll end up being late,â he says, though he makes no move to get up.
You groan in response, but you know heâs right.Â
âFine,â you mumble, reluctantly sitting up. The room is still dim, the curtains drawn, and you glance over at Tsukishima, whoâs also making an effort to get up; he grabs his glasses, neatly folded on your nightstand, and puts them on, blinking back into consciousness. He looks far too composed for someone whoâs just gotten up, but of course he would be.
What a lovely, familiar sight. You hope this, these Saturday mornings with him, never end.
***
The campus is slowly waking up, students milling about, heading to the library or the better of the two dining halls, the one that serves freshly-made waffles on Saturdays. The other one only serves the worldâs runniest scrambled eggs thatâs held together with the most plasticky cheese, so even if itâs a ten minute walk further, itâs worth it.
You secure a table near the window; the dining hall overlooks the square and you like watching the way people narrowly dodge the campus seal. Itâs a superstition that you wonât graduate if you step on itâand especially now, in the second semester when everyone gets pretty desperate, you gotta respect the grind. Tsukishima has already gone to order at the counter with your dining card, so youâre left alone to ponder about your impending project; you go over the working script in your head, running the lines and dialogue over and over.Â
Your thoughts are interrupted when he returns with a tray loaded with waffles, two matching cups of coffee, and an extra serving of fruit for youâbecause he claims you need to eat healthier. You think he should eat more, period, but whatever.
âWow, Iâm impressed. Fruit? Did you find it hard to carry all this food without your arms falling off?â you tease, as he takes his seat across from you.
He rolls his eyes, picking up his fork. âSomeone has to make sure you get at least one vitamin today.â
You stick your tongue out at him and dig into your waffles because you never wake up early enough on a Saturday to actually have them often.Â
âWhen we finish eating, I need to go back and get my laptop,â you announce over a mouthful of waffle, ignoring the disgusted look Tsukishima gives you. âAnd then weâll head to the library.â
âI am begging you to chew with your mouth shut,â he groans, throwing a well-aimed napkin at your face. You catch it with a dramatic flourish and quickly dab at your mouth, before you ball it and toss the napkin back at him; he ducks violently, almost knocking over his cup of coffee. You fight the urge to laugh at him and instead stab your fork into a piece of cantaloupe.Â
âYou need to eat,â you declare, promptly sticking the fruit in his direction.Â
His eyebrows arch slightly as he glares at the fork held out toward him, but after a beat of silence, he leans forward and bites off the melon with a grumble. âHappy now?â
âEcstatic,â you beam, popping a grape into your own mouth. âSo, Crowâs at one. We can read for like, an hour? And then youâre free to go home and do whatever you do.â
âStudy.â
âSo boring,â you sigh. âDonât you have any friends, Kei?â
He scoffs, sawing off another meticulous square of waffle. âI have you. Thatâs enough socializing for a lifetime.â
âLucky me, I guess,â you roll your eyes.Â
He smirks in response, taking a sip of his coffee. âYeah, lucky you.â
four.Â
After breakfast, you head back to your dorm to grab your things. Tsukishima scrolls through his phone, making an occasional snide comment about whatever nonsense he comes across on Twitter. You pack your bag with your notebook, laptop, and a few pensâdesperation fuels organization, and you canât afford to leave anything behind.
The walk to the library is filled with light-hearted banter, and soon enough, you spot Yachi waving at you from a corner table. Sheâs already got her laptop out, a notebook filled with neat handwriting open next to her, and you skip up to the table.Â
âHi baby girl,â you coo lovingly as you give your friend a hug. Tsukishima gives Yachi a polite nod before sliding into the seat across from her, leaving you to fill the middle one. âThanks for meeting us before your shift.â
âOf course! Iâm really excited about this project,â Yachi beams, her cheeks slightly pink from your affectionate greeting. âIâve been reading over the script and itâs just so lovely. I canât wait to get started.â
And this, everyone, is why you adore Yachi Hitoka with your whole heart. You would actually dropkick your best friend off the face of the earth for her, and that is not an exaggeration.
Tsukishima sighs, reaching into your bag to pull out your laptop; he settles it on the desk and pries it open for you. âLetâs get started.â
His impatience makes you roll your eyes, but nonetheless, you click to the latest draft of the script and slide it over for your Blondes⢠to see. âHereâs what Iâve got so far,â you say, pointing at the section still titled SCENE 1 DARFGT :P from when you wrote the first six pages over the course of an all-nighter. âThe first scene sets the tone for our whole film, and Iâm thinking of having it outside the library, so get used to this cafĂŠ.â
âAs if we donât already spend half our time here,â Tsukishima deadpans, but he leans closer to the screen anyway. You watch the way both of them take in the script, their gazes fixed on the document as they read through the lines.Â
He looks visibly relieved as he scrolls through the very short document; itâs a mess of director and action notes because you have a very specific vision in your head that you want to execute. âIt doesnât have much dialogue because I want it to be focused on the little details that show your initial connection,â you say as they near the end of the script. âYâknow, body language. The way you look at each other. Your expressions.â
Momentarily, you pause to read their reactions; youâre minorly concerned because acting is actually the hardest part of the job, even if memorizing dialogue does suck. Thankfully, Yachiâs eyes visibly light up, and she chirps cheerily, âI love that! It feels very natural and genuine; I think thatâs beautiful.â
Her reassurance makes you kick your feet like Sofia the First because she says it in a way that feels completely real.Â
Tsukishima, on the other hand, does not acknowledge this statement: heâs too busy raising his stupid eyebrow and smirking as he reads scene four. He drags his finger over the screen, where the line reads Interior - Dorm Room - Night. âOkay, first of all, very original,â he snorts. âBut second, you volunteered my place without asking me? How very presumptuous of you.â
âWell, I have roommates,â you say, really emphasizing that last word because you want him to feel as stupid as he looks smirking like that (he looks very annoyingly pretty with his cat-like simper). You know he doesnât actually care about the usage of his studio: he just loves seizing the opportunity to mock you.
Your internal irritation clearly goes ignored by him, because he just grins as he continues to blissfully dissect your script. âAnd âthey kiss passionatelyâ? Really going for the heartstrings, arenât you?â
âItâs called intimacy, Kei. Itâs a crucial part of developing the relationship on screen.â
Yachi, ever the peacekeeper, nods eagerly. âI think itâs really sweet. Itâs important to show the depth of their connection. The close-ups will make it feel very personal.â
âSure, whatever you say,â Tsukishima says, raising an eyebrow, his expression still amused. He gestures to the next few pagesâblank sans the text DJEJSJSJDJ PAIN, because again, you spend a lot of time writing during deranged all-nighters. âBut whatâs with the cut to black right after? Did you run out of ideas?â
You bite your lip. âI havenât finished the ending yet. I want to see how you two portray the characters and their chemistry before I decide how it concludes. Itâs not just about the script; itâs about the emotions you both bring to the roles.â
âYou mean youâre winging it.â
âCreatively winging it, yes,â you roll your eyes. âItâs a work in progress, and I trust you two to help bring it to life.âÂ
Tsukishima rolls his eyes, but thereâs a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. âAlright, Iâll give you that. But if I have to make out with Yachi and you cut it short, Iâm going to hold it against you.â
Yachi blushes, but sheâs smiling too. âIâm sure itâll be great. We can practice and make sure it looks natural.â
âThanks, guys,â you beam at them both, grateful for their willingness to dive into your project.Â
As antsy as you were, the filmâs got a lot going for itâYachi is a sweet, earnest cutie pie and Tsukishima is⌠well, him, so their contrast will hopefully make for compelling cinema. And the word compelling is honestly enoughâthose three syllables are truly music to a film majorâs ears.
***
By the time you finish at Crowâs, the sun has already dipped below the horizon, casting a dusky glow over the campus. Tsukishima predictably gets ready to walk you home; he shoves his hand in his jacketâs pocket and tries to look nonchalant, so obviously you tell him he looks stupid, to which he promptly flips you off. Rude. Some people just donât know how to appreciate honesty.
Yachiâs already headed off to her shift at the cafĂŠ, so you two are left alone, navigating past other tables to the library doors. The evening air is cool, a welcome contrast to the warmth of the crowded cafĂŠ; you walk in companionable silence for a while, the only sounds being the rustling leaves and the distant chatter of other students.
He walks you to your gate, and youâre honestly about to just head inside, but you pause in your tracks because he deserves to hear it twice.Â
âKei,â you say softly, breaking the silence. âThanks again. It really means a lot to me.â
He looks at you, his expression unreadable. âI know. Thatâs why Iâm doing it.â
You blink up at him, momentarily thrown off by his directness. Tsukishima isnât the type to say things he doesnât meanâheâs never been one for flattery or unnecessary kindness. And yet, thereâs something about the way he says it, the quiet certainty in his voice, that makes your heart do something stupid in your chest.
Tsukishima Kei cares about you. No matter how much he pretends otherwise, you know heâll be there for you when you need it most. If twelve years have taught you anything, itâs that heâll do it reluctantly, begrudgingly, but heâll be there for you.Â
He always has.
five.Â
The first day of filming is, somehow, going smoothly.
Youâre not sure if you should be suspicious of this. Typically, film shoots involve at least three things going horribly wrong within the first twenty minutes. A mic cutting out. A location suddenly getting overrun with people. A key actor arriving late because they forgot their costume at home.
But today? Today, things are working. The morning light is perfect, the sound equipment is cooperating, and most importantly, Tsukishima and Yachi are actually⌠really good together.
Which is a huge relief, because you were honestly half-convinced youâd have to wrangle the emotional chemistry out of Tsukishima with sheer force. But watching them run through the first scene on the bench outside the library, you realize you donât have to do much at all.
Heâs relaxed, leaning back with an elbow draped over the back of the bench, his eyes sharp and calculating as Yachi speaks; sheâs perfect for the blushing, hesitant-but-artistic old soul character you want to portray and he takes to his role just as quickly. Thereâs something natural about the way they interactâthe slight hesitations, the way he looks at her before speaking, the subtle smirk that plays at his lips when she nervously tucks her hair behind her ear.
Itâs not forced. Itâs not awkward. Itâs just real.
You bite your lip, watching through the camera screen as Yachi delivers her next line, her voice soft, a little unsure. Tsukishimaâs response is barely above a murmur, but it carries, even in the open air. The way heâs looking at herâthatâs what makes it work. Itâs the kind of gaze that makes people believe in love stories.Â
Holy shit. This might actually be good.
âCut!â you call, your voice a little breathless as you lower the camera. Yachi blinks up at you, a little startled, before breaking into a smile.
âWas that okay?â she asks, a hint of uncertainty in her tone.
âMore than okay,â you say, grinning as you step over to them. âYou guys are killing it.â
Yachi lets out a relieved laugh, cheeks pink. âOh, thank god. I was worried I looked weird.â
âNope. You look like the perfect indie film love interest.â You pat her on the shoulder before glancing at Tsukishima, who raises an eyebrow at you.
âWhat?â he drawls.
âYouâre actually trying.â
He scoffs. âYeah, because Iâm not going to embarrass myself on camera.â
âRight,â you deadpan, smirking. âNothing to do with the fact that you two have, like, the easiest natural chemistry Iâve ever seen.â
Tsukishima rolls his eyes, but you catch the way his jaw ticks slightly before he stands up, stretching. âAre we done here? Or are you going to keep talking?â
Impatient idiot. You snort and go to collect your camera and sound system, and together, you all head off to film scene two.
***
The second scene of the day takes place in the small, naturally-lit art studio on campus. Itâs not often used, especially not on the weekends, now that the universityâs built the big fancy modern art building in the north campus, but itâs perfect for this scene. You wanted something intimate, somewhere that made the world feel smaller, quieter, to parallel the deep intimacy of a relationship (wow, look at you talking like a true film bro). A space where the characters could be alone, even if they werenât saying much.
Tsukishima sits at the table, his hands idly flipping through a sketchbook thatâs just a prop, though you think it suits him weirdly well. Yachiâs holding a paintbrush, standing near the window, looking at a half-finished canvas, the soft glow from outside catching the strands of her blonde hair just right.
âAlright,â you say, stepping back behind the camera. âTsukishima, this scene is mostly you watching her. Yachi, I want you to look like youâre lost in thought. Youâre thinking about something big, but youâre not sure if you want to say it.â
Yachi nods, exhaling as she settles into place. Tsukishima just leans on his elbow, glancing at her through his glasses, waiting.
You call action. And for a moment, the room changes. Itâs not just a studio anymore. Itâs a quiet, suspended moment in time.
Tsukishima watches Yachi, and you canât look away. The way his gaze lingers, not quite analyzing, not quite soft, but something in between. The way Yachiâs fingers trace the edge of the painting, distracted, unaware of the way heâs looking at her. The way they look so perfectly together, like halves of a whole, like something thatâs meant to be.
Itâs... breathtaking.
You swallow, suddenly feeling warm.
Theyâre good. Too good.
âCut,â you say softly, your own voice sounding a little distant.
Tsukishima looks up at you immediately, brows slightly furrowed, like heâs searching for something in your expression. Yachi, however, simply exhales a breath of relief, breaking into a small laugh. âThat felt really real,â she says, beaming.
âIt was really real,â you admit, trying to shake the weird feeling creeping up your spine.
Wow, honestly. They must be some of the best actors youâve ever met. If you didnât know better, you would think they were actually in love.
six.Â
The blinking cursor on your laptop is mocking you.Â
Itâs a tiny, relentless metronome ticking away the seconds, reminding you of your failure to move forward. You glare at the half-finished sentence on the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, willing your brain to conjure anythingâliterally anythingâthat makes sense.
You had an ending in mindâof course you did. The perfect, soft, cinematic conclusion to your film. A final shot drenched in golden light, delicate and lingering, like a whisper against a bruise. The kind of scene that settles into the chest like an old song or a half-remembered dream, stirring something deep and unshakable. The culmination of all those quiet, electric moments between your leads, woven together into something fragile and honest.
Except every single draft youâve attempted so far? Complete garbage.
You groan and throw yourself back against your chair, rubbing your hands over your face in frustration. Why does this feel impossible? You shouldâve known writing the ending would be the hardest part. Youâre always better at beginningsâopenings are easy. Openings are full of possibilities. But endings?
Endings mean making a choice.
And right now, you have no fucking idea what choice to make.
As if on cue, summoned by your misery, your door swings open without warning, and Yukie strides in like she owns the place. Which, to be fair, she practically doesâshe and Kaori have an open invitation to barge in at any time, and they use that privilege liberally.
âPlease tell me youâre taking a break from that thing,â she says, nodding toward your laptop as she flops onto your bed. âYouâve been staring at it like itâs personally offended you.â
âIt has personally offended me,â you mutter back, head caught between your hands, visibly in distress. âIâve rewritten it like five times, and it still feels wrong.â
Yukie hums, but her attention drifts toward your open script document, skimming the words with the sharp, practiced gaze of someone who enjoys knowing things before you tell her. A beat later, her eyebrows shoot up.
âI still canât believe youâre letting Yachi and Tsukishima film together,â she says, lips curving in a smirk.
You glance at her, confused. âUh, yeah? Theyâre the leads? Kind of an important part of the whole thing?â
She rolls onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow, expression downright mischievous. âNo, I mean⌠you donât think itâs a little risky?â
You blink. âRisky how? Like existentially?â
Yukie snorts. âNo, dumbass. I mean, donât you think itâs easy for co-stars to catch feelings for each other? Like hello? Zendaya and Tom Holland broke the Spiderman-MJ curse cause of it.â
âOh câmon,â you scoff immediately. âKei and Yachi? Please. Heâs the human equivalent of a hazard sign, and sheâs literally an angel.â
âAnd opposites attract,â Yukie sing-songs, wiggling her eyebrows like sheâs just cracked some grand conspiracy.
âNot like that. Itâs literally just acting.â
Yukie tilts her head, looking entirely too entertained by your dismissiveness. âYou say that, but itâs not uncommon. You spend enough time pretending to love someone, and eventually, it stops feeling like pretending.â
You open your mouth to retortâbut for some reason, your brain short-circuits. The words are there. Theyâre on the tip of your tongue. But they wonât come out. Because now youâre thinking about it.
Tsukishima and Yachi. Together.
Itâs ridiculous, obviously. Tsukishima is sarcastic and emotionally constipated, and Yachi is sweet and nervous and actually respects peopleâs feelings. They make sense on screen, sureâchemistry is chemistry, and thatâs what acting is for. But in real life? You canât even picture it. Matter-of-fact, you shouldnât even be picturing it.
And yet, something uneasy churns in your stomach, and you shift in your seat, suddenly feeling uncomfortable in your own skin. No, this is stupid. Youâre overthinking. Yukieâs just stirring up unnecessary drama because thatâs what she does when sheâs bored.
âItâs fine,â you say, voice forcibly even. âTheyâre just acting. Besides, you really think Tsukishima of all people would catch feelings for someone just because of a film?â
âMmm.â Yukie hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. âYou say that, but youâre weirdly defensive about it.â
âIâm not defensive,â you snap, too fast, too sharp. A mistake.
Yukieâs smirk deepens, and you hate her for it. She swings her legs off the bed, stretching like a cat. âWhen youâre done pretending youâre not in denial, dinnerâs ready,â she chirps, sauntering toward the door.
You roll your eyes. Classic Yukie. Your roommates are simultaneously your greatest strength and your worst influence; they know you inside and out, and unfortunately, that means they never let you run from your own feelings. Theyâve been convinced for years that youâre in love with your best friend, which is laughable. Delusional, even.
And yet.
The thought lingers longer than it should, trailing after you like a shadow as you trudge to set for the first day of filming.
You tell yourself itâs just curiosity when you glance Tsukishimaâs way. Just morbid fascination when you catch the way his gaze lingers on Yachi between takes. Just professional interest when you watch how his sharp, unimpressed scowl softensâbarely, just a fractionâwhen she nervously stumbles over a line, and he mutters a quiet correction, his voice steadier than you expect.
Itâs just good acting, you reason. Nothing more.
Because Tsukishima is your best friend. And thatâs all heâs ever been, all heâs ever going to be. You tell yourself that, over and over and over again, trying to make it feel like the truth. But for some reason, despite all your effort, it doesnât, and it bothers you in a way that it wouldnât bother friends that are purely just platonic.
seven.
âYou look like shit.â
You rub your eyes, very conscious of the fact that youâre sporting dark eye bags and a goofy-ass fit. Your hoodie is three sizes too big, your sweatpants have a suspicious stain on them from an unknown source, and your hair looks⌠actually, you donât even want to talk about it because it really is that bad. You blink up at Tsukishima, who has somehow managed to find you after your afternoon lecture, looking disgustingly well-rested and put-together as always.
âThanks,â you deadpan, shouldering your bag. âGreat to see you too, Kei.â
Tsukishima rolls his eyes but doesnât move out of your way. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, studying you with that keen, observational gaze of his. âSeriously. Are you okay?â
You pause, thrown off by his genuine concernânormally, heâd just mock you and move on, but thereâs a sharpness to his tone today, like he actually cares. Maybe itâs because youâve barely been outside in the last few days, much less seen him and Yamaguchi. Now that youâve made it through over half of the filmâs scenes, youâve already started editing it together (arguably the worst part of being a self-produced film student: the excessive time spent with Adobe Creative Cloud). You hesitate, then sigh. âJust tired. Iâve been working nonstop, and I still havenât figured out the ending.â
He lets out a long-suffering sigh, crossing his arms. âWhy do you always do this to yourself?â
âI thrive under pressure.â
âYou thrive off caffeine and bad decisions.â
âSame thing,â you mutter, rubbing your temples. âLook, Iâll figure it out. Eventually.â
Tsukishima doesnât look convinced, but instead of pressing further, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his car keys, holding them up with a lazy shake. âCâmon.â
You blink. âHuh?â
âYou clearly need a break. Letâs go.â
You frown at him, confused. âGo where?â
âDoes it matter?â he counters, raising an eyebrow. âI swear to god, if you go back to your dorm and stare at your screen for another five hours, youâre gonna lose whatever brain cells you have left.â
You open your mouth to argue, but you know heâs right. Your brain is fried, your eyes are starting to blur from staring at a screen all night, and you could really use some air. So, with a dramatic groan, you give in. âFine. But if you take me somewhere boring, Iâm jumping out of the car.â
âNoted,â he says dryly, shoving his keys back in his pocket before turning on his heel. âNow move it.â
***
The drive is familiar, comfortable. You donât even ask where heâs taking you because, honestly, heâs right: it doesnât matter. Being in his car like this feels natural, like muscle memory.
You remember when he first got his license, the first of you three to do so. Akiteru had gifted him a car to use once he did, an old but functional, clean and simple one, much like him. At the time, it had felt like the biggest dealâsuddenly, Tsukishima had a ticket to freedom, and by extension, so did you and Yamaguchi.
You can still picture those early drives vividly: the three of you packed into the car, Yamaguchi in the passenger seat nervously checking the map while you sprawled in the back, shouting ridiculous directions just to mess with Tsukishima. He always acted like he hated it, threatening to pull over and leave you on the curb, but he never actually did.Â
There were the late-night drives to nowhere, just because none of you wanted to go home yet. The ice cream runs in the middle of winter, sitting in the parking lot with the heater cranked up as you argued over movie rankings. The way Tsukishima always kept one hand on the wheel, the other fidgeting with the volume knob, adjusting it up or down depending on whether he was feeling indulgent or annoyed by whatever you were blasting through the speakers.
You remember one time, when a storm had rolled in suddenly and you got caught out in the rain on the way back from a late study session; heâd picked you up after you spam-called him seven times. Tsukishima pulled up to the curb in front of your house, the wipers barely keeping up with the downpour, but for some reason, instead of rushing out of the storm into your apartment, youâd just sat there for a while, listening to the steady rhythm of the rain against the car roof. He hadnât told you to get out, hadnât asked why you were lingering. He just turned up the music, leaned back, and let you stay.
The cityscape blurs past the windows as the car hums beneath you, the low rumble of the engine mixing with the sound of the playlist Tsukishima has quietly playing in the background. You recognize the song instantlyâitâs from one of your old shared playlists, one you made together back in your first year of high school.
You glance at him, but he keeps his eyes on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily against the gearshift. His sweater is vintage, made of a gorgeous dark green wool that you had been ecstatic to find when you first took him to your favorite thrift store back home; it looks good contrasted with his blond hair and fair skin. His usual stoic expression is softer in the evening glow, illuminated by the street lamps lining the road.Â
God. Have his eyes always been able to capture the city lights like that?Â
***
Tsukishima drives for what feels like forever, but when he finally pulls over, itâs basically where you started: an empty parking lot, outside of your favorite convenience store because theyâre open late and always stock freshly-made to-go onigiri. Itâs owned by a sweet old woman, so double points; you two have been coming here since the start of your freshman year.Â
He throws the car in park and gives you a look. âYou coming?â
You sigh dramatically but unbuckle your seatbelt, stepping out into the cool night air. The storeâs neon sign hums quietly, casting a soft glow over the pavement.
As soon as you step inside, the familiar scent of warm rice and miso greets you, and you immediately relax. Tsukishima heads straight for the onigiri section, while you linger near the drinks, debating between a matcha latte and a cappuccino.
âYouâre getting the matcha,â Tsukishima calls over his shoulder, barely even looking up.
You roll your eyes but grab it anyway, because yeah, heâs right. You join him at the counter, where heâs already placed two onigiri on the registerâone salmon, one tuna mayo.
âYou know my order,â you say, amused.
He shrugs, handing over his card to pay before you can argue. âYou never change it.â
The words are casual, offhanded, but something about them settles deep in your chest. You look at him, at the way heâs effortlessly familiar with your habits, your preferences, your life.
And for some reason, that makes your stomach twist.
eight.Â
You tear into your onigiri, letting the familiar taste of salmon and warm rice settle on your tongue. The quiet hum of the city surrounds you both as you sit on the hood of Tsukishimaâs car, drinks resting beside you. The neon glow of the convenience store sign flickers in the periphery, casting long, gentle shadows over the pavement; the night is cool but not biting, the breeze rustling the stray napkins youâd forgotten beside you.
The conversation flows lazily, touching on everything and nothing at onceâcomplaints about professors, Yamaguchiâs latest doomed tutoring attempts with Hinata, Tsukishimaâs upcoming project on primate evolution that he absolutely does not care about. Itâs easy, the way it always is, but thereâs a weight pressing against your ribs, something you canât quite name.
Then it slows. After a beat, you sigh, staring out at the dim glow of the streetlights. âI think I might change the ending.â
Tsukishima shifts beside you, glancing at you briefly before turning back toward the night sky. You donât even have to specify: he knows what youâre talking about. âYeah?â
âI wanted a happy one,â you admit, your fingers picking at a loose thread on your hoodie. âBut I donât know if it fits. Every version I write feels fake. Too neat. Too⌠easy.â
Heâs quiet for a moment, taking a slow sip of his drink before shrugging. âThen donât force it. If itâs not working, make it ambiguous.â
You scoff, shaking your head. âItâs not that simple.â
âIt is,â he argues, stretching his long legs out in front of him. âPeople like things that feel real. If youâre struggling this much, maybe thatâs your answer.â
You chew on his words, considering. Maybe heâs right. Maybe an open-ended conclusion is the answerâletting things linger, unresolved but full of possibility. But something about that unsettles you, like leaving something unfinished, like waiting for something that never comes.
And then, it clicks: how to leave it ambiguous without being unfinished.Â
You exhale, pressing your phoneâs power button and watching the screen light up, a blank notes app staring back at you. Your fingers hover over the keyboard before you start typing, the inspiration finally clicking into place. You can already see the scene in your mindâthe way the light will filter in, the subtle expressions, the carefully chosen silence between words.
Tsukishima watches you with mild amusement, his lips quirking up just slightly. âAre you seriously writing right now?â
âShut up,â you mumble, furiously typing. âYou said something smart for once, and now I have to take advantage of it.â
He snorts. âYou wouldnât survive without me.â
You roll your eyes, but deep down, you know heâs right. The thought lingers, unspoken. How many times has he done this? Pulled you out of your own head before you spiraled, pushed you to do better, reminded youâwithout ever really saying itâthat you arenât alone?
The words on your screen blur slightly. Maybe itâs just the neon lights. Maybe itâs something else.
Then, softer, almost offhand, he says, âYou know, if itâs really bothering you this much, maybe itâs because you want it to mean something.â
Your fingers still over your screen. The words sit heavy in the air, pressing down on you with a weight you canât quite place. You look up at him, but heâs already turned back toward the city, his expression unreadable.
nine.
You think that you need a distraction. A long walk, or a snack, maybe. Or better yet, what you actually really want: a frontal lobotomy.Â
Instead, you have filming.
Which is, honestly, the opposite of helpful when your current goal is to shove all of your weird, unwelcome, inexplicable feelings into the deepest recesses of your mind. Itâs awful, but now that youâve started to see your best friend in a whole new light, itâs really all you can think about. Therefore, you cope as you always have: running from your problems. Youâve been distant the last few days. Youâre responding less, cancelling on your weekly study sessions, sprinting out of your lectures before he can catch up to you. Youâve even been ghosting Yamaguchi out of proximity.Â
But you canât do that today. Because today, youâre shooting one of the final sequencesâthe rooftop scene. The one drenched in soft intimacy, lingering glances, and unsaid words thickening the air between them. The one where Tsukishima and Yachi have to act like they exist in their own world, where nothing and no one else matters.
You try not to think about it too hard.
The rooftop set is perfect. The city sprawls beneath them, lights flickering like stars, a mirror to the actual night sky above. Yachiâs already in position, sitting at the edge, her posture relaxed but poised. Tsukishima is beside her, long legs stretched out, hands lazily resting on his lap. The camera is set up, framing them beautifully against the endless stretch of buildings and sky.
You call action, and for a while, itâs fine.
Yachi takes a slow drag of the cigarette (a prop oneâshe refuses to even come close to tainting her lungs), the smoke curling up between them. Her voice is soft, contemplative, as she delivers her lines. Tsukishima exhales smoke into the night, his face not particularly expressive but not detached. Heâs⌠engaged. Focused. Too focused. Thereâs something in the way he looks at her that makes your chest tight, even though you know, know, itâs just acting.
Still, the words he says donât feel like lines. Not when his voice dips just slightly, not when his eyes linger on her face.
âMaybe,â he says, his tone quieter than rehearsals, âbut some moments leave imprints on our souls. Theyâll last forever in our hearts.â
The air shifts.
Yachi leans her head on his shoulder. The city hums below them. The scene is exactly as you envisioned it, the kind of moment that pulls people in, that makes an audience believe.
And yet, it feels like you canât breathe.
The worst part is that it isnât even that badâno, you get through the scene just fine. No one else notices the way your stomach churns, or the way your hands tighten around the back of the directorâs chair. No one notices that the words arenât just dialogue in your head anymore, that they feel⌠wrong, out of place, too much.
It isnât until Tsukishima reaches out, without prompting, without direction, and brushes a loose strand of hair out of Yachiâs face that you realize you actually feel sick.
Itâs not scripted.
The camera catches it perfectly, a soft, natural movement. The kind of instinctive touch that makes a scene feel real. Your breath stutters in your chest. And then, as if that wasnât enough, he leans in slightly, pressing the briefest kiss to her forehead before pulling back, the ghost of a smile on his lips.
Not in the script.
Not in the goddamn script.
âCut,â you say, too quickly, your voice tighter than you mean it to be. You clear your throat, forcing a neutral expression onto your face when both of them glance toward you. âThat wasâgood. Really natural.â
Yachi beams, a little shy but pleased. âIt felt nice, actually. He made it really easy to stay in the moment.â
You swallow down whatever the hell it is that rises up in you at that.
Tsukishima doesnât say anything. He just watches you, sharp and unreadable.
Your fingers curl into your palm. âI think weâre done for tonight,â you announce, forcing a yawn into your voice like exhaustion is the reason you need to leave so badly. âIâve got a migraine coming on, and we still have to film the passion scene this weekend.â
Yachi nods easily, already stretching out her legs, but Tsukishimaâs expression darkens slightly.
âYou sure?â he asks, low enough that only you hear it.
You nod quickly, avoiding his gaze. âYeah. Just need sleep.â
He stands, brushing invisible dust from his jeans, and you know whatâs coming before he even says it. âIâll walk you back.â
âNo!â you panic, waving your hands wildly. âKaoriâs picking me up.â
Itâs a lie, an obvious one, but you donât care. You grab your bag and sling it over your shoulder before he can question it. âIâll see you guys later.â
Then you leave, practically sprinting out, before he can say anything else. Before you have to deal with whatever the hell this is, whatever it means.
Because if you stop to think about it, even for a second, youâre pretty sure youâll break.
ten.Â
Midway through your most recent homework assignment (dissecting the art behind the glorious film Carsâthe best Disney movie out there, fight with the wall), your phone vibrates against your nightstand. The screen flashes the text message thatâs popped up, but you donât even need to check to know who it is: itâs a notification that you already know you donât want to see.
(11:12 PM)
kei :P: are you avoiding me?
You stare at the text, thumb hovering over the keyboard, your mind spinning with an answer that wonât sound like a complete lie. The problem is, you are avoiding him. Youâve been practically stonewalling him, dashing away inconspicuously whenever you know heâll be nearby, and itâs getting obvious. He knows it. Thereâs no use pretending otherwise, but the idea of confronting itâconfronting himâmakes something anxious curl in your gut.
You sigh, flopping onto your bed, one arm draped over your eyes as you try to gather your thoughts. Your fingers type out a response before you can overthink it.
(11:15 PM)
y/n: no?
y/n: iâm j busy lately u know that
The three dots appear, then disappear. Reappear, then disappear again. Heâs debating his response, and for some reason, that is terrifying. Then it buzzes.
(11:21 PM)
kei :P: right.
Itâs short. Barely anything at all. But you know him, and you know exactly what that one-word response means. He doesnât believe you. Heâs letting it go for now, but he isnât letting it go entirely. The thought unsettles you more than you want to admit.
Your room feels suffocating suddenly, like itâs pressing in on you. You glance around, searching for somethingâanythingâto keep your mind occupied, but all you find are pieces of him.
Tsukishima had helped you move in, so he has a fundamental part in the whole place already, but when you look even closer, heâs really in the details. Thereâs the framed picture on your desk from your high school graduation, his hand resting lazily on your shoulder as Yamaguchi beams from besides you. Thereâs a hoodie draped over your desk chair, long since stolen from his closet during a late night out that never got returned. Thereâs a battered copy of Normal People by Sally Rooney tucked into your bookshelf, its pages creased and worn from the way he always mindlessly flipped through it when he came over.Â
It never seemed evident until now, when youâre trying so hard not to think about him, to not let him occupy a space that heâs so clearly always kept filled, but now that you see it, itâs simple: Kei has been a part of your life for as long as you can possibly remember. Heâs always been there, from the very moment your family moved into the house next door to him when you were seven. Heâs in your daily routine. If you turned on your phone right now, itâd open to a picture of you three; if you were to open Spotify, youâll find your blend at the very top of your pinned playlists.Â
Heâs everywhere. Heâs everything. Tsukishima Kei is worn into your very bones, into every single cell, written into every little part of your being.Â
Your fingers tighten around your phone, and for a moment, you consider texting him back. Saying something real. Something honest.
Your gaze flickers to your desk, to the script sitting on top of a stack of notebooks. The ending you rewrote stares back at you, the words bold and final.
Scene 6
Exterior - Rooftop - Sunset
Yachi returns to the rooftop, now alone. She sits on the edge, looking out at the city. The sun sets, casting a warm glow over everything. She takes out a cigarette and lights it, inhaling deeply.
Cut to: Tsukishima, walking through the city streets, the sunset reflecting in his eyes. He pauses, looking up at the rooftop where Yachi is sitting.
The screen fades to black.
Text on screen: âWeâll be there at the end of the world, together as the stars go out.â
The moment your professor read it, she called it striking. Said it felt honest. That the ache in the words felt real, like someone had lived it.
But you didnât just write it. You felt it.
Because if the world were ending, if the stars were truly burning outâthereâs no question where youâd be. Who youâd be with.
And yet, here you are, running.
You inhale sharply, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes.
With the weight of twelve years of friendship comes the obligation to not let it go to waste: you are terrified of what a confession could do. You canât even imagine what a world without Kei looks like; you would honestly rather die than lose him. And well⌠admitting your feelings could very well mean losing him.Â
Then again, you could very well lose him too if you keep ignoring him and running away. You just need to come up with some way to either 1) get over your feelings, or 2) explain to your best friend that youâve suddenly started having inexplicable dreams about him and feeling the urge to kiss him.Â
You mean, how hard could it really be?
eleven.Â
Evidently, very difficult.Â
Youâre standing outside the door of Tsukishimaâs flat for the first time in days, feeling like you might actually throw up. You have the horrible urge to cancel. Maybe you should turn around. Maybe you should fake food poisoning. Maybe you should suddenly develop an urgent need to flee the country.
But no. You canât do that. This is your film, your project, your fucking grade on the line. You canât just run away forever.
So youâre here. And you take a deep breath before you knock, because your heart is hammering like you just ran across campus, and it only picks up when the door swings open.
And then heâs there tooâTsukishima, standing in the doorway of his apartment, hair still damp from a shower, hoodie hanging loose on his frame. His glasses slide down his nose just slightly, and for a second, he just looks at you, eyes scanning your face, your posture, like heâs already found something off about you.
âYouâre early,â he says, stepping aside to let you in.
You nod, stepping over the threshold, hyperaware of the way the air inside feels differentâwarm, his, thick with something you donât have the words for.
âWanted to set up before Yachi gets here.â Your voice is steady, detached, the way it should be.
Itâs not a lie, not entirely, but itâs not the truth either. The truth is sitting in the space between you, glaring and heavy, pressing in like the weight of an oncoming storm.
He hums in response but doesnât say anything else. Tsukishima doesnât move, doesnât drop his gaze. His arms are crossed, his posture lazy, but thereâs something pointed about the way heâs looking at youâsharp, analyzing, like heâs cataloging every tell, every avoidance, every reason why youâre standing here instead of texting some excuse from the safety of your dorm.
You drop your bag near the couch and move to set up your camera, your hands moving automatically as you avoid his gaze. The apartment smells like himâcoffee and citrus, faintly like that stupid expensive detergent he swears isnât a luxury purchase but definitely is. The scent is so him, so familiar, that it makes your stomach flip.
And then he speaks.
âWhatâs going on with you?â
You freeze.
Itâs not accusatory, not sharp, just⌠careful. Measured. Like heâs trying to get an answer without pushing too hard. Which, honestly, is worse than if he had just called you out directly.
You force yourself to keep your hands steady, adjusting the cameraâs angle. âNothing. Just busy.â
His eyes narrow slightly. âBullshit.â
Your stomach twists. The air in the room shifts, thickens.
Heâs always been quick. Always been able to pick apart your bullshit before you even finish spinning it, before you can even convince yourself itâs real. And now, with those gold-flecked eyes trained on you, burning through every excuse you try to build between you⌠well, youâre drowning.
His voice is steady, but edged with something dangerous. âI donât know what your problem is, but if you think I havenât noticed, youâre dumber than I thought.â
Your breath hitches in your chest.
For a second, you want to tell him. Everything. The thoughts, the jealousy, the confusion thatâs been clawing at your throat for weeks. You hate that he knows you this well, that he can see through you so easily. You hate that heâs giving you that look, the one that says Iâm waiting for the truth, waiting for you to finally be honest, and you hate, hate, that you donât know what to say.Â
But then, the door swings open. Yachi steps in, breathless and smiling. âSorry Iâm late!â
The moment shatters.
You exhale, stepping back, forcing a smile as you greet her, ignoring the way Tsukishima is still watching you. He goes still, expression unreadable. And thenâjust like thatâhis face smooths out, his posture relaxes, his hands sink into his hoodie pocket like nothing happened at all.
âLetâs get this over with,â he mutters.
You nod too quickly. âYeah. Letâs start.â
If you want to make it through a whole scene of them making out for three minutes, you have to stop looking at your best friend. His amber eyes, under his layer of concern, confusion, and annoyance, are filled with hurt, and your stomach feels like itâs being ripped out, torn to fucking shreds, to see him like that.Â
So you avert your gaze, stubbornly keeping your eyes on Yachi and your camera, and set up to film the scene.
***
The camera is steady. Your breathing, however, is not.
The apartment is dimly lit, the soft hum of music playing through the speaker, some indie song with melancholic chords that you once added to the shared playlist, long before thisâbefore all of thisâbecame something unbearable. It filters into the space like a ghost of a memory, like something familiar that you canât quite place.
Yachi sits on the edge of Tsukishimaâs bed, her hands folded neatly in her lap, waiting for direction, waiting for him. Tsukishima stands in front of her, tall and composed, his fingers flexing at his sides like heâs testing the weight of the scene before stepping into it. His shoulders are loose, his stance easy, his face unreadable. Too unreadable.
Too casual.
Like heâs trying to make it look effortless.
Like heâs making it look effortless for you.
Your grip tightens around the camera. The frame is perfectâlow lighting casting long shadows, the soft golden glow from the bedside lamp catching on strands of Yachiâs hair, the curve of Tsukishimaâs jaw. Itâs intimate. Close. Exactly what you wanted.
It should be fine. This should be fine.
The scene is simple.
Close-ups of hands, of fingers grazing over fabric. Of a breath caught in the space between them. Of a moment stretched too thin, heavy with something unsaid.
And then, they kiss.
Your stomach lurches.
Itâs instinctâthe way your body reacts, the way something tightens in your chest like a vice, the way your nails press into your palm where you grip the camera. You tell yourself to look at the screen, at the framing, at the way their silhouettes fit together like pieces of a puzzle.
But youâre not looking at the shot.
Youâre looking at him.
The way his head tilts slightly, the angle just right. The way his hand ghosts over the small of Yachiâs back before settling, fingers barely pressing into fabric. The way he moves slow, deliberate, like every part of him has been designed for this moment, like heâs meant to be here, kissing her, making it look real.
Making it feel real.
Your fingers tighten around the camera, but you donât move.
The shot is perfect.
Tsukishima is slow, careful. One hand cups Yachiâs jaw, his thumb brushing lightly across her cheekbone, his other resting against her waist, anchoring her in place. He leans in, the motion seamless, practiced, lips pressing against hers with just enough pressure to make it believable.
Your chest feels like itâs caving in.
Itâs nothing. Itâs just a film. It doesnât matter. He doesnât care.
But you do.
The words sit at the back of your throat like acid, thick and burning, because this is what you wantedâthis is what you asked forâand yet you canât seem to convince yourself that youâre okay with it.
You should be focusing on the technicalities. On the way the lighting frames them, on the way the movement aligns with your vision, on the way Yachiâs fingers twitch against his hoodie like sheâs nervous, like sheâs fully immersed in the moment.
But all you can focus on is him.
The way his eyelashes flutter for half a second before he closes his eyes.
The slow exhale against Yachiâs lips.
The way his grip shifts against her waistâjust slightly, just barely, like heâs grounding himself. Like heâs steadying his breath, like heâs trying to remember itâs acting.
Something inside you twists, sharp and visceral, something so wrong it makes your stomach ache.
Your fingers are shaking.
And then, the worst part: Tsukishima tilts his head further, deepening the kiss.
Your breath catches.
Itâs instinctive, automatic, the way your entire body tenses. You barely realize what youâre doing until the words leave your lips, unbidden, a little too fast, a little too urgent.
âCut.â
The word slices through the air like a blade.
Tsukishima pulls back immediately, blinking, like something had momentarily snapped.
Yachi exhales, touching her lips, a little dazed, but then she laughs, easy and light. âThat felt really natural.â
Natural.
The word rings in your ears, cold and foreign, something heavy and nauseating settling in your stomach.
Natural.
You feel like youâre going to throw up.
Tsukishima is still looking at you. Not at Yachi, but at you.
His expression isnât unreadable anymore. Itâs something elseâsomething unread, something searching, something sharp enough to make your skin burn under the weight of it.
You swallow, forcing your voice into something neutral. âYeah. That was good. Really⌠natural.â
Yachi grins, stretching her arms. âI have to runâI promised Hinata Iâd help him study tonight.â
You nod too quickly. âYeah, yeah, of course. Go ahead.â
She gathers her things, slings her bag over her shoulder, completely unaware that the air in the room is thick with something else, something unspoken, something unraveling.
The door clicks shut.
You inhale.
You should leave too, right now. You should grab your bag, make up some excuse, and go.
But before you can even think about moving, a hand wraps around your wrist, and drags you back in.
twelve.Â
The door clicks shut behind Yachi, but the weight in your chest doesnât lift. If anything, it gets heavier, pressing against your ribs like an iron hand squeezing the air out of your lungs. You force yourself to breathe, force yourself to move, force yourself to not think about the way Tsukishima had looked at her, had touched her, hadâ
A hand wraps around your wrist.
You freeze.
Tsukishima tugs, firm but not rough, pulling you back before you can escape.
Your heart stutters.
âWhat the hell is going on with you?â His voice is low, controlled, but thereâs something underneath itâfrustration, confusion, anger.
You try to twist your arm away, but he doesnât let go. His fingers tighten slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to anchor you, to keep you here. You force yourself to look at him, to meet the sharp, burning gaze thatâs demanding answers.
You swallow. âNothing.â
His jaw clenches. âTry again.â
âTsukishimaââ
âNo.â His voice cuts through the air, low and unyielding. âYouâve been acting weird for weeks. Avoiding me. Lying to me. Looking at me like I fucking killed your dog or something. Not even calling me Kei anymore. And then tonightââ He breaks off, exhaling sharply through his nose. His grip on your wrist doesnât loosen. âWhat is your problem?â
The words sting, sharp and cutting, but the worst part is that heâs right. Heâs right.
And youâre tired.
Tired of pretending it doesnât bother you. Tired of biting your tongue. Tired of shoving down every ugly, twisting, unbearable feeling that claws at your throat.
So, suddenly, recklessly, you snap. âYou! Youâre my fucking problem!â
The words burst out of you like theyâve been waiting, desperate to escape, and suddenly, thereâs no going back.
Tsukishimaâs eyes widenâjust slightly, just enough for you to see the flicker of shock before his expression hardens again.
âWhat?â His voice is sharp, almost mocking, like heâs daring you to say it again, to spell it out for him.
You rip your wrist from his grip, shoving him back a step. Your hands are shaking. Your heart is pounding.
âYou donât get it, do you?â The words come fast, breathless. âDo you even see what you look like? How easy this is for you?â Your voice wavers, thick with something too sharp to be just frustration. âHow you can justâ just kiss her like itâs nothing?â
His brow furrows. âIt was a scene.â
âThatâs not the fucking point!â
You shove him again, hands pressing against his chest, but he barely moves.
âI had to watch you,â you spit, voice cracking at the edges. âWatch you hold her like that. Watch you look at her like that. And I hated it, Tsukishima. I hated it.â
Something shifts in the air between you.
The anger is still there, but beneath itâsomething else. Something fragile and aching and real.
Tsukishima doesnât speak. His lips part slightly, but no words come.
Heâs staring at you, his expression unreadable, but his eyesâGod, his eyes.
You inhale, shaking, your hands balled into fists. âI donât know when it happened, or how, or if Iâm just an idiot who took too long to figure it out, but Iââ Your breath stutters. Your throat feels tight. Fuck, you shouldnât be saying this. You shouldnât be saying this.
But you do.
Because itâs too late.
Because thereâs no running now.
âI love you.â
The words drop between you like stones in water, sinking deep, sending ripples through everything.
Silence.
You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, erratic and deafening.
Tsukishima stares at you. Gaping. Frozen.
Like the world just tilted on its very axis. Like the entire sky is tumbling down, like gravity is the sole thing keeping him on the ground.Â
And then you panic.
âIâI didnât meanââ Your voice shakes, your fingers twitch, you need to fix this, you need to take it back before you lose him, before you ruin everythingâ
But then he moves.
Fast.
His hands are on your face before you can breathe, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head back.
And then he kisses you.
Itâs not careful. Not controlled. Not measured, the way he was with Yachi.
This is something else entirely.
This is desperate. This is frantic. This is a storm breaking after years of tension, of longing, of something building between you that neither of you had the courage to name.
His lips crash against yours, stealing the air from your lungs, pulling a sound from the back of your throat thatâs more relief than surprise. He kisses you like heâs been holding himself back for too long, like the second he let himself move, he couldnât stop.
Like heâs been waiting.
Like heâs always wanted this.
The heat of his body devours you, swallowing you whole, pulling you under like a riptide you donât want to escape. His hands slide down, fingers spreading against your waist, gripping tight like heâs afraid youâll slip through his grasp. He tugs you forward, flush against him, so close thereâs no space left, no room for doubt, no hesitationâonly him, only this, only the way heâs holding you like he never intends to let go.
His mouth moves against yours with intent, deliberate and thorough, a silent demand, a confession with no words, just the press of his lips and the desperate, aching pull of his hands. Heâs tasting, memorizing, mapping out every gasp, every shiver, every fragile part of you that has ever been his without either of you realizing it.
You make a sound against his lips, something caught between a sigh and a plea, and thatâs all it takesâhis grip tightens, his fingers pressing into your skin like heâs learning you by touch, like he needs you closer, closer, closer.
You melt into him. You break into him.
There is no hesitation when your hands reach for him, twisting in the fabric of his hoodie, clutching it like a lifeline, because you are terrified heâll stop, that this will disappear, that heâll come to his senses andâ
But he doesnât.
Because when you part, just barely, just enough to let air slip between you, Tsukishima chases after you.
His lips find yours again, softer this time, reverent, like he needs to remind himself that youâre real. That this is real.
That youâre not running anymore.
His forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven, warm, fanning over your lips in slow exhales. He doesnât speak for a long moment, just lets the silence stretch, heavy and fragile and trembling with meaning.
Then, his voiceâlow, hoarse, something wrecked and beautiful.
âSay it again.â
Your heart stutters, something sharp and sweet twisting in your chest.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, amber eyes burning, raw with something youâve never seen before, something almost pleading.
Your fingers loosen against his hoodie, but you donât let go. âWhat?â
His thumb brushes over your cheek, his jaw tight, his gaze steady, searching yours for something unspoken.
âSay it again,â he murmurs, quieter this time.
Your throat is dry. Your world has shrunk to the space between you, to the way his hands still hold you, to the weight of his gaze pressing into you like an answer he already knows but needs to hear anyway.
You swallow once, then again. Then, soft but steady, you let it slip. âI love you.â
The way he exhales, sharp and shaky, is enough to undo you completely.
And then he kisses you again.
Slower this time. Deep. Intentional. Like heâs taking his time, like he wants to make sure you understand.
This isnât a mistake. This isnât something he can write off as an impulse, something fleeting or meaningless or careless. This is him. This is him choosing you.
He kisses you like heâs learning you, like heâs memorizing the way your breath hitches when he moves a certain way, the way your hands tremble when they slide up to cup his jaw, the way youâGod, the way you kiss him back like heâs the only thing thatâs ever mattered.
Like you love him, and youâve always loved him.
Like he loves you, and heâs always loved you.
And maybe itâs too much, too late, too terrifying, but when you pull apart, he still doesnât let go.
His fingers linger against your jaw, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, swollen from his kiss.
His voice is rough when he finally speaks.
âYouâre a fucking idiot,â he snorts.
You laugh, breathless, and it comes out half-shaky, half-dazed. âExcuse me?â
He shakes his head, his lips curving slightlyâsoft, unbearably fond, annoyingly smugâbut his eyes stay serious, stay warm.
âI love you too,â he says, just like that, like itâs simple. Like itâs easy.
And for once, it is.
thirteen.Â
You wake up in a panic.
Your heart is a drum in your chest, erratic, wild, out of sync with the soft pre-dawn quiet of your dorm room. The weight of last night presses down on you all at onceâthe argument, the confession, the way Tsukishima kissed you like heâd been waiting, like he meant it, like he wasnât going to let you take it back.
You squeeze your eyes shut, inhale sharply through your nose. It doesnât help. The air is too thick, your limbs too restless, your thoughts too loud.
What the fuck did you do?
You sit up, shoving the blankets off you like theyâre suffocating you. Your hair is a mess, the hoodie you slept in (not yoursâhis, fuck) twisted around you uncomfortably, but you donât bother fixing it. The digital clock on your nightstand blinks 6:04 AM, and outside, the world is just beginning to wake.
You should be asleep.
You should be anything but this.
Blindly, you reach for your phone, thumb swiping over the screen to unlock it. The notifications hit you like a brick.
â 17 missed calls
â 3 new voicemails
â kei :P: pick up your phone
â kei :P: are you serious right now
â kei :P: weâre not doing this
â kei :P: text me back
Your stomach lurches.
Your fingers twitch over the screen, hovering, hesitating, and thenâfuckâyou lock the phone and throw it onto your desk like it burned you.
You canât deal with this right now.
Not now, not when youâre still caught in the aftermath of what happened, not when the ghost of his lips still lingers on your skin.
You need a distraction.
You push yourself up from the bed, dragging your feet to your desk, where your laptop sits untouched from the night before. The screen glows as it wakes, casting a pale blue light over your desk. You click open Premiere Pro, fingers moving on autopilot, pulling up the final cut of your film.
Something to ground you. Something to keep you from spiraling.
The editing timeline stretches before you, a mess of layered clips and audio tracks. The cursor blinks, waiting. You set it to the last scene you worked onâthe rooftop scene, Yachi and Tsukishima against the night sky, the cigarette smoke curling between them like something ephemeral, fleeting.
You press play.
The footage unfolds in perfect clarity.
Yachi sits on the ledge, her fingers wrapped loosely around the cigarette, her expression thoughtful. Tsukishima is beside her, arms draped over his knees, his profile sharp against the neon haze of the city below.
She turns to him, voice soft, hesitant. âDo you think itâll last?â
Thereâs a pause.
Thenâhis response.Â
âAs long as we exist, it will.â
You exhale sharply, the words hitting you harder than they should.
The scene plays through, Yachi taking a slow drag of the cigarette before exhaling toward the sky, the glow of the embers casting flickering light over her features. Tsukishima doesnât look at her. His eyes stay forward, locked on something distant, something unseen.
Your fingers twitch over the keyboard, and without thinking, you hit the spacebar.
The scene rewinds.
You play it again.
âDo you think itâll last?â
âAs long as we exist, it will.â
A lump forms in your throat.
You rewind it again.
Again.
Again.
You donât know why you keep watching it, why the words keep lodging themselves deeper and deeper into your chest.
Maybe because it doesnât sound like acting. Maybe because you remember the way he said it, the way he delivered the line so effortlessly, so quietly, like it wasnât a scripted moment but something real.
Maybe because it reminds you of last night.
The way he kissed you, the way his hands held you firm, like he was afraid youâd vanish if he let go. The way he told you, Say it again, like he couldnât believe it, like he needed to hear it over and over to make it real. The way he looked at you when you did. The way you let yourself believe, just for a second, that everything you wanted wasnât impossible.
Your breath hitches, sudden and sharp, and thenâ youâre crying.
Itâs not dramatic. Thereâs no sobbing, no wretched gasps for air.
Just silent tears, slipping down your cheeks, slow and unrelenting, as the weight of it all crashes into you.
Because you love him. Because youâve always loved him. Because you canât remember a time of your life where you didnât, and because you canât imagine a time where you donât.
And youâre terrified.
You donât know how long you sit there, shoulders curled in, fingers gripping the edge of your desk like you need to physically hold yourself together.
The sun creeps through the window, light spilling over your room in soft golds and oranges. Outside, the campus hums to lifeâdoors opening, footsteps in the hallway, distant laughter.
You should move. You should do something.
Instead, you hit play one more time.
âDo you think itâll last?â
âAs long as we exist, it will.â
The tears keep falling, and you donât know why youâre crying anymore: whether itâs because you believe it, or because you donât.
fourteen.
Your hands are shaking as you pull up your contacts list.
Itâs barely past 6:30 AM, the sky still tinged with the last remnants of dawn, but you canât stay here. The weight of your realizationâyour love for Tsukishimaâis suffocating, curling around your ribs like something clawed and desperate, something that refuses to let go.
You need to talk to someone, and thereâs only one person who will actually pick up at this hour. So you press the call button and wait.
The phone rings once. Twice. Three times.
Then, a groggy voice, scratchy with sleep but undeniably familiar.
âThis better be good, or I swearââ
âI need you.â
A beat of silence.
Then, rustling sheets. A sigh. And finally.
âWhere?â
***
The tiny cafĂŠ is quiet, still waking up alongside the rest of campus. The smell of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air, mingling with the scent of vanilla and warm pastries. Sunlight filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting golden rectangles onto the worn wooden floors.
You sit in your usual booth, hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea, though you havenât taken a single sip.
You barely register the sound of the door swinging open before a familiar figure drops into the seat across from you, yawning into his hoodie sleeve.
âYou look horrible.â
You huff out a weak laugh, your throat still tight from earlier. âGood morning to you too, âDashi.â
Yamaguchi stretches his arms overhead before slumping against the seat, blinking at you with the exhaustion of a man who has spent way too many nights buried under physics equations. He eyes you carefully, then his gaze flicks to the untouched tea in your hands.
âYou called me before seven in the morning,â he says, running a hand through his messy hair. âWhich means either the apocalypse is happening, or you did something monumentally stupid.â
You drag a hand down your face. âBoth.â
His lips quirk up slightly. âAlright. Start talking.â
You open your mouth, butâwhere do you even start?
The confession? The kiss? The fact that you spent half the night crying over your laptop, replaying Tsukishimaâs voice like some deranged, lovesick film major clichĂŠ?
Your hands tighten around your cup. âItâs about Kei.â
Yamaguchi doesnât even blink. âFigured.â
You exhale, shaky and uneven. âIâI donât know what to do.â
He leans forward slightly, forearms resting against the table, his expression turning serious. âOkay. Take it from the top.â
So you do. You tell him everything.
About the jealousyâthe awful, gut-wrenching feeling that took root in your chest the second you saw Tsukishima kiss Yachi, the way it spiraled into something uncontrollable, something you couldnât suppress.
About the fightâthe way Tsukishima saw right through you, called you out, made you snap. The way you finally admitted the truth youâd been running from for so long.
And then, the kiss. The way he grabbed you, the way he pulled you in, the way he kissed you like he was starving, like heâd been waiting for this just as long as you had.Â
And the way, afterwards, you panicked.
The silence stretches when you finally stop talking. You canât bring yourself to meet Yamaguchiâs eyes.
âI left,â you whisper, shame curling in your chest. âIâI freaked out and left. And now I donât know what to do.â
Yamaguchi doesnât respond immediately. Instead, he reaches for his coffee, takes a slow sip, and then sets it down with a soft thunk. Thenâfinallyâhe speaks.
âYouâre a fucking idiot.â
Your head jerks up. âExcuse me?â
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like youâve personally caused him actual, physical pain. âThis is literally the worst case of mutual pining Iâve ever seen.â
âMutualâ?â
âYes,â Yamaguchi says, exasperated. âAre you seriously telling me you didnât realize heâs been in love with you since we were, like, fifteen?â
You choke on air. âWhat?â
He gives you a flat look. âOh, come on. You think he just puts up with people like that? Have you met Kei? He barely tolerates most human interaction, but you? Youâre different.â
Your stomach sinks.
Yamaguchi leans back against the booth, studying you carefully. His voice is quieter when he says, âNow heâs waiting for you.â
And suddenly, it all comes rushing back.
Like that summer when you were fourteen, sprawled on the grass in his backyard, swatting mosquitoes away while he read some ridiculous philosophy book heâd scoffed at but couldnât put down. You had called him pretentious, poked fun at his stupid little annotations, and thenâjust when he was about to snap backâhe had looked at you. Really looked at you. And for a moment, you couldnât breathe.
Or the time in high school when he stayed up with you, sitting outside your house at two in the fucking morning, just because you had a nightmare and didnât want to be alone. He didnât say anything about it, didnât mock you for it, didnât act like it was a big deal. He just let you talk about stupid shit until you werenât shaking anymore.
Then there was college. The night he drove across town just because you were too drunk to make it back to your dorm. The way he let you ramble about some stupid movie you had watched for class while he carried youâactually carried youâup the stairs because your legs had stopped working.
And then, of course, last night.
The way he kissed you like he had been holding himself back for years.
The way he whispered, Say it again, like he needed to hear it more than anything.
The way you had run.
Because maybe, deep down, you always knew.
Yamaguchi watches you, then exhales through his nose, shaking his head. âYou love him.â
Itâs not a question.
It's a fact.
And you know that, of course. Youâve always known that. But hearing it out loudâhaving someone else say it, no doubt, no hesitationâit does something to you.
Your fingers tighten around your cup.
âI love him,â you admit, voice barely above a whisper. âI love him, and Iâm scared.â
Yamaguchi hums, tapping his fingers against the rim of his coffee cup. âWhy?â
âBecause if this goes wrong, I lose him,â you say, staring down at the caramel liquid in your cup.
He tilts his head. âAnd if it goes right?â
You swallow.
Thatâs the terrifying part.
If it goes rightâif you actually let yourself believe in this, in him⌠then everything changes. You can never get it back.Â
But then again, if you donât, youâll never move forward.
Yamaguchi leans forward, voice softer now. âLook, I get it. Kei is⌠a lot. Heâs a pain in the ass. But you donât have to be afraid of this. Not with him.â
You swallow hard. Your thumb hovers over his name on your phone. But you donât call him.
Not yet.
Instead, you look at Yamaguchi, heart hammering, voice barely steady.
âWhat do I do?â
He smiles, small and knowing.
âGo to him.â
fifteen.
Your heart is pounding.
Your pulse is an erratic drumbeat in your ears, your breath uneven as you stand outside Tsukishimaâs apartment at 7 AM like an absolute psychopath. The hallway is empty, most of the residents still asleep, because normal people do not show up at their best friendâs door at the crack of dawn after confessing their feelings, running away, and then ghosting them for a whole night.
But here you are.
You raise a fist to knock. Pause. Lower it.
Your mind runs through every possible thing that could go wrong. What if heâs still asleep? What if heâs awake, but heâs pissed? What if you just turn around and pretend this never happened and never speak to him again and maybe flee the country?
But no. No more running. Youâre done with that.
You exhale sharply, grit your teeth, and knock.
Thereâs no response at first.
Then, a very loud, very irritated groan.
Footsteps. A thud as something (probably his knee) collides with something else (probably his desk), followed by a mumbled string of very colorful expletives.
And then, the door swings open.
Tsukishima is standing there, half-asleep and thoroughly unamused.
Heâs not wearing his glasses, which is so much worse, because without them, he looksâsoft. His blond hair is a complete mess, sticking up in every direction, and heâs wearing that stupid old hoodie thatâs two sizes too big, the one youâve definitely stolen at some point but returned because it stopped smelling like him. His sweatpants are loose around his hips, and his expression is pure murder as he squints at you.
ââŚThe fuck?â His voice is rough from sleep. âItâs seven in the morning.â
You should probably say something. You should probably apologize. You should probably explain why youâve lost your goddamn mind and decided to show up here like some dramatic main character in an early 2000s rom-com.
But instead, you go on your tiptoes, yank down him by his hoodie, and kiss him.Â
It happens fast, and at first, he completely freezes.
Like full-body shutdown. His entire frame locks up, his hands hovering uncertainly, breath caught in his throat.
For one horrifying moment, you think youâve made a mistake.
But then⌠then his hands find your waist. And suddenly, heâs kissing you back.
Itâs slow at first, tentative, like heâs still processing this, still trying to believe itâs real. But then his fingers tighten against your skin, pulling you closer, and you can feel the exact moment he gives in.
The exact moment he stops thinking.
And God, you feel it everywhere.
The heat of him, the slow, deliberate press of his lips, the quiet, shaky exhale against your mouth before he tilts his head and deepens the kiss. Heâs warm, solid, real, and for the first time in weeks, your head isnât a tangled mess of doubt and fear.
For the first time, everything makes sense.
You pull away first, breathless, heart hammering.
His hands linger on your waist. He keeps his face close to yours, just centimeters away, and when he finally opens his eyes, theyâre dark with something youâve never seen before. Something raw. Something completely, utterly unguarded.
You swallow hard. âIââ
His thumb brushes over your hip, the smallest, barest movement.
You inhale sharply. âIâm sorry.â
Tsukishima doesnât move. He just watches you, eyes sharp, unreadable. âFor what?â
âForââ You hesitate. Your fingers tighten against the fabric of his hoodie. âFor running. For taking so long to figure this out. Forââ
He sighs, but thereâs no real annoyance in it. His gaze softensâjust slightly, just enough.
âYouâre a dumbass,â he mutters.
You let out a breathless laugh. âI know.â
A pause. Then, he asks, âDo you wanna go for a walk?â
You blink up at him, caught off guard. âA walk?â
âYeah.â Tsukishima shrugs, stepping back, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.Â
You raise an eyebrow. âAre you gonna walk me back to my dorm? Because I literally just dragged myself here for nothing if thatâs the case.â
He rolls his eyes. âNo, dumbass. I justââ He exhales, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket. âJust wanna walk somewhere.â
Your lips twitch. ââŚHow romantic of you.â
He scoffs. âShut up.â
But he doesnât deny it.
The air is crisp, the early morning quietâthe kind of stillness that only exists before the rest of the world wakes up.
You walk side by side, the distance between you not much, but enough. For a while, neither of you speak.
âI meant it.â
You glance at him. âHuh?â
Tsukishima doesnât look at you. His gaze is fixed ahead, his hands still tucked into his hoodie, his jaw set. But his voiceâlow, certainâdoesnât waver.
âI meant it,â he repeats. âWhen I told you to say it again.â
Your breath catches. He keeps walking, staring straight ahead like this isnât some life-altering confession, like heâs just casually commenting on the weather. But his hands are tensed inside his hoodie pocket. His shoulders are tight.
You swallow. âKeiâŚâ
âI donât like a lot of people,â he says bluntly. âI barely tolerate most people. But youââ
He stops walking. You stop too.
Finally, he turns to you, and Godâhis eyes. They burn, golden in the morning light, open and completely unguarded.
âYou make me feel like I belong in a movie.â
Your breath stutters.
He exhales, shaking his head, voice quieter now. âAnd I fucking hate movies.â
A laugh bubbles up your throat, sudden and unexpected, and you canât stop smiling.
He rolls his eyes. âDonât make it a thing.â
âOh, Iâm absolutely making it a thing,â you tease, nudging him with your shoulder. âMy grumpy, six-foot-four, emotionally constipated best friend just confessed heâs been hopelessly in love with me for years.â
His ears go pink. âI didnât say that.â
âYou did.â
âShut up.â
You grin. âMake me.â
A pause. Then, he does.
This time, the kiss is gentler. No urgency, no desperationâjust warmth. Just him. And as his hands settle against your waist, as your fingers curl into the fabric of his hoodie, as his lips move against yours with something quieter, steadier, you realize something very, very important.
For the first time in a long, long timeâyouâre exactly where youâre supposed to be.
With him.
But then, the moment stretches, and a thought occurs to you. An extremely essential thought.
You pull back slightly, blinking up at him. Tsukishima frowns. âWhat.â
You open your mouth. Close it. Then, after a beat, you blurt out, âSo⌠does this mean weâre dating?â
His eyes flicker with something unreadableâhalf amusement, half exasperation. He doesnât answer right away. Instead, his thumb brushes absently along your waist, his grip shifting slightly, like heâs still getting used to the fact that heâs touching you.
Then, flatly, he says, âI donât know. Do you plan on kissing other people?â
âNo?â You reply, your nose scrunching.Â
âThen yeah.â
You stare. âThatâs it?â
âThatâs it.â
You gape at him. âKei, you are the most unromanticââ
But then something flickers across your mind, something bigger, heavier. A thought that makes your stomach tighten, your fingers twitch against his hoodie.
You inhale. âHey,â you say, softer this time. âHow long?â
He watches you. âHow long what?â
You swallow hard. âHow long have you loved me?â
A pause. A long pause.
Tsukishima doesnât flinch, doesnât look away. But thereâs something in his expression that shiftsâsomething softer, quieter. His fingers tighten just slightly at your waist. And then, voice low, steady, like itâs the simplest thing in the world, he sighs.
âI canât remember when I didnât.â
Your heart stops. Your breath catches, your fingers clench around his hoodie, and Godâwhat are you supposed to say to that? Because thereâs no hesitation, no uncertainty. Just him. Just this. Just the reality of a love so deeply ingrained in the both of you that it has no beginning and no end.
You exhaleâshaky, breathless. âYou suck at romance, you know that?â
He rolls his eyes. âAnd yet, youâre still standing here.â
You laugh, bright and full, and before you can think about it, before you can overanalyze, youâre kissing him again.
Itâs easier this time.
Because now, youâre sure.Â
And maybe the universe really does have a thing for sadism, because somehow, against all logic, it made him your person. The same Tsukishima Kei who laughs at your mistakes and misfortunes, who calls you out for your delusions and idiocy, who makes fun of your collection of Smiskis and love of reality TV. But at the same time, this Tsukishima Kei would do anything for you, even if you have to beg and beg. This Tsukishima Kei has held you through the worst days of your life, has seen you at your lowest moments and stayed, has waited for you for years to see him the way he has always seen you.
And you think, feeling his hands tighten at your waist and his lips linger against yours like heâs memorising the feeling, that maybe, just maybe, the universe got this one right.
⨠closing notes; i adore tsukishima kei so much. tbh i rly struggled w this work bc i had this concept fleshed out for so long and j cldnt execute it the way i wanted, but thank u to @kinaskorner for beta reading and for the reassurance <3 i hope u guys love this too!! if u made it to the end of this super long fic lol then thank u sm and i hope u have the loveliest day
i love haikyuu so much. bc itâs just. so cute. i love how many characters there are and all of the useless, trivial information we have abt all of the characters. like how iwaizumi used to collect cicadas, only to let them go bc he said heâd feel bad if he kept them. how yamaguchi likes âlong fries that have gone soft and floppyâ. how kunimi likes salted caramel. how akaashi wrings his hands. how kuroo just happens to get top grades and slips all these scientific words into casual conversation. kenmaâs username on everything is âapplepiâ. itâs just so cute. i love the character interactions, like when bokuto is looking out of the window in his pyjamas and he says âiâm glad itâs fukurodani who i could play my last match withâ and akaashi is like âare u dying bokuto?â and bokuto says âwhat? iâm going to live until iâm 130âł. and when shimizu holds sugaâs hands when heâs visibly stressed and suga instantly goes red and swirly and heâs like âpls wait!!!!!! we canât get married yet!!!!!â. and when kuroo and bokuto knowingly smile at each other and hug after nekoma are eliminated from nationals. when kenma smiles and thanks kuroo for getting him into volleyball and kuroo is like â⌠⌠⌠⌠⌠huh⌠âŚ? ⌠⌠W-WAITâŚâ and he covers his face and starts laughing and itâs rly cute. nobody is bad. kyoutani is really scary and only listens to iwaizumi, but only bc iwaizumi beat him at arm wrestling. a cunning, deceitful character like daishou has a rly pretty gf he tries to impress, and when they watch volleyball matches together he gets bashful bc he feels like heâs being a huge volleyball nerd but she calls him cool. i just donât understand how a series is this cute. theyâre all so cute. moniwa is so cute. goshiki is so cute. oikawa teaches volleyball to children on mondays. donât even get me started on yachi
akaashi being late to practice bc he was helping an old lady carry apples
also when the captains play card games all night and he falls asleep on the floor (and bokuto bet daichi and kuroo his soul)
tendou teaching ushijima how to open pudding so that it wobbles perfectly
kenma and hinata texting each other in bed throughout the series
kuroo and kai walking around carrying an injured yaku between them (yakuâs legs dangling around bc heâs nowhere near as tall as them) and also them slowly squatting back down in unison so that they can all sit on the floor and chat
koganegawa walking around the junior training camp with his little flip phone asking everybody for their numbers and being super excited about it
itâs just cute seeing the charactersâ parents, like kenmaâs mother who looks EXACTLY like him, or ushijimaâs dad who was just generally very sweet and encouragingÂ
that official art of the seijou 3rd years going out for karaoke and oikawa is absolutely fucking it up. hanamaki is on the maracas
kageyama has a volleyball diary⌠where he writes down cool volleyball tricks he sees⌠he sits down after every match⌠and⌠writes in itâŚ
nekoma taking bunches of bananas to all of their matches
when the shiratorizawa coach tells hinata thereâs nowhere for him to stay overnight and tendou is like psssst!!!!!! heâs lying we can sneak u in!!!!Â
kenma canât yell without getting sick (and kuroo feels guilty when he sees him working hard bc he knows heâll have a fever the next day :,) and he always checks on him in bed :,,,) )
matsukawa and hanamaki on their train date
when akaashi is crying after he feels like he did bad in a match and bokuto says âi thought about it real hard and iâve got a counter-argument!!! nothing is impossible!!â and after like 5 straight chapters of akaashi freaking out he LAUGHS and says good point :,)))
