SUNA borrows a pen, and keeps borrowing it just as an excuse to talk
you swear he owns at least three pens. probably four. maybe five. but every day, without fail, he turns in his seat and leans just a little too close, drawling,
“hey, forgot mine again, can I borrow yours?”
it’s stupid, really. the way your heartbeat stumbles over something as small as a pen. but when he returns it at the end of class, capped neatly with that lazy half-smile of his, you can’t help thinking he’s not forgetting them at all.
KENMA they get paired for a random video game match and end up talking for hours
it starts with a random queue, one match, one teammate who actually listens, who laughs softly through the mic when he misses an easy play.
he means to log off after, but then you invite him for one more. and another. and another.
by the time the sun starts bleeding through his blinds, kenma’s half-asleep, headset still on, voice low and warm when he mumbles,
“you’re… really easy to talk to.”
you smile at your screen.
“guess that means we’ll have to play again tomorrow?”
he doesn’t answer right away, but the small hum through his mic feels like a yes.
TSUKISHIMA rival debate kids who get locked in a classroom together after hours
you’ve argued with tsukishima a hundred times before, about logic, word choice, tone, anything he can twist into an advantage. but this time, it’s not on stage. it’s in an empty classroom, long after everyone’s gone home, the door somehow locked behind you both.
for a while, it’s quiet, just the sound of rain tapping the windows and the faint scratch of his pen as he pretends not to look at you.
“don’t stare,” he mutters.
“then stop being so annoying,” you shoot back.
he huffs a laugh, low and almost fond. “you’re really bad at pretending you don’t like this.”
you roll your eyes, heart skipping anyway. maybe it’s the silence, maybe it’s the way the fluorescent lights hum softly between you — but for once, you don’t have a rebuttal.
OIKAWA they’re both at a wedding where they barely know the couple and decide to be each other’s “plus one for the night”
you meet him at the open bar, tux jacket slung over one shoulder, tie loose, a champagne flute in hand.
“don’t tell me you actually know the bride and groom,” he says with a grin that’s a little too practiced.
“barely,” you admit. “friend of a friend. you?”
he laughs softly, eyes crinkling. “same. how about we save each other from awkward small talk?”
it’s supposed to be a joke, a one-night arrangement of polite laughter and fake familiarity. but somewhere between slow dances and stolen desserts, it stops feeling like pretending.
and when the lights dim and he looks at you, really looks at you, you realize you’re in trouble.
KUROO lab partners who accidentally mix the wrong chemicals and almost set something on fire
it starts with one small mistake, or, as kuroo calls it, “a learning opportunity.”
you’re not sure what’s worse: the tiny puff of smoke curling up from your beaker or the smug grin spreading across his face.
“don’t look at me like that,” you mutter, waving the fumes away.
he leans in, voice low and teasing. “hey, you’re the one who said ‘what’s the worst that could happen?’”
“the worst is this, kuroo.”
he laughs, eyes bright behind his safety goggles. “nah, the worst would’ve been me not getting to spend detention cleaning this up with you.”
and as the smell of burnt sugar fills the air, you realize maybe, just maybe, he did that on purpose.
USHIJIMA their dogs get tangled in each other’s leashes at the park
you don’t even see him at first, just the sudden pull on your arm as your dog takes off, leash wrapped around another. there’s a brief moment of chaos: barking, apologies, and two sets of leash strings completely intertwined.
“i’m sorry,” you start, crouching down to untangle them — and then you look up.
he’s tall, steady, with soft green eyes and a leash still looped around his wrist. “it’s alright,” he says, voice even, gentle. “she likes making friends.”
you laugh, a little breathless. “mine too, apparently.”
he smiles faintly, almost shy. “maybe… we could let them meet again. properly.”
you nod, cheeks warm. “yeah. i think they’d like that.”
(but maybe it’s not just the dogs he’s hoping to see again.)
ATSUMU they get stuck in an elevator together, and bond over panicking quietly
it’s only supposed to be a quick ride, three floors, maybe four. then the elevator lurches, the lights flicker, and suddenly it’s just you and him in the silence.
for a second, he tries to play it cool, slouching against the wall, nervous grin tugging at his lips. “haha… happens all the time, right?”
you nod, clutching your bag a little tighter. “totally. all the time.”
“…you’re panicking too, huh?”
you both laugh, soft and shaky, sinking to the floor together. time starts to blur, trading dumb jokes, whispering what-if’s, trying to ignore how close your knees are.
when the doors finally open again, he looks over, smile a little more real this time.
“guess i’ll need your number,” he says, “just in case we ever get stuck again.”
BOKUTO they both stop to pet the same cat on the street and end up walking it home together
you spot the cat first, tiny, gray, tucked under a parked car. then there’s a blur of motion, and suddenly a tall guy with wild hair and the brightest grin is crouched beside you.
“you saw it too!” he beams, eyes wide with excitement. “look at this little guy, he’s so small!”
you laugh, watching him coo at the cat like it’s a national treasure. somehow, that’s how it starts, the two of you sitting on the curb, sharing bits of your snack, trying to coax it out.
when it finally lets you both pick it up, you glance at him. “so… who’s walking it home?”
he grins, scratching the back of his neck. “uh, how ‘bout we both do? team effort.”
the walk’s only ten minutes, but it feels longer, in the best way. and when you reach the cat’s doorstep, he looks at you, grin softening.
“hey… maybe we could get coffee sometime. y’know, without the cat?”
SAKUSA they keep bumping into each other at the same bus stop every morning
it starts as coincidence, two people waiting for the same 7:42 bus, standing a polite distance apart, pretending not to notice the other.
but then it happens again. and again. and again.
he always stands on the same side, earphones in, coffee cup held carefully away from anyone else. you always show up two minutes later, pretending to scroll your phone even though you can feel his eyes flick toward you when he thinks you’re not looking.
one morning, it’s raining. you forgot your umbrella. he hesitates for a heartbeat, then shifts slightly closer, tilting his just enough to cover you both.
“you’re getting wet,” he mutters, not meeting your gaze.
“so are you,” you whisper back.
he exhales softly, the smallest smile tugging at his lips. and for the first time, the bus could take a little longer.
