Pairing: Mitsuya X Reader
Summary: You haven’t been acting your usual self so mitsuya asked you to stay after club hours to talk
(Fluff) (a little bit of teasing)
The soft hum of sewing machines fills the room, broken only by the occasional burst of laughter from the girls clustered around Mitsuya. He’s helping one with a pleat, complimenting another on her fabric choice — calm, patient, his usual self.
Y/N walks in late. Her expression is neutral. Almost too neutral.
She crosses the room without a word, drops her bag with a soft thud, and sits at her usual table. Doesn’t acknowledge anyone. Not even him.
Her fingers reach for her fabric, but she fumbles the threading. Again. And again. Her movements are stiff, rushed. Nothing like her usual steady hands.
At first, he says nothing. Just watches. Watches how she keeps sighing under her breath, how her eyes flick briefly toward the group gathered around him, then quickly back to her work. Watches how she rolls her eyes when one of the girls calls him by his first name with a giggle. How her jaw ticks when another tries to hand him a canned drink like they’ve known each other forever.
Then her machine jams. The thread catches, loops unevenly. Her hands clench at the sides of the fabric, and for a second, it looks like she might snap.
Crosses the room in a few quiet steps.
He stands behind her now, close enough for her to catch the faint scent of his cologne — clean, woodsy, familiar. His hand reaches out, calm and sure, and rests gently over hers. His fingers guide hers through the tangled thread, slow and careful.
His voice is low, barely above a whisper, right by her ear.
“You’ve been off lately.”
Her breath stutters, caught somewhere between her chest and throat. She doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t dare. She focuses on the cloth instead — eyes sharp, hands suddenly too warm.
He leans a little closer, voice quieter this time.
“You’re not clumsy. You’re not this… tense.”
“So what’s wrong with you, recently?”
Just the sound of her breath and the fabric crinkling between her fingers.
He exhales, quiet but heavy. Something about her silence clearly gnaws at him.
“Stay back after club. I wanna talk to you.”
Her jaw tightens. Her eyes narrow at the fabric. Her ears are burning.
She mutters, brushing him off without looking:
But her voice is tight. Brittle. Like she’s holding something back with both hands.
He doesn’t push. Just lingers a moment longer, his hand warm over hers — grounding, steady — before stepping away and returning to his table.
But the ghost of his touch stays behind.
And she hates how her heartbeat refuses to settle.
The loudest noise in the room now is the ticking of the wall clock. The once-busy sewing club room feels strangely empty with just the two of them left — chairs pushed in messily, threads and pins scattered across tables, bits of fabric fluttering in the air conditioning.
Y/N sits at her table, arms crossed, pretending to scroll through her phone but really just listening.
Mitsuya is silent too, standing across the room like he wants to say something but can’t find the words.
Then he clears his throat.
“Hey… give me like, one minute. I’ll be right back.”
Before she can even ask where he’s going, he slips out the door.
Y/N frowns. “What the hell…?”
Ten seconds of silence pass. Then thirty. Then two minutes. She gets bored quickly.
Naturally, her curiosity kicks in.
She glances around the room, then stands, slowly walking around with her hands behind her back, humming faintly. She pokes at a pincushion. Opens a drawer. Tugs at a stuck cabinet. Finds a tiny candy wrapper and snorts.
On the far side of the room, behind some fabric bolts and half-finished mannequins—
A plain, beat-up black sketchbook.
Pages and pages of intricate designs — flowing skirts, embroidered sleeves, structured collars. But one page in particular catches her eye: a sketch of a dress, elegant and unique, but drawn with notes like “delicate neckline,” “adjust shoulder for Y/N’s frame,” and…
Her name is literally scribbled in the margins.
Her eyes widen. “What the—”
“You’re really nosy, huh?”
She jumps — actually yelps — and spins around to find Mitsuya standing behind her with a bag of snacks and the smuggest smile on his face.
“You scared the hell out of me!” she snaps, hand on her chest.
“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
He laughs — full, warm, a little smug.
“You’re the one snooping around like a cartoon raccoon.”
She glares at him, cheeks heating, but he holds up a drink and a little red bean cake like a peace offering.
“Here. I figured maybe you’d calm down if you weren’t hungry.”
She eyes it warily, takes it anyway.
They both sit down, this time side by side. She sets the sketchbook on the table without a word, but it sits there like a secret between them.
After a pause, he glances at it.
“That one — I’ve been meaning to make it for a while. Just haven’t had the right person to try it on.”
He pauses, then smirks lightly.
She turns slowly toward him, eyes narrowed.
“So let me get this straight. You lured me here with vague emotional concern just to ask if I’d be your mannequin?”
“What? No! I mean, I do want you to be my fit model, but that’s not why I asked you to stay back.”
She raises an eyebrow, unimpressed but flustered.
He leans back a little, eyes on hers now — not teasing this time, more serious.
“I’ll tell you. But while I’m measuring you.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
He chuckles, rising and grabbing the measuring tape from his desk.
The last trace of daylight casts golden streaks across the desks as Mitsuya rolls the measuring tape between his fingers, calm as ever. Meanwhile, Y/N is trying not to combust.
His voice is smooth, casual.
“Arms out. I won’t take long.”
“You’ve done this before, right?” she asks, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Hundreds of times,” he replies, looping the tape around her shoulders.
“Not usually with someone glaring at me the whole time, though.”
She frowns. “I wasn’t glaring.”
His hands move to her back, warm and steady as he adjusts the tape. His breath brushes her neck when he leans forward to read the numbers.
“You’ve been clumsy lately,” he says quietly.
“Messing up seams. Dropping pins. Zoning out.”
She shrugs. “I haven’t been sleeping well.”
He doesn’t reply right away. His fingers graze the side of her waist, moving deliberately as he measures her torso. The silence thickens.
“Do you not like some of the girls in the club?” he asks next, voice low, tone unreadable.
Y/N’s eyes flick to the side. “Not… anyone in particular.”
He leans in again, just slightly, until his voice brushes against her ear.
“You’ve been staring at me.”
The words are quiet. Not teasing. Not mocking. Just steady. Certain.
She stiffens. Breath caught. Her fingers twist at the hem of her sleeve.
“I’m in the same room as you. What do you want me to do, wear blinders?”
“You’re not usually this sharp with me.”
She exhales through her nose. Her tone flat, borderline annoyed.
“Maybe I’m tired of seeing your little fan club cling to you every five seconds.”
There’s a pause. One heartbeat. Two.
“Ah.” His smirk is audible now.
He pulls back slowly, walking to the front to check the numbers he just wrote down.
Then — he glances over his shoulder with that smirk.
“Y/N,” he says, dragging her name out just enough to make her want to walk straight into traffic,
“do you get jealous when some of the girls have my attention?”
Utter, deafening silence.
“What kind of question is that?”
She scoffs, looking everywhere but at him.
“No. Obviously not. You can talk to whoever you want. Why would I care?”
He’s next to her again now, measuring her hips. His knuckles graze her thigh as he adjusts the tape around her lower waist. His voice is lower this time.
“You think I talk to them the way I talk to you?”
She looks at him. Slowly.
Eyes narrowed, chest tight.
He leans closer, expression unreadable but eyes sharp.
And for a second, he just watches her. Watches the tiny twitch in her jaw, the way her breathing picks up. The way her hands fidget with the hem of her sleeve like she doesn’t know what to do with them.
“You act like you don’t care. But you do. I can feel it.”
She glares weakly, cheeks flushed.
“And you’re a terrible liar.”
They stay like that for a beat, and then Mitsuya finishes noting the last measurement and rolls the tape around his fingers with practiced ease.
He glances at the neatly coiled tape in his hand, then meets her eyes.
“You’ll tell me eventually,” he says quietly, voice soft but certain.
“So I guess we’re done, I’ll get going now. See ya—”
Before she can pivot away, he moves in one fluid motion — one hand slams against the wall beside her head, the other on the opposite side, trapping her. His knee slides between her legs, just resting there, a silent reminder of how close they are. The cool plaster presses against her back. Her breath hitches.
“Mitsuya,” she says, voice tight. “What are you doing?”
“Making sure you don’t leave before we finish talking.”
His eyes flick down to her lips, then back up to her eyes, reading every flicker of her expression.
She tries to steel herself — push him away. Instead, her hands press weakly against his chest, feeling the firmness of his uniform shirt.
“I’m not going anywhere. Not until I know exactly what’s on your mind.”
Her pulse pounds so loudly she’s sure he can hear it. She struggles for composure:
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lies.
He leans forward, just enough that his breath brushes her hair.
He sinks his knee a fraction closer — gentle, unwavering pressure.
“You’d be surprised how honest you get when you can’t run away.”
She swallows hard, breath caught in her throat. His hands tighten just a hint on the wall, and the air between them vibrates with unspoken confession.
He brushes a stray lock of hair from her face, fingers lingering near her jaw like he’s about to say something else — or do something else — when—
The clubroom door slams open, the silence shatters.
“Oh—uh—sorry!” Takemitchy blurts, stumbling halfway inside, hand still on the sliding door.
Peh-yan’s right behind him. “Bro, what did we just walk into—”
Mitsuya doesn’t flinch. Just sighs, long-suffering, and pulls back ever so slightly — hands still braced on the wall, but his knee lowers. The tension in the room deflates like a sad balloon.
Y/N’s eyes go wide, face flushed from neck to forehead. She practically shoves Mitsuya back with both hands this time, glaring daggers.
“What the hell, Mitsuya,” she hisses under her breath. “You trapped me.”
He blinks innocently. “You weren’t exactly struggling.”
“Why are you two even here?!” Y/N snaps.
Takemitchy rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.
“I just—I had to ask Mitsuya something about uniforms, but uh… I’ll come back later. Much, much later.”
Peh’s already pulling him out by the collar, mouthing my bad and mumbling something about timing and how he owes Mitsuya a soda for ruining that moment.
The door clicks shut behind them.
Y/N’s still facing away, hands covering her face now.
“They’re never letting me live this down.”
Mitsuya crosses his arms, expression way too satisfied for her liking.
She turns around slowly, eyes narrowed.
“I swear if you say something smug—”
“I wasn’t going to.” He shrugs, stepping back toward her, hands in his pockets now.
“But if I were… I’d say it’s not my fault you look cute when you’re cornered.”
“I’m just saying,” he adds,
“next time we get interrupted, maybe don’t look so into it.”
She throws a spool of thread at his head.
He catches it effortlessly.
