you noticed me. (suna rintaro x fem. reader)
ONESHOT
summary: suna rintaro is not not popular. when he finds out the reader and her friends, airi and murata, might be plotting, his tactics shift.
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the hallway is loud in that messy, start-of-the-day kind of way.
lockers slam. shoes squeak against the floor. somebody across the hall is laughing way too hard at something that probably wasn’t even that funny.
you’re trying very hard to act normal.
which would be easier if airi and murata weren’t walking on either side of you like two people sent specifically to ruin your life.
“i’m just saying,” airi says, dragging the words out with way too much amusement, “if you kind of like him, you should probably do something about it.”
murata snorts. “yeah. because staring at him from across the classroom clearly isn’t getting the job done.”
you nearly trip over your own shoe.
“i do not stare at him.”
both of them look at you.
then at each other.
then back at you.
murata’s grin turns mean in the way only a best friend’s can. “right. and suna just happens to sit in your line of vision every single day.”
“that is not—” you cut yourself off, lowering your voice. “can you two be quiet?”
airi leans in instead of listening. “all we’re saying is if you sort of, maybe, possibly like him—”
“just a little,” murata adds helpfully.
“—then maybe you should tell him.”
you whip your head toward them, horrified. “why would i do that?”
airi throws her hands up. “because you’ve liked him forever.”
“i have not liked him forever.”
murata gives you a flat look. “since spring.”
“that is not forever.”
airi looks at murata. he smirks.
“for you?” she says. “it kind of is.”
heat crawls all the way up your neck. you can feel it in your cheeks, in your ears, probably in your soul. this is exactly why you never say anything. because the second you do, it becomes real. and liking suna rintarou is already humiliating enough on its own.
mostly because it doesn’t feel original.
too many girls like him.
and honestly, can you blame them?
he’s tall without making a thing of it. quiet in a way that somehow pulls more attention instead of less. always half-lidded, half-bored, like the entire world is mildly entertaining at best. and then he says one dry thing under his breath and suddenly everybody around him is trying not to laugh too hard.
it’s annoying.
he’s annoying.
the fact that you like him anyway is even worse.
“you’re making it weird,” you mutter.
“you made it weird by being in love with a guy who looks allergic to smiling,” airi says.
“i am not in love with him,” you hiss.
murata gasps dramatically. “oh, so now we’re downgrading it to yearning?”
“shut up.”
“crushing?”
“shut up.”
“pathetic pining—”
“stop talking!” you snap, louder this time, enough that a couple people glance over.
and then, because your life is cruel, you realize exactly who else heard.
your stomach drops.
suna is a few steps away, standing with his bag slung over one shoulder like he’d just come around the corner at the worst possible moment. or the best possible moment, if you asked airi and murata, who both go suddenly, suspiciously quiet.
you want the floor to open up and take you.
you pull airi and murata to the side instead of being frozen in the middle of the hallway like idiots.
instead, what comes out of your mouth is somehow even worse.
“shut up,” you say again, this time to your friends, voice sharp with panic. “then he’ll know i like him.”
silence.
actual, real, terrible silence.
murata makes a tiny choking noise.
airi covers her mouth.
suna looks at you.
just looks.
not shocked. not smug. not even really surprised.
just that unreadable, heavy-lidded stare of his, like he’s taking in every second of your humiliation and filing it away somewhere private.
your face burns so hot you think you might actually die from it.
“wow,” murata whispers beside you, utterly useless. “that was crazy.”
you want to elbow him into a locker.
suna shifts his bag higher onto his shoulder.
for one awful second, you think he’s going to say something. maybe ask you to repeat yourself. maybe laugh. maybe give you that polite, distant look people give when they’re trying to let you down before you’ve even confessed.
instead, his gaze flicks briefly to airi, then murata, then back to you.
one corner of his mouth moves.
barely.
not a smile. not really.
but definitely something.
then he walks past you.
just leaves.
and somehow that’s worse.
you stand there in complete horror, staring after him while the crowd moves around you like nothing life-ending just happened in the middle of the hallway.
airi is the first to break.
“oh my god,” she says, grabbing your arm hard enough to jolt you. “oh my god, you actually said it.”
murata folds in on himself laughing. “not only did you say it, you announced it.”
you cover your face with both hands. “i hate both of you.”
“he looked at you,” airi says immediately.
you groan into your palms. “please don’t make this worse.”
“i’m serious.”
murata nods through his laughter. “and he did that thing.”
you peek through your fingers. “what thing?”
they look at each other.
then grin.
“that thing,” they say together.
you nearly scream.
because yes, he did do that thing.
that tiny almost-smirk. that look that lasted a second too long. that completely unfair expression that somehow says everything and nothing at the same time.
and now you’re going to spend the rest of the day wondering whether suna rintarou knows you like him—
or whether he’s known for a while.
after school, you almost forget about the hallway.
almost.
then airi tosses you a ball during volleyball warmups, and the memory comes back so fast it makes you want to lay down on the gym floor and let it swallow you whole.
“stop making that face,” airi says from across the court.
you catch the ball one-handed. “what face?”
“the one that says you’re replaying your public humiliation in high definition.”
you send the ball back clean to her platform. “i’m not.”
airi bumps it to you again, easy. “you absolutely are.”
you are, but she doesn’t need that satisfaction. you smack the ball down with your palm, and she curses under her breath as she dives to the side to pick it back up.
practice has barely started. the gym still has that in-between feel to it—girls stretching off to the side, a few balls rolling where they shouldn’t be, sneakers squeaking over polished floor. you and airi started peppering early, just to get loose.
well. that had been the plan.
now it’s become a challenge.
airi’s an outside hitter, so even her warm-up touches have weight behind them. yours come back steadier, lower, cleaner. libero work. controlled. quick. all instinct. your oversized shirt hangs off one shoulder every now and then when you move, and your shorts are short enough that the shirt mostly covers them when you’re standing still.
not that you’re thinking about that.
or about anything else.
“left,” airi calls.
you slide, platform angled, and send the ball right back up to her.
“nice,” she says.
you grin a little despite yourself. “again.”
a few rounds turn into a few minutes.
a few minutes turn into ten.
and somewhere in there, your body starts moving before your brain can get in the way. airi hits, you receive. you send one a little off, she chases and saves it. she tips short, you fly forward and scoop it up before it dies. back and forth. back and forth. the rhythm gets addicting.
then the gym doors open.
you don’t look at first.
you only notice because airi does.
her eyes flick past you for half a second, and the ball thumps awkwardly off her forearms.
you blink. “what?”
airi catches it before it rolls too far, then looks toward the entrance again.
something cold slides into your stomach.
you turn.
three boys walk in first with bags slung over their shoulders, like they own the place just by stepping into it.
atsumu in the middle, loud even when he’s not talking yet. osamu beside him, looking like he got dragged here against his will. and suna—
of course suna is there too.
you freeze so obviously that airi’s expression immediately goes sharp with alarm.
“why are they here?” you hiss.
airi hisses right back, panicking now too. “i don’t know.”
“joint practice?”
“we don't have joint practice today.”
your heart drops. “then why are they here?”
she gives you a look that says she’s two seconds from joining you in death. “maybe they’re spectating?”
you stare at her.
then toward the boys.
then back at her.
“oh my god,” you groan.
because they are absolutely spectating.
more players file in behind them—kita, aran, ginjima, and the rest of the boys’ team, all filtering into the gym with that loose after-practice energy. some of them stay standing near the back. some head for the side. a few of them move toward the bleachers.
and somehow, some awful way, your pepper with airi has become the most interesting thing in the room.
“keep going,” airi mutters through clenched teeth.
“are you insane?”
“if we stop now, it’ll be worse.”
she’s right, which is annoying.
so you toss the ball up again.
airi sends it back.
you receive.
and suddenly every touch feels ten times more noticeable than it should.
the girls on your team are starting to slow their own drills, glancing over. one by one, conversations in the gym thin out. sneakers squeak. a ball bounces somewhere else on the court. then even that starts to fade.
because people are watching.
really watching.
you risk the fastest glance toward the bleachers and immediately regret it.
the boys have sat down.
all of them.
atsumu’s elbows are on his knees. osamu looks half-awake. suna sits a little farther toward the other side, one leg stretched out, one arm draped over it, gaze fixed in your direction with that same unreadable calm that always somehow makes things worse.
you snap your eyes back to the ball.
“don’t look at them,” airi says.
“i wasn’t.”
“liar.”
“just hit the ball.”
airi does.
harder this time.
you absorb it cleanly and pop it right back. she sends one to your right. you lunge and save it. she adjusts. you recover. every contact gets sharper, faster, more automatic. there’s this weird pressure in it now, this rising energy that has the whole gym gone quiet enough for you to hear the ball hit skin.
thump.
thump.
thump.
three minutes in, maybe more, and neither of you lets it drop.
you hear a low whistle from somewhere in the bleachers.
ignore it.
airi sends one deep. you shuffle back and fist it up.
she grins despite herself. “nice.”
“less talking,” you shoot back.
then the ball starts getting away from you.
just a little.
airi reaches for one with too much arm and sends it long.
instinct takes over before dread can. you sprint back, throw one fist up, and somehow manage to punch it high enough to keep the rally alive.
there’s a small sound from the bleachers—surprise, maybe.
you don’t have time to care.
airi adjusts under it and sends another one, too much again.
“airi—”
you turn around and run, fast, eyes on the ball, too committed now to stop. your calves hit the front of the bleachers and you nearly lose your balance, but your fist comes up again and the ball shoots back into the air.
this time people definitely react.
not loudly. just enough.
a few impressed laughs. a sharp “oh—”
you hear atsumu say something you don’t catch.
suna says nothing.
of course he says nothing.
which somehow makes you more aware of him than everyone else combined.
airi gets under the ball and, because she apparently wants you dead, sends another touch too far.
you have approximately one second to decide whether dignity matters.
it doesn’t.
you dive backward straight into the bleachers.
metal rattles under your weight. your legs get caught awkwardly for a second, shirt riding up at the waist as you twist, but your arm still manages to get under the ball and pop it up again.
somebody in the gym actually gasps.
you push hair out of your face, untangling your legs from the bench as fast as you can. from the corner of your eye, you catch suna watching you from farther down the row, his focus sharper now, less lazy. like you’ve finally managed to surprise him.
that alone almost kills you.
the ball is still up.
still playable.
airi, saint or demon, takes it and sends it over again.
short.
way too short.
you’re still half in the bleachers.
there’s no way.
the ball drops.
the rally dies.
and for half a second, the whole gym just stares.
then everybody claps.
actual applause breaks out across the court.
girls on your team cheering. a couple of the boys whistling. ginjima laughing. atsumu clapping way too loud like he’s at some live event. even some of the second-years standing off to the side join in.
you stay there for one deeply humiliating second, still tangled in the bleachers, breathing hard.
airi bends over laughing with both hands on her knees. “oh my god.”
you cover your face. “i hate this gym.”
“no you don’t,” she says, still laughing. “that was insane.”
more clapping.
more voices.
your coach is definitely saying something to someone, but you can’t hear it over the sound of your own pulse.
you lower your hands just enough to look up.
mistake.
because suna is still sitting there, watching you.
and unlike everybody else, he isn’t clapping.
he just leans back slightly against the bleachers, gaze fixed on you, then lifts his brows once like that explained everything.
which, somehow, it does not.
later, practice ends with the usual noise.
sneakers dragging. balls getting tossed into carts. girls calling bye over their shoulders on the way to the locker room. the air feels warmer now, heavier with that post-practice exhaustion that makes everything a little slower.
you and airi are posted by your bags in front of the locker rooms, both drinking water like you just survived something catastrophic.
which, honestly, you kind of did.
“i’m never peppering with you again,” you say, lowering your bottle.
airi snorts. “you’re welcome, by the way.”
“for what?”
“for making you look cool.”
you stare at her. “i was in the bleachers.”
“exactly. memorable.”
you groan and lean down to mess with the zipper on your bag. your shirt is sticking lightly to your skin from practice, and your legs still feel a little shaky from diving around like your life depended on it.
murata had texted that he was outside already, here to pick both of you up, so really, all that’s left is grabbing your stuff and leaving before anything else humiliating can happen.
which is apparently too much to ask.
because airi’s expression changes first.
just slightly.
her eyes flick up over your shoulder.
you go still.
“no,” you murmur.
airi tries and fails to hide the grin pulling at her mouth. “yes.”
you close your eyes for half a second before straightening up and turning around.
suna’s walking toward you from the gym entrance, one hand hooked around the strap of his bag. his hair’s a little messy, probably from changing after class, and he has that exact look on his face that makes your chest tighten for reasons you deeply resent—
calm.
knowing.
faintly amused.
like he already has the upper hand and doesn’t even need to prove it.
very nick wilde, annoyingly enough.
he stops in front of you and airi, gaze landing on you first.
“hey,” he says.
that’s it.
just hey.
and somehow it still feels like a trap.
inside, your brain completely loses structure.
outside, though, you take a sip of water like this is the most normal thing in the world.
“hi,” you say back, easy.
airi goes weirdly silent beside you, which is useless, because now it’s obvious she’s listening.
suna’s mouth tilts at one corner.
not enough to be called a full smile. definitely enough to make him look smug.
his eyes flick over your face like he’s checking for something. maybe panic. maybe guilt. maybe any sign at all that you’re still thinking about the hallway.
you give him nothing.
at least, you hope you do.
“you recover fast,” he says.
your brows lift. “from what?”
he shrugs one shoulder. “public confessions. and diving into bleachers."
airi makes the tiniest choking sound into her water bottle.
you keep your face smooth with effort that should count as athletic training. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“really?” he says, voice mild.
there’s something sly in it. dry. teasing in that way that doesn’t push too far, just enough to let you know he sees more than he says.
he definitely suspects something.
or knows something.
or worse, enjoys watching you pretend he doesn’t.
“really,” you repeat.
his eyes narrow just a little, like he’s entertained now.
then he says, “you played really well.”
and just like that, everything in your head blanks.
completely.
your mouth parts before you can stop it.
because what?
suna rintaro just walked up to you after practice, looked like a fox with a secret, and then complimented you like it was nothing.
you stare at him for one full second too long, caught somewhere between disbelief and the sudden, awful haze of being noticed by the exact person you did not want noticing you.
airi smacks your arm.
hard.
you flinch.
“oh,” you say, blinking back to earth. “thanks.”
smooth.
so smooth.
you want to die.
suna actually laughs a little at that—quiet, low, brief.
but it’s real.
and somehow that feels more dangerous than if he’d laughed outright.
“see you,” he says.
then he shifts his bag higher on his shoulder and walks past, heading toward the locker rooms like he didn’t just ruin the entire balance of your day in under thirty seconds.
you turn your head just enough to track him for half a step before forcing yourself to stop.
airi is already staring at you.
you stare back.
then both of you explode at once.
“oh my god—” she hisses.
“did that just happen?” you whisper-shout.
“he came up to you.”
“he talked to me.”
“he complimented you.”
“he remembered the bleachers!”
airi grabs both your shoulders and shakes once. “and you forgot how to function.”
“i know!”
“you literally opened your mouth and just stood there.”
“i know!”
you’re both still freaking out when murata leans around the corner from the front doors, car keys looped around one finger.
“are you two getting in the car or starting a podcast?” he asks.
the second you and airi pile in, it’s over for him.
because the beans are spilled immediately.
“suna came up to her,” airi says from the backseat before the doors have even fully shut.
murata, in the driver’s seat, pauses with his hand on the wheel. “no way.”
"yes way,” you say, still half in shock.
“he said hi all smug,” airi adds, twisting toward him. “like he knew exactly what he was doing.”
murata glances at you in the mirror. “you folded?”
“i did not fold.”
airi gasps. “she absolutely folded.”
“i was calm.”
“you blanked so hard i had to hit you.”
murata starts laughing immediately. “that bad?”
you sink lower into your seat. “he told me i played really well.”
murata makes a face like that explains everything. “ah. so yeah. you folded.”
you cover your face with one hand while airi cackles beside you.
outside, the gym doors swing open again as more boys head in for practice, but you refuse to look.
because your heart is still beating too fast.
and worse—
you keep hearing that quiet laugh in your head.
school starts again like nothing happened.
which is rude, honestly. because after the hallway incident, then practice, then suna actually coming up to talk to you after, you feel like the universe should’ve at least given you one dramatic weather event or minor fire drill to reset your life.
instead, first period happens. then second. then by the time you get to the class right before lunch, you’re mostly normal again.
mostly.
you’re halfway through pulling out your notebook when the classroom door slides open again.
your teacher looks up from his desk with the kind of expression that already says somebody has been a problem.
and then in walks miya atsumu.
you blink.
he has his bag slung over one shoulder and that familiar careless posture that somehow still looks polished. his expression is easy, but there’s something in the room that shifts immediately anyway, because he’s miya atsumu, and even people who don’t know him know of him.
the teacher sighs.
“since you and your brother apparently can’t survive sharing the same class period without disrupting everyone else,” he says flatly, “you’ll be sitting here from now on.”
a few people laugh.
atsumu grins like that’s a compliment.
your teacher points.
“empty seat. next to (y/n) (l/n).”
and then atsumu looks over.
right at you.
his brows lift in instant recognition.
oh no.
he walks over, drops into the seat beside you, and before you can even pretend this is a normal day, he leans back a little and says, “well, if it isn’t bleacher girl.”
you turn slowly. “please don’t call me that.”
his mouth twitches. “why not? it’s memorable.”
you stare at him.
he stares back.
then he breaks into a grin and sets his book down. “ya played good, though. all that hustlin’ yesterday? insane.”
your face warms a little, which is annoying because you had actually gotten over that. mostly.
“thanks,” you say, trying for casual.
atsumu props his cheek against his hand and looks at you like he’s already decided this class just got way more entertaining. “didn’t know ya were that good.”
you glance at him. “didn’t know i needed your approval.”
that gets a laugh out of him immediately.
not polite. not fake. a real one.
“oh, ya got jokes,” he says.
you look back down at your notebook to hide the tiny smile threatening at the corner of your mouth. “unfortunately.”
you know about miya atsumu.
everyone does.
the reputation comes first: loud, talented, arrogant, pretty, impossible, annoying, brilliant. volleyball obsessed. troublemaker. somehow both insufferable and magnetic enough that people keep orbiting him anyway.
so you’re a little surprised he’s talking to you like this.
more surprised that it’s easy.
you’d expect someone like atsumu to dominate every conversation just because he can, but instead, he slides into yours like he’s been there the whole time. one comment turns into another. then another. then five more. by ten minutes in, you’ve stopped feeling weird about it and started feeling entertained.
which is dangerous.
because atsumu is funny.
worse, he’s funny in a way that keeps catching you off guard.
the teacher starts talking at the front of the room, and you’re both mostly pretending to listen. mostly.
atsumu glances down at the worksheet. “this is easy.”
you hum. “for us.”
he looks at you. “for us?”
you shrug one shoulder. “you’re in the smart class too, aren’t you?”
he grins. “so that’s what this is? ya think i’m smart?”
“i think you got moved here because your teachers were tired of you ruining osamu’s education.”
he bites back a laugh and fails.
you do too.
badly.
it starts with a snort. then a badly hidden smile. then his shoulders shake once, and suddenly both of you are trying not to lose it while your teacher is still talking.
“stop,” you whisper, horrified.
“me?” he whispers back. “yer the one who said it like that.”
you smack his arm under the desk.
he looks offended for half a second before dissolving again.
you’re both bent over your desks by then, trying to stay silent and failing miserably. atsumu wheezes into his sleeve. you clap a hand over your mouth. he taps the table twice like that’s going to help somehow. it does not. you end up laughing harder just looking at him trying not to laugh.
“oh my god,” you whisper. “we’re gonna get in trouble.”
“worth it,” he says instantly.
you elbow him.
he elbows you back.
the teacher says both your names.
that only makes it worse.
by the time lunch rolls around, your face hurts.
“yer funnier than ya look,” atsumu says as you both stand up.
you sling your bag over your shoulder. “that’s one of the rudest things anyone’s ever said to me.”
“nah,” he says, keeping pace beside you. “it’s a compliment.”
“you’re bad at those.”
“i’m great at ‘em.”
you glance over. “is that what that was?”
he grins. “that and me askin’ if ya wanna hang out.”
you slow for half a beat. “today?”
“sure.”
he says it so casually, like it’s obvious you’d say yes.
which, embarrassingly, you kind of want to.
so you look ahead and say, “okay.”
atsumu’s grin sharpens like he won something.
you regret letting him have that.
airi and murata are waiting near the usual lunch spot, and both of them look up the second they see you walking over with atsumu beside you.
airi’s eyes go huge.
murata nearly chokes on nothing.
you stop in front of them. “i have to split today.”
murata stares. “because of...miya atsumu?”
atsumu gives him a lazy wave. “hi.”
airi looks between the two of you like this is the best day of her life. “what is happening?”
“nothing,” you say too fast.
“that’s a lie,” murata says.
atsumu slings an arm over the strap of his bag. “i borrowed her.”
you give him a look. “you what?”
he ignores that. “i’ll return her later.”
airi presses her lips together so hard they nearly disappear.
murata looks at you with open delight. “good luck.”
“why are you saying it like that?”
“because,” he says, already stepping away with airi, “this is insane.”
airi points at you. “text me if you survive.”
then they leave you there with atsumu, who looks way too pleased with himself.
you end up on a grassy patch off to the side of the school where students sometimes eat when the weather’s nice. atsumu had, of course, brought a volleyball. because of course he did.
“you carry one around?” you ask.
“what, you don’t?”
“not like a freak.”
“that's mean.”
still, you take your position across from him.
peppering with atsumu is different than with airi. faster in some ways, more playful in others. he keeps trying to throw you off on purpose, adding a little too much spin, grinning when you send him a flat look and save it anyway.
“show-off,” you mutter after one particularly annoying touch.
“you got it, though.”
“that’s not the point.”
“kinda is.”
you roll your eyes and bump the ball back harder.
he laughs.
it goes on like that for a while, easy and bright and weirdly fun. enough that by the time two familiar figures start walking over, you’re actually disappointed.
osamu gets there first, hands in his pockets. “knew we’d find ya doin’ somethin’ stupid.”
atsumu catches the ball. “this isn’t stupid.”
suna comes up beside him, quieter, gaze moving first to atsumu and then to you.
there’s the briefest pause there.
small.
but you feel it anyway.
osamu takes in the scene once, then snorts. “so this is why ya ditched.”
“i did not ditch,” atsumu says. “i’m socializing.”
“you?” osamu says. “thought that was beyond ya.”
atsumu throws the ball at him.
osamu catches it one-handed.
then, because apparently chaos loves you, the rest of the boys’ team starts drifting over too, called by osamu with one lazy shout and the gravitational pull of volleyball.
now there are too many of them. kita, aran, ginjima, the others. somebody has another ball. then another. suddenly the grassy patch turns into a mess of overlapping pepper circles and voices and shoes digging into the ground.
you stand there for half a second, taking it in.
this was not lunch.
this was not remotely the plan.
and yet.
it’s kind of fun.
the boys start getting stupid with it almost immediately. one ball gets sent too high, another too short, someone misses and takes it straight to the shoulder. atsumu deliberately sends one at osamu’s face. osamu returns the favor. ginjima catches a ball badly and yelps. aran tells them all to grow up. nobody does.
somewhere across the lawn, airi and murata finally appear after doing a loop around campus and finishing their food.
they stop dead.
you can see the exact second they register you standing with the boys’ volleyball team.
then both their heads turn slightly.
off to the side, a cluster of girls is very clearly watching.
not casually, either.
just staring.
some at atsumu. some at osamu. some—more than you’d like—at suna.
and now, apparently, at you.
airi and murata exchange a look.
a long one.
then, with the kind of mutual understanding built only by friendship and bad decisions, they finish the rest of their food and come over anyway.
airi reaches you first. “this is psychotic.”
murata follows. “i leave you alone for one lunch period.”
“you’re being dramatic,” you say.
atsumu points at murata. “can he play?”
murata points at himself. “me?”
airi answers for him. “badly.”
“rude,” murata says.
“true,” she says back.
then she drags him into a loose circle and starts showing him how to pass, which immediately becomes hilarious because murata is terrible at first. his platform’s wrong. his timing’s worse. the ball bounces off his arms and nearly hits him in the face.
atsumu loses it.
you do too.
soon enough everybody is laughing at something. balls get smacked into shoulders, chests, faces. one clips atsumu’s jaw and he acts like he’s been mortally wounded. osamu tells him to shut up. airi keeps correcting murata’s stance while he complains she’s being mean. kita somehow still looks composed in the middle of all of it.
you end up next to atsumu again, both of you laughing over murata’s latest failed receive.
“that was tragic,” atsumu says, half bent over.
“be nice,” you say, laughing anyway.
“i am bein’ nice.”
“no, you aren’t.”
he grins. “fair.”
you’re still smiling when you feel it again.
that awareness.
the one that tends to show up before you even look.
your eyes shift.
suna’s on the edge of the group, ball tucked against one hip. he’s already looking at you.
not at the game.
not at atsumu.
you.
there’s something quieter about him than the rest of the lunch chaos. less messy. less loud. which, predictably, makes him easier to notice.
he says something then—low enough that it doesn’t belong to the whole group, only to your side of it.
“you laugh a lot more with him than you did with me.”
your breath catches.
it’s not accusatory.
not exactly.
and that somehow makes it worse.
because it lands soft. dry. almost careless. but there’s a thread under it that pulls tight somewhere in your chest before you can name it.
atsumu hears it too.
or maybe he just sees your face.
either way, his expression changes for one quick second—sharp with understanding.
then he straightens, spins the ball once on his palm, and says way too casually, “i’m gonna go bother osamu.”
and slips away.
just like that.
leaving you standing there with all your attention hopelessly caught on suna.
he steps a little closer once the noise of the others swells up around you again.
“i didn’t mean that like a complaint,” he says.
you blink, still trying to recover. “then how did you mean it?”
suna looks out toward the others for a second, watching atsumu yell at osamu over something stupid.
then his eyes come back to you.
“just noticed it.”
you don’t know what to do with that.
so you say, softly, “you don’t exactly make it easy.”
one of his brows lifts. “for you to laugh?”
“for anyone to know when you’re joking.”
“you usually know.”
that catches you off guard all over again.
he shifts the ball in his hands, then lets it drop into the grass by his shoes.
“you wanna walk?” he asks.
not really a question.
and for some reason, you go.
you leave the others behind with their noise and volleyballs and bad passes. the lunch crowd has thinned by now, students already starting to head back inside. beside you, suna walks at an easy pace like he isn’t affecting your ability to think.
the halls feel cooler after outside.
quieter, too.
your footsteps echo a little as you walk side by side.
“atsumu likes you,” you say before you can stop yourself.
suna glances over. “atsumu likes everybody.”
you smile despite yourself. “that’s true.”
“doesn’t mean i wanted to leave you with him all lunch.”
you look at him.
really look at him.
his expression hasn’t changed much, but there’s that same subtle thing in his voice as before. calm on the surface. something else underneath.
“what?” you ask.
he looks ahead again, hands in his pockets.
then, after a beat, “thought i should talk to you when you weren’t busy pretending you didn’t like me.”
you almost stop walking.
almost.
instead, your heart kicks hard enough to make your whole body feel suddenly too light.
you stare at him. “that’s a crazy thing to say.”
“is it?”
yes.
horrifically yes.
but he says it like he already knows the answer.
you reach your classroom too soon.
students are filtering in. chairs scraping. voices blending together before the next class starts. suna stops with you just outside the door.
for once, he looks completely unsurprised by your silence.
like maybe he expected it.
“see you later,” he says.
you manage, somehow, “yeah.”
he gives you one last look—that same steady, unreadable, unfair look—then turns and heads down the hall.
you stand there for a second after he leaves, still trying to process the fact that your lunch somehow started with atsumu and ended with suna walking you to class like he had every right.
and worse—
you think maybe he did.
the next morning, airi and murata corner you before first bell like they’re conducting an investigation.
which, to be fair, they kind of are.
you barely make it to your locker before murata plants one hand against the metal beside your head and airi slides in on the other side, both of them looking way too awake for this hour.
“debrief,” airi says immediately.
you stare at her. “good morning to you too.”
“debrief,” murata repeats.
you shut your locker halfway, then open it again just so you have something to do with your hands. “there is nothing to debrief.”
airi’s face goes flat. “you disappeared at lunch with miya atsumu, somehow ended up with the entire boys’ volleyball team, then got weird and vanished with suna.”
murata points at her. “and then came back looking like you’d seen the face of god.”
you blink. “that is dramatic.”
“is it inaccurate?” he asks.
you open your mouth.
close it.
airi narrows her eyes. “that’s what i thought.”
so you tell them.
not all at once. not gracefully, either. they keep interrupting every ten seconds, and you keep having to correct them.
“atsumu was normal,” you say.
“impossible,” murata says.
“he was.”
“for him,” airi adds. “which still isn’t normal.”
you continue anyway. the grassy lunch. osamu and suna finding you. everybody joining in. the fan club girls staring like they wanted to set you on fire. murata laughs so hard at that he has to bend over. airi looks vindicated about the hater energy. you get to the part where atsumu slipped away, and both of them lean in.
“and then?” airi says.
you hesitate.
murata points at you. “don’t do that.”
“i’m not doing anything.”
“you’re doing the face.”
“what face?”
“the face you make when you’re deciding whether to lie.”
you hate that they know you.
so you sigh and say, “then suna talked to me.”
airi grabs your wrist. “about what?”
you look away. “stuff.”
murata gasps like a grandmother at bad television. “stuff.”
“he said—” you stop, then start again. “he said i laugh more with atsumu than i did with him.”
both of them go silent.
like, actually silent.
which is worse than the yelling.
airi’s eyes widen. “oh.”
murata’s mouth falls open. “oh, that is crazy.”
you wish they’d both relax. “it wasn’t like that.”
they look at you.
then at each other.
then back at you.
“it was exactly like that,” they say together.
you groan. “you weren’t even there for it.”
“did he say anything else?” airi asks.
you shift your books around for no reason. “not really.”
another lie.
you definitely do not tell them the part where he walked you to class.
not yet.
probably not ever, if you can help it.
which is why, when two shadows fall across the floor beside the three of you, you nearly jump out of your skin.
osamu and suna.
of course.
murata straightens first. osamu gives him the easiest look in the world, like they’ve already been mid-conversation somewhere else and just happened to run into each other. beside him, suna’s gaze lands on you first, then drifts over the rest of the little group.
“what’re ya talkin’ about?” osamu asks.
airi and murata both go weirdly blank.
you feel instantly guilty, which makes no sense because it’s not like you were doing anything wrong. unless recounting every second of your life to your friends counts, which maybe it does.
murata clears his throat. “uh. nothing.”
osamu gives him a look. “that’s a lie.”
murata shrugs. “okay. a lot of things.”
the air hangs there for a second.
then murata, apparently deciding that if this is getting awkward he’s at least going to meet it halfway, says, “did you guys need anything?”
osamu opens his mouth, but suna answers first.
“i’m walking (y/n) to class.”
you freeze.
airi freezes.
murata freezes.
even osamu glances sideways at him.
your head turns so fast toward suna it nearly hurts. he looks completely calm, one hand in his pocket, like he did not just drop that directly in front of your two closest friends who did not know that information yet.
your face heats instantly.
you know you look guilty because airi makes this tiny, stunned sound, and murata’s jaw drops so visibly it would be funny if it weren’t happening to you.
you can practically feel the question marks radiating off both of them.
you don’t dare look directly at them.
osamu, on the other hand, recovers fast.
he snorts and nudges murata once with the back of his hand. “ya look like yer about to pass out.”
murata points at you. “why did i not know that?”
you make a helpless face.
airi points too. “you skipped details.”
“i forgot,” you lie.
“you did not forget,” she says.
osamu looks between the three of you, amused now. “airi, right?”
airi blinks. “yeah.”
he jerks a thumb at murata. “this idiot talks about y’all all the time.”
murata sputters. “that makes it sound weird.”
“It is weird,” osamu says.
airi laughs despite herself, and just like that the tension breaks enough for everybody to breathe again.
murata and osamu start talking immediately after that, easy and familiar in a way that makes sense now that you’re seeing it up close. murata introduces airi properly. osamu nods at her, easygoing, and she recovers fast enough to match the vibe. it all smooths out so quickly it’s almost suspicious.
then the bell warning goes off.
everybody starts shifting.
“i gotta go,” murata says.
“me too,” airi says, though not before shooting you a look that promises this conversation is not over.
osamu jerks his head down the hall. “later.”
airi and murata say goodbye to you with way too much meaning packed into it, and then they’re gone with osamu peeling off in another direction soon after.
which leaves you alone with suna.
you sling your bag higher on your shoulder and look at him flatly.
“nice timing.”
his mouth tilts. “i thought so too.”
you start walking. “you did that on purpose.”
“did what?”
you glance over at him. “you know what.”
he doesn’t answer right away, just falls into step beside you like this is already routine.
then, “they were gonna find out eventually.”
“that wasn’t your decision.”
“seemed efficient.”
you stare ahead, trying very hard not to smile.
he notices anyway.
of course he does.
he walks you to math.
again.
and this time it somehow feels both less shocking and worse, because now you know he’ll do it in front of people and act like it means nothing while leaving you to deal with the fallout.
at the door, he pauses.
“see you.”
you exhale through your nose. “you’re irritating.”
“yeah,” he says, entirely unbothered. “see you.”
by the end of the day, you’ve almost recovered.
almost.
the halls are crowded with after-school noise, lockers opening and slamming, conversations bouncing off the walls, shoes squeaking over tile. you’re at your locker switching out books, sliding one stack in and tugging another free, already halfway thinking about homework and whether murata is driving today.
a few lockers down, suna is talking with aran.
you only notice because you can feel it a little.
not his attention exactly.
just the possibility of it.
aran’s saying something while leaning against the row of lockers, easy and polite as usual. suna answers without looking like he’s putting much energy into the conversation, but from the corner of your eye you catch him glancing your way once.
then again.
you pretend not to notice.
you’re grabbing your math folder when a pair of lowerclassmen approach.
small.
nervous.
they stop just short of your locker like they’re afraid of being a bother.
“um,” one of them says, clutching a notebook to her chest. “are you (l/n)?”
she says your name a little timidly.
you turn fully toward them. “yeah?"
the other one speaks up this time. “we heard you tutor? sometimes?”
your expression softens immediately. “sometimes, yeah.”
they both visibly relax, just a little.
the first girl nods quickly. “we need help with math. and chem. if that’s okay.”
“that’s fine,” you say. “what units?”
they tell you, stumbling over the names a little, and you ask a few questions after that—what class period, which teacher, where they’re stuck. by the time the conversation settles, you’re giving them the details without even thinking about it.
“bring your notes, your last quiz if you have it, and the practice packet,” you say. “meet me in the library after school tomorrow. back tables near the windows.”
they both nod like they’re memorizing every word.
“thank you,” one says.
“seriously, thank you,” the other adds.
“don’t worry about it.”
they leave looking much less scared than when they walked up.
you turn back to your locker just in time to see aran and suna approaching.
aran gets there first, polite as ever. “you tutor?”
you shrug, casual. “sometimes.”
suna’s standing beside him with that same smug, fox-like look that always makes you suspicious.
“what was that?” he asks.
you shut your locker halfway, then reopen it to tuck one last notebook inside. “two underclassmen needed help.”
“with math and chem,” aran says, sounding impressed.
you glance at him. “it’s not a huge deal.”
suna’s eyes stay on you a second longer than necessary. not unreadable this time, exactly. more like he’s adjusting to a new piece of information.
“didn’t know you did that,” he says.
you shoulder your bag. “there’s a lot you don’t know.”
one of his brows lifts at that.
aran smiles a little. “that was cold.”
“it wasn’t meant to be.”
“sure,” suna says.
you look between them. “what, were you guys taking attendance?”
aran laughs softly. “nah. just curious.”
he checks the time after that and straightens away from the lockers. “i gotta go. i’m on a tight schedule.”
then, because aran is aran, he nods at both of you with the exact right amount of courtesy. “see you.”
“bye,” you say.
suna lifts a hand once.
aran heads off, leaving you alone with the worst possible person to be alone with when your heart is trying to act up over nothing.
you adjust your grip on your bag. “well. i’m leaving too.”
you reach back and finally shut your locker.
the metal door clicks closed.
and right as you turn, suna leans in just enough for his voice to drop under the noise of the hallway.
“didn’t know you liked helping people that much.”
you blink at him.
he’s close enough that the words don’t feel like they belong to the hallway at all.
then he adds, quieter, with that infuriating almost-smile, “guess i should ask nicer next time.”
your breath catches so suddenly it almost hurts.
you stare at him.
shocked. fully shocked.
because that was absolutely flirting.
blatant enough to make your face go hot, subtle enough that if you called him on it he could probably act innocent.
suna watches it happen in real time.
and grins.
actually grins this time—small, satisfied, devastating.
then he steps back and walks away like he didn’t just throw your entire nervous system into traffic.
you stay there for a second, frozen in front of your locker.
airi finds you first.
murata’s right behind her, keys already in hand.
airi takes one look at your face. “what happened?!”
you turn to her slowly. “i...think he just flirted with me.”
murata stops dead. “what.”
in the car, you tell them everything.
everything everything this time.
the debrief interruption this morning. him saying he was walking you to class right in front of them. math. the lowerclassmen. aran. the tutoring. the whisper.
by the time you get to the end, airi is folded into herself in the passenger seat and murata has one hand over his mouth while driving like he’s trying not to yell.
“that’s insane,” airi says.
“that is actually insane,” murata agrees.
you sink lower in the backseat. “i know.”
“no,” airi says, turning around to point at you. “i don’t think you do.”
“he’s messing with me.”
murata lets out a disbelieving laugh. “girl.”
airi shakes her head. “you are so far past that.”
you look out the window, trying and failing to cool your face.
because the worst part is—
you think they might be right.
you start keeping your distance after that. at first, it’s small things—taking a different route to class, sitting a few seats away whenever he’s around, pretending your headphones are glued in even when they’re not. you tell yourself it’s rational. someone like suna rintaro wouldn’t ever go for someone like you. popular, effortless, able to have any girl he wanted—he’d only be toying with you. just because he could.
and it scares you more than you want to admit.
you notice him sometimes, though. always there after your tutoring sessions, lingering outside the library, watching quietly while you help the younger underclassmen.
you look unreal, beautiful, important. he watches you more than he'd like to. except you slip out of his gaze whenever you can, ducking down halls, leaving the library last, keeping your interactions minimal.
in turn, you grow closer to osamu and atsumu and aran. you eat lunch with them sometimes, practice drills together, laugh at dumb jokes. anything to fill the space suna used to occupy in your mind. you make it routine, safe. weeks pass.
every time he notices you, you’re gone. every time his eyes flick your way, you’re already slipping from his line of sight. you’re not trying to be cruel—just careful. careful not to fall into whatever trap he might set for someone like you.
and still, you can’t stop feeling like he’s always there. somewhere in the background. watching. waiting.
you avoid suna after fourth period so obviously that it almost circles back around to subtle.
almost.
the problem is, you know he’s been trying to catch you between classes again. not in some huge dramatic way, just enough that you’ve started recognizing the pattern. a turn down the usual hall. a familiar figure falling into step beside you. that calm voice asking where you’re headed like he doesn’t already know.
so today, you don’t give him the chance.
you cut left instead of right, take a back stairwell you’ve literally never used before, and end up in some weird quiet stretch of the school that feels unfinished somehow. the floors are too clean. the hallway is too empty. there are barely any posters on the walls.
you slow down.
“where the hell am i?” you mutter.
you’ve barely taken another step when a hand catches your wrist.
you gasp.
then you’re pulled sideways—fast, but not rough—through a doorway and into an empty classroom. the door shuts behind you with a soft click, and for one panicked second all you can register is darkness.
“what—”
light spills in from the windows on the far side of the room, pale and angled, enough for your eyes to adjust.
and there he is.
suna.
standing between you and the rest of the room, shoulders tense, one hand still on the doorknob.
you stare at him.
he stares back.
and for once, he doesn’t look smug.
he looks worried.
actually worried.
your confusion falters around the edges.
“rintaro?”
his jaw shifts once. “what happened?”
you blink. “what?”
he takes a step closer. “did i do something?”
the question lands harder than it should.
because this isn’t teasing. it isn’t one of those dry little comments of his meant to push your buttons and watch what happens.
he means it.
you look at him, and for maybe the first time since all this started, he looks as thrown off as you feel.
“did i do something wrong?” he asks, quieter this time. “why are you avoiding me?”
your chest tightens.
you hate that he noticed. hate that he cared enough to corner you in some mystery classroom you didn’t even know existed. hate that he’s standing there looking at you like this matters.
“there’s nothing wrong,” you say automatically.
his expression changes.
not a lot.
just enough.
you take one step toward the door. “i-i should go.”
you reach for the handle.
it doesn’t move.
you blink, try again, then turn toward him. “rintaro. let me out."
suna doesn’t answer that part. he steps in closer instead, slow enough that you could move if you wanted to.
you don’t.
not really.
he backs you toward the door without touching you, just with presence alone, until your shoulders nearly brush the metal. his eyes stay on yours the whole time, heavy and intent and impossible to escape.
“stop lying,” he says.
you look away first.
of course you do.
because there’s no room left for pretending in a dark classroom with him standing this close and sounding like that.
your throat feels dry.
“fine,” you say, and your voice comes out smaller than you wanted. “yes.”
he waits.
you laugh once, but there’s no humor in it. “yes. i was avoiding you.”
still, he waits.
your hands curl uselessly at your sides. “because...i like you, okay?”
the words land between you and stay there.
you force yourself to keep going.
“i like you, and i thought…” you swallow. “i thought maybe i was just convenient. or funny to mess with. or some game if you got bored.”
his face tightens immediately.
you press on before you can lose your nerve.
“you flirt. girls like you. you know that. everybody knows that. so i thought maybe i was just…” you shake your head once. “easy.”
for a second, all he does is look at you.
then he sighs softly, like he’s been holding something in for way too long.
“you really thought that?”
you let out a weak breath. “it made sense.”
“no,” he says. “it didn’t.”
you lift your chin a little. “to me, it did.”
his gaze drops for half a second, then comes back to your face.
"(y/n). you're beautiful, and funny, and smart, and talented."
you laugh before you could stop yourself.
“when i first noticed you,” he says, “i figured you wouldn’t notice me.”
you blink.
that was not what you expected.
"but... you did. you noticed me."
he almost smiles, but it’s faint. disbelieving. more at himself than anything else.
“you looked right past me half the time,” he says. “or at atsumu. or osamu. or whoever was louder that day.”
you stare at him. “rintaro.”
“i’m serious.”
you almost laugh from sheer confusion. “why would i look past you?”
one shoulder lifts in the smallest shrug. “same reason everyone doesn’t. loud people are easier.”
that gets you.
because that is so absurdly him—so unfairly honest in the quietest possible way—that your chest aches.
you shake your head. “i liked you before half of this even started.”
his brows lift.
“i really, really like you,” you say, voice steadier now, because if this is happening, then it’s happening. “...and me, airi, and murata have literally been putting together some scheme for weeks trying to figure out if you were serious or not.”
that finally gets a real reaction out of him.
he laughs.
low at first, then fuller, warm enough to make your stomach flip.
your eyes narrow. “don’t laugh.”
“i’m not laughing at you.”
“you are absolutely laughing at me.”
he leans one shoulder against the door beside your head, grinning now. “only because i can’t believe you thought you were the only one doing that.”
you frown. “doing what?”
“scheming.”
you stare.
suna’s grin goes smug again, but softer this time. earned.
“atsumu figured it out first,” he says. “after that one practice.”
your mouth falls open.
“no.”
“yeah.”
“oh my god.”
he nods once, enjoying this way too much. “then the rest of the team caught on.”
“the rest of the team?”
“more or less.”
“you let the boys’ volleyball team know i liked you?”
“i didn’t have to. they have eyes.”
you close your eyes. “i’m gonna die.”
“bleacher girl was a whole thing for a while.”
you cover your face with both hands. “please stop talking.”
he laughs again, gentler now, and this time when his hands catch your wrists and pull them away from your face, your breath catches for a completely different reason.
you look at him.
he looks at you.
no teasing now. no smug line waiting in the wings.
just him.
“so,” he says quietly, thumbs brushing once against your skin, “can you stop avoiding me?”
you exhale a laugh, shaky and helpless and relieved all at once. “maybe.”
“bad answer.”
“i’m serious.”
“i know.”
his hands slide down to yours, loosely, like he’s giving you every chance to pull away.
you don’t.
instead, you tilt your head a little and say, “you dragged me into a dark classroom.”
“worked, didn’t it?”
you almost roll your eyes.
almost.
but then he smiles that small, impossible smile of his, and suddenly it’s very hard to think about anything except the fact that he’s right here.
“you’re irritating,” you whisper.
“you said that already.”
“because it’s true.”
“you still like me.”
you hate that he’s right.
worse, you love that he’s right.
“yeah,” you say softly. “i do.”
something in his expression gives then—just a little, but enough. enough that the room feels smaller. quieter. enough that when he leans in, it doesn’t feel surprising at all.
just overdue.
his mouth brushes yours once, testing.
you lean up first.
that’s all it takes.
he kisses you properly after that, one hand sliding to your waist, the other braced near the door beside your head. you catch at the front of his shirt without thinking, and he makes this quiet sound against your mouth that nearly kills you on the spot.
it’s not slow for very long.
weeks of weird tension and missed chances and almost-conversations hit all at once. your back presses to the door, his hand tightens a little at your waist, and when you kiss him back harder he smiles into it like he was hoping you would.
“wow,” you breathe when he finally pulls back just enough.
he looks amused again. “that good?”
you stare at him. “don’t ruin it.”
he laughs softly and drops his forehead against yours for a second.
outside, somewhere down the hall, the bell rings.
neither of you moves.
then you groan. “great.”
“you’ve got class,” he says.
“whose fault is that?”
“yours, probably.”
you smack his shoulder lightly.
he catches your hand before you can pull it back and presses one quick kiss to your knuckles just to be annoying.
you stare at him again.
“oh, you’re insane.”
“and you still like me.”
you hate how much you smile.
when he finally unlocks the door and opens it, the hallway outside is empty enough to make this feel even more unreal.
you step out first.
then glance back at him.
“so,” you say, trying for casual and failing a little, “what now?”
suna tilts his head. “now i walk you to class. and this time you don’t run.”
you laugh.
and let him.