summary: years after leaving to chase his dream, Zoro returns home desperate to reclaim the one thing he never allowed himself to keep, only to find that the town remembers her in ways he doesn’t recognize and the past has teeth he can’t outrun. When the truth finally reaches him on a quiet hill overlooking the sea, the cost of choosing ambition over love comes due—and Zoro realizes too late that some losses don’t wait for a man to be ready.
Fem!reader!
He leaves Shimotsuki like a man cutting off a limb and refusing to look down.
No farewell worth the word. No softness. No second glance back at the dojo’s weathered gate, at the stone path that still remembers the shape of their feet. He walks toward the docks with his swords at his hip and that familiar, brutal line in his spine—straight as a vow, rigid as pride—and the salt wind keeps trying to pull at him like it knows something he refuses to say out loud. The sea is loud that morning. Gulls crying. Ropes groaning. Wood knocking against wood. Life continuing.
He does not allow himself to hesitate.
He tells himself it’s clean. Necessary. That this is what Kuina demanded of him and what he demanded of himself. That the world’s greatest swordsman does not get to be held back by anything as small as a village, as small as warmth, as small as the way one girl’s voice can make his chest tighten like he’s been hit.
He tells himself that.
And then the ship pulls away, the shoreline thinning into a strip of green and gray, and he feels the absence like pressure in his ribs—as if something is still clinging to him, nails dug in, refusing to be carried off so easily.
He doesn’t touch his mouth for hours after.
He doesn’t have to.
The imprint is there anyway—heat and salt and the taste of her like a bruise he can’t stop pressing. Every time the wind shifts, it feels like it’s bringing her back to him for a split second: the scent of sun-warmed wood, the dry bite of training sweat, something faint and familiar he can’t name without it becoming real.
He keeps his eyes forward until the village disappears.
Only when it is gone does he let himself exhale, slow and measured, like if he breathes wrong he will turn around. Like if he lets the wrong thought in, his feet will betray him and take him back up that stone path to the hill, to the dojo, to her.
He doesn’t go back.
He chooses the sea instead.
And the sea punishes him for it in small, quiet ways.
It starts with laughter.
Not the loud kind. Not the kind Luffy throws across the deck like it belongs to everyone. Hers is different—sharp and brief, like a blade flicking out and back. It lives in the spaces between sounds. In the second before the crew settles. In the soft pause after someone says something stupid. Zoro hears it when he’s half-asleep, head tipped against the mast, the sun too warm on his skin. He hears it when the ship creaks at night, when the world is nothing but black water and stars and the smell of salt.
He hears it, and his eyes open.
Nothing.
Just the deck. Just the sky. Just the stupid, endless sea.
He sits up, jaw clenched, and tells himself it was the wind. The ship. Memory misfiring like an old blade that needs sharpening. He tells himself he doesn’t have time for this. He tells himself he’s not the kind of man who gets haunted by a girl’s laugh.
And then it happens again.
In a new town with bright banners and loud music, he steps off the ship behind Luffy’s reckless grin and Sanji’s cigarette smoke, and the crowd presses in, colorful and alive. There’s warmth on his face. There are voices in his ears. There is noise everywhere.
And somewhere in it—so clear it makes his stomach drop—he hears her.
A laugh, quick and familiar, like it’s aimed at him.
His body reacts before thought does. His head snaps. His gaze cuts through people like a blade. He spots her instantly—hair, posture, the line of her shoulders as she turns, and for one wild second the world tilts into something that makes sense again.
He moves.
Fast enough that Sanji barks something behind him. Fast enough that Luffy turns with a confused sound. Zoro doesn’t answer. His boots hit the street hard, the crowd parting in irritation and surprise as he pushes through. He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t slow down.
He reaches out—
The girl turns.
Not her.
The face is wrong. The eyes are wrong. The shape of the mouth is wrong. A stranger’s expression flickers into alarm as Zoro’s hand stops inches from her shoulder, suspended in the air like he’s forgotten how to finish a motion.
He jerks back as if burned.
The girl says something—sharp, offended, frightened. Zoro doesn’t hear it. His mouth tastes like metal. He stands there for a breath too long, staring, because his mind refuses to accept that it isn’t her even though his body already knows.
Then he turns away.
He walks back to the crew like nothing happened, shoulders tight, hands shoved into his pockets so no one can see them flexing. Luffy grins and asks if he got lost. Zoro mutters something blunt. Sanji snorts. Usopp laughs. Nami rolls her eyes.
They let it go.
They always let it go.
Zoro becomes good at letting it go too—on the outside.
Inside, the moment repeats itself like a wound that doesn’t scab. Her silhouette. The lurch of hope. The sick drop of realization. The humiliation of it, not in front of strangers, but in front of himself.
Because he knows what this looks like.
A man chasing ghosts in crowds. A swordsman who cannot cut through his own past. A boy who kissed a girl and left anyway, and now can’t stop looking for her in every shadow that looks even vaguely familiar.
He hates the weakness of it.
So he buries it the only way he knows how.
He trains.
He trains until his arms ache and his hands blister. He trains until the muscles in his back pull tight and the sweat runs cold down his spine. He trains until the world narrows to the sound of steel and his own breath and the endless, merciless rhythm of improvement. He tells himself that if he keeps moving forward, the thoughts will fall behind him.
They don’t.
They keep pace.
Because she is not just a memory. She is a constant pressure in his chest, subtle and persistent, like a hand closing around his heart every time he looks up and sees the sky.
He sees her eyes in it.
It’s ridiculous. He knows it’s ridiculous. Eyes aren’t supposed to exist in the sea, in the moon, in the open blue stretch of daylight. And yet—
When the water is calm and the sun hits it just right, the surface turns into that same bright, merciless color, and something in him goes tight and still. When the moon hangs low and pale above the mast, it throws silver over the deck in a way that reminds him of early mornings in the courtyard, and he thinks of her standing there with damp hair and a shinai in her hands, staring him down like she never once believed he’d become untouchable.
He keeps seeing her in places she can’t be.
He keeps hearing her in sounds that don’t belong to her.
He catches himself turning his head at the wrong time. Pausing mid-step as if he’s waiting for a voice that will never call his name again. His jaw clenches until it aches. He grinds his teeth. He tells himself to stop.
He doesn’t.
The dreams are worse.
Because in dreams, she is always there.
Not blurred. Not distant. Not a stranger’s face wearing her outline. In dreams she looks at him like she always did—direct, unafraid, too sharp to be kind and too real to be ignored. In dreams her laugh lands in his chest like a fist. In dreams she says his name and he hears it perfectly, and it hurts in a way that feels almost like relief.
He falls into sleep like it’s a weapon he can use.
It starts small—leaning back against a wall for “just a second,” closing his eyes on deck while the others bicker, dropping into a nap in the middle of an island because exhaustion is easier to explain than longing. The crew jokes about it. They call him lazy. They call him an idiot. They poke him and complain and move on.
Zoro lets them.
Because sleep is the only place he gets her without chasing.
And every time he wakes, it feels like he’s paid for it.
He opens his eyes and the world rushes back in—salt air, sunlight, Luffy’s voice, the ordinary motion of living—and for a second there’s that blank, disoriented space where his body still thinks she’s near. Where his hand still feels like it’s holding something it isn’t. Where his chest still holds the warmth of a dream like it’s real.
Then reality locks into place.
She isn’t here.
The emptiness that follows is not dramatic. It is worse than dramatic. It is quiet and heavy, settling inside him like wet sand. It makes him feel hollowed out, like each dream takes a little more than it gives. Like he’s feeding something in himself that will never be full.
So he sleeps again whenever he can.
Not because he’s tired.
Because he’s starving.
Years pass that way—measured in islands and fights and scars, in victories that should feel satisfying and never quite do. His strength grows. His reputation grows. His swords get heavier in his hands. The world starts to whisper his name with a kind of respect that should make him proud.
And still—
There are nights when the ship rocks gently and he stares up at the stars, and all he can see is her face in the dark behind his eyelids. There are mornings when the sky is too bright and it reminds him of the way she used to look at him after a draw—like she knew exactly where to press to make him lose control.
He never talks about it.
He doesn’t know how.
Zoro has never been a man made for confession. His emotions are things he either ignores or turns into motion. He can fight. He can bleed. He can endure. But the shape of wanting someone who isn’t there—wanting her so much it becomes a presence—doesn’t have a clean place to go.
So it stays in him.
A constant ache he carries like an extra sword no one can see.
He doesn’t go back to Shimotsuki.
Not the first year. Not the second. Not the fifth.
He tells himself there’s no point. That the village is behind him now. That returning would be weakness. That she’s fine. That she wouldn’t want him to come crawling back like a boy who can’t stand the cost of his own dream.
He tells himself she’s still there sometimes—still training, still stubborn, still standing on the mat like she owns it.
Then other days he tells himself she probably left. That she wouldn’t have stayed in a town built out of old wood and ghosts. That she would have chased something bigger like he did, because she always had that sharpness in her, that restless pull under her skin.
He doesn’t know.
And that not-knowing becomes its own kind of punishment.
Because it means he can’t even picture the life she’s living without him. He can’t imagine whether she ever forgave him for leaving. Whether she ever stopped waiting for a duel he never finished. Whether she ever speaks his name the way he refuses to speak hers out loud.
Sometimes, in the small hours before dawn, he lies awake with his arms folded under his head, staring at the underside of the deck above him, and the thought slips in like a knife:
What if she’s moved on?
His jaw tightens.
He rolls onto his side, back to the world, as if turning away could make the thought stop existing.
What if she’s forgotten?
He closes his eyes hard, like he can force the darkness to give him something else.
But the worst thought—the one he never lets fully form—sits behind all the others like a shadow at the edge of his vision:
What if he left her there, and the world took her the way it took Kuina?
He never says it.
He never admits it.
He just lies there, breathing shallowly, hand resting near his swords like steel could protect him from imagination.
And in the quiet between waves, when the ship creaks and the wind shifts and the world feels too vast to hold anything human—he hears her laugh again.
And it almost breaks him, every time, that it isn’t real.
~~~
He doesn’t decide to go home in one clean moment.
It happens the way rot happens in wood—slow, invisible, inevitable—until one day he stands on a dock somewhere far from Shimotsuki, staring at a horizon that looks like every other horizon he’s ever bled under, and the thought rises up so sharply it feels like a blade sliding between his ribs:
Enough.
Not enough strength. Not enough training. Not enough islands. Not enough naps stolen in the sun just to see her in dreams that dissolve the second he wakes. Not enough pretending he can cut a feeling out of himself by sharpening everything else.
He’s carried her like a phantom for years. A shadow that keeps pace no matter how fast he moves. He’s tried to starve it. He’s tried to drown it in the sea. He’s tried to bury it under ambition and steel and the stubborn forward motion that has always saved him from having to look back.
And still, she is there—her laugh in the wind, her eyes in the water, her name pressed against the inside of his mouth like a bruise he refuses to touch.
The kiss at the docks never stopped happening. It never faded into something he could file away as “past.” It lived in him like heat trapped under skin. It bled into everything: every fight, every victory, every quiet moment where the world was too big and he was too alone inside it.
He tells himself he’s going back because it’s time. Because he needs closure. Because he should check on the dojo. Because it’s been years and the path is long and he has the right.
But the truth is simpler, uglier, more honest than anything he’s ever said out loud:
He needs to see her.
He needs to put his eyes on her and prove she’s real. He needs to hear her voice without the ocean twisting it into memory. He needs to stand in front of her and tell her the things he’s never been able to shape into words—tell her he should’ve taken her with him, tell her he shouldn’t have left her behind like she was a life he could discard for a dream.
He doesn’t tell the crew much. Luffy grins and says something about detours, and Zoro grunts, and that’s enough. They’ve learned not to pry at the parts of him that don’t open. They’ve learned that Zoro’s silences are as final as his vows.
The sea carries him back anyway.
It feels wrong to see that shoreline again—too familiar, too small, as if the world is trying to pretend it never swallowed him. The scent hits him before the land fully forms: pine and damp earth and smoke from cooking fires. It slides into his lungs like a memory he didn’t ask for, and something in his chest tightens in a way he hasn’t felt in years.
When he steps off the boat, the ground under his feet is solid and unimpressed. It doesn’t greet him. It doesn’t accuse him. It just exists—like Shimotsuki has been quietly surviving without him the entire time.
He walks into town like a stranger wearing an old face.
The street is narrower than he remembers. The shops look smaller. The voices are familiar in shape but not in content. People glance at him and look away, then look again—eyes narrowing with recognition, mouths tightening in that instinctive calculation people do when something from their past shows up too unexpectedly.
He keeps his head down. His hand rests near his swords out of habit, not threat. He’s not here to fight. He’s here for something that scares him more than any enemy ever has.
He starts with the places she would be.
The dojo, first—because that’s where she always was, where she belonged the way a blade belongs in a hand. He expects to hear shinai cracking, Sensei’s voice slicing through the air, bodies moving in rhythm.
He finds the dojo. The gate. The worn stone path.
And he hears training.
But when he steps inside, his eyes skim the room and lock onto absence so fast it makes his vision sharpen, narrow.
She isn’t there.
The realization is immediate and physical—like stepping wrong on a stair and feeling your stomach drop before your foot even lands. His gaze flicks again, faster, more ruthless. Faces. Stances. Movement. Someone laughs—too high, too soft, not her—and the sound turns sour in his ears.
He stands in the doorway long enough that Sensei notices.
The older man’s eyes lift, and there is a pause—small but unmistakable—as recognition catches. Sensei doesn’t look shocked. He doesn’t look pleased. His face holds the kind of quiet that comes from having watched boys turn into men and men turn into ghosts.
“Roronoa,” Sensei says, voice steady.
Zoro’s throat is too tight for a greeting that isn’t a grunt. He bows because habit is stronger than emotion, because the movement is something he can do without thinking.
His eyes don’t leave the room.
“She’s not here,” he says.
It isn’t a question. He doesn’t trust his voice to make it one.
Sensei’s gaze shifts—not away, but somewhere past Zoro’s shoulder, as if the air behind him has weight.
“No,” he says.
Zoro’s jaw tightens so hard it aches. His fingers curl once against his palm, then relax. The motion is small, controlled, meant to keep something contained.
“Where is she,” he says, and the words come out rough, stripped down, like he’s scraping them out of his throat.
A boy near the rack hesitates, eyes darting between Sensei and Zoro like he can feel something dangerous in the way Zoro stands too still.
“She… left,” the boy says finally, quiet. “A while ago.”
Zoro doesn’t blink.
He feels the sentence in his ribs. Left. The word should soothe him. It should offer possibility. It should mean she’s out there somewhere, alive, moving, sharp and stubborn and impossible.
Instead it slides under his skin like a splinter.
Because she left.
And he didn’t know.
He gives Sensei a short nod that might pass for acknowledgement if anyone believes him. Then he turns and walks back out before the room can witness what his face threatens to do.
The town feels brighter than it should, the sun too clean. He walks faster. His boots hit the ground harder. He scans the streets with a hunger that has been building for years. Every woman’s silhouette becomes a test his heart fails too quickly. Every flicker of dark hair, every turn of a shoulder, every laugh caught on the wind yanks his attention like a hook.
He thinks he sees her once—standing near a stall, head tilted, posture familiar enough that his body reacts before thought. He steps toward her. The woman turns. Wrong eyes. Wrong mouth. Wrong.
His teeth grind.
He forces himself to look away.
If she left town, then she could be anywhere. The world is vast. The sea is merciless. The thought of her out there—alone, unprotected—tightens around his throat like a rope. He tells himself she can handle herself. He tells himself she always could. He tells himself she’s stronger than anyone here ever wanted to admit.
But the truth keeps bleeding through:
He should’ve taken her.
He should’ve—
He stops.
His feet halt without permission at the edge of the path that leads up the hill.
It’s not a place he’s walked in years. Not even in his mind. He’s carried Kuina’s grave like a stone in his gut, always there, always heavy, but he’s avoided the actual hill because the physical reality of it feels too clean for the damage it did.
But this hill… this is where she used to go when the dojo became too loud. When the sun was too harsh. When she needed space to breathe and think and pretend she wasn’t tethered to anyone’s expectations.
He doesn’t know why his feet take him there now.
Maybe because he needs to collect himself. Maybe because his body remembers before his mind does. Maybe because some part of him has always known that if she left, she would have left pieces of herself here anyway.
The grass is damp. The wind is colder than the town below. The sky stretches wide and indifferent, pale blue scraped thin at the edges.
He reaches the spot and stops—
because there’s stone.
Not a boulder. Not a marker for a path.
A grave stone.
It sits in the grass like a swallowed scream. Simple. Unpretentious. Wrong.
Zoro’s heart does something he has never felt in battle.
It doesn’t race. It doesn’t surge.
It drops.
Just drops, cold and heavy, as if it’s been yanked down into his stomach. The world goes sharply, violently quiet—wind muffled, birds silenced, blood roaring in his ears. His breath comes in once, harsh and shallow, and then stops like his body has forgotten the point of it.
He stands there for half a second too long, staring, not moving, because the shape of the stone doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t belong in her favorite spot. It doesn’t belong in his world.
Then his legs move.
He runs.
Not fast like he runs toward a fight—controlled, lethal. This is ugly. This is panicked. His boots tear at the wet ground. His balance doesn’t matter. The only thing that exists is the stone growing closer and closer, the terror thickening in his throat until it tastes like iron.
He drops to his knees in front of it so hard it jars his bones.
His hands hit the grass. His breath stutters. His eyes lock on the carved letters.
He reads them once and doesn’t understand.
He reads them again.
And the name becomes real in a way his mind cannot absorb.
It’s hers.
The sound that comes out of him is not a controlled exhale. Not a grunt. Not anything he’s ever allowed another person to hear.
It’s a yell.
Raw. Torn out of him like something ripping free.
He lurches forward and his hands slam into the dirt at the base of the stone, fingers digging into the soil like he can tear the truth out of the ground if he claws hard enough. Dirt scatters. Grass rips. He doesn’t feel the scrape of earth under his nails. He doesn’t feel anything except the sick, splitting pain in his chest that suddenly feels physical, like a blade has gone through him and lodged there.
He hits the ground again.
And again.
His shoulders shake, violent and uncontrolled, the way they never do in a fight. His breath comes in broken pulls. Something hot spills down his face and he doesn’t wipe it away, doesn’t even seem to realize until it drips off his chin and darkens the soil.
Crying.
Full. Ruined. The kind of crying he hasn’t done since he was a child—and even then, not like this. This is not grief that can be hidden. This is his body collapsing under weight it was never meant to carry.
His throat burns. His vision blurs. He snarls a wordless sound into the dirt, like rage and sorrow have fused into one thing and there’s nowhere to put it.
He fumbles at the stone again, eyes dragging down until they catch on the date.
Four months.
His lungs seize.
Four months.
The thought isn’t even a thought; it’s a punch. It detonates behind his ribs, behind his eyes. The world narrows to a single, vicious, repeating phrase:
If only.
If only he came back sooner. If only he turned around that day at the docks. If only he took her with him like she asked without asking. If only he stopped pretending ambition was the only thing that mattered.
If only—
His fist slams into the earth hard enough to sting. He does it again, and again, until the dirt is torn up and his knuckles scrape raw, until the pain in his hand is a pathetic, meaningless thing compared to the pain in his chest.
At some point the fury burns itself down into exhaustion. His arms shake. His head bows. His breath comes in ragged pulls that scrape his throat raw.
He collapses forward, forehead nearly touching the grass, and the world stays cruelly bright.
He stares at her name until the letters blur and sharpen and blur again.
And then memory floods him like salt water—relentless, cold, everywhere.
Her laugh in the dojo when he said something stupid and didn’t know he meant it. The way her eyes narrowed when she read him too well. The way her hair stuck to her neck after training, damp and dark. The way she looked when she smiled—rare, quick, like she didn’t hand those out freely.
How his heart always sped up when she was near, not in a soft romantic way, but in a tense, coiled way, like his body recognized danger and wanted it anyway. How it always went strangely quiet when he heard her laugh, like the sound rearranged something inside him. How something in him swelled whenever she looked at him like she saw past the armor and still chose to stand there.
She always cared.
Even when he was cruel. Even when he pretended she was nothing. Even when he used sparring as an excuse to punish the feeling he didn’t know how to carry. She stayed. She pressed back. She said his name like she wasn’t afraid of it.
And now—
this is all that’s left.
A stone.
A date.
And the hollow space where she should be.
Zoro’s breathing shakes, quieter now, but still broken at the edges. His hand lifts, trembling, and hovers for a moment before settling against the grass near the base of the grave, not touching the stone like it might burn him.
His jaw clenches so hard it hurts.
He tries to swallow and it feels like swallowing glass.
The blame doesn’t come as words. It comes as weight—pressing down on his shoulders, on his spine, on his ribs. A familiar kind of punishment, sharper than any training, because it has nowhere to go. He can’t cut it. He can’t fight it. He can’t outtrain it.
All the strength in the world doesn’t change a date carved into stone.
His lips part like he might speak—like he might say her name out loud, finally, properly, without using it like a weapon or a secret.
No sound comes.
Only a breath that breaks halfway through, turning into something raw and shaking.
He stays there anyway.
On his knees in the wet grass. Hands filthy. Face streaked with dirt and grief. Staring at the grave like if he looks long enough, she’ll come back.
Like the world will realize it stole the wrong thing.
Like he can still fix it.
But the wind only moves through the grass, indifferent.
And her name stays carved into stone, unmoving, final—
while Zoro’s chest keeps rising and falling, each breath a reminder that he is still alive.
And she isn’t.
“Zoro…?”
The name hits the air wrong—soft, disbelieving, like whoever said it doesn’t trust their own mouth. Like they’re testing reality.
Zoro doesn’t move at first. He stays kneeling in the torn earth, hands dirty, breath uneven, the grave stone still filling his vision the way the sea fills the horizon—endless, unavoidable. The wind keeps combing through the grass like it doesn’t know it should be quiet here. His shoulders rise and fall, heavy, as if each breath has to be dragged up from somewhere deep.
“Zoro.”
Again. Closer.
Something in him locks. The part that has always reacted faster than thought. He turns his head, slow—too slow, like turning might rip the last thin thread holding him together.
She stands a few paces away with flowers in her hands.
Not the cheap, bright kind sold in town. These are the ones that grow stubborn on hillsides, the ones Y/N used to pick and twist between her fingers when she was thinking too hard. The petals are pale against the dark green stems. They look soft in a way nothing here feels.
The girl holding them looks like she’s seen a ghost and decided to keep staring until it becomes solid.
Her face is familiar in structure to Y/N—same cheekbones, same tilt of the eyes—but grief has changed it. Not dramatically. Not neatly. Grief has just… tightened things. Pulled the softness out. Left something sharp behind, the way salt leaves a sting on skin.
Her throat moves as she swallows. Her fingers flex around the bouquet like she’s afraid to drop it.
“Why are you here?” she says. The words come out steady, but her voice is too thin at the edges, stretched tight. “What are you doing here?”
Zoro rises.
Not smoothly. Not with the controlled grace he uses in fights. He pushes up like the ground is trying to keep him, like his legs don’t remember what they’re supposed to do. Dirt falls from his hands. His knuckles are scraped raw. His face is streaked with something that dried and tightened, something he hasn’t wiped away because he didn’t have the right to clean it up.
When he stands, he’s taller than he used to be, broader—built by years of steel and storms. But right now he looks wrong in the same way the grave stone looks wrong: too solid for something that feels like it should be collapsing.
His eyes find hers and hold.
For a beat, neither of them speaks. The hill feels suspended. The flowers tremble slightly in her grip. Zoro’s chest tightens with a breath that doesn’t want to come.
He opens his mouth.
What comes out isn’t a greeting. It isn’t even a name. It’s a question stripped down to bone.
“What happened.”
Her sister flinches like the words hit her. Her gaze flicks—fast, involuntary—to the grave marker, to the carved letters, to the date that sits there like a verdict.
“You don’t get to ask that like you didn’t disappear,” she says, and the sentence lands quiet but brutal. Not screamed. Not dramatic. Just placed carefully, like a blade set on a table.
Zoro’s jaw tightens. The muscle in his cheek jumps once. He doesn’t look away.
“I came back,” he says, like it matters. Like it could mean anything now.
Her laugh is short and raw, the sound catching in her throat halfway through. She blinks hard, once, twice. The wet shine in her eyes doesn’t fall. Not yet. Her pride holds it back with trembling hands.
“She left,” she says, and now her voice breaks into something sharper, something that wants to cut. “A couple months after you did. Like you lit the fuse and walked away, and she just—” Her hand jerks, bouquet shaking. “She just couldn’t stay in this place without you. Without that… without the fight. Without the promise. I don’t even know.”
Zoro’s fingers curl once, then release, like he’s trying to remember how not to crush things.
“She left,” he repeats, and the words come out rougher, like they scrape on the way up.
“She wrote,” her sister says. “At first.”
She takes a breath that shudders, then forces the next words through anyway, because she looks like someone who’s told this story too many times and still can’t make it sound real.
“Letters. To me. To Sensei sometimes. To Dad.” Her eyes flick again to the grave. “She wrote about towns and ports and the kind of pirates you only hear about in rumors. She wrote like she was laughing in the margins—like she could make a joke out of anything. She wrote about fights.” Her mouth twists, ugly. “She wrote about who she cut down.”
Zoro’s gaze drops to the flowers for half a heartbeat, then back. His chest feels tight, packed with sand. He can almost see it—Y/N somewhere under a foreign sky, ink-stained fingers, that stubborn curve of her mouth as she writes like she’s daring the world to touch her.
“You knew,” he says, low.
Her sister’s eyes flash. “We knew she was alive. We knew she was moving. We knew she was herself. That was the point.” The last word catches, and she swallows hard. “And then… one day… she stopped.”
Silence spreads, heavy and slow. The wind shifts over the hill and presses cold against Zoro’s skin. He doesn’t shiver. He doesn’t breathe right.
“How long,” he asks, and his voice is too controlled, too tight, like he’s bracing for impact.
Her sister’s lips part. Close. Part again, as if the number has teeth.
“Four months,” she says.
Zoro’s face doesn’t change dramatically. There’s no outward collapse. No fresh scream. But something in him tightens so hard it’s visible—the way his shoulders draw back, the way his chin lifts a fraction like he’s been struck and refuses to bend.
Four months. The date on the stone. The space between then and now suddenly feels like an ocean he could’ve crossed if he’d just turned his head at the right time.
Her sister keeps going, because she can’t not. Because if she stops, the truth might swallow her whole.
“Dad went after her,” she says. “When the fourth letter didn’t come. When the fifth didn’t. When the silence got too loud to ignore. He—” Her voice shatters on the word and she drags it back into line with sheer will. “He followed the last place she’d written from. Asked questions. Paid people who shouldn’t be paid. Tracked rumors like footprints.”
Zoro’s fists hang at his sides. His hands are still dirty. His fingers flex once. Again.
“She was killed,” her sister says, and now the words are thinner, more fragile, like they’re made of glass. “By some man named Blackbeard.”
The name lands in Zoro’s body like a bell struck underwater—low, heavy, felt more than heard. His eyes go very still. The air seems to press closer. Somewhere in the distance, the town continues to exist, unaware.
Her sister’s breathing turns uneven. The flowers tremble in her grip.
“Dad found her,” she says, and now her voice is full of something rawer than anger—something that makes her mouth distort like she’s trying not to gag on the memory. “He found… what was left. They didn’t even bury her. They just—” Her words break off, and the next breath comes sharp, ragged. “They left her there. Like she was nothing.”
Zoro’s throat works. A sound tries to rise—something animal—and he crushes it down so hard his jaw aches.
“It didn’t look like her,” her sister whispers, and the whisper is worse than yelling. “Do you understand that? It didn’t—” She blinks and the tears finally spill, hot and furious, tracking down her face without permission. She wipes them away with the back of her wrist like she’s insulted by them. “It looked like something else. Like the world took her and made her into a warning.”
Zoro’s gaze snaps to the grave again, as if he expects the stone to argue. As if he expects the carved name to contradict her. His breath comes out in a slow, harsh pull that drags against his throat.
He doesn’t say I’m sorry.
Not because he doesn’t want to.
Because the words are too small. Because they would fall at her feet like a coin offered to the dead.
Her sister steps closer, flowers still clenched, her face wet and fierce. She looks up at him—this legendary swordsman with dirt under his nails and grief on his mouth—and her expression twists into something like betrayal.
“Why didn’t you take her with you?” she spits, and the question lands like a slap. “Why did you leave her here like—like she was an afterthought? Like she was just something you could—” Her voice cracks, and she shoves it forward anyway, forcing it to stay sharp. “She loved you. Everyone saw it. She loved you even when she pretended she didn’t. Even when you were cruel. Even when you acted like she was nothing.”
Zoro’s head turns a fraction, slow, like the words are physically forcing him to move.
“She wasn’t—” His voice catches on something jagged. He clears it, rough. “She wasn’t supposed to—”
“To what?” her sister snaps. “To die? Yeah. Neither was Kuina. Neither was she. And yet here we are.”
The hill feels colder. The wind smells like wet grass and salt and the faint sweetness of the flowers she’s holding—flowers that should be an offering, not a weapon, and yet everything is a weapon right now.
Zoro’s shoulders rise with a breath. When it leaves him, it’s sharp, controlled to the edge of breaking.
“She didn’t ask,” he says, and the sentence is a lie shaped like truth. He doesn’t know if she asked. He doesn’t know what she would’ve said if he had offered. He doesn’t know because he never gave her the chance.
Her sister’s laugh breaks again, ugly. “She didn’t have to ask. You knew. You knew and you left anyway.”
Zoro’s eyes narrow—not at her, but at the world behind her. At everything that led to this. His gaze is bright, too bright, the way steel looks when it’s been heated.
He shifts his weight, and the movement is subtle but final. Like a blade being drawn an inch out of its sheath.
Her sister sees it.
The way his posture changes. The way his hands go still. The way his face empties out of everything soft and becomes something else—something focused, lethal, stripped down to one single direction.
“Don’t,” she says, and her voice is smaller now, not because she’s afraid of him, but because she recognizes that look. She recognizes a man choosing death and calling it purpose. “Don’t make that face.”
Zoro’s eyes flick to her once, and there’s nothing comforting in them. No apology. No tenderness. Just a quiet, brutal clarity.
“I’m going to kill him,” he says.
It isn’t a threat. It isn’t bravado. It’s a statement of fact, the way he used to say I’m not losing when he was ten and the world was still small enough to be conquered with stubbornness.
Her sister’s mouth opens like she wants to scream at him again, but what comes out is a broken sound instead.
“You can’t,” she says, and the words are soaked in exhaustion. “You think you’re the first one to say that?” She gestures with the flowers, shaking, petals trembling. “Dad is already out there. He left weeks ago. Months ago. He left like he was chasing her ghost, like he could drag her back by sheer will. And you—” Her voice catches hard. “You’ll both end up dead like she did.”
Zoro steps forward. Past the grave. Past the name. Past the date.
Past the life he could’ve had.
The cost sits in his chest like a weight he can finally name: this is what ambition demands. This is what it takes when you keep choosing the horizon over the hands that tried to hold you. This is what you pay when you turn love into something you’ll deal with “later,” as if later is guaranteed.
Later doesn’t exist on a grave stone.
Her sister reaches out without thinking, fingers brushing his sleeve, desperate and furious. “Zoro—”
He stops—not because her touch holds him, but because for half a heartbeat something in him remembers what it feels like to be reached for.
His head turns slightly, just enough that she can see the side of his face.
The grief is still there, buried deep. The regret is there too—coiled, silent, poisonous. But above it all is that same stubborn devotion that has ruined him twice now.
He looks at her like a man standing in the aftermath of his own choices.
“I don’t care,” he says.
And it’s not said like a cruel dismissal.
It’s said like surrender.
Like he has finally accepted that the dream and the love and the punishment have fused into one thing, and the only way forward is through blood.
He keeps walking.
Behind him, her sister makes a sound that is half sob, half laugh, and she lifts the bouquet with shaking hands. For a second she looks like she might throw it at him. Like she might hit him with the only softness she has left.
Instead, she steps to the grave and lays the flowers down with trembling care, as if the act is the only way to keep her hands from breaking.
Zoro doesn’t look back.
He walks down the hill with dirt still under his nails and her name still carved into his vision, each step heavy, measured, final—like a man paying a debt he didn’t understand he was taking on until it came due.
And somewhere in the wind—between pine and salt and the quiet ache of everything he can’t undo—he thinks he hears her laugh again.
summary: you grow up sparring beside Zoro, watching him turn grief and rivalry into obsession, never realizing the quiet, aching devotion between you is mutual until the day he leaves without a word. When you chase him to the docks and finally explode with everything he’s been holding in
I’ve known him since the age when your bones still feel like they belong to someone else—when your hands are too small for the grip and the wooden floorboards of a dojo feel like an entire world because you haven’t learned there are bigger ones yet.
Seven.
The day Roronoa Zoro walked in, the light outside was too bright for how serious he looked. The sun was doing that warm, lazy thing it does in Shimotsuki Village—gold pooling on the stone path, insects humming like they’ve got nowhere else to be—and he cut straight through it like it didn’t touch him. A boy with scrapes on his knees and dirt under his nails, jaw set so tight it made his whole face look older than it should’ve been. He didn’t come in with manners. He didn’t come in with hesitation. He came in like the door was a test and he’d already decided he’d passed.
“I want to duel.”
Not please. Not I’d like to train. Just a demand, thrown into the quiet like a blade.
The dojo smelled like sweat and pine and old wood warmed by bodies that had been moving for hours. There were older boys there—teenagers, even—men with shoulders already broad and voices already deep enough to feel like thunder when they laughed. They looked at him like he was a stray dog that had wandered inside. Someone snorted. Someone told him to go home. Someone else said it wasn’t a playground. I remember the way he didn’t blink through any of it. Not the laughter, not the dismissal, not the way they towered over him. His eyes stayed forward like the only thing in the room that mattered was the idea of winning.
I was sitting off to the side, knees pulled to my chest, my own shinai resting against my shoulder like a promise I wasn’t sure I could keep. I remember thinking he looked like a storm that hadn’t learned it was supposed to be afraid of the sky.
Sensei didn’t indulge him with softness. He didn’t scold him for his arrogance either. He just watched Zoro the way you watch a spark you’re not sure you should let land on dry grass. Then he motioned, and Kuina stepped forward.
Zoro held his shinai like it was already part of his hand, like he’d been born gripping something meant for killing. He wasn’t graceful. Not yet. He was all straight lines and stubborn weight, swinging too hard, overcommitting, feet a heartbeat behind what his head wanted. Kuina knocked him down like it was nothing—tap, sweep, thud—and the room laughed again.
Zoro got back up.
He didn’t rub his elbow. He didn’t shake his wrist. He didn’t even look at the floor where he’d hit. He only looked at the girl in front of him, breathing hard through his nose, eyes burning with something that didn’t feel childish at all. When he lost again, he got up again. When he lost a third time, he got up like falling was just part of standing.
It was the first time I understood that some people don’t hear “no” the way the rest of us do. Some people hear it like a challenge. Like an invitation.
He stayed.
The weeks after that turned into a pattern that wrapped itself around the dojo like smoke. Zoro showing up early, leaving late. Zoro getting knocked down, and getting back up. Zoro’s knuckles whitening around the shinai until I started to notice the way the wood creaked under his grip. He was inexperienced, but he was hungry in a way that made the older boys quieter over time. Hunger has a sound. It’s not loud. It’s constant. It’s the scrape of sandals across floorboards at dawn, the sharp exhale in the middle of a kata, the way someone keeps moving long after everyone else has stopped.
That was the thing about Zoro, even then: the world didn’t have to tell him what mattered. He decided. And once he decided, it was like everything else became background noise.
By the time we were ten, it wasn’t a dojo anymore. It was a furnace. Zoro moved through it like he was trying to turn himself into something unbreakable. He was better than boys twice his age. Better than men who’d come in for friendly matches and left with tight smiles and bruises they didn’t talk about. He wasn’t just strong—he was sharp. Every day, he refined. Every day, he cut off something soft inside himself and replaced it with discipline.
Sometimes I’d catch myself watching him while I pretended not to. The way his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. The way his jaw clenched when Sensei corrected him, like the correction physically hurt. The way he would pause—just a second—after landing a strike, as if he was measuring the distance between what he’d done and what he wanted to be able to do.
I didn’t tell anyone the truth of it, but there were days I wanted to hate him for it. Not because he was cruel. Not because he was arrogant—though he could be, in that blunt, unpolished way that made other kids bristle. I wanted to hate him because he made wanting feel dangerous. Because standing beside him made my own limits glow like lanterns in the dark. Because he made the gap between trying and becoming look like something you could bleed through.
So I bled through it.
I started staying later too. I started coming in earlier. I started repeating the same swings until my shoulders burned and my hands blistered, because there was a kind of jealousy that didn’t look like bitterness—it looked like devotion. It looked like refusing to be left behind.
At first, Zoro refused to spar with me.
He’d spar with anyone. He’d spar with boys bigger than him, older than him, cockier than him. He’d spar with the same people over and over, chasing improvement like it owed him something. But when I stepped forward, when my name was called, when Sensei’s gaze flicked between us as if weighing a decision, Zoro would tilt his head away like he hadn’t heard.
His refusal wasn’t loud. It was worse than loud. It was quiet. Dismissive. Like my existence on the mat wasn’t worth the time it would take to draw his shinai.
And because I was ten and pride still lived too close to the surface, because I didn’t know how to carry anything gently, I didn’t beg. I didn’t ask. I just trained harder. I made my movements cleaner. I made my strikes faster. I made my stance steadier. I turned every correction into something I swallowed and turned into muscle.
Then came the day Sensei paired us anyway.
No warning. No explanation. Just his voice cutting across the room, calm and absolute, and suddenly it was me stepping onto the mat and Zoro across from me, his shoulders going subtly rigid like he’d just been told to swallow something bitter.
He didn’t look at my face. He looked at my feet. My grip. My stance. His eyes scanned me the way a swordsman scans an opponent—not with emotion, but with calculation. And for a second, something like surprise flickered across him, gone as soon as it came. Like he’d expected the same girl he could ignore, and instead found someone who’d been sharpening herself in silence.
We bowed.
The first clash was hard enough to rattle my arms. The second made my fingers sting. Zoro moved fast, aggressive, not wasting an inch of space between us, trying to end it quickly the way he always did with people he thought he could overwhelm. I didn’t give him that. I slid back, angled away, met force with timing instead of brute strength. The shinai cracked against mine, the sound echoing through the dojo like a warning.
Minutes passed. Then more minutes. The other kids started to slow their own spars, eyes drifting toward ours. You can feel it when people start watching you. The air changes. The silence gathers.
Zoro’s breathing changed first.
Not heavier—Zoro never let it get heavy—but sharper. Like each inhale was being cut into smaller, more controlled pieces. Like he was trying to keep something from spilling out.
He pressed harder. I matched him. He feinted left; I didn’t bite. He struck high; I stepped under and answered with a clean counter that stopped a hair from his ribs. We reset. We clashed again. Over and over. A back-and-forth that didn’t give either of us the relief of a win.
It wasn’t that I was better.
It was worse.
I was equal.
I saw it in the minute shifts of his body—the way his shoulders tightened, the way his grip grew white-knuckled, the way his eyes narrowed like the world had suddenly become smaller and more intolerable. Every time our shinai met, it was like he could feel his plateau under his feet. Like the ground he’d been climbing had flattened without permission, and I was standing there proving it.
And I—God, I hated how much I liked it.
Not the frustration. Not the strain. But the fact that for once, he couldn’t look past me. For once, I wasn’t background. For once, the space between us was filled with something electric and dangerous, something that made the hair on my arms lift even as sweat ran down my spine.
At some point, Zoro’s strikes got rougher.
Not sloppy. Never sloppy. Just… heavier. More force behind them. More insistence. Like he was trying to push me back through sheer will. When I held my ground, when I answered him with the same stubborn precision, his jaw tightened until it looked like it might crack.
And then—this small, sharp thing I’ve never forgotten—I smiled.
Not because it was funny. Not because I was smug. It just happened, involuntary, a tiny curve of my mouth as if my body couldn’t help but recognize what this was: a fight that meant something. A fight that said I belonged here too.
Zoro saw it.
His eyes snapped up, and for a heartbeat, it felt like standing too close to a flame. There was no heat on his face, no expression that could be called obvious, but something shifted in the way he looked at me—as if my smile had struck somewhere that wasn’t supposed to be exposed.
His next attack came so fast I barely caught it.
Wood slammed against wood. My feet slid. The floorboards bit into my soles. My arms shook with the impact, and for a moment the world narrowed to the sound of our breath and the crack of our shinai and the tight coil in my stomach that didn’t have a name yet.
When Sensei finally stepped between us, it wasn’t because either of us had been defeated. It was because he could see what we couldn’t, or maybe because he could see it too clearly: that neither of us was going to stop. That we would keep going until something broke—not the shinai, not the stance, but something inside.
“Enough.”
The word landed like a blade between ribs. Clean. Final.
We froze, both of us panting through our noses, both of us refusing to let our shoulders slump. My hands ached so badly I could feel my pulse in my palms. Zoro’s eyes were still locked on me like the spar hadn’t ended, like he was still fighting in his head.
When we bowed, it was stiff. When we stepped back, it was reluctant.
And as I walked off the mat, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my wrist, I felt his gaze like weight at my spine—present even when he pretended it wasn’t. The kind of watching that isn’t admiration. The kind that feels like being measured, like being challenged, like being resented for existing in the exact place you’re standing.
From that day on, Zoro trained harder after fighting me.
You could see it in the way he stayed behind after everyone else left, striking into the empty air until the dojo went quiet enough to hear the night insects outside. You could see it in the way his arms trembled when he finally set the shinai down. You could see it in the way he stopped sparring with me unless Sensei ordered it, like he’d decided avoidance was a kind of control.
But even when he avoided me, I could feel him.
That corner-of-the-eye attention. That constant recalculation. That refusal to let me exist without becoming part of his equation. He’d walk past me like I wasn’t there, and then his gaze would catch—just for a second—on my hands, my stance, my training form, as if he couldn’t help but check whether I’d improved since the last time we’d stood across from each other.
Like I was a mirror he hated.
Like I was a limit he couldn’t cut through.
And the worst part—what I didn’t admit, not to anyone, not even to myself when the dojo was empty and I was alone with the echoes of our strikes—was that I started to live for those moments. The ones where he couldn’t ignore me. The ones where his focus sharpened until it was almost painful. The ones where the air between us got so thick it felt like breathing underwater.
Because if Zoro looked at you like that, even for a heartbeat, you couldn’t pretend you didn’t matter.
Not to him.
Not anymore.
After Kuina dies, the dojo stays standing, but it stops feeling alive.
The same floorboards still creak under bare feet. The same pine-sweat scent still clings to the air. Sensei’s voice still cuts clean when he corrects a stance, and shinai still crack together like thunder. But the sound doesn’t get swallowed the way it used to. It hangs. It echoes back at you like the room is too empty to absorb it. Like laughter has been scraped out of the walls and no one knows how to put it back.
Kuina’s absence isn’t loud. It’s everywhere in small, vicious ways—an unoccupied space in the line, a silence where her breath used to be, the way no one reaches for the same corner of the weapon rack anymore. Even the sunlight feels wrong in here now, too bright on mornings that should’ve been ordinary, too pale on afternoons that used to feel warm.
Zoro doesn’t collapse. He doesn’t give the world anything neat to hold.
He just… disappears in pieces while still standing right in front of you.
The first week, he talks even less than usual, which I didn’t think was possible. The second, he stops meeting anyone’s eyes. Not out of shame—out of refusal. Like faces are too human, like if he looks too long he’ll be forced to remember he’s still a kid and kids aren’t supposed to carry this. He starts arriving before the sky has fully changed color, when the courtyard stones are cold enough to numb your feet. He leaves after the shadows have already flooded the path back to the village, when the air bites at your knuckles and you can barely see your own breath.
And the way he trains changes, too. Not in technique—his technique keeps getting sharper, more precise, like grief is sanding him down into something unforgiving. It changes in intensity. In purpose. He swings like he’s trying to carve out anything soft that might still be inside him. He hits until his hands split and the blood slicks the wood. He doesn’t wrap them. He doesn’t slow down. He just keeps gripping harder, like pain is a door he can slam shut if he pushes through it fast enough.
I watch him sometimes when he thinks no one is looking—under the thin wash of early light, shoulders rigid, jaw clenched, breath controlled like he’s forcing it into obedience. His arms tremble and he doesn’t stop. He trembles harder. He goes again. There’s a kind of anger in it that doesn’t even feel aimed outward anymore. It feels like he’s at war with his own body for daring to be human.
The dojo gives him space. We all do. Even the older boys move around him like you move around a blade left on the floor—careful not to step on it, careful not to get cut.
But then Sensei pairs us.
It happens like any other pairing. Like routine. Like we’re still living in the world where Kuina can walk through the door and make everyone’s dreams feel possible.
My name. His. The room shifts anyway—people’s attention snapping toward us, because they remember what we are to each other: a draw that refuses to break. A mirror that doesn’t let either of us lie.
When I step onto the mat, my grip feels wrong. The shinai feels too light in my hands, like a toy, like something that used to be harmless because we all pretended it was. Zoro bows without looking at me, the motion stiff and mechanical. His shoulders don’t loosen when he raises his shinai.
They lock.
The first strike hits like it’s meant to knock the air out of me.
Wood snaps against wood, sharp enough to rattle my teeth. My arms jerk back. My feet slide. There’s no warm-up, no testing rhythm, no familiar back-and-forth to find our balance. He’s already inside the fight like he’s been waiting for an excuse to turn his grief into impact.
I recover on instinct, bring my shinai up, answer with a counter that used to earn something bright in his eyes—something almost alive.
He doesn’t even blink.
He drives in again, harder, the space between us crushed by sheer force. A second blow. A third. Each one lands heavy, unforgiving, like he’s trying to break through me rather than beat me. My hands sting. Heat shoots up my arms with every catch. When I slip aside, he adjusts instantly—not with playfulness, not with curiosity, but with a cold efficiency that makes my stomach tighten. There’s no boy in his movement now, no familiar irritation at a draw.
Just pressure. Relentless forward motion. A need to win that feels like a desperate kind of violence.
At one point, his shinai clips my shoulder—too close, too hard—and pain blooms white-hot for an instant. The room inhales. I feel it without looking up, that collective flinch, that sudden awareness that this isn’t normal. My stance wobbles and I force it back into place, teeth clenched, because the shock isn’t the pain.
It’s him.
The way he didn’t pull the strike. The way he doesn’t seem to care whether it lands clean or cruel.
When our shinai clash again, he leans in, close enough that I can see the sweat at his temples and the tiny cut near his brow he hasn’t bothered to clean. His breathing is controlled, but there’s a roughness underneath, like he’s grinding himself down from the inside.
“Zoro,” I say before I can stop myself.
His eyes flicker—just a fraction—and for that split second I see the edge of something raw behind the steel. Then it seals up again. His jaw tightens. He hits harder.
It keeps happening after that.
Spar after spar, he comes at me like the mat is a battlefield he can’t afford to lose. His patience evaporates. When I catch him with a clean counter, he doesn’t respect it—he punishes it, surging forward again with a brutal intensity that feels less like training and more like a test I’m not allowed to fail. The worst part is the way my body starts to answer him in the same language. Impact. Pressure. Teeth-gritted endurance. I can feel myself being dragged toward that coldness, dragged toward meeting him blow for blow just to keep up, and it scares me how quickly it starts to feel normal.
One evening, I find him in the courtyard long after everyone else has gone. Moonlight turns the stones silver. The air is cold enough to sting. Zoro is still swinging, shirt dark with sweat despite the chill, breath coming out in harsh, controlled bursts. His hands are split open. Blood slicks the shinai, staining the wood in a thin, ugly smear that makes my stomach twist.
I step into the edge of the courtyard, and the gravel crunches under my sandal. It sounds too loud, like a mistake.
“You’re bleeding,” I say.
He doesn’t stop. The shinai whistles through the air again, and again, like it’s answering for him.
“Zoro.” I take another step, and the cold bites my ankles. “You’re going to ruin your hands.”
His swing snaps even sharper, like my voice is sand in the gears. “So?”
The word is flat, careless, thrown over his shoulder without even a glance.
My throat tightens. I move closer anyway, because watching him destroy himself feels like standing still in a burning room. “If you can’t hold your sword, what—”
He turns so fast it’s like a strike.
His eyes lock onto me, bright and hard in the moonlight. His face is set into something rigid, furious—not at me, not really, but at the fact that I’m here, that I’ve seen him like this, that my presence is a hand on the edge he’s leaning over.
“You don’t know what I can do,” he says, clipped, each word shaved down to something sharp enough to cut.
I look at his hands. The blood. The tremor in his grip he’s pretending isn’t there. My own fingers curl at my sides without me meaning to. I can feel my pulse in my palms.
“Then show me you can stop,” I say, and it comes out lower than I expect, steadier, like a challenge I’m forcing myself to make because softness won’t reach him.
His gaze flashes. His jaw clenches so hard I can see the muscle jump.
For a second, I think he might swing at me—he won’t, not truly, but the energy of it is there, the instinct to turn everything into a fight because fighting is the only thing that makes sense now.
Instead, he swings again. Harder. Like he can drown me out with motion.
Something inside me snaps, not into anger that burns hot, but into a cold, sharp steadiness that makes my voice come out like steel.
“You’re not even listening to your own body,” I say, stepping closer until I’m right there at the edge of his space. “You’re acting like pain is proof you’re doing it right.”
His eyes narrow. “It is.”
The words are immediate, automatic—like he’s been repeating them to himself until they became truth.
I stare at him. At the blood on the shinai. At the way his shoulders shake and he refuses to let them. At the way he’s trying to grind himself into something that can’t be stolen.
My breath leaves my lungs in a short, harsh burst. “You think Kuina wanted this?”
His name on my tongue is a risk. I can feel it before it even leaves me, like touching a blade edge.
Zoro’s stillness is sudden and violent.
For a heartbeat the courtyard goes silent except for the wind and my own breathing. His hands tighten around the shinai until the wood creaks.
“Don’t,” he says.
It’s low. Not loud. Worse than loud.
I don’t back away. My spine stays straight. My voice comes out steady even as my chest feels too tight. “Say her name,” I push, because I can’t stand the way everyone has turned her into a ghost you’re not allowed to look at. “Just once. Like she was real.”
His eyes flare. Something sharp and wounded flashes through them so fast it almost doesn’t exist.
Then his mouth twists and he throws a cruelty at me like a shield, because cruelty is control.
“You want to play hero?” he bites out. “Go train harder.”
The words hit, not because they’re clever, but because they’re aimed to make me step back.
I take one step closer instead.
My gaze drops to his hands—split skin, blood, the tremor he’s forcing into stillness—and when I look back up at him, my voice is quiet, hard, shaking at the edges in a way I refuse to let become tears.
“If you keep doing this,” I say, “you’re going to get yourself killed in a place that isn’t even the sea.”
His nostrils flare. His jaw tightens. His shoulders rise, locked. For a second it looks like he might swing again just to make the conversation stop.
But he doesn’t.
He just stands there, shinai in his bleeding hands, staring at me like I’m the problem because I won’t let him disappear quietly.
“And if you think,” I add, voice dropping lower, “that I’m going to stand here and watch you do it like it’s some kind of honor, you’re insane.”
The silence that follows is heavy enough to crush.
Zoro’s eyes flick down—just once—to his hands. Then back to mine, hard again, furious again, like acknowledging anything human in himself is the same as surrender.
“Get out of my way,” he says.
The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They’re the only thing he can offer me right now: a refusal wrapped in command.
I don’t move.
My fingers curl tighter at my sides, nails biting skin, because standing still feels like letting him win against himself. My voice comes out rough, scraped.
“You can hit me as hard as you want on the mat,” I say. “But don’t you dare act surprised when I don’t let you bleed out in front of me.”
His stare holds mine for a long, suffocating second—bright, angry, trapped.
Then he turns away like he can’t stand the sight of me caring.
And the shinai whistles through the cold air again, and again, and again, as if he can beat the world into silence.
But the blood keeps dripping.
And I keep standing there, refusing to leave, because even if he won’t admit it, even if he tries to drive it out of me with cruelty and force—
someone has to stay.
~~~
Time doesn’t soften him. It sharpens him into something the dojo can’t quite hold, like he’s growing beyond the room that raised him and the wood walls know it. The years stack quietly—summer heat pressing sweat into our skin, winter cold biting our knuckles raw—and somewhere in the middle of all that repetition, I realize the way I look at him has changed without asking my permission.
It isn’t sudden. It’s worse than sudden. It’s gradual enough that you can pretend it’s nothing while it becomes everything.
It starts as vigilance. The kind you develop when someone you train beside insists on being reckless with their own body, when you start counting their injuries like tally marks you can’t erase. A cut at the brow. Split knuckles. Bruises blooming under skin like ink in water. A shoulder that clicks wrong when he rolls it. He shrugs them off with the same stubbornness he applies to everything else, but I can’t shrug off the sight of blood on his face the way he can. I can’t shrug off the way he keeps moving like his body is something disposable, like pain is only proof he’s still climbing.
So I watch. I hover without hovering. I stay close without admitting it’s closeness. I learn to keep my concern silent because he flinches at softness like it’s a threat, because he bites down on anything that sounds like pity, because he has this rigid, almost violent loyalty to his own pride.
And somewhere between one spar and the next, I start to feel it in my chest when he gets hurt—an ache that doesn’t match the injury, something too deep and too personal to be explained away as simple familiarity. I tell myself it’s one-sided. I tell myself it has to be, because what kind of person would look at someone like Zoro—someone built out of steel and refusal—and think there’s room for anyone else inside him besides the dream?
But then moments happen. Small. Unavoidable. Like cracks in ice that show you the water underneath.
Like the day I tended to the cut on his face.
It’s late afternoon, the kind of light that turns the dojo’s open doorway into a bright rectangle and makes dust motes look like drifting embers. Training has thinned the room out. The younger kids are gone. Most of the older boys have wandered off, laughing low and loose with exhaustion. The air is warm and damp, the floorboards darkened in places by sweat.
Zoro’s cut isn’t dramatic, but it’s ugly in its simplicity—just above his cheekbone, where a shinai caught him at the wrong angle. Blood has dried at the edge in a thin line, and every time he wipes at it with the back of his wrist, it smears instead of cleaning. It makes him look like he’s wearing violence on his face like a badge.
He tries to leave.
He always tries to leave before anyone can fuss.
I catch his sleeve as he passes, my fingers curling into the fabric. Not hard. Just enough that he has to register me. His body tenses instantly, like touch is a language he doesn’t want spoken.
“Sit,” I say.
He pauses, eyes flicking down to my hand like he’s deciding whether to peel it off. His jaw tightens. “It’s nothing.”
The words are automatic. The tone is flat. But he doesn’t pull away. Not immediately. That’s how I know he’s tired in a way he hates admitting: his pride doesn’t have the energy to be as sharp as usual.
“It’s on your face,” I answer, because logic is safer than concern. “Unless you want to walk home looking like you lost a fight with a fence.”
That earns me a small twitch at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile, more like the ghost of one trying to escape. It vanishes as quickly as it comes. His eyes narrow, irritated that I got anything out of him at all.
He takes one more step toward the door anyway, stubbornness dragging him forward out of habit, and I tighten my grip just a fraction. The fabric creases under my fingers.
“Zoro.”
His name doesn’t come out soft. It comes out steady. A line drawn.
He stops.
For a second, he stands there like a man deciding whether to pick a fight or surrender to something he can’t name. Then he exhales through his nose, sharp, and turns back with that controlled annoyance he uses when he’s losing ground.
He drops down onto the edge of the low bench by the wall with more force than necessary. The wood creaks. He sits like he’s being punished, elbows on his knees, head angled slightly away from me as if even offering me his face is too much.
I kneel in front of him with the small cloth and the bowl Sensei keeps for injuries—water that’s gone lukewarm, smelling faintly of clean metal. The distance between us is wrong immediately. Too close. I can feel the heat radiating off him, leftover from training, from exertion, from sheer stubborn life. I can see the tiny pores of his skin, the fine sheen of sweat drying along his temple. His lashes cast shadows under his eyes in the golden light.
“You’re making a big deal out of it,” he mutters.
I dip the cloth, squeeze it out, and bring it up toward his cheek. “You’re making it a bigger deal by acting like you’re not.”
He huffs, a sound of irritation, but he stays still. That alone is unnatural. Zoro is never still unless he’s forced to be. Stillness makes him restless. Stillness reminds him of graves.
The cloth touches his skin and he flinches so fast it’s almost invisible. His whole face tightens, eyes narrowing like he’s about to snap at me, like pain is an insult.
“Hold still,” I say, and my voice comes out lower without me meaning it to.
His gaze flicks to mine. It catches. Lingers a beat longer than it should. There’s a strange brightness there—not warmth, not softness, something sharper. Like awareness. Like the fact that I’m kneeling between his knees and he can feel my breath when I lean in.
My hand steadies, but my heart doesn’t.
I wipe at the dried blood carefully. The cloth drags slightly against the cut and he sucks a breath in through his teeth. His jaw clenches hard enough that I can see the muscle flex.
“You’re tense,” I murmur, not thinking.
“I’m fine.”
“Mm.”
That sound leaves me without permission—skeptical, almost amused—and I hate how intimate it feels in the quiet.
I lean closer, because I have to, because the cut is right there and the light is fading and I need to see. The smell of him hits me in the space between us: sweat, wood, the faint mineral tang of blood. His breathing shifts. Not louder. Just… altered. Controlled, but sharper around the edges.
My fingers brush his cheekbone as I angle his face slightly toward the light.
And he freezes.
Not the way he freezes in a spar—ready to strike, ready to counter. This is different. This is Zoro caught somewhere he doesn’t have a stance for. His shoulders go rigid. His eyes go wide for a fraction of a second before he forces them back into that familiar narrowed glare, but the glare doesn’t land right because the rest of him has gone too still.
My own breath catches in my throat, trapped.
His face is too close. Close enough that I can see a faint freckle near the edge of his nose. Close enough that the warmth of his skin feels like it’s reaching for mine. Close enough that the silence between us fills up with things we never say.
For a heartbeat, we both just… hover there.
My hand at his jaw. His eyes on my mouth and then snapping away like it burns. The cloth damp against his cut. His breath grazing my knuckles. The world narrowed to a small, dangerous space where neither of us knows how to move without tipping into something irreversible.
Zoro’s gaze flicks back to mine, and there’s this split-second of something raw—like he’s about to do something stupid just to break the tension, like he’s about to shove me away or pull me closer, and he doesn’t know which impulse is worse.
Then the dojo door slides open with a sharp scrape.
Footsteps. A voice. One of the older boys calling out for Sensei, casual, unaware.
The moment shatters so cleanly it feels like a blade through glass.
I jerk back as if I’ve been struck. My hand drops. The cloth almost falls from my fingers. Zoro’s head snaps away and his posture resets into something hard and closed, like he’s slamming shutters down over a window.
“Ah—sorry,” the boy says, pausing when he sees us, eyes widening slightly at the sight of me kneeling there. He laughs awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Zoro’s voice comes out too sharp. “You didn’t.”
I stand too fast. My knees protest. My face feels hot in a way the warm air can’t explain. I keep my eyes on the bowl in my hands like it’s suddenly the only safe thing in the world.
The boy mumbles something about coming back later and slides the door shut again, the scrape loud in the quiet.
When we’re alone, the silence feels heavier than before, not because it’s empty, but because it’s full of what almost happened and didn’t.
Zoro clears his throat like it’s clogged. “Are you done.”
The words are rough. Not cruel. Just blunt enough to be armor.
I force my hands steady. “Almost.”
He doesn’t look at me again while I finish cleaning the cut. I don’t look at him either, not directly. We both pretend the air between us hasn’t changed shape.
But when I tie the cloth off and pull away, I feel his gaze on me like weight—quick, sharp, gone the moment I shift.
Later, when I’m alone, I find myself pressing my fingers to my own jaw where his warmth lingered on my skin, as if touch can leave an imprint like bruises do.
And I hate myself a little for how much I want it again.
It gets worse during spars.
There’s a day, months later, when the sky outside is grey and low and the dojo feels dim even with the doors open. Rain threatens in the distance. The air is thick with that pre-storm pressure that makes everything feel on edge. We’re paired up, as we often are now, because Sensei has learned what happens when our blades meet: it forces us both to improve or break.
Zoro comes at me the way he always does—direct, relentless, forcing me to respond, forcing my body to stay sharp. Our shinai clash and the sound is loud and clean, echoing off the wooden walls. His eyes are focused, narrowed, intense. Mine are too. The world tightens to footwork and timing and the familiar burn of exertion.
Then he sweeps.
It’s a move he’s perfected over years—low, fast, meant to unbalance. I jump it, barely, and land wrong because the floor is damp from humidity and my foot skids half an inch. Half an inch is enough.
My center shifts. My shinai tilts. I overcorrect.
Zoro moves on instinct. He drives forward to capitalize, too fast to stop once he’s committed, and our bodies collide in a tangle of momentum and surprise. His shoulder hits mine. My back hits the mat with a dull thud, the air jolting out of my lungs.
And then he’s on top of me.
Not crushing me—he catches himself with his hands, weight braced, but the closeness is immediate and violent in its intimacy. His palms thump down on either side of my head, trapping me in the space between his arms. His hair falls forward, damp with sweat, brushing his forehead. His breath hits my face, hot and controlled, and for a second the whole dojo goes silent around the sound of my heartbeat roaring in my ears.
I blink up at him.
His eyes are wide for a fraction of a second, then narrow sharply like he’s furious at the situation, furious at himself, furious at the way his body reacted before his mind could catch up. His jaw clenches hard. I can see his throat move as he swallows.
He should get off. Immediately. He always does. He’s always quick to break contact, quick to reset, quick to pretend his hands never lingered where they landed.
But he doesn’t.
Not right away.
The pause is small—one heartbeat, two—but it stretches like an entire season because neither of us is moving. His weight hovers over me. His arms tense. The muscles in his shoulders flex under his shirt. I can smell sweat and wood and the faint iron edge of old blood that never fully leaves him.
My fingers tighten around my shinai, still held across my chest like a useless shield. The wood presses into my ribs. My skin prickles everywhere his shadow falls. I try to inhale and my breath catches on something stupidly fragile in my throat.
Zoro’s eyes flick down—too fast, too involuntary—to my mouth.
Then back up, like he hates himself for it.
His breathing changes. Just slightly. Like a crack in control.
“Get off,” I manage, and my voice comes out hoarse, not because I’m afraid, but because the words have to push through the wrong kind of quiet.
His gaze sharpens, as if the sound of my voice yanks him back into himself. His face hardens instantly.
He pushes off me so abruptly it’s almost rough, rolling to the side and springing up in one fluid motion like he’s escaping a trap. He stands over me, shinai in hand, posture already reset into something combative.
But his ears are faintly red.
He glares down at me like it’s my fault he hesitated.
“You slipped,” he snaps.
I sit up, rubbing my elbow where it hit the mat, and the movement is slower than it needs to be because I can still feel him above me, still feel the weight of that pause like a hand around my throat.
“Did I,” I say, because I can’t stop myself.
His eyes narrow further, dangerous. He takes a step closer, and it’s not aggressive the way it used to be—it’s too controlled, too deliberate, like he’s trying to convert whatever just happened into a fight because fighting is a language he can survive.
“Watch your footing,” he says, voice low.
“Watch your timing,” I answer, and I stand too fast, chin lifting without meaning to, because pride is the only thing I can grab onto to keep myself from shaking.
The air between us is thick. The dojo feels too small. The rain outside finally starts, soft at first, then heavier, drumming against the roof like impatient fingers.
Zoro stares at me, jaw clenched, eyes bright with something he refuses to name. He raises his shinai again.
He doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t acknowledge the pause.
He attacks.
Harder than before.
And I match him, because I don’t know what else to do with the feeling in my chest except bury it under impact and movement and the crack of wood against wood.
Sometimes it isn’t even that dramatic.
Sometimes it’s smaller, quieter, worse.
Like the day he says something stupid.
It’s after training, when the sun has dipped low and the sky outside is streaked orange and bruised purple. Everyone’s tired. The dojo is half-empty. The younger kids are gone. The air is cooler now, the warmth of the day draining out through the open doors.
Zoro is sitting on the steps outside, towel around his neck, staring at the courtyard like he’s not really seeing it. There’s a smear of dirt on his cheek. His hair is a mess. He looks almost—almost—his age.
I sit a few steps away, careful not to crowd him. We exist in parallel more than together. That’s how it usually is. Close enough to feel each other’s presence, far enough that neither of us has to admit it.
For a long time, neither of us speaks.
Then Zoro mutters, like it’s an annoyance, like it’s a complaint about the weather, “If I die before I beat Mihawk, I’m gonna be pissed.”
The sentence is so blunt, so casually insane, so perfectly Zoro—like he’s talking about missing dinner instead of dying—that a sound escapes me before I can swallow it.
A laugh.
Not loud. Not delicate. Just real.
It breaks the quiet like a stone dropped into still water.
Zoro’s head turns sharply, eyes flicking to me with that familiar glare ready to bite—until he sees my face.
Until he sees that I’m smiling without thinking, that the laugh wasn’t mocking, that it was just… startled affection, raw and unguarded.
He freezes.
And the look on him is so unfamiliar it almost knocks the breath out of me.
His eyes just… stay on mine.
Not scanning. Not measuring. Not dismissing.
Staring.
Like he’s caught on something he didn’t intend to notice. Like he’s seeing me in a way he usually refuses to. Like he forgot, for one stupid second, to armor himself.
The air shifts again, that subtle tightening, that charged quiet where everything feels too vivid. My laugh dies out quickly, leaving an awkward silence behind, and suddenly I’m painfully aware of my own hands resting on my knees, of the way the evening light paints gold along his jawline, of how close he is even with steps between us.
Zoro’s jaw clenches, hard.
His gaze flicks away like it burns.
He looks out at the courtyard again, but his focus isn’t on anything. His hand tightens around the towel at his neck until the fabric twists.
“Shut up,” he mutters.
It’s not even an insult. It’s an instinct. A reflex.
I tilt my head slightly. “I didn’t say anything.”
He glances back, eyes narrowed, and there’s a flicker there—annoyance layered over something else, something that makes his irritation look like a cover.
“You were thinking loudly,” he says, which is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.
And I laugh again, because I can’t help it, because it’s so stupid and so him and for a second the heaviness of everything lifts just enough for air to get in.
The moment the laugh leaves me, Zoro stiffens like he’s been struck.
His eyes flash. His jaw tightens until it looks painful.
He stands too abruptly, the steps creaking under the sudden movement.
“What,” I say, the word slipping out before I can stop it, because he’s already turning away and I don’t understand why the softness in the air makes him react like it’s a threat. “What’s your problem?”
He pauses with his back half-turned, shoulders tense. For a second, it looks like he might answer honestly. Like he might say something that isn’t just a barked insult or a sharp dismissal.
Then he chooses the safer thing.
He throws the tension into a fight.
“My problem,” he says, voice rough, “is you laughing like you’ve got time.”
I blink, caught off guard by the strange cruelty of it.
He turns fully, eyes bright and hard, and there’s something almost desperate in the sharpness he’s using, like he needs to cut the moment down before it grows roots.
“You think this is funny?” he snaps, stepping closer, posture aggressive, trying to bait me into sparring right here on the steps. “You think any of this is funny?”
The words aren’t really about my laugh. They’re about the way my laugh pulled something out of him he didn’t want seen. They’re about the way softness feels like danger now. They’re about the grief that still sits inside him like a stone.
I stand slowly, my own spine stiffening, because I won’t let him shame me for breathing.
“Fine,” I say, voice even, and I reach for my shinai with deliberate calm, because if he wants to turn this into a fight, I’ll meet him there. “If you need to hit something so badly, hit me.”
His eyes flare at that—anger, yes, but also something tighter, something that looks like restraint being forced into shape.
He lifts his shinai, stance snapping into place, and the air between us becomes sharp again, safe again, because this is what we know how to be.
But as we square off—twilight bleeding into night, the dojo behind us quiet, the world narrowed to two bodies and the space between—his gaze flicks to my face for a fraction of a second longer than it needs to.
And I see it.
The thing he keeps burying under training and anger and obsession. The thing I keep telling myself isn’t there so I don’t have to admit how much I want it to be.
It’s not soft.
It’s not pretty.
It’s something fierce and stubborn and quiet.
Like a hand on your wrist that doesn’t let go fast enough.
Like a pause that lasts one heartbeat too long.
Like the way he looked at me when I laughed—like for a second, he forgot how to turn away.
And the realization settles into my chest like weight:
Maybe it was never one-sided.
Maybe it just always had teeth.
~~~
He isn’t there when I walk into the dojo.
It’s a stupid thing to notice first. A stupid thing to feel wrong about. Zoro is late sometimes. Zoro disappears sometimes. Zoro does whatever he wants and the world adjusts around him. That’s always been the way of it. So I tell myself it’s nothing. I tell myself I’m imagining the hollow space where his presence should be. I tell myself I’m not looking for him even as my eyes flick, instinctive, to the corner he always claims like it belongs to him.
Empty.
The air feels… off. Too open. Like something has been moved without asking.
I set my bag down slower than usual. The floor creaks under my weight, the familiar sound grounding and useless all at once. The boys are already warming up, voices low, movements lazy. Normal. Too normal. I scan the room again, sharper this time, my gaze catching on every familiar shape and stopping short where his should be.
Still nothing.
“Where’s Zoro?” I ask, and I hate how fast it comes out, how unguarded.
One of the older boys glances over his shoulder, distracted, like the answer doesn’t matter. “Oh. He left.”
The word doesn’t land.
It just… hangs there, empty and wrong, like it doesn’t belong in the sentence.
“Left,” I repeat, and my mouth moves but my mind doesn’t.
The boy shrugs. “Yeah. He’s heading out. Going after that whole world’s greatest swordsman thing. Figured you knew.”
The dojo tilts.
Not dramatically. Not in a way that would look impressive from the outside. It’s subtle, insidious — like the ground has shifted a fraction of an inch and my body hasn’t caught up yet. The sounds of training blur. Wood striking wood turns into distant noise. My fingers curl around the strap of my bag and I don’t remember deciding to hold on that tight.
He’s… leaving.
Not later. Not someday. Not in the abstract way dreams exist when you’re young and reckless.
Now.
And he didn’t tell me.
Something tightens in my chest, sharp and immediate, and I swallow hard, forcing the air down like it might keep everything where it belongs. My throat burns. My eyes sting. I blink once. Twice. The world stays too bright.
“Right,” I manage, and it sounds wrong even to me.
The boy nods, already turning back to his warm-up like he hasn’t just split something open inside me. Like this is ordinary. Like the fact that Zoro is walking out of my life without a word is just… information.
I stand there for half a second too long, the floor cold through my soles, my bag heavy at my side, and then my body moves without asking.
I turn. I walk. I don’t bow. I don’t explain. I don’t even know if anyone notices. The door slides open with a sharp scrape that feels too loud in the quiet, and the sunlight hits my face like an accusation.
He’s leaving.
He’s leaving.
The thought loops, frantic and uncoordinated, as my feet hit the stone path. I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know why I’m going. I just know I am. My heart starts to pound, hard enough that I can feel it in my throat, in my ears, in the soles of my feet. The village blurs around me — familiar roofs, familiar doors, the old woman sweeping her step, the kid running past with a stick in his hand — all of it smeared into background noise by the urgency roaring in my head.
He can’t leave me here.
The sentence isn’t pretty. It isn’t rational. It isn’t dignified. It’s raw and ugly and desperate and it drives me forward like a hand between my shoulder blades.
He can’t leave me here.
He can’t leave me.
He can’t—
I turn the corner toward the docks and I see him.
Zoro’s back is to me, broad and unmistakable even in the crowd. His swords are strapped at his side. His posture is set in that familiar, unyielding line — like he’s already braced against whatever the world plans to throw at him. He’s walking toward the water with the same stubborn certainty he’s always carried, like the sea itself will have to make room.
The sight punches the breath out of me.
“Zoro!” I yell, and my voice cracks on his name, sharp and desperate in the open air.
He stops.
Not immediately. There’s a half-second of hesitation — a hitch, like the sound had to reach him through something thick — and then he turns.
Our eyes meet across the space, and the look on his face is pure confusion, sharp and unguarded. Like he genuinely didn’t expect me to exist here. Like the idea of me standing in his path isn’t something he planned for.
I don’t slow down.
I don’t even really breathe.
I’m still yelling as I close the distance, words tumbling out ahead of me, messy and unfiltered. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
His brows knit together, irritation flashing quick and instinctive. “What are you talking about?”
I laugh, but it’s thin and broken and nothing like humor. My steps stutter as I stop in front of him, too close, the heat of his body bleeding into the space between us.
“Don’t,” I snap, and my hand lifts without permission, jabbing toward the docks, the ship, the open water. “Don’t act like you don’t know. You’re leaving. You’re just—what, walking out like it’s nothing?”
His jaw tightens. That familiar defensive edge slides into place. “It is something,” he says. “It’s my goal.”
“And I’m just… what?” The words spill, sharp and breathless. “A detail you forgot to mention?”
He blinks. Actually blinks. “Why would I need to tell you?”
The question lands wrong. Too blunt. Too careless. Too clean.
Something ugly twists in my chest.
“Why?” I echo, and my voice rises without my consent. “Because I’m standing right here? Because we’ve trained together our whole lives? Because you don’t just disappear without a word like—like I don’t matter?”
His eyes narrow. “You’re making this bigger than it is.”
That does it.
The restraint snaps, clean and audible inside me.
“Bigger than it is?” I repeat, and there’s a laugh in my throat that never makes it out. “You’re not even finished here. You haven’t even beaten me in a duel yet.”
His mouth twitches, something like annoyance flaring. “That’s not the point.”
“It is to me,” I fire back, stepping closer, invading his space because I can’t stand the distance. “You don’t get to leave when you still owe me a win.”
His gaze sharpens. “You think that’s why you’re here?”
I hesitate, just a fraction.
He catches it.
“Is that it?” he presses, and there’s something almost incredulous in his tone. “You ran through town because of a spar?”
The laugh escapes this time, sharp and bitter. “Don’t insult me.”
“Then what?” he demands.
The word cracks against me, and suddenly everything is too close to the surface. My hands clench at my sides. My chest feels too tight. My breath comes shallow, uneven.
“I don’t understand why you care,” he continues, and there it is — that emotional blindness, that brutal simplicity. “This is my path. It doesn’t change anything.”
My vision blurs at the edges.
“You don’t get it,” I say, and my voice drops, dangerous in its steadiness. “You don’t get to decide that.”
His shoulders tense. “You’re overreacting.”
The word slices.
I flinch. Not physically. Internally. Like something tender just got exposed.
“Overreacting?” I whisper, and then I’m not whispering anymore. “You didn’t even tell me. Not a word. Not a hint. I had to hear it from someone else like I’m just—just another person in the room.”
He looks away, jaw clenched. “I didn’t think it mattered.”
That’s when it breaks.
Not gently. Not slowly.
It breaks like glass.
“How dare you,” I choke, and my voice shakes now, the control gone, the restraint shredded. “How dare you leave me here.”
His head snaps back toward me, eyes widening a fraction. “What?”
“How dare you leave me,” I repeat, louder, the words spilling faster now, messy and uncontrolled. “You don’t get to just walk out of my life like this. You don’t get to decide I’m nothing. You don’t get to—”
My chest heaves. My hands shake. I can’t stop now. It’s all coming out, ugly and unpolished and desperate.
“I have been here,” I blurt, and my voice cracks. “I’ve been here every day. Every spar. Every injury. Every stupid, reckless thing you’ve done to yourself. I’ve watched you bleed. I’ve watched you break. I’ve watched you turn into something you don’t even recognize and I stayed.”
He stares at me, stunned, silent.
“And you’re just going to leave?” I continue, breath hitching. “Without even looking back?”
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
“I didn’t—”
“I care about you,” I snap, the confession ripping out of me before I can stop it. “I have always cared about you. And I hate that I do because you make it impossible and you’re infuriating and you never see what’s right in front of you—”
My voice fractures.
“I don’t know when it happened,” I admit, raw and shaking. “I don’t know when you stopped being just the boy I trained with and started being—this. But you are. You’re everywhere. You’re in every stupid thought I have. You’re in every fight. Every silence. Every—”
I choke on the next breath.
“And you’re just going to leave me here.”
The last word comes out broken.
Zoro doesn’t move.
He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t deflect. He just stares at me, eyes dark, unreadable, something tight and dangerous coiling behind them. His chest rises and falls, slow and heavy. His jaw is clenched like he’s grinding something back.
For a second, I think I’ve gone too far. That I’ve just ruined everything. That he’s going to say something cruel, something final, something that will gut me clean.
Instead—
He grabs me.
It’s sudden and rough and utterly unplanned. One moment I’m mid-breath, mid-rant, mid-collapse, and the next his hands are on me, fingers digging into my arms, pulling me forward with a force that steals the ground from under my feet.
My gasp is cut off by his mouth on mine.
His lips move against mine with a hunger that makes my chest tighten like he’s been starving, like he’s been holding himself back for years and finally snapped. His grip tightens, hauling me closer until there’s no space left between us, until I can feel the solid heat of him everywhere, anchoring, overwhelming. It sends a jolt straight down to my core.
His mouth is hot and demanding and urgent, moving against mine like he’s afraid if he doesn’t take it now it will disappear.
My hands fly up without thinking — clutching at his arms, his shoulders, his shirt — anything I can reach because suddenly he’s everywhere and I need him closer and it’s still not enough and I don’t know what to do with the way my body is leaning into him.
He kisses me like he’s never going to see me again.
Like he’s trying to carve me into himself.
I make a sound — I don’t even know what it is, something startled and breathless — and it seems to turn something in him because his grip tightens, his mouth pressing harder, his breath hot and unsteady against my lips. He bites my lower lip, not gentle, just desperate, and the noise that leaves me is automatic, broken, real.
He groans.
The sound is low and rough. Like it’s been dragged out of his chest against his will. It vibrates straight through his chest into mine.
My stomach flips, my thighs tense, my breath turns shallow and uneven. It feels like being caught in something too strong to fight, like being pulled under by heat and need and him.
The way he holds me tightens instantly, and the pressure of his body against mine is dizzying — solid, overwhelming, inescapable. I can feel his chest, his shoulders, his strength, and it makes me weak in a way that feels dangerous. My knees soften without warning, the world tipping, and the only reason I don’t fall is because he’s already holding me like he knows I will.
I can feel his heart pounding through his chest, fast and hard and uncoordinated, nothing like the controlled rhythm he pretends to live by.
His mouth is everywhere, insistent and consuming, and I’m drowning in him. Every nerve in my body is awake. Every place he touches feels too sensitive, too sharp, too much. The heat between us is suffocating, and I can’t think past the way his mouth moves, the way his grip tightens, the way his presence swallows me whole.
It’s overwhelming.
It’s hungry.
It’s everything he never lets himself be.
And everything I never thought I’d get. It makes my head go light and my stomach flutter and my pulse race in places it shouldn’t.
When he finally pulls back, it’s barely an inch. Just enough to breathe. Our foreheads nearly touch. His breath is ragged. Mine is worse. My hands are still gripping him like he’s the only solid thing left in the world.
His eyes search my face, dark and intense and… ruined.
And for a heartbeat, I think he might say it.
That he might finally give me the words.
Instead, he exhales, slow and heavy, like he’s forcing himself back into control.
“I’m still going,” he says.
The words hit harder than any blow he’s ever landed.
My chest caves in.
“You—” My voice falters. “You just—”
He doesn’t look away. That’s the worst part. He holds my gaze, unwavering, brutal in his honesty.
“I’ve wanted you since we were kids,” he says, low and rough, like it costs him. “But this doesn’t change what I am.”
My throat tightens.
“And what’s that?” I whisper.
His jaw sets.
“Someone who doesn’t stop.”
And then he steps back.
Just one step. But it feels like a mile.
The space between us rushes in, cold and empty and unforgiving. My hands fall to my sides, useless. My body still leans toward him even as he moves away.
“I’m not staying,” he says.
And I understand then — fully, painfully — that the kiss wasn’t a promise.
A/N: uhhh so this is gonna be a series I guess. Based on a request which I actually love. I’m gonna write for whoever I think of first unless you guys lmk who you want me to write for next😚
Summary: A girl who openly despises Kuroo Tetsurou is dragged to a party, spends the night roasting him mercilessly, refuses to play Seven Minutes in Heaven, and is publicly targeted by Oikawa—only for the bottle to land on Kuroo, who looks thrilled while everyone else braces for her murder. Trapped in the closet, her threats and sarcasm collide with his obsessive confidence as he exposes her attraction, corners her, and kisses her like he’s waited years, leaving her furious, flustered, and undeniably undone.
I had known him since middle school, which felt like a personal attack. As if the universe had looked down, seen me thriving in peace, and said, no, actually, let’s add Kuroo Tetsurou to your daily life. Back then he’d been all messy hair and too-long limbs, already loud, already annoying, already looking at me like I was entertainment.
I’d learned his name before I ever wanted to. Learned his laugh, his voice, the way he leaned too close when he talked. It was like he had no concept of personal space and even less respect for it.
And it only got worse when they hit high school. Nekoma. Of course. Because why wouldn’t fate be cruel enough to lock me into the same building as him for another three years.
I swore sometimes she could feel his presence before I even saw him, like a disturbance in the air, like static before a storm. Every hallway. Every stairwell. Every goddamn corner. There he was. Always there.
Always.
And the flirting—God, the flirting.
It was relentless. Casual. Effortless. Like breathing. Like he didn’t even think about it. A comment here. A smirk there. A “hey, pretty” thrown in like it meant nothing. I hated it.
Hated the way he said my name. Hated the way he looked at me like he knew something I didn’t. Hated that everyone else laughed it off because that’s just Kuroo, as if that made it better. As if that didn’t make my skin crawl.
I snapped back every time, of course. I wasn’t quiet about it. I never let it slide. If he flirted, I insulted. If he teased, I cut. It was a reflex at this point. Muscle memory. Survival instinct. And he—infuriating, insufferable him—never got mad. Never got embarrassed. Never backed off.
He just smiled. Like it amused him. Like my irritation was a gift. Which only made me angrier.
I tried to avoid the gym. Genuinely. Actively. Strategically. I memorized practice schedules. Took the long way around. Anything to not walk past the volleyball court where he always was, always loud, always surrounded, always… there.
But it didn’t even matter.
Because he was in my class. Of course he was. Same row. Two seats over. Close enough that I could hear him breathe. Close enough that he could lean over and murmur something stupid just to see me react.
I’d pack up early just to leave before him. He’d still catch me. I’d walk faster. He’d match it. I’d ignore him mid-sentence, turn on my heel, and leave while he was still talking. He’d laugh like it was the funniest thing in the world.
I once told him, deadpan, “I’d rather eat glass than talk to you,” and he had the audacity to grin and say,
“Damn, that bad, huh?” like he was proud. I’d muttered “I hate you” more times than I could count. He’d once replied, “You’re obsessed with me, I get it.” I nearly lost my mind.
I had genuinely, seriously, without irony, considered transferring. Thought about it in the shower. In bed. On the walk home. Imagined a life where I didn’t have to hear his voice every day, didn’t have to feel his eyes on me, didn’t have to deal with his stupid charm and stupid face and stupid everything. A life without Kuroo Tetsurou sounded peaceful. Healing. Quiet. I deserved that.
Instead, I got him leaning in my doorway, arms crossed, smirk in place, asking, “Miss me?” like he wasn’t the reason I needed therapy.
I know before they even say his name. I feel it in my ribs, that sharp, instinctive tightening like something inside me just braced for impact. The way you do when you hear a sound you’ve learned means trouble. The way your body reacts before your brain has time to lie to you. I’m standing in my room with my arms crossed, one hip against the dresser, watching my friends bounce with that irritating, hopeful energy they always get when they think they’re about to win, and I already know I’ve lost. They don’t understand it. They never do. To them, it’s just a party. Noise. People. Music. Normal. To me, it’s a trap with a stupid name and Kuroo Tetsurou’s face stamped all over it.
“Come on,” one of them says, dragging the word out like it might soften the blow. “Just come. Please.”
I don’t even blink. “No.”
It comes out flat, unnegotiable, already final. I don’t need more information. I don’t need context. If Kenma is involved, he is involved. If Nekoma is involved, he is involved. And if he is involved, I am not. It’s a simple equation. Clean. Logical. Survival.
They exchange that look — the one that tells me everything without saying a word. Guilt. Hesitation. Too coordinated.
My jaw tightens. “Kenma invited you.”
Silence.
Not even denial.
One of them grimaces. The other looks away. The third gives me a weak, apologetic smile like that’s going to soften the fact that my entire night just imploded.
I let out a slow breath through my nose, the kind that’s more restraint than calm. “If Kenma is going,” I say, carefully, because I can feel irritation crawling up my spine and I don’t want to let it win yet, “that means Kuroo dragged him. Which means Kuroo will be there. Which means I will be miserable. Why is this difficult to understand.”
“It’s a big party,” one of them argues. “There’s going to be people from other schools. His friends will be there. He’ll be busy.”
I laugh, short and humorless, the sound sharp in my own ears. “You say that like he’s ever been too busy to make my life worse. He could be in the middle of a natural disaster and still find time to bother me.”
They laugh, because they think I’m joking.
I’m not.
“He likes you,” another one says, like that’s supposed to be comforting.
I look at her slowly. Level. “He enjoys annoying me. There is a difference.”
They keep pushing. Voices overlapping. Excuses. Promises. It’ll be fine. It won’t be that bad. You’re overreacting. And I can feel it — that familiar, infuriating sensation of being cornered, of being worn down not because they’re right but because they’re relentless. It presses into me, heavy and insistent, until one of them finally sighs and says, “I’ll buy you lunch for a month.”
The words land and I hate that they do.
I hate that my brain pauses. I hate that my chest tightens in calculation. I hate that free food is enough to make me hesitate. I stare at her, searching her face for a lie. She looks desperate. Sincere.
“A month,” I repeat.
She nods.
I close my eyes for a second, just long enough to curse myself, then open them. “If he ruins my night,” I say quietly, “you owe me emotional damages.”
She grins like she’s just won a war.
I feel like I’ve just lost one.
~~~
The car ride is loud. Too loud. My friends are talking over each other, laughing, already buzzing with anticipation, and I sit in the passenger seat with my arms folded tight across my chest, staring out the window like distance might save me. The city blurs past, lights streaking, and I try not to think about him. I fail. Of course I do. Because everything leads back to him. Every bad decision. Every ruined afternoon. Every hallway encounter I didn’t ask for.
The question lands like a dare.
“So,” one of them says from the backseat, leaning forward between the headrests, voice too casual to be innocent, “why do you hate Kuroo so much?”
I let out a soft, disbelieving laugh and shake my head, eyes still fixed on the road like I’m trying to outrun the conversation. “I love that you said that like it’s some great mystery,” I reply. “Like historians are still debating it. Like there are think pieces. Like there’s a documentary coming.”
They giggle. I can hear them shifting, waiting.
“Well?” another one presses. “Because objectively—”
“Dangerous word,” I cut in mildly. “Very dangerous.”
She ignores me. “—he’s kind of… really hot.”
I blink once. Slowly. Turn my head just enough to look at her without fully committing to the effort. “I’m begging you,” I say calmly. “Raise your standards.”
The car erupts immediately.
“Oh my god.”
“Be nice!”
“I am being nice,” I argue. “That was gentle.”
Another voice joins in, dreamy and dramatic. “He’s tall, though. Like… tall tall.”
“And built,” someone else adds. “Like have you seen his back?”
I close my eyes. Just for a second. Like I’m praying. Or mourning. It’s hard to tell. “You’re all speaking like you’ve never seen a gym before,” I mutter. “He’s a volleyball player, not a rare species.”
They laugh again, louder this time, fully entertained.
“He’s charming!”
“He’s confident!”
“He’s funny!”
I sigh, deep and theatrical. “Yes, and raccoons are clever but you still don’t invite them into your house.”
That one hits.
The laughter spikes, sharp and sudden. One of them actually chokes. Another slaps the seat. Someone wheezes out my name like I’ve personally attacked them.
“Oh my god, you’re terrible.”
“I’m honest,” I correct.
One of them leans forward, eyes bright, clearly enjoying this. “You just don’t like him because he flirts with you.”
I snort. “No, I don’t like him because he breathes.”
More laughter.
“He’s confident, not annoying.”
“He’s annoying,” I counter. “He’s loud. He’s smug. He stands too close. He talks like he’s auditioning to be the main character in a show no one asked for.”
They’re losing it now. Fully gone. One of them has tears in her eyes.
“You’re so mean,” she gasps.
“I’m restrained,” I say seriously. “You don’t see the unfiltered version.”
Another one grins at me. “You should give him a chance.”
I turn slowly, dramatically, giving her my full attention. “I would rather lick the floor of a public bathroom.”
Dead silence.
Then—
Explosion.
Actual, physical, uncontrollable laughter. Someone screams. Someone folds forward. Someone shouts, “OH MY GOD.” The driver is laughing so hard the car swerves a little and I have to grab the door handle out of instinct.
“You’re insane,” one of them manages between breaths.
I smile faintly, satisfied. “Thank you.”
They’re still laughing as I turn back to the window, watching the streetlights blur past, the noise washing over me while I retreat into myself. I don’t say anything else. I don’t need to. They got their entertainment. Their joke. Their dramatic reaction. And I let them have it, because it’s easier than explaining, easier than unpacking, easier than admitting that it isn’t a joke to me. That he isn’t just some hot guy they can giggle about. That he’s a constant. A presence. A problem.
I keep my face neutral, my mouth tilted in something that passes for amusement, and let the moment move on, because that’s what I do. I deflect. I joke. I cut. I keep it light.
And they never notice that my jaw is tight.
That my shoulders haven’t relaxed.
That even now, with the car full of laughter and noise, I can already feel him like a shadow ahead of me.
Waiting
~~~
The house is already a mistake before we even step inside. It’s too loud, too bright, too alive, like it’s vibrating with poor decisions and bad intentions, and the second the door opens the heat hits me in the face like a warning.
Music is pounding through the walls, voices stacked on top of each other in that chaotic, overlapping way that tells me nobody here knows what an inside voice is. People are everywhere. Shoulders brushing. Elbows bumping. Laughter bursting out too loudly, too suddenly. It’s social hell. I take one step in and immediately feel my patience start to die.
My friends, of course, are thrilled. Their eyes light up like they’ve just walked into Disneyland. One of them grabs my arm. “Oh my god, it’s so full,” she breathes, like this is a good thing.
Another one cranes her neck, scanning. “Wait—aren’t those the Karasuno guys?” I follow her gaze and instantly regret having functional vision. Volleyball players. Familiar faces. The kind of people who all know each other. The kind of people he knows.
A slow, irritated sigh builds in my chest because of course. Of course this is his ecosystem. Of course I’ve walked directly into his natural habitat.
OIKAWA.”
The name doesn’t get said. It gets announced.
It slices through the noise like a flare, sharp and high and dramatic, and I physically feel the shift beside me. One of my friends freezes mid-step like someone hit pause, her whole body locking in place, breath catching hard in her throat. I turn just in time to see her eyes go wide, pupils blown, hand flying up to her mouth like she’s trying to keep her soul from leaving her body.
“Oh my god,” she whispers. Then again, quieter, reverent. “Oh my god.”
Her entire posture changes. Straightens. Tenses. Hopeful. Delusional.
She grips my arm suddenly, fingers digging in. “I have to talk to him.”
I look at her. Really look at her. At the way she’s already halfway gone, already imagining something that does not exist. “You absolutely do not,” I say flatly. “You have a type and it’s bad men with nice hair. Sit down.”
She barely hears me. She’s staring past me now, eyes locked, completely gone. “I’ve liked him since middle school,” she breathes, like it’s a confession. Like it’s a holy truth. “This is my moment.”
“This is a mistake,” I correct. “He is a professional heartbreaker. You are emotionally fragile. Do the math.”
The other two lean in immediately, sensing chaos.
“He’s literally a player,” one of them adds. “He’s not going to commit to anyone.”
“He flirts with everyone,” the other agrees. “You’re not special.”
She scoffs, offended, already defensive. “He will be when he talks to me.”
I stare at her. Long. Blinking slowly. “I love that you said that with confidence,” I tell her. “It’s wrong, but it’s inspiring.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re just bitter.”
“I am realistic,” I reply. “There is a difference.”
She shakes me off. “You don’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand perfectly,” I say. “You are about to walk into a man-shaped red flag and convince yourself it’s a personality.”
She’s already moving. Slipping through people. Weaving between bodies like she’s being guided by fate itself. She doesn’t even look back.
The other two immediately start laughing, shoulders shaking, already placing bets.
“Ten seconds before he flirts with someone else,” one of them mutters.
“Five before he forgets her name,” the other adds.
I watch her go, that familiar mix of fondness and dread twisting in my chest, because I know exactly how this ends and she doesn’t, and I can’t decide if that makes me protective or just tired.
“He’s worse than Kuroo,” I mutter under my breath. “One of them thinks he’s charming. The other thinks he’s God’s gift to women. I hate them both equally.”
My friends are still laughing, still watching our girl disappear into the crowd like she’s marching toward her own romantic downfall, when the air beside me shifts—subtle at first, the way a room changes when a familiar problem enters it. One of them catches it before I do. Her hand slides onto my forearm like she’s trying to anchor me to the floor.
“Don’t freak out,” she says, voice low, urgent in a way that instantly makes my spine stiffen.
I don’t even look at her. I keep my eyes forward, because I already know what she’s about to say. My life has patterns. My misery has patterns.
“What,” I say, flat.
“Kuroo’s coming this way.”
The other one immediately adds, like she thinks she can stop a hurricane with manners, “Just—just be nice, okay? Please. For once. Like… for me.”
I turn my head slowly and look at her like she just asked me to adopt a feral raccoon. “Be nice,” I repeat, sweet as poison. “To him.”
“Yes,” she insists, eyes wide. “It’s a party. Everyone’s here. You can’t just—”
I stop listening. That’s the thing about warnings: they’re only useful if you can still change the outcome. All I hear is he’s coming again, like he always does, like he can’t help himself, like my existence is a magnet and his ego is metal.
I don’t turn around. I don’t need to. I feel him in the way the space tightens, in the way the noise seems to reorganize itself around his presence. People part without realizing they’re doing it. He moves like he belongs wherever he decides to stand, like the world adjusts to make room, and it makes something sharp flare behind my ribs because it’s the exact kind of confidence that makes him unbearable.
Then his voice slides into my earspace—warm, amused, intimate for no reason.
“There you are.”
I blink once, slow. I turn, and there he is, exactly as expected: tall, loose-limbed, hair doing that messy thing like it’s an aesthetic choice instead of an ongoing refusal to be tamed, mouth already tilted like he’s mid-joke that only he understands. His eyes sweep over me in one smooth motion, taking his time like he’s allowed.
He doesn’t even pretend to be subtle. “You look really good tonight,” he says, openly, and the way he says it—like he’s sure he’ll get away with it—makes my skin prickle with irritation.
I hold his gaze, expression blank. “Wow,” I say. “You managed a compliment without tripping over your own ego. I’m proud. Do you want a sticker.”
Kuroo’s grin widens like I’ve fed him. He steps closer by a fraction, testing the distance. “Still mean,” he says, voice low, like it’s fond. “I missed that.”
“I didn’t,” I reply immediately. “I’ve had a peaceful week. Don’t ruin it.”
He laughs—soft, real, like I’m entertaining him. That’s the part that always makes it worse. He never looks injured. Never looks embarrassed. He looks… delighted. Like my hostility is some private joke we share.
“You always say you hate me,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough that my instincts flare. “But you keep showing up where I am.”
I scoff. “This is a party, not a hostage exchange. I didn’t ‘show up where you are.’ I got tricked. Like people do when they’re naïve and hungry.”
His eyes flick toward my friends as if he’s cataloguing them, then back to me with that slow, annoying confidence. “You dressed up,” he says, and there’s something in his tone like he’s trying to claim credit for it. “For me?”
I stare at him for a beat, letting the silence stretch until it gets uncomfortable on purpose. “Kuroo,” I say, measured, “if I dressed up for you, I’d be wearing a warning label and carrying pepper spray.”
One of my friends chokes on laughter. The other groans, “Oh my god,” like she’s grieving.
Kuroo just laughs harder, shoulders shaking like I’ve told him the best joke he’s ever heard. “You’re insane,” he says.
“I’m honest,” I correct. “It’s not my fault you take honesty as foreplay.”
My friends hiss at me. “Be nice,” one whispers again, desperate.
I don’t even look at her. “I am being nice,” I say. “I haven’t pushed him down the stairs yet.”
Kuroo’s eyes sparkle at that, bright and amused, like he’s watching fire for fun. He leans in again, like he can’t resist. “You really want me to suffer,” he murmurs.
“I want you to disappear,” I say sweetly. “Like a magic trick.”
He hums. “And yet you’re talking to me.”
“Because you keep coming over here,” I shoot back. “Like a fungus. Persistent. Unwanted. Thriving in places you shouldn’t.”
He puts a hand to his chest in mock offense, but the smile never leaves. “Fungus,” he repeats. “That’s new.”
“I’m branching out,” I say. “Trying to grow as a person. Unlike you, apparently.”
My friends are fully in damage-control mode now, shifting, hovering, ready to physically drag me away, but Kuroo doesn’t let the moment breathe. He stays planted, comfortable, like he owns the space in front of me, like he’s decided this is where his night belongs.
“You’re prettier when you’re not scowling,” he says, soft and shameless.
I blink at him. “And you’re more tolerable when you’re silent.”
He laughs again, and the laugh is warm, like he’s enjoying himself so much it borders on indecent. “God,” he says, leaning closer, “you really don’t like me.”
“I don’t,” I confirm. “And yet, here you are, acting like my hatred is a hobby.”
“It kind of is,” he says easily. “You’re passionate. I respect that.”
I tilt my head. “Do you respect restraining orders too, or is that more of a suggestion in your worldview.”
He grins. “If you got one, I’d frame it.”
My friend grabs my sleeve and tugs. “Okay—okay, that’s enough—”
I don’t move. I don’t look away from him. Something in me is coiling tight, not because he’s winning—he’s not—but because he’s enjoying this, and it makes me want to bite harder, say something sharper, make him finally flinch. I never get the satisfaction. He takes every insult like it’s a compliment, like it’s proof I’m paying attention, and it makes me feel like I’m throwing knives into a mattress.
Then—thank God—another voice cuts in, loud and familiar.
“Kuroo!”
Bokuto appears like a burst of sunlight with teeth, drink in hand, grin wide, cheeks a little flushed like he’s already having the time of his life. He stops in front of Kuroo with the kind of energy that makes the room feel smaller. Kuroo turns, and for a second the tension between us loosens—not gone, just shifted.
“Bokuto,” Kuroo says, and there’s real familiarity there.
They do that stupid guy greeting—quick, practiced, half-handshake, half-dap—like it’s a ritual. Bokuto’s drink sloshes a little, and he laughs like that’s the funniest thing ever.
“Have you played against Karasuno’s little orange guy yet?” Bokuto asks immediately, loud and excited, eyes bright with curiosity like he’s talking about a new toy.
Kuroo’s whole expression changes into something smug and competitive, the volleyball captain slipping over his face like a mask he actually enjoys wearing. “Yeah,” he says, casual, like it’s no big deal. “We had a practice match.”
Bokuto leans in, invested. “And? And? Is he good? He looks fun.”
“He’s fast,” Kuroo admits, shrugging like he’s giving credit begrudgingly. “Annoyingly fast. Jumps like he doesn’t know gravity exists. But he’s still raw. He’s not—” his mouth curves, arrogant, eyes sharpening with that predator confidence I’ve seen on the court, “—he’s not better than my team.”
Bokuto lights up anyway, because of course he does. “Oooh! I wanna play him!” he says, bouncing slightly. “He’s like a little firecracker!”
Kuroo snorts. “More like a yappy dog. Loud, energetic, always running at you.”
I can’t help it. The words slip out before I can stop them, dry and effortless. “So… exactly like you, just shorter.”
My friends gasp. Bokuto whips toward me like he’s just now noticing I exist, eyes widening, then he breaks into a grin so bright it’s almost offensive.
“Oh!” he says. “Hi! I didn’t even see you there!”
Kuroo turns back toward me, amused, like he’s proud I’ve inserted myself. Bokuto points at me with the confidence of a man who’s never met a stranger. “I’m Bokuto!” he announces. “Are you here with Kuroo?” he asks, genuinely curious.
I bark out a laugh, sharp and disbelieving, and it comes out meaner than I intend, because the idea is so ridiculous it’s insulting. “I would rather kiss a cow’s ass.”
Bokuto freezes for half a second, blinking like he’s buffering, then he explodes into laughter, head tipping back. “WOAH,” he says, delighted. “That’s harsh!”
Kuroo laughs too—of course he laughs—like I’ve just kissed him on the cheek. “She says stuff like that,” he tells Bokuto, tone soft and pleased, like he’s bragging. “It’s her love language.”
“It is absolutely not,” I snap.
Bokuto beams at me. “I like her,” he declares, like he’s choosing a favorite character in a show.
“Your taste is questionable,” I tell him.
Kuroo leans in again, because he cannot help himself, voice low and smug. “You’re just mad because you know you like me.”
I stare at him. “I’m mad because you’re still talking.”
He grins wider. “And you’re still listening.”
I open my mouth—
“ALRIGHT EVERYONE!” Oikawa’s voice slices through the chaos, loud and commanding, and the noise dips like a wave pulled back. Conversations falter. Heads turn. People quiet, not because they respect him, but because he’s charismatic enough to make them.
Oikawa stands elevated, drink in hand, smile sharp and theatrical like he’s about to perform. He looks pleased with himself in a way that should be illegal.
“Since everyone’s here,” he announces, grinning, “we’re doing Seven Minutes in Heaven.”
The words ripple through the room like electricity—laughter, groans, excited chatter—and my stomach drops in slow motion, cold spreading under my ribs.
“And yes,” Oikawa adds, eyes sweeping the crowd like he’s daring anyone to refuse, “everyone is participating.”
I don’t look at Kuroo.
I don’t need to.
I can feel him beside me, grin turning hungry with anticipation, like the universe just handed him exactly what he wanted.
And I hate it—hate the timing, hate the setup, hate that my night is about to become a public spectacle—but beneath all that hatred is something worse, something sharper, because I know him. I know how he plays. I know he won’t let this go.
My friends are already panicking softly at my sides, whispering warnings, and all I can think is: I should’ve asked for two months of free lunch.
~~~
The moment Oikawa says it—really says it, loud enough that the whole room rearranges itself around the idea—something inside me goes cold in that very specific way that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with control. It’s like my body hears closet and immediately starts drafting its own escape plan without consulting me. My skin prickles. My shoulders pull tight. My jaw clenches so hard I can feel the ache bloom at the hinge. Seven Minutes in Heaven isn’t a game; it’s a social experiment designed by people who think boundaries are a suggestion and awkwardness is a personality trait. It’s a closet. It’s darkness. It’s proximity. It’s a stranger’s breath too close to my face. It’s someone thinking time limits count as consent. I came here to stand in a corner, drink something that tastes like regret, and be entertained by other people’s bad choices—not to be the bad choice.
“No,” I say immediately, and it’s not even dramatic. It’s not a tantrum. It’s a statement of fact, like gravity. I turn to my friends because they’re the ones who dragged me here with promises and bribery and glittering eyes, and I need them to understand that I drew a line the second I stepped through that door. “Absolutely not,” I add, because apparently the universe is hard of hearing.
They blink at me like I’m joking, like I’m about to smirk and say just kidding. I don’t. The music pounds. The room laughs. People shift closer into a circle like they’re being pulled by instinct, and I stand there rigid and immovable, a stubborn problem in the flow of the party.
“It’s just a game,” one of them says, already pleading, already trying to smooth it over like my refusal is a wrinkle in a dress.
“It’s not a game,” I shoot back, still smiling because I’m not trying to be a nightmare to them, just to everyone else. “It’s a wooden box where someone’s going to try to turn ‘seven minutes’ into ‘seven years of therapy’.”
“Okay, but you don’t even have to do anything,” another one argues, voice too bright, too optimistic for the situation.
I stare at her. “You are adorable,” I tell her, deadpan. “Truly. Like a baby deer walking into traffic.”
They laugh—nervous laughter, the kind that means they know I’m right but they’re going to try anyway. I can see the calculation in their faces, the silent agreement passing between them, and dread settles heavy in my stomach because I know that look. That’s the we’re going to physically force you look. They don’t mean harm. They just have a violent relationship with my autonomy when fun is involved.
A hand closes around my wrist. Another on my elbow. Gentle, but insistent. They start steering me toward the circle forming on the floor like I’m a shopping cart with one bad wheel.
“I will scream,” I warn, letting my feet drag just enough to make a point. “Loudly. In public.”
“Relax,” one of them laughs. “You’ll be fine.”
“I will not be fine,” I mutter, allowing myself to be moved because fighting them in front of everyone will turn this from humiliating to legendary, and I don’t have the energy to become a story people tell for the next six months. “I will bite. I will claw. I will start confessing crimes I didn’t commit just to get escorted out.”
They keep tugging. I keep resisting. We reach the edge of the circle anyway, and my skin crawls the second I feel eyes turning, curiosity snapping toward us like magnets. People love a spectacle. People love a reluctant participant. The circle makes room like it’s welcoming me into an arena. Oikawa stands in the center like he was born for attention, posture loose, grin sharp, holding the bottle like it’s a microphone and not a weapon.
I’m still mid-protest—still trying to pry my wrist out of my friend’s grip—when Oikawa’s gaze catches on me and sharpens with interest. He notices the dragging. The refusal. The little drama I’m trying not to create. His smile turns bright with the kind of delight that only exists in people who enjoy chaos for sport.
“Y/N,”
The circle reacts immediately. Heads turn. People murmur. There’s a ripple of recognition because, of course, everyone knows. Everyone knows the beef. Everyone knows Kuroo’s weird fixation. Everyone knows my patience has been hanging by a thread since middle school.
My spine straightens on instinct, anger flaring hot and clean through the dread. I lock eyes with Oikawa and in that split second I feel very calm in the way people are calm right before they do something violent.
“Don’t,” I say, quiet and precise.
He grins like I’ve complimented him. “You’re up first.”
A chorus of oohs and laughter rises around the circle. My friends make soft pleading noises, like they’re already apologizing for what they’re doing to me. I look at Oikawa like I’m about to rearrange his face.
“I’m not playing,” I say flatly.
Oikawa lifts a brow. “You came.”
“So did the plague,” I reply. “What’s your point.”
The circle laughs. Oikawa’s grin only widens. He’s enjoying this. He’s been waiting for this. He’s the kind of person who sees someone’s boundaries and immediately wants to test them like it’s a sport.
“Rules are rules,” he says, and there’s something smug in it, like he’s already decided he’s going to win.
I exhale slowly, forcing calm into my voice because if I let the irritation take the wheel, I will turn this party into a true crime documentary. “If you lock me in a closet with some random guy who thinks Axe body spray counts as a personality,” I say, smiling sweetly, “I will kill him in there. And then I’ll come out and kill you. In that order.”
There’s a beat of silence where people decide whether they believe me. Then laughter, louder, because the threat is funny when it isn’t aimed at them.
Oikawa considers it like he’s weighing pros and cons, then shrugs. “Worth it.”
I stare. “You’re insane.”
“Thank you,” he says, like it’s praise, and before I can step back, before I can reassert control, he crouches and spins the bottle for me—bold, casual, like he’s doing me a favor.
That irritates me in a way that feels personal. Like he’s taken my refusal and turned it into entertainment. Like my autonomy is just a hurdle he can step over.
The bottle clatters, spins, wobbles, its glass catching the light as it circles and circles. People lean in. My friends are watching me more than the bottle, eyes wide and tight with nervous excitement, like they’re already convinced I’m about to commit some kind of public offense. One of them whispers, half-laughing, “She’s not going to do it.” Another murmurs back, “She won’t even go in the closet with anyone, watch.”
I don’t answer. My throat feels too tight. My heart is beating too fast, and I hate that—it’s not fear exactly, not the simple kind. It’s the feeling of being cornered while everyone watches, the pressure of expectation, the humiliation of being forced into a role you never agreed to play. My palms feel warm. My skin feels too aware of itself.
The bottle slows.
Clicks.
Stops.
And points straight at Kuroo.
The sound the circle makes is immediate and filthy. Oooohs. Yells. Laughter. Someone actually slaps the floor like this is the funniest thing they’ve ever seen. His friends lose their minds, shouting over each other.
Kuroo, on the other hand, looks pleased in a way that should be illegal. Not surprised. Not startled. Pleased. Like the universe just confirmed his favorite delusion. He sits there with that lazy grin, eyes bright, shoulders relaxed, soaking it up like applause.
And the worst part—the most humiliating, traitorous part—is that when his eyes lift and meet mine, something in my stomach does a small, stupid flip. A flutter. A flicker. Not affection. Not softness. Something worse: adrenaline dressed up as curiosity. My body reacting like it doesn’t understand the difference between rage and attraction. I feel it and immediately want to crawl out of my own skin.
Absolutely not.
I act on pure impulse.
I lunge forward, grab the bottle, and instead of tossing it back into the circle like a normal human being, I hurl it out of the circle—farther than necessary, harder than necessary. It skitters across the floor, bouncing, spinning away into the crowd until someone yelps and jumps back.
The room goes silent for half a second.
Then it erupts.
Oikawa laughs like I’ve just given him the best gift. “Temper,” he says, delighted.
I point at Kuroo like I’m issuing a restraining order with my finger. “I am not going in there with him. I’d rather go in there with a snake.”
Kuroo’s grin widens, slow and satisfied, and his eyes don’t leave my face. “You’d like a snake,” he says. “At least it knows how to bite.”
I glare at him so hard my vision blurs at the edges. “Don’t speak to me.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice lazy. “Nervous?”
“You’re delusional.”
“I think you’re nervous,” he says again, softer, like he’s talking just to me now, like the circle doesn’t exist. “Because you know you like me.”
The words hit like a match to gasoline. Not because they’re true—because they’re ridiculous—and because he says them like he believes them. Like he’s decided my hatred is a cover story. Like he thinks he’s cracked me open and seen something I haven’t even admitted to myself.
My friends’ faces tighten around me, their expressions a mix of please don’t ruin this and please don’t commit murder. One of them squeezes my arm, subtle and pleading. The circle is waiting. Oikawa is watching. Kuroo is smiling like he’s already won.
I feel heat in my face, fury and embarrassment braided together so tight I can’t separate them. I hate being watched. I hate being predictable. I hate that Kuroo knows exactly which buttons to press and does it with that stupid amused calm like it’s effortless.
So I stand.
Not because I’m convinced.
Not because I’m compliant.
Because I refuse to let him think he can call me nervous and be right.
I step toward the closet like I’m walking toward an execution I volunteered for out of spite, chin lifted, hands loose at my sides, every nerve screaming. Kuroo rises too, easy, unhurried, clearly enjoying the fact that he can pull me forward with nothing but a sentence.
As we move, his voice drops close again, warm with satisfaction. “See?” he murmurs. “You couldn’t resist.”
I don’t look at him. I don’t give him the satisfaction.
“I’m doing this,” I say through my teeth, “so I can prove you wrong.”
He laughs under his breath, like he likes that even more. “Good. Prove it.”
And the butterflies in my stomach—those traitorous, humiliating little things—flutter again, small and sharp, like they’re laughing at me too.
The door barely finishes closing before I turn on him.
The click of the latch is still echoing in the tiny space when I point at his chest, finger sharp, warning. The closet is small—too small—walls close, air thick, his presence immediately everywhere, crowding, warm, unfair. My pulse is already too loud in my ears, and I hate that he can probably hear it.
“Touch me,” I say, voice low and deadly, “and I will cut your hand off.”
He laughs.
Of course he laughs.
Not mocking. Not nervous. Just… amused. Like I’ve told him a joke. Like I’ve given him a gift.
“Relax,” he says, lazy, leaning back against the door like he’s got all the space in the world. “You wouldn’t.”
I snort. Sharp. Disbelieving. “You clearly don’t know me at all.”
He tilts his head, studying me, eyes dark with something that makes my stomach tighten. “I know you very well.”
I bark out a laugh. “That’s adorable. Delusional, but adorable.”
He pushes off the door. One step closer. The space shrinks instantly, his body heat brushing into mine, and I hate the way my breath stutters. Hate it. “Even the idea of you touching me makes me want to throw up,” I add quickly, because I refuse to let him see the shift. “It’s like saying I’m attracted to an asshole.”
His mouth curves. Slow. Dangerous. “You are attracted to an asshole.”
I glare. “You’re not even my type.”
He steps closer again. And this time, I step back.
It’s small. Instinctive. My heel hits the wall before my brain catches up, and the sound is quiet but final, and suddenly there’s nowhere left to go. The closet presses in. His body is close enough that I can feel the heat of him, the weight of him, and it freaks me out because he’s too calm, too sure, too aware.
His smirk deepens when he notices.
“Caught you,” he murmurs.
My heart kicks hard in my chest. I hate that too.
“Get away from me,” I snap. “Before I punch you in the nuts.”
He doesn’t move back.
He moves closer.
My back hits the wall fully now, cool wood against my shoulders, and he leans in just enough to box me in, not touching, not yet, but close enough that my breath catches on his chest. His eyes drop to my face, slow, deliberate, and something in his expression sharpens.
“I know how to prove it,” he says quietly.
“Prove what,” I bite.
“That you don’t actually hate me,” he replies. “You just don’t know what to do with how much you want me.”
I laugh. Loud. Forced. “You are clinically insane.”
He lifts one arm and plants it beside my head, palm against the wall, trapping me without touching me. The move is smooth. Confident. Very Kuroo. The kind of thing he does on the court, cutting off space, forcing reactions. My stomach flips and I want to scream at it.
“I started noticing it in middle school,” he says casually, like he’s talking about the weather.
I freeze.
My eyes flick to his. “Noticing what.”
“The way you watched me,” he continues, eyes never leaving mine. “Not openly. You’re too smart for that. But you always knew where I was. Always knew when I walked into a room. You’d get meaner. Sharper. Like you were bracing.”
I swallow.
He smiles like he sees it. “You hated when I flirted with other girls. Not because you cared about them. Because you didn’t like that I wasn’t looking at you.”
“That is a lie,” I snap. “I hate everyone equally.”
He hums. “High school made it worse. You’d avoid me, but you’d also… orbit. You’d sit where you could see me. You’d get loud when I was near. You’d insult me like it was your full-time job.” His eyes soften just a fraction. “You don’t hate me. You’re scared of me.”
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
He leans in closer, voice dropping, lower, rougher. “You’re scared of how much you want me.”
“Liar,” I breathe. It’s weak. I hate that.
He smirks. “I admire the commitment to the lie.”
My chest is tight. My heart is going too fast. His eyes drop to my lips and I feel it like a touch. I feel everything. The closeness. The heat. The way he smells clean and sharp and unfair. The way he’s taller, broader, blocking light.
“I’ll prove it,” he says softly.
And then he does.
He closes the space in one smooth movement, mouth crashing into mine like he’s been waiting years for permission he never intended to ask. It’s hungry. Immediate. Desperate in a way that makes my breath leave me completely. His lips are warm, firm, relentless, and the shock of it hits me so hard my knees almost give.
I should push him.
I should punch him.
I should scream.
Instead, I freeze.
Because he was right.
Because my body knows him.
Because my chest feels like it’s splitting open.
Because the kiss is everything I never let myself think about.
He kisses like he’s starved. Like he’s been holding back since middle school, since the first time I rolled my eyes at him, since the first time I called him annoying and meant dangerous. He presses closer, mouth moving against mine with urgency, with need, and when I finally react, it’s not to stop him.
It’s to grab his hair.
My fingers fist in it hard, yanking him closer, and the sound he makes—low, involuntary—goes straight through me. I tilt my head, show him my mouth, go up on my toes without thinking because he’s too tall and I want more, and the kiss deepens, turns rougher, needier, like a dam breaking.
He groans.
Actually groans.
His hands slide to my waist, gripping hard, pulling me into him, and I feel it—his strength, his heat, the solid reality of him—and my brain short-circuits. I clutch his biceps and—
Oh.
Oh.
My friends were right.
They’re huge. Hard. Solid. And the realization hits me like a wave, and suddenly I’m melting into him, breathless, dizzy, completely unprepared for how good this feels. His tongue brushes mine and I gasp, the sound embarrassing and real, and he takes it like an invitation.
He kisses me harder.
Deeper.
Hungry.
Like he’s wanted this for years.
Because he has.
His mouth trails to my jaw, then my neck, and his voice drops against my skin. “I told you,” he murmurs. “I was right.”
I open my mouth to insult him.
To call him arrogant.
To remind him I hate him.
And instead—
A soft sound slips out of me when his mouth finds that sensitive spot.
He stills.
Just for a second.
Then he smiles against my skin.
“Was that a moan,” he asks quietly, dangerously amused.
I glare at him, mortified. “I was… yawning.”
He laughs, low and pleased. “You’re cute when you lie.”
“I hate you,” I mutter.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dark, unreadable, intense. “You said you’d cut my hand off if I touched you.”
“I’m still considering it,” I reply.
He grins. “You did keep one promise.”
“Which,” I snap.
He leans in, voice low, teasing, satisfied. “You did kill me.”
I scoff, trying to regain control even though my heart is still racing and my body is very much betraying me. “You’re dramatic.”
Hiii I lovedddd your Tendou fic smm! I was hoping you could make it a series, with all the Haikyuu guys. Like a 7 minutes in heaven thing but it’s each guy if that makes sense
Ahhh yeahh that makes sense and I lovee that idea. A 7 minutes in heaven series for the hq boys. Ughh I’m soo exciteddd. Lmk who you guys would want me to write for firsttt!!
Summary: When Hajime Iwaizumi’s fierce, sharp-tongued sister starts noticing Oikawa Tooru changing—quieter, more serious, and suddenly uninterested in every girl but her—she’s thrown into a collision between long-held irritation and an attraction she refuses to name. When he finally breaks and confesses he’s loved her since childhood, she’s forced to choose between pride, her brother’s wrath, and the terrifying truth that the boy she’s always fought might be the one who’s always seen her.
Warnings/content: fluff, iwaizmi bullying, kissing, talk of sex, fem!reader, I don’t even know honestly
Ko-fi
By the time I’m sixteen, I’ve realized something important: There has never been a version of my life without boys yelling in my ear. One of them is my brother. The other is the idiot attached to him like a badly-trained puppy.
They’re a pair. Always have been. Hajime and Tōru. Iwaizumi and Oikawa. My brother and the problem. When I think back, it always starts on the playground.
Dust in the air, the rasp of the old metal slide burning the backs of our legs, the sun too bright and loud kids everywhere. I remember my brother’s small, solid back in front of me, shoulders squared like he was already ready to punch somebody for breathing wrong.
And him.
Tōru Oikawa, age… what, six? Seven? Bare knees, huge brown eyes, weirdly pretty for a boy, with a voice that carried across the entire yard like an ambulance siren.
“Hajimeee, pass! Pass, pass, pass—”
“No. You can’t even catch,” I muttered from behind him, hands on my hips.
He didn’t look at me. He never looked at me, not then. The ball went flying from Hajime’s hand toward him anyway, because my brother has always been soft for people he pretends not to be soft for.
Oikawa caught it, barely, stumbling back. Grinned like he’d just won nationals. “See? Told you I got it!”
He turned to throw it back and his eyes skipped right over me like I was air. That stuck. Not like a knife or anything dramatic. More like a splinter under the nail. Annoying. Hard to ignore.
“Hey,” I said. “You throw like a girl.”
He made a face. “You are a girl.”
“And I throw better than you.” He laughed like it was a joke. Like I was a joke. I didn’t like that.
The next time he missed a pass, the ball rolled to my feet. I picked it up, felt the familiar weight in my hands, the way it fit like something that belonged there. Hajime and Oikawa both looked over, waiting to see what I’d do.
He stuck his tongue out at me. “Don’t mess it up, Iwaizumi’s-sister-chan.”
He didn’t even know my name then. Just “Iwaizumi’s sister.” My fingers tightened around the ball. I didn’t say anything. Just stepped back, planted my feet, and served.
It wasn’t perfect. I was small. The ball wobbled a little. But it rocketed straight toward him, faster than I think he expected, because he froze. It hit him square in the nose with a satisfying, hollow smack.
The sound he made was unbelievable. He burst into tears. Not little sniffles. Full, red-faced, wailing tears. He clutched his face, dropped to his knees in the dust, and howled like someone had just shot him.
Kids turned to look. A teacher started hurrying over. My brother clapped a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking.
I blinked at Oikawa on the ground, at the tiny smear of blood starting under his nose, and felt something in my chest go sharp and bright and strangely… satisfied. Hajime leaned over to me, voice low, eyes still wide with laughter.
“You made him cry.”
“Yeah,” I said, watching the teacher fuss over him. His cries were hiccupping now, pathetic and high-pitched. “He deserved it.”
I didn’t regret it then. I don’t regret it now. If anything, I should’ve thrown harder. He never forgot that, I don’t think. Even when he pretended to.
We grew. The playground turned into corridors. The dust turned into squeaky waxed floors and volleyball lines painted straight and white. Everything got a little more serious, except him.
In middle school, the girls started noticing him. I remember the first time I saw it happen.
I was sitting on the steps outside the gym, tying my laces, the air thick with the smell of sweat and floor polish. Inside, Hajime’s practice was still going, the steady thud-thud-thud of balls hitting the court a familiar rhythm. I knew it well enough that I could tell who was serving even without looking.
Oikawa’s were always the loudest. Show-off.
The doors slid open and he came stumbling out, a little breathless, a little sweaty, hair plastered to his forehead. Before I could roll my eyes, a pair of first-year girls practically teleported in front of him.
“Oikawa-kun! You were amazing out there!”
“The way you spiked that last one—kyaaa—” Their voices hit a pitch that made my teeth itch. He blinked at them, surprised for half a second. Then I watched it happen.
His shoulders straightened. His smile switched into that shiny, practiced thing he still wears to this day. He tilted his head just so, hands going to his hips, laughter dripping sugar.
“Ara, ara, you were watching?” he said, and I could hear the smugness soaking into every syllable. “I’ll have to put on an even better show next time, won’t I?”
They giggled. Actually giggled. Like he’d told the funniest joke in the world and not just… existed. My stomach twisted. Not with jealousy or anything stupid like that—just a kind of irritated disbelief.
Really? This guy?
He noticed me on the stairs then. His eyes slid past the girls and landed on me. For a second the smile faltered, like he’d tripped over something invisible. Then he plastered it back on.
“Ah, Iwa-chan’s scary little sister,” he said, stepping away from his fanclub and wandering over. The girls followed at a distance, whispering. “Did you enjoy the game?”
I tugged my laces tighter, the rough cotton biting into my fingers. “I enjoyed when you missed that serve and almost ate floor.” His smile twitched. The girls’ whispers turned panicked.
“You’re so mean, ____-chan,” he pouted, trying that soft tone on me like it would work. “You should be kinder to senpai.”
“You’re older by ten months,” I said. “Barely counts.”
I stood, shouldering past him. He smelled like sweat and laundry detergent and that cheap body spray he’d started using around that time, the kind that tried too hard to smell like “cool ocean breeze” and ended up smelling like chemicals.
He wobbled dramatically. “Wah—so cold…” I brushed his shoulder off like he was dust on my sleeve.
Inside the gym, Hajime barked his name, and he scampered off, girls trailing behind him like colorful birds. I watched them go, that twist in my gut tightening.
He’s going to get worse, I thought. I wasn’t wrong. By second year of middle school, it was like watching a disease spread.
At first it was just giggling in the hallways, folded notes shoved in his locker, boxes of cheap chocolates on Valentine’s Day stacked like bricks. Then it became girls waiting by the gate, hands clenched around phone straps, cheeks pink.
He reveled in it, obviously. He soaked it in like sun.
Oikawa walked the halls with a swagger that made me want to trip him. His laugh got louder. His hair got more carefully styled. His jersey sleeves got rolled just enough to show off forearms he absolutely knew were unfair.
He’d always been dramatic, but now he was something else: aware. Aware of his face, his body, the effect he had. I hated it. I hated the way girls would cling to his arm and he’d let them, basking in it. I hated the way he’d flirt back without meaning a word of it.
I hated the way he’d brag about it to my brother, complaining about being “targeted by love” in that ridiculous singsong voice.
It wasn’t just stupid. It was pathetic. No self-control. No self-respect. Just chasing validation like it was some limited-time sale he couldn’t miss.
Once, he came over to our house straight from a date. I could tell because he was wearing his “I think I’m cool” outfit—collared shirt, open at the neck, sleeves rolled, cologne a little heavier than usual. There was lip gloss smeared faintly near his jaw.
I opened the door, saw the smudge, and felt my lip curl before I could stop it.
He blinked at me, then flashed that bright, empty grin. “____-chan! Is Iwa-chan home?”
I stared at the lip gloss, at the satisfied tilt of his chin. Something inside me went sharp and disgusted, like biting into an apple and feeling it crunch around something rotten.
“You have something on your face,” I said. He raised a hand automatically to wipe it off. I didn’t move. Just let him stand there in the doorway, wiping at his jaw with his thumb, eyes darting to mine to see if I’d say anything else. I didn’t.
“You’re not going to ask?” he tried, laughing a little.
“About what? How many girls you went through this week?” I stepped aside just enough to let him in. “Not interested.”
He faltered.
Just for a second. Just enough that his smile slipped and his eyes flashed with something small and wounded before it hid again. Then he shrugged it off like he always did.
“Ahh, you’re so cruel,” he sang, tossing his shoes off at the genkan. “Iwa-chan, save me! Your sister’s bullying me again!” From the living room, my brother snorted and called him an idiot. That was the routine. He noticed me. I cut him down. Hajime laughed. Life went on.
Everyone around us thought it was funny. A running joke. “You two are just the same,” they’d say, amused. “Hajime and ____ are like twins, but Oikawa never learns, does he?”
They’d say I threw balls like Hajime, glared like Hajime, punched like Hajime. They’d say we had the same sharp stare, the same stubborn chin, the same no-nonsense way of walking into a room like we already owned it.
“You’re basically Iwaizumi in a skirt,” someone told me once. I remember blinking at them, feeling the words land and settle. I didn’t mind. There were worse things to be.
When they graduated from middle school before me, it should’ve felt like a relief. I remember standing in the hallway, watching them in their uniforms one last time, all straight lines and boys who thought they were men. Parents took pictures. Girls cried. Teachers smiled like they were sending their sons off to war.
Hajime looked… the same. Just taller. Shoulders broader, jaw sharper. My brother was always going to be himself, regardless of what grade uniform they shoved him into.
Oikawa, though.
He soaked up every second of attention like it was his last meal. He posed with his fanclub, did that stupid peace sign by his face, leaned in too close so they’d scream and swat at him. He laughed and thanked them and promised he’d “do his best in high school,” like he wasn’t planning on terrorizing another three years’ worth of hallways.
I watched from behind a pillar, arms crossed, feeling oddly detached. Like I was watching a scene from someone else’s drama. When they finally broke away from the crowd and started toward the gate, Hajime spotted me.
“Oi,” he called, lifting his chin. “You coming home or what?” I pushed off the wall and walked over, ignoring the way Oikawa’s eyes lit up slightly when he saw me, like a dog noticing its favorite chew toy.
“You gonna cry because you’ll miss me so much?” he teased, leaning down to my eye level. We were almost the same height now. He’d shot up, absurdly.
I looked him over, from his smug face to his neatly pressed blazer, and felt… nothing warm. Just that old splinter, a little deeper.
“The only thing I’ll miss,” I said coolly, “is hitting you in the face with the ball during PE.”
Hajime barked a laugh. “She’s not lying.”
Oikawa clutched his chest theatrically. “So cold… I always knew you secretly loved me, ____-chan.”
“That’s not love,” I muttered. “That’s aim.” He laughed it off. He always did.
They walked ahead, the two of them shoulder to shoulder, sunlight pooling at their feet. I lagged a step behind, listening to them bicker about some practice or another, the rhythm of their voices familiar as breathing.
You won’t have to see his stupid face in the halls anymore, I told myself. The thought was satisfying. Clean. Like taking out the trash. Of course, the universe has always had a sick sense of humor.
Because even after he was gone from school, his face kept showing up. In our doorway. At our dinner table. On our couch, sprawled like he’d paid rent. High school made it worse. He figured out sex and went insane.
I’m not talking about the fumbling, awkward curiosity everyone goes through. I’m talking about the way he leaned into it like it was another sport, another performance, another way to be adored.
Stories started floating around.
Oikawa-senpai snuck out with so-and-so behind the gym. Oikawa-senpai walked that girl home and didn’t come back until midnight. Oikawa-senpai is such a good kisser. It was always the same tone. Reverent. Breathless. Disgustingly impressed.
He’d show up to our house in the evenings, hair mussed, shirt a little wrinkled, mouth swollen in a way that said he’d been busy. He’d flop down on the floor, groaning about practice like that was the only thing tiring him out, while my brother rolled his eyes and told him to stop being dramatic.
I’d pass through the room, feel his gaze latch onto me like a hook, and pretend it didn’t.
“____-chan,” he’d sing, chin propped on his hand. “You’re home~ Do you want to hear about the terrible thing that happened to me today?”
A cushion hit him in the face before he could finish.
“Shut up,” I said. He spat feathers and whined. Hajime snorted into his ramen. Sometimes, when he actually followed me down the hall, trailing like a shadow—
“What do you want?” I’d ask without looking back.
“Just wanted to talk to you,” he’d say, too quickly.
I’d reach my door, slide it open, and step into my room. The moment he tried to lean casually on the frame, I’d slide it shut in his face. The soft thump of his nose hitting the wood was always satisfying.
“You’re so violent,” he’d cry from the hallway. “Iwa-chan, your sister is bullying me again!”
“She’s nicer than you deserve,” my brother would call back. Everyone thought it was funny. Routine.
Our roles were clear: he annoyed, I retaliated, Hajime watched like it was his favorite show. But there were moments—tiny, sharp—that lodged in my memory and wouldn’t leave.
Like the time I came home late from my own practice, muscles buzzing with leftover adrenaline. The house was dark except for the light spilling from the living room. I heard their voices before I saw them.
“—you don’t have to keep doing that, you know,” Hajime was saying, tone flatter than usual.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Oikawa replied. The exhaustion in his voice surprised me. It was thin. Papery.
“I’m talking about running on empty like an idiot.” There was a pause. I stepped quietly into the kitchen, staying out of sight, fingers resting lightly on the doorframe.
“Don’t act like you don’t want the same thing,” Oikawa said at last, voice low. “You want to win as badly as I do.”
“Yeah,” Hajime said. “But I don’t need a hundred people screaming my name while I do it.” Silence. Then a small, humorless huff.
“…It’s not about that.”
“What is it about, then?” Another silence. Longer.
I waited for some stupid answer. Some flirty deflection. Something ridiculous about “being loved” or “being a star.” It didn’t come. Instead, he said, quietly:
“I just… don’t want to lose.” The words sat heavy in the air. Not dramatic. Not pretty. Just raw. My hand tightened on the doorframe.
In the living room, I imagined him slouched on the floor, long legs stretched out, head tipped back against the couch. That boy who wore his charm like armor, stripped down to something bare and tired when no one else could see him.
For a second, I felt something wobble inside my chest. Annoyance, but colored with something else. Something I didn’t like.
Before Hajime could answer, the floor creaked under my foot. Both their heads turned toward the sound, and the moment shattered.
“Oh? ____-chan, you’re home!” Oikawa brightened immediately, voice snapping back into that singsong. “Did you bring me anything~?”
There it was again—that switch. That performance.
Whatever I’d heard a second ago folded itself up and disappeared as neatly as a letter into an envelope.
I stepped into the doorway, face blank. “Yeah,” I said. “I brought you silence.”
He pouted. “You’re so cruel.”
Hajime snorted. “You deserved that one.”
They went back to their bickering, easy and familiar. I slipped past, heart still beating a little faster than it should have, irritation crowding out any sympathy that had tried to form.
He’s still pathetic, I told myself.
He’s still reckless, still careless with himself and everyone else, still chasing girls and applause and whatever else fills the empty sky above his head.
I didn’t care what was behind it.
I refused to. If he was tired, that was his problem. If he was lonely under all that noise, that was his choice. He’d chosen all of it, after all.
~~~
By the time coach finally blows the whistle, my lungs feel like they’ve been scrubbed raw.
“Again,” she says, voice cutting through the gym like a blade. “Rotate. Faster. If you have the energy to talk back, you have the energy to jump higher.”
Nobody talks back this time.
Shoes squeak against the floor in a messy chorus. The air is thick with dust and sweat and the faint rubber tang of old volleyballs. One of the girls two spots down from me is wheezing so hard I can hear it over everything else, but she still shuffles into position like she’s not about to pass out.
We’re all wrecked. That’s what happens when one idiot decides she suddenly has opinions about coach’s training schedule.
I don’t feel sorry for her. I don’t feel sorry for any of us. You open your mouth, you run. Simple.
I wipe the back of my wrist across my forehead. My shirt clings to my spine; my legs buzz with that electric tremor that lives somewhere between exhaustion and momentum. It would be easy to let myself slow down, just a little. Everyone else is.
But the net is in front of me. The ball is in the air. And there’s this tight, familiar coil in my chest that only loosens when I hit something as hard as I can.
“Tempo two!” coach barks. “You’re late on your approach, Iwaizumi. Fix it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I grit out.
It’s not anger that moves me—at least, not the kind that flares and burns out. It’s something steadier, older. A line drawn in the sand a long time ago that says: if you’re going to do this, you don’t half-ass it. You don’t drag your feet. You don’t be the reason the team has to stay another hour.
So I move. Ball. Step. Step. Jump.
For a second, everything lifts—me, the ball, my heartbeat. The world narrows to the white blur rising toward my hand and the hollow, perfect sound of my palm slamming it down.
The thud on the other side of the court is clean. Sharp.
“Better,” coach says. That’s as close to praise as anyone gets from her.
We run it again. And again. My shoulders throb. My thighs burn. My ponytail sticks to the back of my neck. The other girls’ faces are turning blotchy with effort, but they know better than to whine now. The line that talked back earlier is a warning branded into the air.
Don’t test her.
The gym doors slide open sometime between one drill and the next. I don’t look. If it’s a stray first-year, coach will eat them alive. If it’s a teacher, they can wait. If it’s the reaper come to collect us, he can take a number.
“Eyes on the ball,” coach snaps, as a few heads instinctively turn. “I don’t care who walks in. You’re not done until I say so.”
I keep my gaze on the set, on the arc, on the tiny adjustments of my teammate’s fingers. But my peripheral vision catches a few things anyway—the flash of green from an Aoba Johsai jacket, the brief spike of shrill whispering, the way the tired line of girls suddenly tries to straighten in places.
Of course. Hajime. And where Hajime is, a problem follows.
“Focus,” I remind myself, under my breath.
I drive forward for the next spike like the net insulted me personally. Later, I’ll realize this is where it shifts. Not with some dramatic slow-motion entrance, not with the world going quiet as he walks in.
Just with me, running a little faster than I have to. Jumping a little higher. The ball kissing my palm just right. And his eyes, finally, really landing on me.
He hadn’t planned on staying late.
The whole point of finishing his own practice on time was that he got to go home, shower, eat, and maybe pretend for one evening that his entire life wasn’t just serves, receives, and the distant shadow of a left-handed monster named Ushijima.
But Hajime’s sister’s coach had other ideas, apparently.
“Someone talked back,” Hajime had grunted, toeing off his shoes and swapping them for indoor ones. “So they’re still running.”
Tooru had laughed on reflex. “Scary.”
Then they’d pushed open the gym doors, and the laugh had snapped off in his throat.
The girls were running lines, jerseys sticking to their backs, ponytails whipping like flags. The air had that late-practice thickness he knew too well: sweat and rubber and a kind of exhausted stubbornness that clung to walls long after people left.
And there, on the far side of the court, taking off into a perfect, brutal approach—
Her.
He felt it before he understood it. A little jolt under his ribs, like missing a step on the stairs. She didn’t see him.
Of course she didn’t. He and Hajime slid into the lowest row of the stands like they’d done a hundred times in a hundred gyms, and she didn’t look over once. Her eyes were on the ball, on the setter’s hands, on the invisible line between her and the floor that told her exactly when to jump.
He knew that line. Lived on it himself. But watching her ride it—It did something to his breathing.
“Don’t stare,” Hajime muttered beside him, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed critically on his sister’s footwork. “You’re making that face.”
“What face?” Tooru asked, voice higher than he meant it to be.
“The gross one.”
He snapped his mouth shut.
He told himself he was just watching her form. That was safe. That was normal. That was about volleyball, not about the way her hair stuck to the back of her neck or the way her shoulders moved under the damp cling of her jersey.
Her approach was cleaner than he remembered. In middle school she’d always been a fraction late, a fraction too square to the net—raw power without a fine edge yet. Now her steps rolled out smooth, tempo-perfect. Step, step, drive. The last two strides bled into each other; her hips turned just enough to open power through her core.
She took off, and for a second she seemed to float. Then her arm whipped through, and the ball vanished. It reappeared on the other side as a dull, vicious crack against the wood.
The receiver barely got hands on it. The ball ricocheted into a desperate scramble that ended with someone skidding into the benches.
Tooru’s fingers tightened on the edge of his seat.
He could feel the path of that swing in his own body: the load in her shoulder, the snap of her wrist, the angle of her contact. That wasn’t just anger thrown at the ball. That was anger with direction. Anger that had learned timing and discipline and rhythm.
(When did she—)
He clamped down on the thought, jaw flexing.
“I told you,” Hajime said, and there it was—that quiet, fierce pride that only ever came out when he talked about his sister or volleyball. “She’s getting better.”
Tooru swallowed. “Yeah,” he managed. “She is.” That didn’t cover it.
“Better” was what you said when a first-year stopped flinching on receives. “Better” was what you said when a setter finally hit their tempo marks. This was—
Another ball went up. She was already moving.
He watched her shoulders from behind, the way the muscles under her skin bunched and released, the faint sheen of sweat catching in the overhead lights. The gym’s fluorescents were cruel—too white, too flat—but somehow they slid over her like stage lights, carving her out of the haze.
She jumped. Time stretched thin.
He always thought her pretty, even when she was small and half-feral, all scraped knees and sharp teeth, glaring at him like he’d personally ruined her life.
He’d never let himself stay on the thought long.
(Hajime would kill me. Actually kill me.)
The memory came with the clarity of a replay.
Junior high. Hallway between third and fourth period. The smell of chalk dust and cheap detergent hanging in the air.
He’d been rummaging in his locker when one of their teammates elbowed him, chin jerking toward the end of the corridor.
“Oi, Oikawa.” The guy’s voice dropped conspiratorially. “Your friend’s sister. She single?” Tooru had followed the gesture before he could stop himself.
She was there, back turned, swapping indoor shoes. Ponytail high, legs long in that stupidly unflattering uniform skirt that somehow did nothing to make her look less good. Even then, there’d been something arresting about her. A kind of unbothered gravity.
He’d felt his mouth move before his brain caught up.
“She’s gorgeous,” he’d said easily, grinning. “But no one would last on the ride—”
He didn’t get to finish.
His back slammed into cold metal. The locker door rattled behind his skull. Hajime’s hand was in his collar, knuckles pressed into his throat, eyes flat and dark and not joking at all.
“Don’t,” Hajime had said. His voice had been low enough that it didn’t carry, but every syllable landed like a hit. “Don’t talk about her like that. Don’t talk to other people about her like that. Don’t even think about getting on her ride, got it?”
The guy who’d asked had backed off so fast he might as well have disappeared. The hallway blurred at the edges. Tooru had laughed weakly, hands up in surrender.
“It was just a joke, Iwa-chan—”
“I’m not joking,” Hajime had said. He wasn’t. After that, the message went through the team like a warning label.
Off limits. She never seemed to notice. Or if she did, she didn’t care. She’d already been good at scaring people off herself.
Tooru learned to file the thought of her away in the part of his mind that catalogued dangerous serves and strong opponents. Look, but don’t hold for too long. Never aim there. Now, in the girls’ gym, that old rule frayed at the edges.
She landed from another spike, knees bending cleanly to absorb the impact. Her features were set, focused, lips parted around her breath. There was nothing soft about her expression; it was all calculation and grit and a quiet, simmering drive that reminded him uncomfortably of the way his own chest felt before a big game.
Her next approach was shorter, adjusted for a lower set. She still hammered the ball through a gap in the block like she’d planned it that way from the start.
He dropped his chin into his hand to hide his mouth. This is bad, he thought. Not the volleyball. The volleyball was excellent. The volleyball was the one thing keeping him anchored to the bench instead of floating out of his skin.
No—the bad part was the way his heart had started doing that uneven, stuttering rhythm, tripping over itself every time she left the floor. The way his stomach did a slow, swooping lurch when she hit, like he was the one falling.
He tried to look away, to be polite, to be sane. The universe, predictably, refused to cooperate.
“Oh my god, it’s Oikawa-san,” one of the girls whispered behind them, not nearly quietly enough.
A cluster of them peeled away from the warm-up line under the net, gravitating toward the stands with the oblivious confidence of people who had never been made to repeat laps for dawdling in practice.
“Are you here to watch us?” one of them breathed, cheeks already pink.
Tooru forced himself to sit up, shoulders loosening into that familiar, easy line. The mask slid on with barely a hitch.
“Of course,” he said, smile switching on like a light. “I came to support Iwa-chan’s precious little sister and her terrifying coach.”
The girls giggled. It should’ve been satisfying. Once, it might’ve been. Now it felt like someone had stepped between him and the only thing in the room he wanted to look at.
“Iwaizumi-san’s sister is amazing,” another girl said, hands clasped in front of her. “She’s so cool.”
He glanced past them, trying to catch sight of her again. She was already moving into another rotation, jogging back into position, sweat-slick hair swinging. She hadn’t slowed down to see who had come in. She hadn’t broken focus when the other girls had. She was treating this like there really was a scout watching.
(There is, some part of him thought wildly. Me. I’m watching. Pay attention to me.)
“Time’s not going to stop just because Oikawa’s ugly face is in the gym,” Hajime snapped beside him, voice cutting through the fluttering crowd. “Get moving.” The girls scattered like pigeons chased off a bench.
Tooru shot him a wounded look. “Rude.”
“Shut up,” Hajime said without heat, eyes flicking back to his sister. “I’m not staying an extra hour because they want to flirt with you.”
He was grateful for that, absurdly. For Hajime’s impatience, for his refusal to let practice dissolve into a fan-meeting. If the girls had stayed, they would’ve blocked his view.
He settled his chin back in his hand, elbow on his knee, and let himself look properly now that no one was staring at him.
Her form was beautiful.
Not in a way he could’ve explained to the girls who squealed over his face. They liked perfect hair and long lashes and the way his jersey hung off his shoulders.
He liked the way she planted her feet. The way she swung like she trusted her body completely. The way she never, ever made it easy on the ball.
She adjusted to a bad set without a flinch, just shifted her weight that tiny bit backward to find a new angle and still drove the ball at the seam in the block. That was instinct and reps and something else—that stubborn, relentless, Iwaizumi streak burning through her arms.
Something in his chest stretched tight.
He remembered her as a kid on the playground, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, launching a ball at him with all the force her small body could muster. He remembered the sting on his nose, the tears, the humiliation of crying in front of Hajime’s scary little sister.
She’d hit hard even then.
Now… now it was refined. Sharper. Like someone had taken that raw, wild swing and honed it into a weapon.
His gaze traced the line of her calf as she landed, the flex of her fingers as she shook out her hand, the wrinkle at the bridge of her nose when a teammate shanked a pass. She didn’t smile. Didn’t joke. She didn’t even glare, not really—just noted the mistake and moved on, resetting herself for the next rally.
Single-minded. Controlled. Dangerous.
He knew those words. Knew how they tasted on his own tongue when he thought about Ushijima, about nationals, about every late night spent serving until his shoulder screamed.
He hadn’t expected to find them here, in the tilt of her jaw and the slice of her approach. He had always known she could be a little scary. He hadn’t realized she’d become breathtaking. His heart thudded once, heavy enough that it seemed to echo in his ears. This is very, very bad, he thought, almost detached.
Not because the feeling was wrong in itself. He was seventeen, not dead. He knew what it meant when his gaze kept snagging on the sheen of sweat along the column of her throat, when his palms felt a little too empty watching her crush the ball into the floor.
It was bad because of who she was.
Because of the boy sitting next to him, elbows on his knees, expression caught somewhere between “proud older brother” and “ready to fight god if anyone so much as breathes wrong in her direction.”
Because of lockers and hands in his collar and the way “I’m not joking” had sounded like a promise. His fingers flexed on his knee.
Look away, he told himself. This is Hajime’s sister. This is the line you don’t cross. He shifted his gaze to the far wall. It slid back to her before the next serve left the coach’s hand.
She moved again, all sharp angles and precise lines and that low, hot current he recognized from every player who mattered. His stomach did that swoop again, like the floor had tilted. This is insane, he thought. I am actually going insane.
He dragged his attention up to the scoreboard. The numbers were meaningless; this wasn’t a real match. His eyes blurred over them, then dropped inexorably to the court.
One of the girls on the bench stole a glance at him and nearly tripped over her own feet when he met her eyes. She flushed bright red and jerked her gaze away, flustered.
He barely registered it.
He’d spent years accepting that kind of reaction. Letting it roll over him, maybe even leaning into it a little when it served as a buffer between him and the gnawing pressure under his ribs. It was easy. It was predictable. It was all surface-level and no dissonance.
But it was useless now.
Because the one person in the room who refused to look at him—the one person who would rather shred her knees on the floor than waste energy glancing his way—that was the person his gaze kept circling back to.
Every girl wants Oikawa. Every girl except her.
He’d always known that, factually. It had been the dynamic of his life for years: a tide of attention washing over him, with one rocky, immovable outcrop in the middle that never budged no matter how high it rose.
He’d thought he could live with that. Maybe he’d even liked it. There was something perversely comforting about someone who refused to be impressed, who called him an idiot to his face when everyone else smiled around the word.
Now, with the sound of her spikes echoing in his bones and the line of her body carved against the bright gym light, that fact pressed against him from the inside.
Why doesn’t she look at me? The thought came quiet. Uninvited. It lodged somewhere under his sternum and stayed there.
Not because he wanted her to giggle or bat her eyes or throw herself at him like the others did. The idea of her acting like that made his brain short-circuit in self-defense.
No—he wanted something else entirely. Something much more dangerous. He wanted that focused, unflinching gaze that she turned on the ball, on the net, on the court—
He wanted that gaze on him. Just for a second. Just enough to see if it hit as hard as her spike. He shifted on the bench, suddenly aware of how tight his uniform felt across his shoulders.
Beside him, Hajime exhaled. “If they don’t fix their receive, coach is going to murder them.”
“Mm,” Tooru said, noncommittal.
“Her cross is sharper,” Hajime added.
“Yeah,” Tooru said, too quickly.
Hajime’s eyes slid sideways, narrowing. “Don’t,” he said.
“Don’t what?” Tooru asked, blinking.
“Whatever you’re thinking,” Hajime muttered.
Tooru forced a laugh. “I’m thinking about volleyball, Iwa-chan. What else would I be thinking about? Your scary little sister who throws things at me? No thank you.” The lie tasted thin. On the court, she jumped again. The ball obeyed. He watched it, waited for his heart to settle.
It didn’t. The thing about off-limits signs, he thought distantly, was that sometimes they only made you look harder.
And for the first time in years, it occurred to him that all the girls whose names he couldn’t remember, all the smiles and phone numbers and stolen kisses, had done nothing to fill the space that was currently tightening around this one, simple, impossible fact:
He was sitting in the stands, falling in love with the way his best friend’s sister hit a volleyball. And if he wasn’t careful, Hajime was going to kill him for it.
~~~
The set is slow this time, a little too far from the net. I adjust mid-air, twist, still manage to send the ball screaming at the open corner. It lands just inside the line. The receive shatters off someone’s arms, spinning off toward the wall.
“Nice kill,” someone pants behind me.
I shrug it off, already backing up to reset. Compliments don’t win games. They don’t get you a starting spot. They don’t stop coach from making you run suicides until your legs give out.
The whispering near the bench gets louder. I hear my name—well, our name—float through it.
“Is that her? Iwaizumi’s sister?”
“She’s so cool—”
“Do you think Oikawa-san’s watching?” Of course he is, one of them giggles. I almost roll my eyes hard enough to strain something.
We’re mid-rotation when coach finally gives in to the distraction and snaps, “If you have time to gossip, you have time to run a lap. The whole team. Now.” Groans ripple through the girls. My jaw tightens.
I don’t even look at the stands, but I can feel them—every pair of eyes that slid away from the court to the doorway when the boys walked in. Every silly little crush, every hope that he’ll glance their way and say something they can replay in their heads later.
He encourages it. I’ve seen him.
I take off on the lap, feet slapping the floor, lungs hitching into a new rhythm. The air near the entrance feels cooler somehow, brushing my sweat-sticky skin. It carries his cologne with it, that faint, familiar scent I’ve learned to file under “background noise.” He’s been in our house enough times that it clings to the cushions after he leaves.
Don’t look. I don’t. But I hear them.
“Oh my god, it’s really him—”
“Oikawa-san, you’re here to watch the girls’ practice?”
“You’re so handsome in person—” Their voices climb into that high, breathless register that always makes something sour bloom at the back of my throat.
“Well, well,” he says, and I can picture the smile without seeing it. “Such cute kouhai. But shouldn’t you be listening to your coach?” There’s something like a warning buried under the sugar. It doesn’t matter. They’re too dazed to hear it.
“Oi,” another voice cuts in. Sharper. Grounded. My brother. “Get moving. If we have to stay an extra hour because of you, I’m making you all run home.” The way the girls scatter, you’d think someone fired a starting gun.
I catch the shape of Hajime’s annoyance as I pass—the set line of his mouth, the furrow between his brows. He’s sitting on the lower row of the stands, elbows planted on his knees, watching me run like he’s tracking a play. His presence is steady. Solid.
Beside him, slouched like he’s just wandered out of a magazine photo, is the problem.
Tooru. He’s not laughing. That’s the first thing that hits me when I risk the quickest glance in his direction. He’s not talking, either. He’s just… staring. At me.
His eyes are locked on the far side of the court where I’ve just pivoted into another approach. There’s no fanclub pasted around him for once. The girls who tried to linger got sent away, and the quiet that hangs around him now feels wrong. Thin.
I slam the ball down again. This one ricochets off the blocker’s hands and ricochets up toward the rafters.
“She’s insane,” someone mutters near the net.
Good.
“That’s my sister,” Hajime says somewhere behind me, not loud, but proud enough that it carries. I can hear the small, smug smile in it. There’s a tiny hitch of breath near him. I don’t have to see to know whose it is.
(She’s better than half the guys on our team.)
The thought isn’t mine. It hums somewhere just out of reach, like I’ve stepped too close to a live wire.
(When did she—)
I shove the phantom voice away, focus on my breathing, my steps, the little micro-timing of muscle and air that makes the difference between a clean kill and a sloppy hit. My knee twinges as I land. I ignore it.
If I start listening to the way he looks at me, I’ll start thinking about it. And nothing good has ever come from thinking about him.
~~~
Practice doesn’t end so much as it grinds to a reluctant halt.
Coach finally sighs, checks her watch, and gives us a curt nod. “Stretch. Hydrate. If anyone ever mouths off at me again, we’ll stay until the sun comes up. Dismissed.”
Girls slump to the floor like puppets with their strings cut. Someone laughs weakly. Someone else groans. Water bottles are unscrewed with trembling fingers.
I take a long swig from mine, letting the lukewarm plastic taste wash the chalky dryness from my mouth. My shirt clings to me in patches. My ponytail feels like a heavy rope dragging at my scalp. My body is a collection of aches. My mind is a steady, low hum.
I can feel their eyes without looking—the girls sneaking glances toward the stands, the way their voices go soft and hopeful when they realize he’s still there.
I refuse to participate. I grab my bag. My legs protest as I straighten, but they’ll forgive me by tomorrow. They always do.
By the time I walk toward the exit, I’ve smoothed my expression into something flat. Neutral. Practice is over; there’s no reason to keep burning unless someone gives me a good one.
Hajime is standing now, hands shoved into his pockets. His presence is like a wall I can lean against without thinking. Next to him, Tooru rises too, that loose, lazy grace he weaponizes so well wrapping around him like another jersey.
I don’t look at him. Not really. Just enough to know where not to walk.
“You’re late,” Hajime says, as I approach.
“I wasn’t the one with a death wish,” I reply.
His mouth twitches. “You were the one enjoying the extra drills.” He’s not wrong. The spike in my veins hasn’t fully faded yet.
Behind him, I can feel Tooru’s gaze dragging across me like a weight. It’s different from the stray glances he throws my way at home. Sharper. Hungrier.
(How is she real?)
It flickers at the edge of my awareness again. I refuse to catch it.
“Let’s go,” I say, hitching my bag higher on my shoulder. “If I have to stay in this gym one more minute I’m going to fuse with the floor.” We head toward the doors. Tooru falls into step on my other side like he belongs there. He doesn’t.
Outside, the dusk is soft and blue, the air cooling just enough to make the sweat on my skin feel like a second, clammy layer. The parking lot is mostly empty. Hajime’s car sits under one of the flickering lights, slightly crooked in its space.
Tooru veers toward the passenger side automatically. Of course he does. He’s always been good at claiming the best spots without asking. Before he can grab the handle, my fingers catch the back of his jacket.
I yank.
Hard.
He chokes out a startled sound, stumbling backward. His foot catches the edge of the pavement, and he windmills his arms, barely catching himself before he eats asphalt.
The look he throws over his shoulder is priceless—wide-eyed, offended, hair falling into his face. My grip is still loose in the fabric, knuckles brushing the warm line of his spine where his jacket rides up.
They stare at each other for a second like they’re having a whole conversation in silence. The air between them hums with that familiar, stupid, longstanding best-friend static. Then Tooru sighs dramatically and slouches toward the back door.
(Heart’s pounding. Why is my heart pounding from a touch that lasted half a second—)
I pretend I don’t hear that tremor in the universe and slide into the front seat without a word.
The car smells like sweat, air freshener, and boy. The glow from the dash casts faint green light across Hajime’s face as he pulls out of the school lot. He drives like he does everything else: steady, focused, not wasting motion.
I slump back, letting my head tip against the cool glass of the window. The city slides past in streaks of yellow and white. Neon signs blink half-awake; someone’s bike rattles over the cracked sidewalk.
Tooru tries small talk with Hajime, his voice drifting up from the back seat like static.
I don’t bother chiming in. My muscles are starting to cool down, and with it comes the deep, sinking weight that drags at everything, like someone replaced my blood with wet sand.
Focus on the road. The hum of the engine. The way Hajime loosens his grip on the steering wheel just enough at red lights. Don’t think about the set. The spike. The way his eyes felt on the back of your neck.
We pull into a gas station five minutes later. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in that too-bright, too-honest glow that makes even clean places look tired.
“I’m low,” Hajime mutters, turning into a spot by a pump. “I’ll be quick. Don’t break anything.” He says that last part looking at Tooru, not me.
“Why do you always assume it’s me?” Tooru whines, unbuckling his seatbelt.
“Because it’s always you.” The door shuts behind him with a solid thunk, and then it’s just me and Tooru in the car. The air shifts.
It always does, when Hajime leaves the room. It’s not something I like admitting—even in my own head—but there’s this weird, weightless stretch of silence that opens up whenever my brother’s presence isn’t there to fill it.
I keep my eyes on the convenience store window, where Hajime’s reflection moves past rows of snacks and drinks. He’s already heading toward the counter, efficient as always.
Behind me, I hear Tooru settle back into his seat. The leather creaks. His exhale is too loud in the small space.
(Don’t say anything stupid. Don’t flirt. Don’t—)
“____-chan,” he starts. There it is.
I stare straight ahead. “No.”
He lets out a strangled laugh. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“You were going to say something annoying.”
“You don’t know that.” I tilt my head just enough to pin him in the rearview mirror. The dim light catches his face—the curve of his mouth already crooking into a practiced smile, the lazy set of his eyes that never quite hides how much they’re watching.
“I’ve known you since you cried on the playground because a ball hit your face,” I say. “I know exactly what you were going to say.”
He groans, throwing his head back against the seat. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“No.” For a moment, he’s quiet. The radio hums softly with some pop song the station cycles every ten minutes. Outside, the pump clicks. A car pulls in two spots down.
Inside, there’s just the two of us and the strange, thin tension that always finds its way between us when Hajime isn’t here to soak it up. He fills it eventually. Of course he does.
“I was going to say,” he tries again, voice a little softer, “you were… really impressive today.” The word “impressive” comes out like it costs him something.
I blink once, slow.
There’s a temptation to take it. To roll it around on my tongue and see if it tastes any different from all the other empty sugar he hands out. But I know better.
“That’s disgusting,” I say.
He chokes. “What—”
“You flirting while you still smell like other girl’s perfume,” I add, nose wrinkling. “Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?” The sound he makes is somewhere between a laugh and a gasp.
(Perfume? She noticed? She noticed that—)
“I wasn’t— It wasn’t—” He fumbles, the smoothness cracking for a second. “I’m just being honest. You were amazing. Like— terrifying. In a good way.”
“Stop.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s gross.”
He goes quiet again, but it’s not the comfortable kind. It’s the kind that presses against the inside of the car, thick as humidity. I can feel him looking at the back of my head. At my shoulders. At the way my hand curls on my thigh.
(Why does it matter what she thinks? Why is my chest doing that stupid thing because she hates it when I say the same things other girls beg me to say—)
“It’s not like I talk to you the same way,” he says, almost defensively.
“You shouldn’t talk like that to anyone.” There’s a beat. Two.
“You sound like Iwa-chan,” he laughs, a little breathless.
“That’s because he’s right.”
His fingers drum against the seat. “You don’t like it that much?”
“What gave it away?” I still haven’t turned around. My gaze is glued to the convenience store door, even though Hajime is taking longer than usual. “The part where I ignore you or the part where I throw things at you?” His exhale shivers through the air. I can almost hear the way his thoughts skid.
(She hates it. She really hates it. Of course she does. Of course she would. She’s not— she’s not like them. She never was.)
“You could just say you think I’m charming, you know,” he says weakly. “It wouldn’t kill you.”
“Don’t test that.”
Silence again.
But it’s different this time. He doesn’t retreat. He doesn’t slink back into that comfortable cloud of shallow banter.
“This is literally just how I talk,” he says suddenly, like he’s forcing the words through his teeth. “You make it sound like I’m—” He cuts himself off.
Like I’m dirty. He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to. A muscle in my jaw ticks.
I remember a hallway years ago. Junior high. One of the guys from their team nudging Tooru’s shoulder, eyes flicking toward me where I was swapping my indoor shoes.
“Oi, Oikawa,” he’d said. “Your friend’s sister. She single?”
Tooru had laughed. “She’s gorgeous, but trust me, you wouldn’t last on the ride—” The sentence had ended with his back slammed into a locker. Hajime’s hand fisted in his collar, knuckles white. His voice low, dangerous.
“Don’t even think about getting on her anything. Got it?” The rumor spread fast after that. Off limits. Off limits. Off limits. No one asked again. I hadn’t needed them to.
Now, in the quiet of the car, with the faint glow of the gas station washing everything in tired light, I feel that same line between us. Drawn by my brother’s fist. Reinforced by every eye-roll I’ve given Tooru since. You stay over there. I stay over here. Simple.
But suddenly he’s pushing at it from his side, palms braced, stupid heart pounding against a wall that was never built for this.
“What do you want me to say, then?” he mutters. There’s an edge under the pout, something sharp and restless. “You were terrible? You sucked? You shouldn’t be the ace? Because that would be a lie, and I don’t lie about volleyball.”
I finally turn, just enough to see him over my shoulder.
He’s leaning forward between the seats a little, elbows braced on his knees. His hair is a mess from the way he threw his head around earlier. His eyes are too bright. Too focused. He looks like he’s standing too close to the edge of something and isn’t smart enough to step back.
“Then don’t say anything,” I tell him. “You don’t have to narrate every thought that drops into your head.” His mouth curves. It doesn’t quite become a smile.
(If I don’t say it, I might actually explode.)
“You’re so mean to me,” he says instead. “It’s kind of hot.” The word hangs between us. My fingers curl around the edge of the seat.
There are about a thousand ways I could respond. Most of them involve violence. All of them would feel good for one second and then too much like giving him what he wants. So I go for the one that slices.
“You really can’t talk to a girl without taking it there, can you?” My tone is light. My eyes are not. “You don’t even know how to be a person first.”
He flinches. It’s small, but it’s there. A tiny, involuntary withdrawal, like I’ve poked a bruise he didn’t know he had.
(That’s not— That’s not all it is with you—)
His fingers go still on his knee.
“Maybe I don’t know how to be a person around you,” he says quietly. The pump clicks. My heart does something stupid in my chest. I ignore it.
Before I can decide whether to hit him with the nearest object or pretend I didn’t hear that, the driver’s side door opens and the whole car shifts as Hajime climbs back in, the smell of gasoline and convenience store instant coffee bursting in with him.
“Did you two fight?” he asks, glancing between us.
“Always,” I say.
“Never,” Tooru says at the same time.
Hajime snorts. “Whatever. Seatbelts.”
The spell breaks. The walls slam back into place. Tooru sinks into his seat and plasters on a grin, already exaggerating some story about practice as we pull out of the station, like the last few minutes didn’t happen.
I stare out the window and pretend my pulse isn’t still beating a little too fast.
~~~
At home, everything falls back into its usual grooves, like a song we’ve played so often our hands move before our brains catch up.
Shoes off at the door. Toes tapping against the wooden step. The faint smell of miso and rice hanging in the air.
“I’m showering first,” I say automatically, already untying my laces.
“The hell you are,” Hajime snorts, nudging me with his shoulder as he bends down to yank his own shoes off. “You always hog the hot water.”
“You smell like a locker room,” I say. “I’m doing the house a favour.”
“You both smell like a locker room,” Tooru adds from behind us, voice muffled as he tries to hop out of one shoe without untying it and nearly eats pavement. “We should fumigate.”
He trips over my sneakers. I don’t move them. He pinwheels, yelps, catches himself on the doorframe with a loud smack.
“Watch where you put your shoes, ____-chan,” he whines, clutching his arm like I’ve shot him. “So cruel—”
Hajime smacks the back of his head on his way past. “Stop being dramatic in the doorway. You’re blocking the air.”
“It’s abuse,” Tooru mutters, rubbing the spot. “I’m telling your parents.”
“They’ll thank me,” Hajime says.
I claim the bathroom anyway. By the time they’ve finished arguing about it in the hallway, I’ve locked the door and turned on the shower so hot steam curls around my ankles.
He bangs on the door twice—more for pride than in the hope I’ll answer. I flip the lock just to hear the tiny, satisfying click.
Dinner is simple. It always is when it’s just us: rice, miso, grilled fish, a pile of pickles in a chipped dish that’s older than any of us. Dad’s on a late shift. Mom texted an apology and a heart half an hour ago.
By the time I walk into the dining room, hair damp and skin humming from the heat of the shower, dinner is already laid out. Hajime is halfway through his bowl. Tooru sits across from him.
“So then the ball goes like fwoooosh— almost out of bounds, like, practically in another city—”
“It was a metre away,” Hajime mutters.
“—and I, with my lightning-fast reflexes and impeccable sense of the court, dive like this—”
He flings his arm out. His chopsticks nearly knock over his water. I reach across the table without thinking and flick him in the middle of the forehead.
The sound is small but sharp. Knuckle against bone. He yelps, both hands flying to his head, eyes going comically wide. “Ow! ____-chan! Violence!”
Hajime snorts. “Don’t be a baby. She barely touched you.”
Barely is generous; I hit him harder than I meant to. There’s a faint red mark blooming under his fringe, right at the centre of that stupid, perfect forehead he’s so proud of. I don’t apologize.
“That’s what you get for almost drowning the table,” I say, nodding at the still-quivering water glass. “If you’re going to lie, at least do it without spilling things.”
He stares at me through his fingers. Not in an offended way, not really. There’s something else underneath the theatrics—something bright and sharp that makes him sit a little straighter even as he pretends to be mortally wounded. For some reason, he always looks most alive when someone’s hit him.
“You two are unbelievable,” he mumbles, but there’s no real bite in it. “It’s like living with a pair of wild animals.”
“Bold coming from Trashykawa,” Hajime says, picking up his miso. “Have you seen your form when you’re tired? It’s like your spine forgets how to exist.”
I huff a quiet breath that isn’t quite a laugh. “Coach said his serve toss still looks like he’s trying to pet god,” I add. “It goes up and even the ball looks confused.”
Hajime snorts. “Accurate.”
“Hey,” Tooru protests, sitting up straight again, wounded pride flaring. “My serves are beautiful.”
“They’re dramatic,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
“They win us points,” he argues, pointing his chopsticks at me like accusing fingers. “You see the faces of the receivers when they drop? They’re like ‘oh no, Oikawa-san, please spare us with your amazing—’”
“Even your imaginary fans are annoying,” I say.
Hajime doesn’t miss a beat. “And blind.”
Tooru gasps again. His hand flies to his heart this time, like he can keep it from jumping out of his chest. “Iwa-chan, you wound me. After all the sets I’ve given you—this is how you repay me?”
“Shut up,” Hajime says, but his mouth is twitching. “Stop fishing for compliments in my living room.”
“I’m not fishing,” Tooru says indignantly. “I’m simply stating facts. They would be lost without me. I am the shining star of—”
“Of what?” I cut in. “Of being annoying?”
“Yes,” Hajime says.
“Yes— I mean, no!” Tooru splutters. “You two are ganging up on me, this is bullying.”
“It’s called balance,” I say, reaching across the table again. He flinches instinctively, hands flying up to protect his forehead. I flick his chopsticks instead. They slip from his fingers and clatter onto his plate. He stares at them, betrayed.
“Oikawa,” Hajime says, exasperated but amused. “You’d get lost in your own reflection if we let you.”
“That’s not even physically possible,” Tooru mutters, cheeks puffing up. “You can’t get lost in a mirror.”
“You could,” I say. “You’d walk into a bathroom and never come out.”
“I’d come out more gorgeous,” he counters, recovering fast. “Is that what you’re afraid of, ____-chan? That I might become even more irresistible?”
He leans across the table as he says it, grin sliding into that practiced, pretty thing he uses on everyone else. It lands differently here. Too close. Too deliberate.
I meet his eyes for half a second, then let mine drop pointedly to the half-chewed rice stuck near the corner of his mouth.
“You have food on your face,” I say flatly. “Irresistible.”
He goes scarlet, hand flying up to wipe at his mouth. “Eh—why didn’t you say anything earlier?!”
“I just did.”
Hajime actually laughs out loud at that, short and sharp. “You’re an idiot,” he tells Tooru. “Who tries to flirt with rice stuck on their face?”
“I wasn’t— I wasn’t flirting,” Tooru protests weakly. “I was just—”
“Existing,” I supply. “Which is bad enough.”
He stares at me again, fingers hovering over his lips now that the rice is gone. His gaze is… strange. Too intent for the way his shoulders are relaxed, for the careless slouch he’s trying to keep.
For a heartbeat, something in the air tightens. Like the room shrinks by half and all the warmth from the food and the lamps and the closeness of us pools under my skin instead. He looks almost… pleased. Like the more I hit, the more he leans in. It’s unsettling.
I spear another piece of fish, bite down harder than I have to, let the salt and char and oil fill my mouth so I don’t say something I can’t take back. If I keep my hands busy, my tongue might behave.
Across from me, Tooru finally picks his chopsticks back up, mouth moving again before his brain has fully recovered.
“Anyway,” he says, straightening in place like a TV host launching into a new segment. “As I was saying before I was brutally attacked in my own— well, not my house, but spiritually my second home— the point is, I carried practice today. They’d crumble without me. I am the backbone, the genius, the—”
“The clown,” I say.
“The mascot,” Hajime adds.
“The source of all our suffering,” I finish.
He slaps a hand over his heart again, but this time his eyes crinkle at the corners, and there’s a spark there that wasn’t earlier in the gym. Something alive. Something that looks suspiciously like—
(Why does it feel so good when it’s her?)
I lean back, let the sounds of them wash over me—their bickering, the clatter of chopsticks, the scrape of bowls on the wood, the faint tick of the clock in the hallway. The house feels full, even with only three bodies in it. Warm, despite the cool draft sneaking through the window frame.
If I don’t stare too hard at the lines between us, it’s almost simple. He’s just my brother’s idiot best friend. I’m just his best friend’s scary little sister.
We’ve traded playground balls for words, that’s all. We aim and hit and aim again, landing blows in soft places we pretend we don’t have.
And if my chest feels a little too tight when he grins at being called Losercawa, like I’ve given him something instead of taking it away—
Well.
If I pretend hard enough, maybe that feeling will stay small. Background noise. Like the ghost of his cologne on the couch, like his laughter stuck in the corners of the hallway long after he’s gone.
Something I can live with. Something I don’t have to name.
~~~
It doesn’t flip like a switch. It… tilts.
Like someone moved one tiny piece of furniture in a room I know by heart, and I keep bumping into it without understanding why. The first thing is his voice in the hallway.
I’m in class, the afternoon light thin and dull across my desk, a worksheet half-finished under my hand. The door is propped open because the room gets stuffy this time of day, and the breeze carries in the usual mix of sounds—chairs scraping, footsteps, someone laughing too loud two rooms down.
“—Oikawa-senpai—”
Just his name, breathed in that particular pitch girls reserve for him. I don’t look up. I don’t need to. I know exactly what kind of face she’s making, what kind of hopeful little smile is tugging at her mouth.
I keep my eyes on the page, pencil scratching. Then I hear him. That familiar, irritatingly warm cadence, the one I’ve heard his whole life. Except… different.
“A-ah, um… thanks. But I’m busy.” Busy? I blink once, the numbers on the page blurring. That’s not right. That’s not how this scene goes.
She laughs, a nervous sound. “Ehh, but Oikawa-senpai, it’s Saturday. Don’t you want a break? We could—”
“Really,” he says again, cutting her off. His tone isn’t sharp. Just… flat. Tired around the edges. “I have practice. I don’t have time.” I turn my head so fast my neck twinges.
The hallway is in full view from where I sit—teacher’s desk empty for the moment, half the class bent over their work, no one else paying attention. Out in the corridor, under the stripe of sunlight from the window, stands one of the most popular girls in school.
Of course it’s her.
Perfect hair, perfect makeup, uniform tailored just enough to be noticeable and just enough to pretend she doesn’t know it. I’ve seen her hanging off his arm before, more than once. I’ve seen her laugh at jokes that weren’t funny, touch his sleeve like it’s some sacred relic. She looks like she expects the world to give her whatever she wants.
He’s standing opposite, hands in his pockets, jacket slung over one shoulder. It’s the kind of pose that usually comes with a stupid line and a trail of giggles. He doesn’t smile.
He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t tilt his head or drop his voice into that soft, flirty register he uses like breathing. He just inclines his head a little, like he’s bowing out of a match.
“I’ll see you around,” he says. That’s it.
No “you’re cute,” no “maybe next time,” no “you’re breaking my poor heart.” He steps past her, not rudely, not dramatically—just… goes. Walks right out of her orbit and down the hall, shoulders tight, eyes already on some point ahead.
She stands there a moment, as if someone’s pulled the floor out from under her. The hurt lands on her face slowly, like light fading. Confusion scrunches her brows. She turns, half in his direction, half like she’s not sure what just happened.
My pencil has stopped moving. A cold prickle slides up the back of my neck. He doesn’t look in. He doesn’t see me watching him. He just keeps walking until he’s gone, corner swallowing him up.
Someone drops a ruler. The teacher comes back in, muttering about the photocopier. The room breathes again. I stare at question seven and realize I didn’t hear a single thing that girl said before he turned her down.
My brain keeps trying to rearrange what I just saw. To fit it into what I know about him. Bad day, I decide. Maybe his shoulder hurts. Maybe coach chewed him out. Maybe he’s sick. Yeah. That has to be it. Because the alternative—that he’s changed something fundamental in the script—
I don’t know what to do with that. Then it happens again. Not in front of me this time. In whispers.
“He turned her down?”
“No way. Oikawa-senpai?”
“I heard he said he’s focusing on volleyball.”
“Do you think he has a girlfriend?”
“If he did, we’d know. Right?”
Locker doors slam. Showers hiss in the background. The girls’ changing room is a cloud of shampoo steam and tired voices, everyone half-dressed and half-dead after practice.
I tug my shirt over my head, the fabric sticking briefly to my damp skin, and catch fragments of conversation in the mirror.
“Yumi asked him out after school yesterday,” one girl says, eyes wide. “And he said no. Like—just no. Not even being nice about it.”
“He was so cold,” another adds. “I heard he just walked away.”
“That’s the third one this week.”
“You think he’s okay?”
I tell myself to tune it out. Oikawa’s love life—or whatever you want to call that revolving door—has never been any of my business. I never cared who he flirted with, who he took behind the gym, who he walked home.
If anything, it saved me the trouble of some poor girl ever making the mistake of asking me what he’s “really like.”
But the words slide under the door I didn’t mean to leave open. They sit there, heavy. Turning girls down. Stopping. He’s rejecting people? On purpose?
I shove my socks on harder than necessary, toes jamming into the front of my shoes. It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. Let him do whatever he wants. Maybe he finally realized how pathetic he looked.
The echo of his voice in the hallway, that quiet “I’m busy,” disagrees with me. That hadn’t sounded smug. Or self-righteous. It had sounded… tired.
~~~
The next time it happens, there’s no one else there. No audience. No giggling girls. No teammates to play to. Just him and a pile of balls and a net.
I’m on my way out after my own practice, gym bag slung over my shoulder, hair still damp from a quick rinse. The halls are almost empty; most clubs have already wrapped up for the day. I pass the boys’ gym out of habit, eyes forward, mind already halfway in the shower at home. Then I hear it.
The heavy thud of a serve, the crisp echo of a ball slamming into the floor on the other side. No voices. No commentary. Just rhythm. I stop without meaning to.
The small square of window in the gym door glows pale with the overhead lights. I drift closer, telling myself it’s just curiosity, just the athlete in me wanting to study another player.
Through the glass, I see him. He’s alone. No team. No coach. Just a cart of balls at his side and a sweat-darkened shirt clinging to his back.
He’s at the end line, ball in hand. His posture is all sharp focus. No lazy slouch. No theatrical stretching as if he’s in a commercial. He tosses the ball.
The toss is perfect—straight, no wobble. His body follows through in one fluid chain: legs, core, shoulder, arm. The contact is clean. The ball rockets over the net, dipping just inside the line. It hits the far corner with a dull boom.
He doesn’t “ahh~” about how amazing he is. Doesn’t throw a grin at a nonexistent audience. He just grabs another ball. Serve. Retrieve. Serve again.
His shoulders are trembling now, the kind of fine shake that comes when muscles are past complaining and into something else. Every so often he lands and has to reset his feet more carefully than usual, like the floor isn’t quite steady.
He misses one—ball catching the tape and dribbling limply into the net.
I wait for the exaggerated groan, the dramatic flop to the floor, the “uwaaah, the gods of volleyball are cruel to me,” the whole routine I’ve seen a thousand times.
He just exhales, sharp through his nose.
“Again,” he mutters to himself. His voice isn’t pretty. It’s rough. Thinned out. Serve. Serve. Serve.
Each one looks the same. Each one lands somewhere that would make a receiver’s hands sting. Sweat drips off his jaw, darkens the floor at his feet. His fringe is plastered to his forehead, hiding the spot I flicked not long ago.
He looks… small, somehow. Smaller than he does when he’s laughing in a crowd. Like the gym is too big around him and not big enough for whatever’s gnawing at his insides.
My hand tightens on the strap of my bag. I shouldn’t be watching him like this. It feels—private. Like catching someone crying in a bathroom stall.
I’ve seen him angry at himself during practice, sure. I’ve seen him throw a fit after a missed point, heard him curse under his breath when a set isn’t where he wants it.
But this is different. There’s no audience now. No one to perform for. No one to flutter or impress or deflect. Just him and the ball and the weight of whatever he’s chasing.
The next serve slips. The ball goes wide, smacks the wall with a hollow thud. He flinches, shoulders tightening like he’s just been hit.
“Damn it,” he says, low. No whining. Just raw frustration dragged over gravel.
He bends to pick up the ball, and for a second he stays there—hands on his knees, head hanging, chest heaving. His back rises and falls in harsh, uneven waves.
He could stop. Anyone else would stop. He straightens. Toss. Serve. The ball hits the line like a gunshot. Something in my chest pulls taut.
I back away from the door before he can see me. My footsteps feel too loud in the empty hall. The air outside the gym is cooler, but it doesn’t unclench the knot under my ribs.
I don’t say anything to him that night. At home, when he comes over like always, I throw the usual insults, just softer, a half-beat delayed.
He still yelps when I flick his forehead.
But now, when he laughs, when he grins and whines and complains, there’s a flicker in the corner of my vision of that other version of him—alone under the too-bright lights, hitting the same serve over and over like he’s trying to carve reality into something that doesn’t scare him.
I don’t know what to do with that, either.
So I file it away with the hallway and the rejections and pretend my aim hasn’t shifted.
~~~
It’s game day.
The sky is a washed-out blue, thin clouds smudged across it like eraser marks. The air has that electric taste it gets before a match—nerves, adrenaline, too many people breathing too shallow all in one place.
Our gym is already filling up with the other team. Boys in matching tracksuits milling around, coaches talking, the low rumble of voices bleeding out through the open doors.
Hajime tosses me his keys in the hall.
“Don’t scratch it,” he says. “Or I’m making you run home.”
I catch them easily. “Don’t lose.”
He snorts. “I won’t.”
Tooru is beside him, already in his warm-up jacket, smiling like this is all a sure thing. His eyes flick to me, quick and sharp, then away. He doesn’t say anything. That’s become a thing, lately—more silence between his jokes. More held breath.
“I’ll pick you up after,” he says instead, to Hajime.
The doors to the gym swing shut behind them, cutting off the noise. I step out into the courtyard, bag over my shoulder, keys cool in my palm.
The lot isn’t far. My mind is already ahead—music on, windows down, maybe a snack run before I come back to watch the game. I don’t fully register the figure coming the opposite way until we collide.
My shoulder slams into something solid. The impact jolts through me.
“Watch it,” a voice snaps.
I rock back a step, fingers tightening on my strap. “You walked into me,” I start, then actually look at him.
He’s wearing a different school’s tracksuit—colors I recognize from the schedule stuck to our fridge. Setter, maybe. Or wing spiker. Tall enough. Sharp jaw. That smugness some players wear like it came with the uniform. His eyes flick down my body, up again, slow in a way that leaves something cold on my skin.
“Oh,” he says, mouth curling. “You’re one of the locals.”
I raise a brow. “And you’re late. Congratulations?” He huffs a laugh. “You from a club? Or just one of those girls that hangs around the team?”
I feel it then—the familiar spark in my chest, the one that lights up when someone thinks they can talk over me. It crawls up my spine, into my jaw, sharpens my tongue.
“Depends,” I say. “Are you always this rude to strangers, or am I just special?” He steps half into my space, close enough that I can smell whatever cheap cologne his teammates probably made fun of on the bus.
“You look like you like it,” he says. “The attention.” The word attention drips out of his mouth like something dirty.
I can already see where this is going. I can already feel my hands curling into fists, my weight shifting onto the balls of my feet. The back of my throat tastes metallic, like that moment right before impact.
I open my mouth—And someone else gets there first.
“Oi.” The voice comes from behind me, but it lands in front of us, heavy.
I don’t have to turn to know who it is. My spine recognizes it. My fight settles, pauses, not in surrender—just in the startled acknowledgment that the rotation has changed and I’m not the one going up for this ball.
The boy’s gaze flicks over my shoulder. His posture shifts. I turn my head.
Tooru is there, at the edge of the path. He must have come out a side door from the gym. His jacket is unzipped, hanging loose. His hair’s a little messy. His hands are empty, no ball to spin between his fingers.
He is not smiling.
He walks past me without breaking eye contact with the other boy, stepping in front of me so that his shoulder brushes my arm on the way. The contact is brief, a warm stripe that lingers after he’s already planted himself as a barrier.
Up close, his face looks… different.
The lines I’m used to seeing—lazy grin, raised brows, teasing tilt to his mouth—are gone. What’s left is something stripped down and sharp. His eyes are dark, not with wetness, but with weight.
“You lost?” he asks the other boy. His voice is level. Not loud. Not mocking.
The guy scoffs. “No. I’m here to wipe the floor with your team.”
“Funny,” Tooru says. “I don’t see your team.”
The boy bristles. “What’s it to you?” Tooru’s jaw flexes once. There’s a shift in him then, subtle, like the last little adjustment of feet before a jump.
“She wasn’t talking to you anymore,” he says. “So you can move along.”
He doesn’t call me “____-chan.” Doesn’t crack a joke about jealous boyfriends or fanclubs. He doesn’t even glance back at me.
The other boy snorts, tries to salvage whatever ego he brought with him. “What, she yours or something?” The word yours hangs in the air, greasy.
I suck a breath in through my teeth. My body leans forward before my brain can catch it, ready to shove him, to shove Tooru, to shove the entire situation off-axis.
Then Tooru moves.
It’s small. Just one step closer. He’s not that much taller than the other boy, but suddenly it feels like he’s looking down on him from a long way up.
“Careful,” he says softly. There’s no drama in it. No singsong. No flailing arms. Just steel.
“You don’t get to talk about her,” he continues. “Not like that. Not at all.” The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.
The other boy tries to laugh it off. “What, I hit a nerve? Come on—” Tooru’s eyes don’t change.
“Say something like that again,” he says. “And you won’t be able to set foot on the court today.” A beat. “Literally.”
He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t threaten in that stupid, puffed-up way boys do when they’re trying to impress each other.
He just… states it. Like a fact. Like a promise. For the first time since I bumped into him, the other guy looks uncertain.
His gaze flicks between the two of us—Tooru, standing there like he owns this patch of ground, and me, behind him, fists still clenched by my sides. He clicks his tongue, half-heartedly.
“Whatever,” he mutters. “She’s not even that—” Tooru’s head tilts, just a fraction. The boy swallows the rest of the sentence.
“Forget it,” he says instead, stepping back. “See you on the court, pretty boy.” He walks away, shoulders stiff. He doesn’t look back.
The air feels different when he’s gone. Lighter, but in a way that makes the weight under my ribs more obvious.
Tooru watches him until he disappears into the building, jaw still tight. His hands, hanging loosely at his sides, are not loose at all. The tendons stand out in his wrists like wires.
I realize I’m staring at them. I realize my heart is beating too fast for how little actually happened. I clear my throat.
“I had it,” I say.
He exhales through his nose. “I know.”
I frown at the back of his head. “Then why—” He turns.
It’s startling, being on the receiving end of that full, unmasked gaze. There’s no lazy sparkle in it now, no lovestruck cartoon hearts like the ones the other girls project onto him.
He looks… focused. On me.
Up close, I can see the faint shadows under his eyes, the pink flush at his neck from warm-ups, the way his mouth presses into a line like he’s biting back a dozen things.
“Are you okay?” he asks. The question is simple. Plain. It shouldn’t do anything.
But the echo of that other boy’s words—the way his eyes had walked up and down me like I was something on a shelf—scrapes again along my skin.I lift my chin.
“I don’t need you to protect me,” I say. My voice comes out sharper than I intend. “I’m not one of your girls.”
There it is—that phrase. The one I’ve kept like a knife in my pocket for years. Your girls. The chorus of them. The ones who trail after him, who giggle, who get just close enough to burn and then wonder why they’re left with ash.
I want it to sting him. I want it to put him back where he’s supposed to be in my head. His gaze doesn’t flinch.
“I know,” he says. The way he says it makes the back of my neck prickle.
Not dismissive. Not offended. Not wounded. Just… certain. Like it’s the clearest fact in his world. Like it’s something he’s built whole days around, in his head.
I know you’re not like them. I know you don’t need me. I know. The words sit between us, a small, heavy thing.
I’m suddenly aware of how close we are. Of the warmth of his body in the cool air. Of how tall he is, how he has to tip his chin down slightly to meet my eyes. Of the line of his throat when he swallows.
The gym noise is a faint roar behind us now, distant. Out here, it’s just the two of us and the echo of something I don’t have a name for yet.
My mouth is dry.
“Well,” I say, because I have to say something or I’ll implode. “Don’t scare off the opposition too much. I want to see you beat them properly, not because they’re too afraid to show up.”
His lips twitch, finally. Not the full, blinding grin he gives the world.
Something smaller. Softer. For a second, it feels like the sun coming out behind a cloud—not for everyone, just for whoever happens to be standing in exactly the right place.
“You watching?” he asks.
I roll my eyes, grateful for the familiar motion. “Obviously.”
He looks like he might say something else then. Something stupid. Something dangerous. Hajime’s shout cuts across the courtyard instead.
“Oikawa! Warm-up!”
Tooru’s head turns automatically at the sound. “Coming!” he calls back, hand lifting in a vague wave. He hesitates.
“Thanks,” I say quietly, before I can change my mind.
He looks back at me. For a heartbeat, all the noise fades again. His eyes flick down—my hands, still curled at my sides, the set of my shoulders—then back up.
(If she hadn’t said it, I think I would’ve died.)
“Anytime,” he says.
He jogs off toward the gym, that easy, long-legged gait everyone knows. By the time he pushes through the doors, his jacket is zipped, his shoulders are lighter, and I can hear him calling something obnoxious to the rest of the team.
The mask slides back on as smoothly as ever. But I’ve seen underneath it now.
I stand there a moment longer, fingers flexing around the keys. My world feels… off-balance. Not in a bad way. Not in a good way. Just like the floor has shifted half a degree, and my muscles haven’t adjusted yet.
I should hate him, I think, automatically. It’s the thought I’ve always kept ready when it comes to him. He’s annoying. He’s shallow. He’s irresponsible. He’s all performance and no core.
Only now there’s him in the empty gym, hitting serves until his legs shake. Him in the hallway, saying no to a girl who expects a yes. Him stepping in front of me like it’s the most natural thing in the world, voice low and lethal on my behalf.
And him saying I know with that strange, steady certainty that wraps around my throat.
The keys bite into my palm.
Maybe I don’t hate him.
The realization is quiet. Slipping. Like water under a door you thought was sealed.
Maybe I—
No.
I cut the thought off before it finishes forming, like a set that’s gone too far off target. I’m not chasing that ball.
I’ve never liked a boy before. Not like that. Never let myself. I know what that kind of thing does to people. I’ve seen it make them stupid. Soft. Vulnerable in ways that get them hurt.
And if I was ever going to be that stupid over someone, the last person it should be is him.
The gym door swings again in the distance, a burst of noise spilling out—whistles, shouts, his laugh threading through it all.
I draw a breath in, deep. Let the cool air scrape the edges of something hot inside my chest. Let it settle. Almost.
Then I start toward the lot.
I can drive. I can come back. I can sit in the stands and watch him play like I always have—actively rooting for my brother, pretending I don’t track every move of our setter with the same sharp, unwilling focus I give the ball.
If I pretend hard enough, maybe this is just another tilt. Just a small shift. Not the start of something bigger. Not the part where everything I thought I knew about Tooru Oikawa starts to… change shape.
I lock my jaw and tell myself that. I’m not sure, for the first time, if I believe me.
~~~
The worst part is that nothing actually happened.
Not the kind of thing you can point at, hold up under fluorescent lights, and say that’s it, that’s the reason my brain won’t shut up. No confession. No kiss. No dramatic scene. Just one stupid moment outside the school where he stepped in front of me like he belonged there, like it was instinct, and then he looked back at me with that too-steady face and asked if I was okay, like he didn’t spend most of our childhood being the loudest person within a ten-mile radius. Like he wasn’t Oikawa Tooru, Patron Saint of Flirting and Bad Decisions. Like he wasn’t the kind of guy who collected girls the way some people collected keychains.
And then—worse—when I spit my usual line at him, when I made it clear I wasn’t part of his fanclub, when I said I wasn’t one of those girls, he didn’t smirk or joke or toss a compliment at me like a free sample. He didn’t try to win. He didn’t even pretend to be offended.
He just said, I know.
I know.
Two syllables and I’ve been chewing on them for days like a piece of meat stuck between my teeth, tongue poking at it until it hurts.
I’m in my room, laptop open, cursor blinking in the middle of an untouched document. My hands rest on the keyboard like I’m about to type, but nothing comes out. The screen’s light makes the room feel colder than it is. Outside my window, the sky is going soft with evening, the kind of pale gold that makes everything look nicer than it deserves to.
My brain won’t let me have it.
Because if he knows—if he knew—then what does that mean? What has he been seeing that I haven’t? What has he been thinking all this time while I’ve been rolling my eyes at him and throwing things at him and treating him like he’s the most irritating organism on earth?
And then there’s the other thing. The bigger thing. The thing that should make me laugh.
He’s been rejecting girls.
I’ve heard it in the locker room, at the vending machines, in the hallway outside the gym when the team girls from other schools cluster around like moths. I’ve heard it from my own teammates like it’s breaking news. I’ve heard it from boys too, half impressed and half offended on behalf of the entire female population. Like the universe is out of alignment because Oikawa Tooru, who used to flirt like it was a reflex, has started… saying no.
No playful dismissal. No “maybe next time.” Just a clean, firm refusal.
It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t fit him.
It should make me happy. It should make me feel vindicated, like finally, finally, he grew a spine, finally he stopped acting like attention was oxygen. But instead it sits in my chest like an itch I can’t scratch, and I hate that it does, because I hate feeling anything about him that isn’t annoyance.
Because he’s a player. He’s a rat. He’s a menace with pretty eyes and a thousand practiced smiles. He has the highest body count of any guy I know—openly, shamelessly, like it’s a sport. He’s never been the type to want one person. That’s kind of the whole point of him. That’s his entire brand. Oikawa is loud and charming and greedy for validation, always looking for the next person to laugh, the next pair of eyes to shine at him.
So why is he suddenly… not?
And why does that make my throat feel tight, like I swallowed something too big?
I slam my laptop shut harder than necessary. The sound cracks through my room like a serve hitting the floor. The sharpness of it feels good. Familiar. A clean release. My fingers flex at my sides, restless.
I don’t do this. I don’t sit in my room spiraling about boys. I don’t obsess. I don’t wonder. I don’t do butterflies or breath catching or that pathetic dreamy staring into space.
That’s other girls.
Not me.
I’m Hajime’s sister. That’s what everyone says like it explains everything. Like I’m a copy-paste with longer hair. Like my anger came pre-installed, like my patience is a myth, like my affection only exists in the form of violence and blunt honesty.
They’re not wrong.
I stand up, body moving before my brain fully decides. The hallway outside my room is dim and quiet, the house settled into its evening noises. From down the hall I can hear a low murmur—voices—then a sudden laugh that makes my jaw tighten instantly because I know it without thinking. Oikawa’s laugh has been echoing through my life like a curse since I was small enough to fit under playground equipment.
Hajime’s room door is open.
I walk toward it, steps quick, like I’m going to confront a problem on court: no hesitation, no overthinking, just hit it hard and see what happens.
The closer I get, the more I realize something’s off. I can hear only one voice now. No grunts from my brother, no clipped replies, no “shut up” that comes out of Hajime’s mouth like a love language.
I pause in the doorway and look down the stairs. Empty. The entryway looks the same, but I catch the tiniest shift—the absence of his shoes, the faint creak of the front door settling in my memory like a delayed sound.
He must’ve left. Convenience store, probably. Snacks. Drinks. The usual.
I don’t care. Not right now.
Because Tooru is alone in Hajime’s room.
He’s sitting on the bed, controller in his hands, headset on, face lit by the TV’s glow. His posture is forward, elbows on knees, completely locked into the game like it matters. Like he’s not aware of the universe around him. Like he’s not performing for anyone.
And something in me flares hot and sharp, because it’s wrong. It’s wrong that he looks like that, serious and quiet and contained, when he’s always been—always been—noise.
“Oikawa.”
He doesn’t react.
Of course he doesn’t. Headset. Game. Tunnel vision.
Fine.
I grab Hajime’s pillow off the floor and whip it at his head.
It hits the side of his headset with a dull thump.
He jolts like someone fired a starter pistol, spinning around with a scowl already loaded. “Oi—! Iwa-chan, what the hel—”
Then his eyes land on me.
And he stops.
Not in a dramatic Oikawa way. Not the exaggerated freeze he does when he’s trying to be funny. A real stop. Like his brain short-circuits for half a second because he expected my brother and got me instead.
He reaches up slowly and slides the headset off, setting it down like it’s suddenly too loud.
“What,” he says.
No teasing. No grin. No “wow, you missed me?” No smug little wink. Just a flat, quiet what, like he’s bracing for impact.
My stomach twists.
“What is wrong with you?” I snap, stepping into the room. “Don’t do that.”
His brows knit together. “Do what?”
“Act like that,” I shoot back. My voice is already rising, my words coming fast because if I slow down I’ll have to admit I don’t actually know what I’m angry at. “You’ve been weird for weeks. Everyone’s saying it. Even your own team’s saying it. You don’t flirt anymore, you don’t chase girls anymore, you’re turning people down like you suddenly grew a conscience. What’s that about? You’re Oikawa. That’s literally your whole thing.”
He blinks at me like I’m speaking a different language.
Then his mouth tightens.
“That’s your problem?” he says, and his tone shifts—sharp, defensive, like I stepped on something raw. “Me not—what—sleeping around enough for your standards?”
“I don’t have standards for you,” I fire back instantly. “I have expectations. You’ve always been the same. And now you’re not. It’s—” I cut myself off, frustrated, because I hate the way my chest feels when I say it. Tight. Crowded. “It’s irritating.”
His laugh is short and humorless. “Irritating.”
“Yes.”
He stands up, controller abandoned on the bed, and the movement changes the room. He’s taller than me by enough that I have to tilt my chin up a fraction, and I hate that I notice. I hate that my body registers it like information.
“Am I supposed to go out with them?” he asks, voice low. “Is that what you want?”
The question hits wrong, like he threw a ball and I misread the trajectory.
“What?”
He takes a step closer. Not aggressive. Not threatening. Just… closer. Like his feet moved before his pride could stop them.
“You come in here acting like I committed some crime by not flirting,” he says, jaw tight. “So what is it? You want me to go back to being the disgusting Oikawa you hate so much? Would that make you feel better?”
I swallow.
My throat is dry.
“That’s not—” I start, but it sticks.
Because it’s not that I want him to go back. It’s not that I want him with other girls. It’s not even that I care about his sex life.
It’s that he changed. And the change is making me feel things I don’t know how to name yet, and I hate that more than I hate anything he’s ever done.
I recover fast, because that’s what I do. I’m not soft. I don’t hesitate.
“You’re deflecting,” I say, voice hard. “Why did you stand up for me?”
His expression shifts, caught off-guard for the first time. “What?”
“At school,” I push. “That guy. You stepped in front of me. You got—” I clench my teeth, the memory of his face doing something unpleasant to my stomach. “You got pissed. And then you turned around and asked if I was okay like—like—” I gesture vaguely, helplessly, which annoys me even more. “And when I told you I’m not one of your girls, you said you knew. Why did you say that?”
His eyes widen slightly.
And then he looks away, like the answer is sitting right on his tongue and it burns.
“I don’t even remember—” he starts.
“Yes you do,” I cut in. “You remember everything. You remember every stupid little thing anyone says about you. Don’t lie.”
His jaw flexes.
The silence thickens between us. The TV game sounds continue faintly in the background—digital gunfire, cheerful music, nonsense—like the universe is unaware this room is becoming a problem.
He takes another step forward.
I don’t move.
Not because I’m brave. Not because I’m fearless. Because backing down isn’t something my body knows how to do. Because I’ve spent my whole life squaring up to whatever steps into my space.
His gaze flickers over my face. My mouth. My eyes. He looks like he’s trying to decide if I’m real.
“You really don’t know,” he says quietly.
“Know what.”
He lets out a slow breath through his nose, like he’s trying to steady himself. His hand lifts, runs through his hair, messing it up in a way that isn’t for show. When Oikawa does nervous, it’s usually theatrical. This isn’t. This is ugly and honest.
He looks past me, toward the door. Toward the hallway. Like he can see my brother returning at any second.
Then his eyes lock back on mine.
“You’re doing it again,” he mutters.
“Doing what.”
“Standing there,” he says, voice rough, like the words scrape on the way out. “Looking at me like you can demand the truth and I’ll just give it. Like I’m not—” He stops, swallows, tries again. “Like I’m not losing my mind.”
My heart kicks once, hard.
I keep my face flat. Keep my posture steady. But my skin feels too tight over my bones.
“Spit it out, Oikawa,” I say, because if I don’t, I’m going to start shaking and I refuse. “Say what you’re trying to say.”
His mouth opens.
Closes.
He laughs—one small sound, broken at the edges.
“You’re impossible,” he whispers, like it’s accusation and worship at the same time.
Then he says it—half a step sideways from confession, like he can’t bear to put the full word in the air.
“If I said… you were the reason I stopped,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on mine, “would you believe me?”
I freeze.
My brain stalls. Like the whole room tilts.
“The reason you stopped—” My voice comes out quieter than I mean it to. “What does that mean.”
His eyes squeeze shut for a second, like he’s in pain.
“It means I can’t touch anyone else without feeling sick,” he says, and the bluntness of it is a punch. “It means every time some girl looks at me, I think about how you don’t. It means I tried to make it go away and it didn’t. It got worse.”
My pulse is roaring.
My mind is scrambling, trying to catch up, trying to drag itself back into the safe narrative where Oikawa is just… Oikawa. A joke. A flirt. A problem I can solve with a glare.
But his voice is wrong for that. His face is wrong for that. There’s no smirk. No sparkle. Just raw, exposed intensity.
“Why,” I manage.
He laughs again, hollow. “Are you seriously asking me why?”
“Yes,” I say. “Because you could have any girl. Literally. Any. And you’re—” My words falter, disgust and disbelief tangling together. “You’re standing here looking at me like I’m the problem.”
His gaze flickers down, just once, to my mouth. Back up.
“You are,” he says softly.
The room goes quiet in a way that feels loud.
I swallow.
My throat burns.
“Say it,” I demand, because the only thing worse than this is leaving it half-formed. “Say what you mean. Out loud.”
He stares at me for a long moment, breathing shallow, like he’s standing at the edge of something he can’t come back from.
Then he breaks.
Not smoothly. Not romantically. Not like a guy who’s done this a hundred times and knows how to make it sound pretty.
Like a guy who’s been holding his breath for years and finally can’t anymore.
“I’ve liked you since we were kids,” he says, voice shaking with frustration. “Since the first day you hit me in the face with a ball. I hated you and I couldn’t stop thinking about you and it made me insane because who—who likes someone like that? Who falls for the girl who makes him cry?”
My eyes widen before I can stop it.
He keeps going, words spilling fast, desperate, like he’s afraid if he pauses I’ll shut him down.
“You never cared if I liked you. You never tried to be nice. You never tried to impress me. You looked at me like I was stupid and you were right and I—” He swallows hard, jaw clenched. “I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t handle that you didn’t want me the way everyone else did.”
My chest feels like it’s caving in.
He takes another step closer—close enough that I can feel heat off him, close enough that the air between us isn’t air anymore.
“And then we got older,” he says, voice lower now, like it hurts to admit. “And you got stronger. And sharper. And everyone was scared of you and you didn’t care. You never softened. You never turned into those girls who giggle and look down and pretend they’re small.”
His eyes flick down my body, not in a lewd way, but in a stunned way, like he’s registering the reality of me standing here.
“You’re just… you,” he breathes. “And it’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted.”
I can’t move.
I can’t speak.
I can only stand there and feel my heart trying to rip its way out of my chest.
Oikawa Tooru—who I have watched flirt with half the prefecture like it’s a hobby—is looking at me like I’m the first thing he’s ever been serious about.
“I don’t expect you to like me back,” he says, voice cracking, and there’s something almost humiliating in how honest it is. “I don’t. I know you’ve hated me for years. I know you think I’m disgusting. I know you think I don’t have self-control and you’re right—” A breath, shaky. “But it’s not like that with you. It’s not just—” He makes a frustrated sound, like he can’t even stand the idea of reducing it. “I don’t even know how to do this right. I’ve never… felt like this.”
My hands are trembling at my sides now. Openly.
He sees it. His gaze drops to them. Then back up, softer.
“I think I’ve been in love with you since I was too young to even know what that word meant,” he says, and the confession is so blunt it’s almost brutal. “And it never stopped. It just got worse. Every year. Every time you looked at me like I was nothing.”
My breath catches—sharp, involuntary.
He flinches like he heard it.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, which is the last thing I ever expected to hear from him. “I’m sorry. I just— I can’t pretend anymore.”
The room is too small.
The air is too thin.
His eyes are on mine, and there’s no persona there, no performance, no Oikawa-brand sparkle. Just a boy—no, a man now, older, taller, exhausted—standing in my brother’s room confessing something that should ruin everything.
Hajime would kill him.
Hajime would kill me.
The thought should snap me out of it.
It doesn’t.
Because something in me—something I’ve been holding under my tongue like a secret I refused to name—flutters, soft and traitorous, and it makes the world tilt in a way that isn’t frightening.
It’s… dizzying.
It makes him look different. Like the light hit him wrong. Like his shoulders are broader than I ever noticed. Like his eyes are warmer. Like his mouth—his stupid mouth I’ve insulted a thousand times—looks like something I want to shut up in a different way.
I hate that. I hate that my body is reacting before my brain catches up.
He’s waiting.
He looks like he expects me to laugh. To shove him. To call him pathetic. To tell him he’s disgusting. To tell him he’s mistaken.
I don’t.
My throat is too tight for words.
So I do the only thing I’ve ever known how to do when something scares me: I move first.
I close the distance in one step, hand coming up fast, grabbing the back of his neck like I’m taking control of the situation before it can take control of me.
His breath hitches.
His eyes widen.
And I pull him down to me.
For a split second he’s rigid—shocked, stunned, like his brain can’t process the fact that this is happening to him. Like he’s never been kissed in his life despite the reputation, like every story about him suddenly feels like it belonged to someone else.
His hands hover at my waist, unsure, like he’s afraid to touch me without permission.
Then I press in harder, and something in him gives.
He kisses back—slow at first, like he’s tasting the reality of it, like he’s afraid if he moves too fast it’ll break. The kiss is soft in a way that makes my chest ache, not because it’s gentle, but because it’s serious. There’s no smugness in it. No Oikawa flair. No teasing.
Just hunger held on a tight leash.
My fingers tighten at his neck, keeping him there. His mouth parts, and the kiss deepens, still slow, still heavy, like he’s sinking into something he’s wanted for too long. His hands finally settle at my waist, firm and warm, pulling me closer like he’s trying to prove I’m real. The pressure of his palms sends a sharp shiver through me that I hate because it makes my knees go unsteady, and I am not a girl who gets weak.
And yet—
He shifts, steps forward, and my back meets the wall behind me with a quiet thump. Not rough. Not violent. Just inevitable. Like gravity finally remembered it exists.
He’s close enough that I can feel his heartbeat through his chest when my hands slide up into his hair, fingers tangling, gripping. He makes a low sound against my mouth—nothing dramatic, nothing performed—just a raw noise that slips out before he can stop it.
I pull him closer.
He lets me.
He kisses like he’s been starving.
Not fast. Not sloppy. Slow enough that it feels like a promise and a threat at the same time, like every second is being dragged out on purpose because neither of us wants to be the first to end it. His hands tighten at my waist, anchoring me, and for the first time in my life I understand why other girls look dazed after kissing someone they actually want.
Because my head feels light.
Because my chest feels too full.
Because the world narrows down to his mouth and my breath and the quiet, trembling intensity in the space between us.
He pulls back a fraction—barely, just enough that his forehead brushes mine, just enough that his breath hits my lips.
His eyes are dark.
Not cocky.
Not triumphant.
Just… wrecked.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, voice ruined.
My throat is raw. My hands are still in his hair.
I swallow once, steadying myself the way I would before a serve.
“Idiot,” I breathe, and it’s not an insult this time. Not really.
His mouth twitches like he might laugh, but he doesn’t.
He kisses me again instead, softer, deeper, like he’s answering with his whole body.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, like a distant siren, I remember my brother is coming back with snacks.
Summary: A girl who has secretly adored the “monster” of the court—Tendou, feared and misunderstood by everyone else—is forced into seven minutes in heaven with him, where the lie that she’s scared finally shatters. In the cramped dark of a closet, the monster realizes he’s wanted, not feared, and their mutual obsession ignites into something intense, reckless, and impossible to hide.
Warnings/context: misunderstanding, fluff, kissing, hight difference, “monster”, lime?, 7 minutes in heaven, obsession, don’t think much else
Ko-fi
They call him a monster.
Not loudly. Not always. Sometimes it’s just in the way people’s voices dip when they say his name, the way their eyes flick away too fast, the way laughter turns sharp around the edges when he passes. Sometimes it’s in the way girls lean closer to each other when he walks by, whispering like he might hear. Like he might turn.
Like he might bite.
Satori Tendou is tall in a way that feels unfair. All limbs and angles, red hair like a warning sign, smile too wide, eyes too sharp. He doesn’t fit. Never has. He takes up space in rooms without trying, and people notice even when they pretend they don’t.
Especially people like me.
I notice him before the whistle blows.
I always do.
The gym is already loud when I walk in—sneakers squeaking, voices overlapping, the low hum of anticipation buzzing in the air. The bleachers are cold through my jeans as I sit, my friends piling in beside me, bags thumping at our feet. My brother waves from the court, already laughing with his teammates, already alive in that easy way he always is.
I wave back.
Then I look for him.
It’s instinct. A reflex. My eyes slide across the court like they’re searching for something I forgot and suddenly remembered, and there he is—near the net, stretching, shoulders rolling, long fingers flexing like he’s testing the air.
Tendou.
My breath catches. It always does. It’s small, barely there, but I feel it. The way my lungs hesitate, the way my chest tightens just a little, like my body is bracing for something it wants too badly.
He laughs at something one of the guys says. It’s loud. Unapologetic. Too much. And God—his smile. It’s crooked, sharp at the edges, like it was never meant to be gentle.
My fingers curl into my sleeves.
I’m not here for my brother.
I never am.
I tell myself I am. I tell everyone I am. I let them believe it. It’s easier that way. Cleaner. Safer. If anyone ever knew that I sit through entire matches just to watch the way Tendou moves—how he reads the game, how his eyes narrow before a block, how his whole body coils and springs like something wild and precise—
No. I don’t let myself finish that thought.
“Ugh, there he is,” one of my friends mutters beside me.
I stiffen without meaning to.
“Who?” another asks, though we all know.
“The red one,” she says, lowering her voice. “The weird one. He creeps me out.”
I keep my eyes forward. Keep my face still. Keep breathing like nothing just folded in on itself inside my chest.
“He’s like… unnerving,” someone else adds. “Why does he smile like that?”
A laugh ripples through them. Light. Careless.
I don’t join.
I don’t argue either.
I just sit there, hands knotted in my lap, watching Tendou bounce lightly on his toes, completely unaware that he’s being dissected in whispers. Unaware that my friends are pulling him apart in the same ways people always have. Unaware that every word feels like it lands somewhere tender inside me.
I wonder if he’s used to it.
I hate that I wonder that.
He turns, scanning the stands, and my heart slams so hard it almost hurts. I look away instantly, heat rushing up my neck, pulse roaring in my ears like I’ve been caught doing something wrong. I stare at the banner across the gym, at the faded letters, at anything that isn’t him.
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t—
I glance back.
He’s already facing the court again.
Relief and disappointment tangle together in my chest, tight and messy.
He knows who I am.
That’s the worst part.
Not well. Not personally. But he knows. He’s seen me. I know he has. I sit in the same spot every game. I wear my brother’s number on my sleeve. I laugh when my brother messes up and groan when he misses easy points. I am a constant.
A background detail in his world.
He probably thinks I’m here for my brother.
The idea presses against my ribs, heavy. He has no way of knowing that every time he jumps, I feel it in my stomach. That every time his hands slam over the net, something inside me twists. That I’ve memorized the way his shoulders tense before a block, the way his eyes sharpen, the way his grin widens when he shuts someone down.
He has no way of knowing that I carry him with me in small, quiet ways. In the back of my mind. In the pauses between thoughts. In the spaces where other people might put something safer.
The whistle blows.
The game starts.
Tendou moves like he belongs exactly where he is. Like the court was built for him. Like every long limb and strange angle finally makes sense when he’s blocking, reading, predicting. He’s brilliant. Not flashy. Not loud about it. Just… devastatingly precise.
And I ache.
It’s a slow ache. A patient one. It lives under my skin, in my throat, in the way my fingers twitch when he celebrates a point, in the way my breath goes shallow when he laughs with his teammates. It’s been there for so long it feels permanent, like a second heartbeat.
My friends lean forward, whispering commentary. Joking. Teasing. I nod when I’m supposed to. Smile when it’s expected. But inside, I am somewhere else entirely.
I am watching him.
Always him.
At one point, he glances up.
Not at me. Not directly.
Just… up.
And something stupid, reckless, hopeful flares in my chest before I can stop it.
I drop my gaze immediately, staring at my hands like they’ve betrayed me. My palms are damp. My fingers are cold. I press them together, grounding myself in the small, ordinary sensation.
He tried to talk to me once.
The memory surfaces without warning, sharp and sudden.
It was after a game. The gym was half empty. My brother was still in the locker room. I was standing by the doors, pretending to scroll through my phone, pretending not to look at him, pretending my heart wasn’t trying to climb out of my throat.
He walked over.
Just… walked over.
Like it was nothing.
Like he didn’t know he was everything.
“Hey,” he said. Casual. Easy. Too easy.
I froze.
Actually froze.
My brain emptied. My mouth went dry. My hands forgot how to exist. I remember staring at him, stupidly, stupidly, taking in the height of him, the color of his hair, the curve of his smile, and thinking, oh. oh no. oh no, no, no.
“Uh—” I tried.
Nothing came out.
He tilted his head, confusion flickering across his face. “You’re… uh, you’re [brother’s name]’s sister, right?”
I nodded.
Too fast.
Too stiff.
He smiled. “Cool. You come to a lot of games.”
And that was it.
That was all it took.
My heart sprinted. My vision blurred. My tongue tangled around itself. I felt small. Exposed. Seen in a way I was not prepared for.
“Y-yeah,” I whispered, barely audible.
He waited.
I didn’t say anything else.
Silence stretched. Awkward. Heavy.
He shifted, something uncertain passing through his eyes, and for a second—just a second—he looked… hesitant. Like he’d misjudged something. Like he’d stepped somewhere he shouldn’t have.
“Oh,” he said, softer. “Uh. Okay.”
And then he smiled again. That same too-wide grin. And stepped back.
“See you around.”
I didn’t look up until he was gone.
I’ve hated myself for that ever since.
Because I know how it must have looked.
Like I was scared.
Like I didn’t want him near me.
Like he was too much.
And now—now every time he’s close, every time he passes by, every time our paths almost cross, I feel my body lock up. My breath stutters. My gaze drops. I turn away like he’s something dangerous instead of something I want.
I wonder if he thinks I’m afraid of him.
The thought sits in my chest, heavy and quiet and awful.
On the court, Tendou blocks a spike clean, the sound of it sharp and final, and the gym erupts. He throws his arms up, laughing, wild and uncontained, and I smile before I can stop myself.
It’s small. Soft. Unnoticed.
Just for him.
And he never sees it.
~~~
My brother’s car is still warm from the drive, engine ticking softly like it’s thinking. Music leaks faintly from someone’s house down the street—bass thumping, a laugh breaking loose and carrying on the air. Kuroo’s place is lit up ahead of us, windows glowing gold, silhouettes shifting behind the curtains like a living thing.
My brother kills the ignition and just sits there for a second like he’s building up the energy to be social.
Then he looks at me.
Really looks—slow, suspicious, like he’s clocking a detail he’s been ignoring on purpose.
“…I still don’t get why Kuroo invited you,” he says.
I blink at him. “Because I’m charming.”
“You’re a menace.”
“That’s also a charm.”
He huffs a laugh through his nose, shaking his head. “He literally said, ‘Invite every pretty girl you can think of,’ and you—” He points at me like I’m evidence in court. “—somehow ended up on that list.”
I stare at him flatly. “Do you want to try that sentence again, or do you want your sister to end your life in this driveway.”
He holds up his hands like he’s surrendering, but his grin is already there, smug and stupid. “I’m just saying. It’s weird.”
“It’s not weird. Kuroo has eyes,” I say, then lean closer like I’m about to share a secret. “Also, maybe he invited me because I’m hilarious and he wants the party to be fun.”
My brother snorts. “You’re only hilarious when you’re bullying people.”
“Exactly.” I tap his shoulder with the back of my knuckles, light but pointed. “And you should be grateful. I could’ve been one of those sweet, quiet sisters who just… knits and smiles.”
He groans like the thought physically pains him. “Please don’t start knitting.”
“Too late,” I say. “I knitted you a sweater that says I Peak in Volleyball.”
He reaches over, flicks my forehead. “You’re unbelievable.”
I swat his hand away immediately. “Don’t touch my face. I’m trying to be pretty for the party.”
He leans back in his seat, giving me a look that’s half amused, half exasperated. “You’re already pretty. You don’t have to try.”
The words land in that casual brother way—careless, automatic, not meant to mean anything heavy—but my stomach still tightens for a beat because pretty is a word that follows me around like a shadow in rooms like this.
Pretty. Funny. Easy.
All the things that make people look at me.
All the things that make it harder to be invisible when I want to be.
I push the door open. Cold air rushes in, clean and sharp against my cheeks. The streetlight catches the edges of my breath.
My brother gets out and slams his door, then looks at me over the roof of the car like he’s about to say something else. Something softer.
Instead, he says, “Also, try not to scare off half the teams tonight.”
I smile sweetly. “No promises.”
He points at me. “I mean it.”
I step closer and punch his shoulder—light, practiced, sibling violence that means I love you more than anything else does. “Go be social, loser.”
He rubs his shoulder like I hit him with a brick, dramatic. “You hit like a truck.”
“You’re just weak,” I say, and he flips me off, laughing, as we start walking.
The closer we get, the louder everything becomes.
It’s not just music. It’s bodies. It’s energy. It’s the sound of too many voices bouncing off walls, the warmth spilling out every time the front door opens. Kuroo’s place looks like it’s breathing—light in the windows, movement behind glass, a flicker of someone’s arm as they wave someone inside.
My brother reaches the porch first.
He doesn’t slow down.
He doesn’t hesitate.
He’s already halfway through the door before I can even step fully onto the welcome mat.
Of course he is.
He has always belonged in crowds. He moves through people like water moves through gaps—easy, natural, unbothered. He’s laughing before he’s even inside, someone already calling his name, hands clapping his back like he’s a returning hero.
And I—
I follow a beat behind, like an afterthought.
Like a shadow.
The doorway swallows me.
Heat hits first. Warmth and sound, layered and loud, soft golden light stretching across hardwood floors. The air smells like sugary alcohol, citrus, cologne, and something faintly savory from the kitchen. Someone shouts in greeting. Someone else whoops. The music is loud enough to vibrate through my ribs.
And then—
I see him.
Not eventually.
Not after scanning.
Immediately.
Like my eyes have been trained, like they know exactly where to go without asking permission.
Tendou is near the back of the room, one shoulder against the wall, drink in hand. The lighting catches him in pieces—red hair like a flare, pale throat, the sharp line of his jaw when he turns his head to listen to someone.
He’s tall in a way that makes the room feel different around him. Like he alters the space without trying. All long limbs, loose posture, that familiar grin hovering on his mouth like it belongs there permanently.
He laughs at something and it’s not quiet. It’s not polite. It’s full-bodied, unfiltered, the kind of laugh that takes up too much room.
It does something to me.
Something small and violent and private.
My breath stutters.
My palms dampen instantly.
I stand there, just inside the doorway, feeling like the world has narrowed to one person in one corner of one room.
A ridiculous thought flashes—sharp, unwanted: What if he looks at me right now? What if he sees me?
My heart hits my ribs like it’s trying to get out.
I glance down, pretending to adjust my jacket, like if I can keep my hands busy I can keep myself from unraveling. My brother’s voice fades into the background. The music fades. Everything becomes a blur with Tendou as the only clear shape in it.
He shifts, and for a split second his gaze sweeps across the room.
Across the entrance.
Across me.
My body reacts before my brain can argue.
I look away so fast it’s almost a flinch.
Heat rises up my neck, up my cheeks. I swallow like I can force my heart back into a normal rhythm. I tell myself not to be stupid. I tell myself not to be obvious. I tell myself I am a whole person with a spine and a brain and I can handle looking at a man without—
“Hey!”
A voice cuts in close, bright and amused, and my thoughts snap like a string pulled too hard.
Kuroo appears in front of me like he’s been waiting for this moment—tall, sharp-eyed, hair messy in that deliberate way, grin lazy and confident. He looks like the kind of person who belongs at the center of every room.
“Look who actually came,” he says, like I’m a surprise he’s pleased about.
I lift my chin, letting the familiar version of me slide into place—sarcastic, blunt, comfortable. The mask I can wear without effort.
“Yeah,” I say. “I heard you were collecting pretty girls like Pokémon.”
Kuroo laughs, loud and delighted. “Oh, you’re dangerous. I like you.”
“I’ve been told,” I say, deadpan, and his grin widens like he’s just found new entertainment.
He steps aside slightly, gesturing with his cup like a host welcoming someone into a kingdom. “We needed more pretty people here. The volleyball teams were starting to make the house look like a locker room.”
“Tragic,” I say, looking around dramatically. “How are you all coping without deodorant sponsorships?”
Kuroo actually cackles at that, head tipping back. The sound draws a few glances. It’s the kind of laugh that makes people want to be near you, like it’s contagious.
He points at me like I’m a discovery. “See? This is exactly why you were invited.”
My brother calls something from deeper inside the house—my name, half warning, half amused—but he doesn’t come back. He keeps moving, already swallowed by his teammates, already caught in the current of familiar hands and familiar jokes.
And just like that, I’m alone.
With Kuroo.
And a room full of people I mostly know by reputation.
“Come on,” Kuroo says, already turning like he assumes I’ll follow. “I’ll introduce you before you get kidnapped by some random setter with a hero complex.”
I walk with him because that’s easy. Because Kuroo makes things easy. Because it’s easier to let myself be guided than to stand still and feel Tendou’s presence across the room like a weight on my skin.
We weave through bodies. Conversations. Laughter. A cluster of guys near the kitchen.
And then Kuroo stops.
“Oi, Oikawa!” he calls.
The name alone shifts the air, like everyone’s heard it enough times to recognize the energy attached to it.
Oikawa turns—tall, pretty in a way that feels unfair, hair perfectly styled like he walked out of a commercial instead of a party. His smile is immediate and bright, the kind that could convince someone to do anything if they were weak enough.
His gaze flicks to me and sharpens with interest.
“Ah,” he says, voice warm and playful. “And who is this?”
Kuroo hooks his thumb toward me. “My newest favorite person. [Your name]. Also—” he glances at me like he’s enjoying the setup, “—the reason I’m now considering banning volleyball boys from my parties because they’re all acting feral.”
Oikawa laughs, quick and charming, stepping a little closer. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says, like he means it.
I give him a flat look. “Are you always this dramatic or is it a special occasion?”
His eyes widen for a second, then he laughs again, brighter. “Oh, I love you.”
Kuroo makes a satisfied sound like he’s proud of himself. “Right?”
There are others around them—faces I recognize from games, from sidelines, from the way my brother talks about them like they’re characters in a story. They introduce themselves. I answer. I make a joke. Someone laughs. Someone offers me a drink. Someone tells me I’m funny.
And I am funny.
I know how to do this.
I know how to be this version of myself—sharp and easy and unafraid.
But even as I laugh with them, even as I tilt my head and fire off another sarcastic comment, there’s a thread of awareness pulled tight inside me, stretching across the room.
Because I can feel him looking.
Not constantly.
Not obviously.
But enough.
Like a finger pressing into a bruise.
And every time I catch a glimpse of red hair in the corner of my vision, my body betrays me again—breath catching, stomach dropping, thoughts stuttering like a record scratched.
I don’t look directly.
I don’t let myself.
But I know he’s there.
And I know—because I’m cursed with the kind of awareness that doesn’t let me rest—that he’s watching me talk to other people.
Watching me laugh.
Watching other guys lean in too close.
Watching me be the version of myself that doesn’t exist when he’s near.
The room feels warmer. Brighter. Like the light is turned up too high.
And somewhere underneath it, there’s a colder edge I can’t name, the quiet thought that presses in no matter how many jokes I make:
If I turn my head and meet his eyes again… will I survive it?
I’m laughing at something Oikawa says when I feel it—movement near the back of the room, the subtle shift of air when someone tall passes behind a conversation. My spine goes tight, immediate, instinctive.
He’s closer.
Not close-close.
But closer than he was.
My voice falters for half a second, just a fraction, like my body forgets how to keep up the act.
Oikawa doesn’t notice.
Kuroo doesn’t notice.
No one notices.
Except me.
And him.
Because when I glance up—just for a heartbeat, just enough to ruin myself—I catch Tendou watching from across the room, eyes steady, expression unreadable in the warm light.
And my lungs forget how to work.
I look away immediately, laughing too loudly at a joke that wasn’t that funny, nodding too fast, moving my hands too much, like if I become a blur maybe no one will see the way I’m shaking on the inside.
I hate that I do this.
I hate that I can stand here and hold my own with Oikawa—Oikawa—and fire sarcasm back at Kuroo without blinking…
…but the moment Tendou exists within my orbit, I turn into someone else.
Someone smaller.
Someone quieter.
Someone with a heartbeat that gives her away.
Kuroo claps his hands suddenly, loud, cutting through the room like a knife.
“Alright!” he announces, grinning like he’s about to set something on fire. “Game time. Seven minutes in heaven. Everyone who’s brave, sit down.”
A wave of cheering. Groans. Laughter.
The circle begins to form.
I feel my stomach tighten—not fear exactly, not that simple, but something sharp and anticipatory, like the air right before a storm.
People drop to the floor, shoulders bumping, knees touching. Someone sets the bottle in the center, glass catching the light.
I lower myself to the floor with the others, careful, deliberate, like if I move too fast I might draw attention to myself. The circle is uneven, knees brushing, shoulders nearly touching, the warmth of too many bodies in one space rising into my skin. Someone laughs. Someone shifts. The bottle glints in the center of the floor like it’s waiting for blood.
I keep my eyes down.
Not because I’m shy. Not because I’m unsure.
Because I know exactly where he is.
Tendou sits across from me.
I don’t look, but I feel it—the way the space directly in front of me is occupied by something larger, heavier, more charged than everything else in the room. I can sense the length of his legs, the way his body folds into itself even when he’s relaxed, the gravity of him pulling at my awareness like a tide. It’s ridiculous. He hasn’t moved. He hasn’t spoken. And still my pulse stutters like he’s already done something.
My hands rest in my lap, fingers threaded together so tightly my knuckles pale. I focus on that pressure, on the grounding of skin against skin, because if I let myself think about the fact that he’s sitting right there—if I let myself imagine his eyes lifting and finding mine—
No.
I don’t look.
I can’t.
The game starts around me.
The bottle spins. Glass scrapes against the floor, the sound sharp and bright, cutting through the music and chatter. Laughter rises and falls, people groaning when it lands on them, others cheering. A pair disappears into the closet. The door shuts. The room exhales.
I don’t.
I sit still, back straight, expression carefully neutral, like I’m completely unbothered. Like my heartbeat isn’t counting down. Like I’m not hyper-aware of every movement across from me, every shift of his weight, every small sound he makes.
I can feel him there. It’s constant. Like a low hum in my bones.
Someone bumps my shoulder. I flinch before I can stop myself, then recover, forcing a laugh that feels thin even to my own ears. My gaze stays on the floor, on the bottle, on anything that isn’t him. I’m acutely aware of the fact that if I look up, even for a second, I will give myself away.
The bottle spins again.
Another pair.
The closet door shuts.
Time stretches. Thick. Slow. Heavy. Each second settling into the next like it’s pressing down on my chest. The room feels warmer. Brighter. Smaller. The air tastes faintly of alcohol and citrus and something sweet that makes my stomach turn.
I tell myself it won’t be me.
I tell myself it can’t be.
And in the same breath, traitorous and desperate, I beg for it.
Because what if it does?
What if it lands on him?
What if, just once, the universe is reckless enough to give me what I’ve been pretending I don’t want?
The thought alone makes my throat tighten.
What happens if he sees my face up close?
What happens if he notices the way my breath stutters when he’s near, the way my hands shake, the way my eyes refuse to meet his because if they do, I might not survive it?
What happens if he finally believes what he’s already been living with—that I’m scared of him?
That he’s too much?
That I don’t want him near me?
The lie sits heavy in my chest, a thing I never meant to build and don’t know how to tear down.
The bottle spins again.
The room cheers.
And then Kuroo’s voice cuts through it, bright and sharp and entirely too pleased.
“Your turn.”
My head lifts before I can stop it, eyes snapping to him, then dropping just as fast. The circle feels tighter suddenly, like the space has closed in. The air presses against my skin. The bottle in the center of the floor looks innocent and dangerous at the same time, a stupid piece of glass holding too much power.
I hesitate.
Just for a second.
Then I reach out.
My hand is shaking.
Not violently. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just enough that I feel it, a subtle tremor in my fingers as I touch the cool glass. The sensation grounds me and unravels me at the same time.
I spin.
The bottle moves, scraping loudly, the sound echoing in my ears. It turns and turns and turns, the room blurring at the edges, faces melting into color and light. Everything narrows to that single point of motion, that one fragile line between safety and disaster.
It slows.
My breath catches.
It slows more.
My heartbeat climbs up my throat, thick and loud and impossible to ignore.
And then—
It stops.
Pointing straight at him.
For a moment, the world goes empty.
Not quiet.
Empty.
No sound. No warmth. No room. Just the image of Tendou across the circle, tall and still, his gaze fixed on the bottle like it’s betrayed him. Like it’s made a joke at his expense. Like it’s cruel.
Then his eyes lift.
They meet mine.
And everything inside me collapses.
My face locks up, muscles pulling tight, expression going blank in that horrible way people mistake for disgust when it’s actually my body trying not to fall apart. Heat floods my skin, sharp and immediate, crawling up my neck, across my cheeks, down my spine. My breath turns shallow, trapped somewhere between my chest and my throat. Sweat prickles at my hairline like I’ve been dropped into something boiling.
I can’t speak.
I can’t move.
I sit there, frozen, while my pulse batters inside me, wild and frantic and humiliating, like my body is screaming something my mouth is too cowardly to say.
Around us, the room explodes.
Kuroo laughs first, loud and delighted. “Oh, that’s brutal.” His grin is wide, sharp, merciless. “Looks like you’re stuck with the monster.”
Oikawa’s voice cuts in immediately, playful and cruel in that effortless way he has. “No re-spins! Rules are rules!”
Laughter ripples through the circle. Teasing. Whistles. Someone claps.
It all washes over me like I’m underwater.
Muffled. Distant. Heavy.
Because Tendou isn’t laughing.
He isn’t teasing.
He’s looking at me like something just cracked behind his eyes.
His mouth flattens, the easy curve gone. His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping near his cheek. His shoulders go rigid, broad and tense, like he’s bracing for impact. There’s something restrained in him suddenly, something tightly held, like he’s keeping himself contained with sheer will.
He looks… wounded.
And I don’t understand why.
Then he stands.
The movement is sudden, clean, final.
The room quiets just a fraction as he steps out of the circle, not looking at anyone, not looking at me, like if he does he’ll see something he can’t unsee. He walks toward the closet with long, controlled strides, his back straight, his hands loose at his sides, like he’s pretending this doesn’t matter.
Like it doesn’t hurt.
My chest caves in.
No—
Not like this.
Not this misunderstanding.
Not him thinking—
I push myself up too late, legs unsteady, the floor tilting beneath me like I’m walking on something unreal. People are still laughing, still calling after me, still tossing jokes into the air like confetti. Someone says my name. Someone whistles. Someone says “good luck.”
I barely hear them.
I walk because I have to.
Because he went in there.
Because if I don’t follow, the lie becomes permanent.
Because if I don’t follow, he will walk away believing I was afraid of him.
My hand is shaking as I reach the closet door, fingers curling into the edge of it like it might steady me. Kuroo opens it with a grin, ushering me forward like I’m a performance.
“Seven minutes,” he says, voice bright with expectation. “Good luck.”
The door shuts behind me.
Darkness. Warmth. Silence.
The space is small, cramped, the air thick with the scent of detergent and dust and him. Tendou stands inside like a shadow made human—tall, tense, facing the wall like he’s giving me space, like he’s trying to be careful, trying to be gentle in the only way he knows how.
I press my back against the door without meaning to, like I need something solid to keep me upright.
My breath stutters.
My fingers curl.
And the air between us is heavy with everything neither of us has ever said.
No one outside expects anything to happen.
That much is obvious in the way the laughter fades instead of sharpens, in the way no one presses closer to the door, in the way the energy of the room settles back into itself like the moment has already been written off. It’s treated like a joke. A mismatch. A punchline.
The monster and the girl.
I can almost hear what they’re thinking. Poor thing. She’s probably terrified. This is awkward.
The door shuts and the sound of the party dulls instantly, music and voices swallowed by the walls, leaving only the hum of the house and the sound of my own breathing — too loud, too fast, too uneven.
Tendou doesn’t turn.
He stands with his back to me, tall enough that his shoulders nearly brush the doorframe, hands loose at his sides, posture rigid in a way that doesn’t look relaxed at all. He looks like he’s bracing. Like he’s waiting for something bad to happen.
I stay where I am, back pressed to the door, fingers curling into the fabric of my sleeves like they might anchor me. The space between us feels enormous and impossibly small at the same time, stretched thin with everything I want and can’t say.
He doesn’t move.
I don’t move.
Seconds pass. Heavy ones. Thick ones. The kind that press into your chest and make you aware of your own heartbeat.
I try to inhale properly.
I fail.
My breath keeps catching halfway, stuttering like it doesn’t know what it’s supposed to be doing. My lungs feel too full and too empty at once. I focus on the scent of him — something clean, something faintly sharp, something that makes my head go light.
God, pull it together.
This is ridiculous. It’s just him. Just Tendou. Just a closet. Just—
My hands shake.
Not violently. Not enough for anyone to notice. But enough that I notice. Enough that it feels like a betrayal.
He notices too.
I know he does because his shoulders tense even more, like he’s heard something break.
Still, he doesn’t turn.
Still, he gives me space.
And that — that does something dangerous to me. The fact that he’s trying. The fact that he’s careful. The fact that he’s standing there like he’s afraid of being too much.
My throat tightens.
Finally, he exhales.
It’s slow. Controlled. Like he’s steadying himself.
“I’m not gonna…” he starts, then stops. His jaw tightens. He tries again. “I’m not gonna touch you.”
The words land low. Rough around the edges. Not gentle. Not soft. There’s something tight in them. Something restrained. Something angry, but not at me.
“You don’t have to… do anything,” he continues, still facing the wall, voice clipped, contained. “We can just stand here. Wait it out. Seven minutes. That’s it.”
He shifts slightly, like even that much movement might be too much. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”
The sentence hangs there.
Sharp.
Heavy.
And wrong.
My breath catches — not in fear, not in shock, but in pure, bewildered confusion. My brows knit together without me realizing it. I stare at his back, at the tension in his shoulders, at the way his hands curl slightly like he’s gripping onto patience.
Hurt me?
The idea doesn’t fit. It doesn’t make sense. It slides off me like water off glass.
Slowly, cautiously, I lift my head.
He’s so tall. Taller than I ever let myself really acknowledge. Taller than me, and I’m not short. Up close, the difference feels bigger, more pronounced, like he takes up space I didn’t realize was there. Like he belongs in a way I never quite do.
My voice feels lodged in my throat.
I have to force it out.
“I… I know you won’t.”
The words come out small. Uneven. A little breathless.
He freezes.
Actually freezes.
The tension in his shoulders spikes, visible, like something electric just ran through him. He turns his head slightly, not enough to face me, but enough that I know he heard me. Enough that I know it mattered.
I swallow, the sound loud in the quiet. “I know you won’t,” I repeat, softer, because suddenly everything feels too loud. Too exposed. “I just… I just—”
My voice stutters.
God.
I clamp my mouth shut, heat rushing to my face, the familiar humiliation creeping up my spine. My fingers curl tighter into my sleeves like I can physically hold myself together.
For a second, he doesn’t say anything.
Then, slowly, he turns.
Not all the way.
Just enough.
His eyes find me.
And something in his expression falters.
Not sharp. Not teasing. Not amused.
Confused.
“…Then why,” he asks quietly, “do you look like you’re about to bolt?”
The question isn’t cruel. It’s not mocking.
It’s genuine.
It hits me in the chest like a misstep.
I open my mouth. Close it. Try again. Nothing comes out. My thoughts scatter like startled birds, all noise and no shape.
He watches me struggle, something flickering behind his eyes — uncertainty, maybe. Frustration. Something wounded.
“You’re always like this around me,” he says, not accusing, just… stating. “You won’t look at me. You won’t talk to me. When I tried, you looked like you couldn’t breathe.” His brow furrows. “So yeah. Forgive me for thinking you’re scared.”
The word lands wrong.
Scared.
I shake my head immediately, the movement sharp, instinctive. “No—” My voice cracks. I wince, swallow hard, then try again. “No. I’m not.”
His eyes narrow slightly. Not in suspicion — in confusion.
“…You’re not?”
The silence stretches.
The space between us feels tighter now. Charged. Alive.
I hesitate, then blurt, “Are people supposed to be?”
He blinks.
The sound of it is soft in the quiet.
“…What?”
I shift my weight, the door pressing into my back, grounding and suffocating at the same time. “I mean—” I gesture vaguely, uselessly. “You. Are people… supposed to be scared of you?”
The question feels ridiculous the second it leaves my mouth, but I don’t take it back.
He stares at me like I’ve just spoken in another language.
“No,” he says immediately. Then hesitates. “I mean— no. But you always—” He stops, frowns, clearly trying to line things up in his head. “You always act like you are.”
I shake my head again, slower this time. “I’m not.”
He studies me, really studies me, like he’s trying to solve something that’s been bothering him for a long time. “Then why,” he asks, carefully now, “do you avoid me? Why won’t you look at me? Why do you go silent every time I’m near you? Why did you look like you were about to pass out when I tried to talk to you?”
Each question lands heavier than the last.
I open my mouth.
Close it.
The truth rises up in me like a wave — hot, terrifying, impossible — and I choke on it.
Because how do you tell someone that the reason you can’t look at them is because looking feels like falling?
How do you admit that the reason your voice disappears is because your heart is screaming?
I go quiet.
My gaze drops.
The space fills with everything I’m not saying.
He watches it happen.
Sees it.
And something changes.
The corner of his mouth twitches.
Then he exhales a short, incredulous laugh.
“…You know,” he says slowly, tilting his head, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say it sounds like you have a massive crush on me.”
The words are light.
Teasing.
A joke.
A shield.
I don’t laugh.
I don’t deny it.
I don’t move.
And in the silence that follows, his smile falters.
Just a fraction.
Then completely.
The air shifts.
His stomach drops — I can see it in the way his posture changes, in the way his eyes widen just slightly, in the way the joke dies in his throat.
“…Oh,” he breathes.
And suddenly he’s looking at me like I’m something fragile and dangerous all at once.
“Wait,” he says, stepping closer before he can seem to stop himself. Just one step. Not touching. Not invading. But closer. “Is that why?”
My breath stutters.
I can’t answer.
I don’t need to.
He tilts his head, studying me, eyes searching my face with a new intensity. “Is that why you can’t look at me?” he asks quietly. “Is that why you freeze up?”
My chest tightens.
I nod.
Barely.
His breath leaves him in a slow exhale, something like disbelief, something like relief. A slow, crooked smile pulls at his mouth, soft and stunned and… warm.
“…You’re kidding,” he murmurs.
I’m not.
He takes another step.
I take one back.
My shoulders hit the wall.
He doesn’t touch me. Not yet. But he’s close enough now that I can feel the heat from him, close enough that his presence fills the space, close enough that my knees threaten to give.
He lifts his hand.
Two fingers under my chin.
Gentle. Barely there.
Tilting my face up.
“Then why,” he asks, voice low, amused now, “can’t you look at me?”
I try.
I really do.
I last half a second before my gaze flickers away.
He chuckles.
Soft. Dangerous.
He steps closer again. My back presses harder into the wall. He leans down slightly so I don’t have to look up at him anymore, so our faces are level, so the space between us is… gone.
“Why are you so quiet?” he murmurs. “Why are you shaking?”
“I’m not,” I say immediately.
My voice shakes.
He smiles.
“Then why is your voice shaking?”
I open my mouth to lie.
Stop.
Because he’s right there.
Because he’s looking at me like he already knows.
He dips his head closer, just enough that his breath brushes my cheek. “You don’t believe your own excuses,” he says softly. “Neither do I.”
My thoughts dissolve.
My body is a live wire.
He straightens just a little, eyes dark with understanding now. “It all makes sense,” he murmurs.
The teasing edge sharpens.
And it sends me spiraling.
The tension coils too tight.
I can’t stand it.
I can’t breathe like this.
“Are you,” I blurt, voice breathless, “are you going to keep teasing me, or are you going to be a man and kiss me?”
He stills.
Then he laughs.
Low. Warm. Delighted.
“Oh,” he says softly. “Gladly.”
He kisses me like he’s been starving.
Like every second he’s ever watched me from across a room, every time I’ve looked away from him, every moment he thought I was afraid, is pouring into the pressure of his mouth against mine. There’s no hesitation in it now. No restraint. Just want — raw and unfiltered and overwhelming.
His hand tightens at my waist, fingers digging in like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he loosens his grip. I gasp into the kiss, the sound small and helpless, and he answers it immediately, deepening it, swallowing it, tilting his head to fit me closer, closer, closer.
There is no space.
There is only him.
The wall is cold against my back. His body is heat. Solid. Unavoidable. He crowds into me without apology, all height and strength and intent, and my brain short-circuits under it. My thoughts dissolve into sensation — the press of his chest, the scrape of his breath, the way his mouth moves like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
He groans when I cling to him.
The sound is low. Uncontrolled. It vibrates through his chest and straight into me, and my knees buckle in response, traitorous and weak. He notices immediately.
A sharp breath leaves him.
And then—
He lifts me.
Just… lifts me.
Like I weigh nothing.
Like it’s instinct.
My back hits the wall again, higher this time, his body pinning me there with ease, one hand braced beside my head, the other locked around my thigh, holding me up like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The movement knocks the breath from me, a broken sound leaving my mouth before I can stop it.
His eyes darken.
“God,” he murmurs, and it’s not a joke. It’s not teasing. It’s reverent. Dangerous. “You make the prettiest sounds.”
My face burns.
I open my mouth to say something sharp, something clever, something that proves I still exist as a functional human being—
Nothing comes out.
He smiles.
Slow.
Knowing.
And then his mouth is on me again.
Harder. Hungrier. Like he’s lost interest in pretending this is anything other than what it is. His kiss is all teeth and heat and pressure, his lips moving with an urgency that steals the air from my lungs. I cling to him automatically, arms sliding around his shoulders, fingers digging into his back through his shirt.
And oh—
He’s solid.
Not just tall. Not just big.
Built.
My hands trace muscle without permission, feeling the hard lines of his back, the strength under my palms, and it sends a shiver through me that I can’t control. I melt into him, completely, every part of me leaning closer, closer, like I’m trying to crawl inside his skin.
He makes a sound at that.
Sharp.
Low.
Dangerous.
His grip tightens, body pressing in, and I feel it — the tension in him, the restraint, the way he’s holding himself back by force. His hands move, restless, sliding over my sides, my waist, my hips, like he doesn’t know where to put them, like everywhere feels right and wrong at the same time.
He kisses down my jaw.
Slow.
Deliberate.
My head tips back without me meaning to, giving him access, and he takes it immediately, mouth hot against my skin, breath warm, leaving shivers in his wake. His lips trail lower, unhurried but intent, like he’s mapping me, learning me.
My breath breaks.
A soft, helpless sound.
His hand slips lower, gripping my hip, anchoring me there, and the closeness of it — the proximity — makes my stomach tighten, my thoughts blur, my body lean into him without shame.
“Tendou…” I breathe, and it comes out like a plea.
He hums against my neck, pleased. “Yeah?”
His voice is rough now. Stripped down. Real.
I don’t answer.
I don’t need to.
He knows.
Because he presses closer, because his mouth moves slower, because his hands flex like he’s fighting himself. He kisses along my throat, my jaw, my cheek, teeth grazing just enough to make my pulse spike, just enough to make me gasp.
“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs, and there’s laughter in it, but it’s thin, strained. “You know that?”
My fingers curl tighter in his shirt.
I nod because it feels easier than thinking.
He chuckles softly, then bites my lower lip — not hard, not gentle, just enough to make me gasp and clutch at him like he’s gravity.
The sound that leaves him in response is feral.
He shifts, pressing me more firmly to the wall, body caging me in, hands sliding with clear intention — not careless, not clumsy, but restrained, controlled, like he knows exactly how far he can go and is dancing right on the edge of it.
My head is spinning.
My body is on fire.
Every nerve feels awake.
I can feel him everywhere — his chest, his arms, his breath, his mouth — and it’s too much and not enough at the same time. I’m drowning in him. In the closeness. In the way he touches me like he’s been waiting.
Because he has.
I can feel that too.
His mouth finds mine again, and the kiss turns rougher, deeper, like he’s lost patience with himself. His hand slides along my side, lingering, almost too low, and I inhale sharply, the sound betraying me.
He freezes.
Just for a second.
A breath.
A pause.
His forehead drops to mine, his breath heavy, uneven, his eyes closed like he’s steadying himself.
“…We’re in a closet,” he murmurs, voice low and strained. “With, like, a minute left.”
I laugh weakly, breathless. “Right. Because that’s what matters right now.”
He smiles, but it’s tight. Controlled. His jaw clenches like he’s physically restraining himself.
“Trust me,” he says quietly, brushing his thumb along my jaw, gentle now. “If we weren’t… I wouldn’t be stopping.”
The honesty in it hits me harder than any touch.
My breath catches.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dark, intent, searching. “You okay?” he asks, softer, like he’s checking in, like he actually cares.
I nod, still dazed, still caught in him.
He smirks. “Good. Because you look like you forgot how to stand.”
I shove his chest weakly. “Shut up.”
He laughs, low and warm, steadying me as my feet touch the floor again, hands still firm on my waist like he’s not quite ready to let go.
The door handle rattles.
Voices outside.
Light and sound bleed back in as the door opens.
He steps out first, completely unapologetic, glancing back at me with a grin that is entirely too pleased with itself.
And when I follow, breathless and flushed and absolutely wrecked—
Summary: Tobio Kageyama has shed the “King of the Court” he once was, becoming someone soft, protective, and devoted when he falls for Reader. But when his bitter ex resurfaces—determined to remind everyone of who he used to be—Reader is dragged into rumors, harassment, and the weight of a past she never knew. Everything finally breaks when Tobio steps in, proving exactly who he is now…and who he’s chosen to be for her.
I swear the gym feels louder than usual today. Maybe it’s just me—my heart’s been pounding since the second I walked through the doors. It always happens when Tobio plays. I get this stupid flutter in my stomach, like the ball isn’t the only thing flying around the court.
I squeeze between a couple second-years and settle onto the bleachers with my two best friends, Mai and Hina. Both of them have been vibrating ever since we walked in.
Mai leans forward, elbows on her knees.
“Okay, but are you hearing this?” she whispers, eyes wide behind her bangs.
I hear it.
Oh, I definitely hear it.
The Alba Josai boys are warming up on the other side of the net, and a few of the second-years who look like they used to play with Tobio in junior high keep glancing his way. One of them, Oikawa’s friend, says it loud enough for half the gym to hear.
“Think the King is gonna throw another tantrum today?”
“Oh my god,” Hina mutters, clutching my arm “They’re talking about him like he’s a war criminal. Mai sits up, fuming.
“No, no, excuse me—why are they talking about your boyfriend like that? You want me to go down there? I’ll go down there—”
“Hina,” I hiss, shoving her shoulder before she dives off the bleachers like Tanaka in a fight. “Sit down. Please.”
Mai grabs her by the back of her hoodie and hauls her down.
“Hina, stop. You’re five foot two and haven’t exercised since middle school, sit down.” Hina points toward the boys accusingly.
“They’re slandering him! They’re literally slandering him!” I’m trying to act calm but honestly? It gets under my skin too.
I always knew Tobio had a reputation in junior high, but hearing it out loud… hearing boys who actually played beside him say it with that mix of bitterness and disgust…
It twists something in my stomach. I breathe out slowly, reminding myself: That isn’t my Tobio. The boy I know doesn’t talk like that. He’s quiet, awkward, intense, yes—but never cruel. Never with me.
Still, that name—King of the Court—it hits different when the people saying it actually lived it.
Hina grumbles under her breath, “I swear, if anyone calls you ‘Queen of the Court,’ I’ll punch them.”
“I don’t think that was ever on the table,” I laugh weakly. Right then, the gym erupts in cheers as Karasuno jogs out. Black and orange. Energy buzzing.
My eyes find him immediately.
Tobio steps onto the court, tall and serious, jaw set in that permanently tense expression like he’s carrying a whole universe on his shoulders. He’s scanning the crowd, checking the court, already calculating angles in that genius brain of his—
Then he sees me.
Just for a second, his whole body stills.
He lifts his hand. A small wave. No smile, not even close—his mouth is a tight line, and he looks nervous or maybe just hyperfocused—but it’s unmistakably for me.
My heart leaps.
Mai melts beside me.
“Oh my GOD he waved at you. I think I saw a blush—”
“You saw nothing,” I mutter, trying and failing not to smile like an idiot. Hina leans forward, eyes locked on the court.
“Okay but damn, Karasuno looks GOOD today. Look—Daichi’s like a whole soldier. And—oh my god—Tsukki got taller.”
Mai groans dramatically. “Tsuki is always tall.”
“No, no,” Hina insists, grabbing Mai’s wrist. “I swear he hit another growth spurt since yesterday.” I shake my head, laughing softly.
Of course my friends are thirsting over height differences in the middle of a tense practice game. But then I glance back at Tobio. He’s stretching, head down, completely stone-faced.
Focused.
Serious.
Barely breathing.
But when he looks up again—just briefly—his gaze flickers back to me. Not smiling. Not blushing. Just… steady.
Like he’s checking to make sure I’m still there.
And my chest warms. Because even without words, I know what that means: He plays better when I’m watching.
And god help me, I’m already falling stupidly, hopelessly in love with him.
~~~
The whistle blows and the whole gym snaps into focus.
For a second, everything is just sound—sneakers squeaking, the slap of volleyballs, the murmur of voices swelling around us—but then the ball is tossed, the rally begins, and my world narrows down to one person in black and orange.
Tobio.
I’ve heard he’s good. I’ve seen him show up to our dates with his hair damp from a shower, shoulders loose in that way that means he worked himself to the edge. I’ve seen the way he shifts when volleyball comes up—how his eyes sharpen, how his voice goes firm, like every word is a line he won’t cross.
But I’ve never seen him like this.
The first real rally starts. The ball flies up in a messy receive on Karasuno’s side and he’s just—there. Sliding into position like the floor is his, knees bending, hands already held just right. He doesn’t call for it. He doesn’t have to. It’s like the whole team already knows: If he’s under it, the ball is safe.
The ball drops into his hands and the gym changes shape.
He takes it, soft, precise, and in that heartbeat where it’s balanced between his fingers and the air, he looks… calm. Not the intense, stiff calm he wears in class. Something cleaner. Like this is the only place his head ever stops buzzing.
Then his hands snap and the ball sails up, perfect, floating in front of Hinata like it’s being pulled there by a string.
Hina beside me gasps.
Mai actually slaps my arm. “DID YOU SEE THAT—?”
I see everything.
The way his shoulders flex when he sets. The way his back straightens the moment before he moves, all that power channeling straight through his arms. The clean line his body makes as he pivots, eyes already tracking where to go next. He barely looks human when he’s in motion—more like some sharp, blue-eyed machine built for this exact court.
He’s always looked tall to me, always felt big when he wraps an arm around my shoulders or cages me against a wall by accident when people push past. But down there, under the harsh lights, he looks larger somehow. Filled out. Every movement pulls at muscle I didn’t even realize he had.
His next play rolls by too fast for me to fully process: receive, set, spike, point. The gym erupts. Karasuno scores. Hinata yells something that sounds like a victory cry and runs back to the line, grinning.
Tobio doesn’t smile. Of course he doesn’t. He just glances up into the stands for half a second, like he’s checking the scoreboard, and his eyes catch mine.
A tiny spark lights in my chest.
He saw me.
Then he turns away, already facing the next serve.
I keep trying to watch the whole game—really, I do—but my gaze keeps getting dragged back to him. The way he runs is different now that I’m looking for it. He doesn’t flail like some of the others; he cuts across the court in clean, purposeful paths, every step heavy with intent. His legs look… strong. Thick lines of muscle stretching his kneepads, his calves tightening and releasing with each sprint. When he stops short, his thighs flex under the fabric of his shorts and I have to curl my fingers around the edge of the bench to keep from doing something stupid like covering my face.
“Girl,” Hina murmurs, leaning close with a little laugh in her voice. “You’re literally not blinking.”
I swallow and try to force my attention to the general flow of the game, but then it’s his turn to serve.
And that’s when everything gets worse.
He takes a few steps back from the line, cradling the ball against his hip, and the noise in the gym tilts. A few of the Alba Josai players shift uneasily. One of them mutters something I can’t hear, but I know that body language—stiff shoulders, adjusting their grip, eyes narrowed. It’s the posture of people who’ve already been burned by something and are trying not to flinch in advance.
Tobio rolls the ball between his hands once, twice, like he’s calibrating something only he understands.
The referee blows the whistle.
He tosses the ball up and jumps.
Everything else drops away.
His body leaves the floor in one fluid burst, like every muscle in his legs is spring-loaded. For a split second he’s suspended there, back arched, arm pulled back—an arrow strung across the sky. His shirt rides up just enough for me to see it: a flash of pale skin, the faint shadow of a deeply defined line across his stomach.
Wait.
Is that—?
The thought doesn’t even finish. His arm swings, his hand slams into the ball, and the sound is sharp, like a crack in the air. The ball rockets over the net, whistling, and the poor Seijoh receiver nearly falls over trying to handle it.
“Service ace!” someone shouts.
The crowd roars. I don’t hear any of it properly because my heartbeat is in my ears.
He has abs.
Like, actual, carved, real abs.
I lean forward without meaning to, eyes glued to the place where his shirt had lifted, as if maybe if he jumps again I’ll get another glimpse. My thighs press together automatically, like my body is trying to ground itself to the seat. My chest feels too tight, like my ribs aren’t built to hold this much electricity at once.
That’s my boyfriend.
The boy who gets flustered when I compliment his hair. The boy who texts me, “did you eat” with no punctuation like it’s the most casual thing in the world and not the twentieth time he’s checked that day. The boy who suddenly looks nothing like a boy when he’s midair, tank top clinging to shoulders that somehow got broader when I wasn’t looking.
He serves again. Same toss, same jump, same violent, beautiful arc. His shirt lifts and this time I can clearly see it—defined ridges of muscle, not overdone, but there, sharp enough that my fingers itch.
Mai inhales sharply next to me. “No way. He’s ripped? You didn’t tell us he was ripped.”
I make a noise that might be a laugh or might be me choking on my own dignity. “I—I didn’t know!”
“How did you not know?” Hina demands, sounding personally betrayed.
Because we haven’t…
Because when he kisses me he always keeps just enough distance, hands careful, holding back like he’s afraid to break something. Because the most I’ve felt is the solid warmth of his chest through his jersey, the heavy weight of his palm at the small of my back when he guides me through a crowd. Because we’ve only let things go too far once and—
My mind stutters back.
A week ago. Maybe less.
Basement lights. The faint smell of dust and furniture polish, the sound of music from my phone speaker echoing off the walls. I remember the feel of the floor under my sneakers, the way my lungs burned from repeating the combo over and over until it sat in my bones.
I didn’t hear the door open. Didn’t hear him come down.
Just the music, the rhythm, my own breath, the ache in my thighs.
I’d nailed the last eight-count—arms hitting just right, hair whipping over my shoulders with the spin—and then turned, grinning to myself—
And nearly collided with him.
He was so close I could see every fleck of blue in his eyes. His hair was damp from a shower, fringe still a little messy where he’d shoved it back with his fingers. His t-shirt clung to his shoulders in a way that suggested he’d barely cooled off from practice.
I’d gasped, hand flying to my chest. “T-Tobio! You scared me—”
He didn’t apologize.
He didn’t say anything at all.
His hands were on my waist before my brain caught up, fingers curling in the waistband of my shorts as he tugged me forward and pressed his mouth to mine.
It wasn’t like his usual kisses. Those were careful, almost hesitant, like he was always checking if he was allowed to be there. This one was… not. It crashed into me, all heat and urgency, knocking the air out of my lungs. My knees actually went weak. I ended up fisting both hands in his shirt just to stay upright.
He kissed me like he’d been starving and somehow decided I was the only thing that could fix it.
There was nothing slow about it—no shy brush of lips, no testing. His mouth slanted over mine, firmer, deeper. My back hit something solid before I realized he’d walked me backward, desk edge digging into my hip. One of his hands slid to the small of my back, pulling me flush against him, and something low in my belly flickered to life so intense I didn’t know what to do with it.
My fingers had curled tighter in his shirt. I remember the way his chest moved against me—shallow, quick breaths like he was fighting himself and losing.
When I tried to pull back to breathe, his hand had come up—fingers splayed, gentle but insistent at my jaw, thumb under my chin—guiding me right back in. Not rough, not painful. Just… unwilling to let go.
I’d made a sound, tiny and broken against his mouth, something that didn’t sound like my voice at all.
He’d gone still for a heartbeat.
Then even hungrier.
The memory flushes through me like a shock and I press my knees together under the bench, fingers digging into my own thighs now. If my mom hadn’t shouted down the stairs that dinner was ready, I genuinely don’t know how far we would’ve gone. I don’t think he knew either. That’s what scared me—that his control had slipped, and instead of feeling unsafe, every part of me had leaned into it.
The crowd explodes as Karasuno takes another point. I jump, dragged back to the present. My heart is racing like I’ve just done a full routine.
I exhale slowly, trying to cool my face with the back of my hand.
“Tired?” Hina teases. “You’re breathing like you played three sets.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but it doesn’t have any bite. My voice sounds thin even to me.
The rotation shifts. Seijoh prepares to receive again, but my attention drifts, tugged sideways by a different kind of noise. A voice, sharp and nasal, a couple rows down and to the left. I wasn’t really listening before—just letting the swarm of conversation blur around me—but now certain words cut clean through the haze.
“—still acting like a king, I bet. Hasn’t changed at all.”
My spine straightens without permission.
King.
That word again. Tossed like a joke, like an insult that’s been used enough times to lose its sting for everyone except the person it’s about.
I shift forward on the bench, sliding to the very edge to see past the two boys in front of me. A small cluster of girls is seated a few rows down. One of them stands out immediately—dyed ginger hair pulled into a high ponytail, thick eyeliner framing brown eyes that are narrowed toward the court.
She’s not wearing a school uniform, just a hoodie with her old middle school logo. The same middle school that’s been whispered in connection with that nickname more than once.
I don’t know her, but the sound of her voice makes some part of me bristle.
Mai notices my posture change. “What is it?”
“Shh,” I whisper without thinking.
The ginger-haired girl laughs, a sharp, humorless sound. “I’m surprised he’s even passing to anyone. Back then, if the toss wasn’t perfect or if you messed up once, he’d glare at you like you’d ruined his whole life.”
One of her friends nods. “He does look different though.”
“Please,” the girl scoffs, like the very idea offends her. “Boys like him don’t change. He’s probably exactly the same. Just better at hiding it.”
The words land heavier than I expect. Something prickles at the base of my neck, hot and uncomfortable.
I knew.
I knew he’d been bad before. I knew about the nickname, the rumors, the stories of teammates walking on eggshells. But hearing it from the mouth of someone who was there is different. It gives shape to all the vague whispers, makes them heavier, more real.
Hina shifts beside me, her grip tightening on my sleeve. “Okay, that’s uncalled for,” she mutters under her breath. “She doesn’t even know him now.”
I nod, but my jaw has gone tight. My eyes flick back to the court—Tobio is already moving into position, focused, unreadable. He looks nothing like the boy she’s describing.
The ginger-haired girl leans in closer to her friends, like she’s sharing something juicy.
“I heard he has a new girlfriend,” she says, and my stomach drops.
Here we go.
“Seriously?” one of her friends gasps. “Who?”
“I don’t know,” she says, with an easy shrug that doesn’t match the sharpness in her eyes. “Haven’t met her. But she must have a death wish. Being with him? She basically signed her own execution. He’s probably treating her like garbage already.”
The laughter that follows is quiet, but it hits like a slap.
Mai moves before I can stop her, half-rising from the bench. “Okay, I’m going to—”
Hina grabs the back of her hoodie again and yanks her down. “You are not starting a fight in the middle of a practice game.”
“Did you hear what she just said?” Mai hisses. “About our girl?”
I’m barely breathing. The words “new girlfriend” and “death wish” keep tangling together in my head, sticky and cold.
The ginger-haired girl doesn’t stop.
“I bet she’s ugly,” she adds casually. “He probably just picked the first girl who looked at him. That’s how guys like him are. They don’t care who it is, as long as someone feeds their ego.”
I blink.
Once.
Twice.
I don’t know if it’s the insult or the sheer wrongness of it that snaps something inside me. Ugly? A random girl? Like he just… spun around and pointed?
Tobio asked me out.
He’d stood there after school, fidgeting with the strap of his bag, gaze sliding away and back like he was trying to solve a puzzle. His voice had cracked—not a lot, just enough that I’d almost pretended not to notice—when he’d said, “I… like you. Go out with me.”
He’d told me later, cheeks red, that he’d seen me before. That he’d gone to a junior high gym once to watch his friend’s sister play, and I’d been on the opposing dance team that performed between games. He’d remembered the way I moved. That I smiled at the judges even though they looked bored. That I laughed with my teammates at the edge of the court afterward, hands still shaking from adrenaline.
“I thought you were… bright,” he’d said, face buried in his hands like the word hurt to say out loud. “I remembered. I just… forgot I remembered. Until I saw you again.”
The ginger-haired girl down the row doesn’t know any of that.
She doesn’t know the way his hands hover a little before they touch my back, like he’s always making sure he’s allowed. She doesn’t know he waits for my texts after late practices just to see “home now” before he goes to sleep. She doesn’t know how carefully he stops himself whenever kisses get too deep, like he’s afraid of his own momentum.
She only knows the boy he used to be.
And maybe he really did hurt her. The bitterness in her voice doesn’t sound fake. It’s the kind of edge people grow when they’ve spent too long turning the same wound over in their hands.
But hearing her talk about me like I’m some faceless, stupid girl he settled for—like I’m doomed just by standing close to him—makes something tight coil low in my stomach.
My fingers curl around the hem of my skirt. Ankles pressed together, heels digging into the rung of the bleacher, I stare straight ahead at his back as he calls for the next toss.
He jumps. Sets. Moves.
The gym shouts.
And there I am, stuck between the boy she remembers and the boy I know, listening to two different versions of the same name.
King.
Monster.
Genius.
Boy who remembered a girl from a random gym years ago and never forgot.
The ball slams down on Seijoh’s side. Another point.
He turns just slightly, eyes scanning the stands, and for a heartbeat, they snag on mine again.
There’s no smile.
Just a flicker of something softer in his gaze. Like relief. Like confirmation.
You’re still there.
I lift my hand, the barest wave, fingers trembling just enough that I hope no one else sees.
I don’t stand up. I don’t shout. Not yet.
For now, I just watch him, heart lodged somewhere between my ribs and my throat, and listen to the echo of that girl’s voice threading through the cheers.
Maybe she’s right about who he used to be.
But I’m the one who knows who he is now.
And if she thinks I’m going to sit here and let her talk like he hasn’t changed at all, like I’m nothing, like this version of him isn’t real—
She has no idea who she’s talking about.
Or who she’s talking about to.
For the next few rallies, I try to let the game drown her out.
Ball up, ball down.
Block, touch out, point.
Hinata screaming with that wild light in his eyes, Noya sliding across the floor like a maniac, Daichi’s voice cutting through everything like a captain’s whistle.
If I focus on that, it’s easy to pretend the words behind me don’t exist.
King.
Monster.
Death wish.
The ginger-haired girl keeps talking anyway, her voice threading through the cheers like a splinter.
“Back then,” she says, with this half-laugh that doesn’t sound amused at all, “if you messed up even a little, he’d be in your face. Like—” She leans closer to her friends, throws her hand up like she’s miming someone looming. “‘What are you doing?’ and ‘You’re useless,’ right here—” She taps her own forehead. “Screaming. I thought he was going to hit me once.”
I freeze.
The noise of the gym slips away for a second, like someone pressed mute on my ears. All I hear is that word echoing in my skull: me.
She’s not talking about some faceless teammate. Not now.
“He got right up in my face after a game once,” she continues, shrugging like it’s a funny story she’s told before. “Like this close.” She motions with her fingers, two knuckles apart. “Yelling about how I cost them the set. We weren’t even dating that long when it happened. I should’ve dumped him right then.”
The bench under me feels less solid somehow. My fingers slide off the edge and curl into my own knees instead, nails pressing through the fabric.
He once yelled at her. Got in her face.
The game goes on. Another serve, another attack. Shoes squeak, hands clap, someone shouts “Nice receive!” from the sidelines, but everything sounds a little muffled now, like the world moved two inches to the left and forgot to take me with it.
I knew he’d dated someone before me. It was one of those facts he’d mentioned in passing, like weather.
“Yeah. I had a girlfriend. Before,” he’d said once, eyes on his textbook, pen tapping a rhythm on the margin. “We broke up. It was… a while ago.”
“How long?” I’d asked, more curious than anything.
“Four months before graduation,” he’d replied, shoulders tensing slightly like he wasn’t sure why it mattered. “Does it… bother you?”
“No,” I’d said, and I’d meant it. “I don’t care about before.”
And I hadn’t.
Because back then, “before” was just a blurry concept. A history book I hadn’t read, shoved on a shelf behind the boy who showed up to walk me home in the rain, hair dripping into his eyes. The boy who hesitated before touching my hand. The boy who always listens when I talk about dance, even though he pretends he doesn’t get it.
Now “before” has a face.
Brown eyes lined in dark pencil. Dyed ginger hair. A laugh with edges.
And suddenly the word ex doesn’t feel so harmless.
If he was like that with her—if he could get that close and spit words that hung in her head long enough she’s still turning them into stories now—what if—
My mind jumps ahead before I can stop it.
What if that version of him isn’t gone, just sleeping. What if one bad game, one bad day, one wrong sentence from me wakes it up. What if one mistake I make turns his gaze from soft-confused to sharp, to cutting. What if he gets in my face. What if he says something he can’t take back. What if—
My throat tightens. The air feels heavier suddenly, like someone pulled a blanket over my head. I drag in a breath anyway, slow, deliberate. The movement stretches my ribs too tight around my heart.
On the court, the whistle blows again. Karasuno rotates. Tobio moves to the front, back straight, chin lifted, eyes locked on the other side.
He looks nothing like the boy she’s describing. But the knowledge that he was that boy settles on my shoulders like a weight I’m not used to carrying.
“Ugh, I’m so glad I’m not her,” the ginger-haired girl says, and the corner of my vision catches the twist of her lip. “His new girlfriend has no idea what she signed up for. He’ll snap eventually. Bet you anything.”
Mai’s hand tightens around my arm. Hina’s fingers flex around the fabric of her skirt.
“She probably thinks he’s ‘changed,’” the girl goes on, rolling her eyes so hard I can practically hear it. “Sure. He changed with me too—for about five minutes. Then something went wrong and boom—King’s back. She’ll see.”
My chest pulls tight again, a rubber band stretched too far.
I don’t move. I just stare at his back, at the number on his jersey.
Six.
He jumps for a block. His arms reach, fingers spread, eyes focused, and in the second he hangs there I see the boy who turned up at my house with a bag of oranges when I said I had a cold. The boy who stood awkwardly in my kitchen, not quite knowing what to do with his hands, muttering something about “vitamin C” under his breath.
That boy and the one she’s describing sit in my mind side by side like two versions of the same photograph. One harshly lit, one softer.
I’m still trying to make them overlap when it happens.
“Anyway,” the ginger-haired girl says, voice dropping a little. “If she’s anything like the girls he used to stare at—she’s probably not even that cute. He’s always been shallow like that. First girl who looks at him, boom. Done.”
The word shallow hits first. Then the rest.
Not even that cute.
Something in Hina snaps.
She stands so abruptly the bench rattles. The two boys in front of us jolt and turn around, eyes wide. Mai flinches, caught halfway between horror and glee.
“Hina—” I whisper, reaching for her sleeve.
She’s already leaning over the boys’ shoulders, voice cutting clean through the hum of the crowd.
“Hey,” she calls down, loud enough that three rows of people fall silent to listen. “Maybe shut up about things you clearly don’t know anymore.”
The ginger-haired girl looks up, brows pulling together in confusion.
“Excuse me?” she says, like she can’t possibly imagine anyone challenging her from the stands.
A few heads turn. Someone shushes from the side. The game is still going, but the noise from our section dips, attention sliding uphill.
Hina doesn’t back down. Of course she doesn’t.
“You keep talking about him like he’s still in middle school,” she says, hands planted on the back of the seat in front of us. Her voice isn’t shouting, but it cuts anyway. “People grow. Crazy concept, right?”
Mai pinches the bridge of her nose beside me, muttering under her breath, “Oh my god, we’re going to get banned from school sports.”
The ginger-haired girl blinks, clearly thrown by the fact that this random stranger is defending Kageyama of all people. “And who are you?” she asks, words sharp.
“Her friend,” Hina says immediately, jerking her thumb back at me.
Every pair of eyes in that little cluster follows the motion.
Suddenly I’m on display.
It’s the oddest feeling—like someone pulled a curtain back without warning. Their gazes sweep over me, some quick and dismissive, some lingering. The ginger-haired girl’s eyes widen just a fraction as she takes me in: uniform skirt, blazer open over my blouse, hair done the way Mai insisted on this morning. The little bit of gloss on my lips. The fact that I’d actually tried, for once, because Tobio was playing and I wanted to look nice for him.
I can see the flicker in her expression: surprise first, because I don’t fit the script she wrote in her head. I am not some faceless nobody, not a “probably ugly” placeholder. Her mouth parts slightly.
She covers it fast.
“So it’s you,” she says, and now there’s something brittle and bright in her tone. “You’re the girlfriend.”
I don’t answer. My tongue feels thick against the roof of my mouth.
Hina steps in again before the silence can stretch.
“Yeah, she is,” she says. “And guess what? Everything you’re saying is wrong. He’s never yelled at her. Never called her useless. Never made her feel afraid or like she had to walk on eggshells. He’s been nothing but good to her the entire time they’ve been together.”
Her words fall heavy between us. True, solid things dropped on top of all the flimsy ones.
The ginger-haired girl’s jaw works for a second. Her friends look between her and us, sensing the shift but not knowing which way it’s tilting.
She looks at me again.
This time, it’s different.
She really looks.
Eyes dragging over my face, my posture, the way I’m sitting—hands folded too tightly in my lap, shoulders a little hunched like I’m trying to fold myself smaller. Her gaze lingers at my eyes for a heartbeat. I wonder what she sees there. Wonder if she’s searching for something familiar—fear, wariness, that flinch you get when you’re used to people raising their voice.
She doesn’t find it.
Whatever she expected, it wasn’t… me.
I can see it hit her: that his girlfriend isn’t ugly. That I’m not some convenience, some first-come-first-serve. That he chose, and what he chose looks back at her with wide eyes and a tangled heart.
For a moment—just one—she looks hurt.
It’s there in the way her lips press together, in the tightness at the corners of her eyes. A little flash of something raw before she slams the door on it.
Then it calcifies into something else.
Anger is easier to wear than pain. I know that. I’ve seen it enough.
“Oh,” she says, voice flattening into something cold. “Of course. He’d go for someone like you.”
Someone like me.
The words feel strange in my ears. I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean.
“You must feel so special,” she continues, and her tone turns almost sweet, sugar poured over glass. “Thinking you’re the one who ‘changed’ him. That you’re different. That he’s better now.”
The sarcasm in that last word is a knife.
Hina opens her mouth, but the girl steamrolls on, eyes locked on mine now.
“Here’s a reality check,” she says. “When we were together, he was exactly the same as he was on the court. You make a mistake? He punishes you. You’re late once? He won’t talk to you for days. You don’t do something the way he wants? He’ll stand there and tear into you until you feel like you can’t even breathe.”
My lungs forget how to work for a moment.
On court: punishes, glares, freezes people out.
Off court: silent, stubborn, ego like a wall.
I’d heard the stories. But hearing them translated directly into a relationship script makes my stomach twist.
“He used to yell at me after games,” she goes on, talking to her friends but staring right at me. “Not just about volleyball. About everything. How I was distracting him. How if I really cared, I’d understand his ‘standards.’ How I should be ‘better,’ try harder. All the time.”
Little quotes wrap around each phrase, like they’re carved directly from his old vocabulary.
I picture him, younger but not that much shorter, looming over her, voice low and clipped and cutting. Saying those things with the same intensity he uses to talk about quicks and serve receives. Only pointed at someone who had nothing to do with the court, just… a girl who liked him.
My chest feels tight again. There’s a buzzing in my ears that doesn’t come from the crowd.
“He got in my face once,” she adds, softer now. “Yelling so loud I thought my ears would ring forever. And when I cried, he just rolled his eyes and walked away. Left me there.”
My fingers curl so hard into my skirt that I can feel the imprint of the seams against my palms.
Tobio, rolling his eyes at someone crying. Turning away. Leaving.
He’s never turned away from me when my voice shook.
He’s awkward and stiff and sometimes he says things too bluntly and has to backtrack, but when I tear up, he goes quiet. Stares at me like he’s searching for the manual. His hand hovers, hesitant, before he pats my shoulder—too light—and mutters something like, “I… didn’t mean… don’t cry.” It’s clumsy, but it’s earnest.
I know that boy.
But I didn’t know this one.
“And then,” she says, pushing on, “a few months before graduation, he just broke up with me. No explanation. No ‘sorry.’ Just… done. Like I was some failed set he didn’t want to bother fixing.”
The timing matches.
Four months before graduation.
“Sound familiar?” she adds, eyes flicking down my body and back up, all assessment now. “Or is he being a perfect prince with you?”
Mai bristles beside me. “You don’t know anything about—”
“You’re right,” the girl snaps, cutting her off without looking away from me. “I don’t know her. But I know him. Better than any of you. So when he finally shows you the real side—the one that screams and blames you and makes everything your fault—don’t say no one warned you.”
The words land like stones tossed into water, sending ripples through my chest.
I can feel Hina vibrating beside me, ready to explode. Mai’s nails dig into my arm like she’s holding herself back from doing something that’ll get us all kicked out.
I don’t say anything.
It’s not that there’s nothing to say. A hundred arguments crowd my tongue. He’s different now. He’s never talked to me like that. He’s gentle, in his own rigid way. He tries. He listens when I call him out. He apologizes—messily, reluctantly, but he does.
But this girl isn’t talking about the boy who walked me home under our shared umbrella last week. She’s talking about a ghost. Her own. One that looks like him and sounds like him and hurt her enough that she had to build this whole armor of sarcasm and cruelty just to carry it.
And I… don’t know how to argue with someone’s ghost.
So I sit there.
Hands folded too tightly. Knees pressed together. Heart beating itself raw against my ribs.
On the court, the whistle blows again.
Tobio lifts his hands for the next set, completely unaware that two versions of him are colliding a few rows up.
The ginger-haired girl tears her gaze away from me finally, tossing her hair back over her shoulder like she’s bored of the whole thing.
“Anyway,” she mutters. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
Hina sucks in a sharp breath, clearly not finished, but Mai’s hand slaps over her mouth this time. “Not here,” she hisses. “Not now. Focus on the game. We’ll talk later.”
Hina glares, but slowly, reluctantly, she sinks back down onto the bench. Her thigh presses against mine, solid and warm, like an anchor.
“You know that’s not him anymore,” she murmurs, low enough that only I can hear. “You know that, right?”
I don’t answer.
My eyes find him again instead.
He’s at the net, hands ready, gaze locked on the opposing setter. The overhead lights catch on the sweat at his temples, turning them into tiny stars. His mouth is a hard line, but I know the shape it takes when he’s trying not to smile. I’ve seen the way it softens when I tell him about a routine going well, the faint crease between his brows that appears when he’s concentrating on listening.
I know the way his fingers trembled just slightly when he asked if he could kiss me the first time.
I also know now that those same hands once grabbed the air in front of someone’s face while he shouted. That his mouth once formed words sharp enough to make a girl cry and feel small and left.
Both things live in my chest at the same time, pressed uncomfortably close.
The ball goes up. He jumps.
For a moment, everything is suspended: him in the air, the ball in his hands, my faith in who he is and what he could be.
Then gravity takes over.
He sets.
Hinata slams the ball down like a meteor.
The gym explodes in sound.
And I sit there, heart pounding, caught between the roaring present and a past that isn’t mine, wondering which version of him is going to walk over to me after the game ends—and what I’m supposed to do with the fact that I might love both and fear one at the same time.
~~~
The last rally feels like it goes on forever.
Back and forth, back and forth—ball slamming into arms, popping up, skimming blocks by an inch. Hinata is everywhere, Noya is pure chaos, and for a heartbeat it looks like the ball is going to drop dead on Karasuno’s side—
Then Tobio is just there.
He slides in, hands under the ball like that’s where it was always meant to go. It settles into his palms, weightless, and his body aligns—shoulders, elbows, wrists—all in one clean, brutal line of focus.
He jumps.
Set, perfect. Hinata appears like he’s been summoned, arm swinging, eyes blazing.
The ball crashes down on Aoba Johsai’s side like a meteor.
Whistle.
Point.
Game.
The sound hits all at once—cheering, groaning, clapping, the echo of the ball rolling away—and for a moment, I’m just sitting there with my hands pressed between my knees, the roar folding over me like a wave I forgot to brace for.
Karasuno wins.
Tobio’s teammates swarm together at the net, hands smacking backs, Hinata practically launching himself onto Tobio’s shoulders. He staggers but doesn’t fall, scowling, yet he doesn’t shove him off either. Just swats at him with one hand, half-hearted, ears going faintly pink.
It should be a pure, easy moment. A bright scene you’d frame in your head and keep.
Instead, it feels like someone drew a thin, dark line right through the middle of it.
“Let’s go,” Hina says, bumping her shoulder into mine. “Before Noya and Tanaka come hunting the stands for ‘team support squad’ or some nonsense.”
“Too late for that,” Mai mutters. “I can feel them plotting.”
We stand, following the flow of students down the bleachers. My legs are a little shaky—not from walking, but from sitting too long with my knees pressed together and someone else’s words echoing between my ribs.
He yelled at me.
Got in my face.
Made me cry.
Didn’t care.
I try to shove them into a corner of my head and nail the door shut.
The thing is… the part of me that loves him is loud, but the part of me that listens is louder. It always has been. I can’t un-hear what she said, can’t un-see the way her mouth tightened around certain memories.
But he’s down there, laughing breathlessly as Hinata bounces around him, eyes bright even in his exhaustion. And I know what he’s been like with me.
Both truths sit beside each other like two puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit yet.
We step off the last bleacher and onto the polished floor. The gym smells sharper down here—sweat, resin, the faint tang of Gatorade. Aoba Johsai is already gathering their things, some boys glancing over at Karasuno with thin smiles or resentful eyes. A few look toward Tobio and look away just as fast, like touching a hot stove.
My gaze is pulled to him automatically.
His hair is plastered to his forehead. His jersey clings to his chest and shoulder blades, damp and darkened in patches. There’s a flush high on his cheekbones, and his lips are parted slightly as he catches his breath, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that still feels like adrenaline.
He looks tired. He looks alive.
He looks like home, even with all the noise.
“Target acquired,” Hina breathes, eyes locking on Tsukishima, who’s walking off the court with that permanent bored slouch of his, towel slung around his neck. “Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need luck,” Mai says. “You need holy water.”
Hina flips her hair, squares her shoulders like she’s going onto a battlefield, and marches straight toward him.
I catch just enough:
“Tsukkiiii,” she sings, all sunshine. “You were so cool today—your block at the end? Iconic. Ten out of ten. Marry me.”
Tsukishima stops dead, as if someone yanked an invisible chain attached to his collar.
He doesn’t blush, not really. But his ears tint red and his glasses slide down his nose just enough that he has to push them back up, which is basically a full breakdown in Tsukki-language.
“W-what are you talking about?” he mutters, voice higher than usual. “Don’t say weird things.”
Yamaguchi’s eyes dart between them, full of panic and delight. “Tsukki…”
Hinata barrels over, immediately losing it. “EH?! TSUKKI, YOUR FACE IS RED—”
“Shut up,” Tsukki snaps, but it comes out strangled.
“Damn, Tsukki,” Noya chimes in. “Didn’t know you had game.”
“I don’t—shut up,” Tsukki hisses, glaring at Hina like she personally ruined his life. She just beams up at him, undeterred.
I don’t hear the rest because Mai yelps beside me.
“Great,” she mutters. “They saw me.”
I follow her line of sight just in time to see Noya and Tanaka both zero in on her like guided missiles.
“Ohhh, it’s you!” Noya yells, practically skidding across the floor to reach us. “The girl from the last game! You came again! You believe in us!”
Tanaka plants himself at Mai’s other side, puffing up his chest. “Of course she did. She came for my manly presence.”
Hinata pops up behind them, grinning. “She definitely came to see my quick, right?”
Mai looks like she’s about to spontaneously combust. “I came because she dragged me,” she says, jerking a thumb at me, trying to keep a straight face. “And because I like volleyball. Not because any of you are attractive.”
They all clutch their chests dramatically, as if fatally wounded.
Sugawara appears like a calm breeze sweeping through the chaos. “Thank you for cheering for us,” he says to us with that gentle smile that makes everyone feel singled out. “We heard you.”
“Oh my god, he’s so pretty,” Mai whispers, almost involuntarily.
“HEY,” Noya and Tanaka shout in unison.
Their voices blur into a comedic symphony somewhere to my left.
I’m barely listening.
All the noise—the teasing, the laughing, the squeak of shoes as players drift past—turns into a soft blur at the edges of my vision. There’s only one thing in focus.
Him.
He’s stepped away from the main cluster a bit, wiping his face with his towel. His shoulders slump, just for a second, like the weight of concentration finally slid off. Then he straightens, as if remembering he’s still in public.
His gaze lifts.
Finds me.
For a heartbeat, the floor feels a little less solid under my feet.
I move toward him before I fully decide to. My body just… goes.
Each step feels like threading a needle—past other players, past coaches talking quietly, past stray bags and balls. The words from the stands trail behind me like smoke, thin and clinging.
He’ll scream.
He won’t care if you cry.
He’ll blame you.
He’ll show you who he really is.
My stomach twists. I focus on the sound of my own footsteps instead. One in front of the other.
When I stop, I’m close enough to see the way the sweat beads at his temple, the way his bangs stick to his forehead. His chest is still heaving a little, breath deep and steady. He looks at me like he’s checking if I’re real. Like he’s recalibrating, swapping game data for… us.
“Hey,” I say, because everything else feels too big to hold.
His mouth flickers, just barely. “Hey.” His voice is lower when it’s just us, like he’s turned the volume down without thinking.
Up close, he looks… worn out. The good kind. The kind where every muscle has been used and is now thrumming with the aftershock.
He also looks like something I want to curl into until the world stops buzzing.
I step forward, arms lifting—habit, instinct, need—but his hand comes up between us, palm out, not quite touching me.
“Wait,” he says quickly. “I’m… sweaty. It’s gross.”
Anyone else, it might sound like rejection.
From him, it’s something different—awkward, half-embarrassed, like he’s trying to spare me. Like he’s still not used to being something someone would want to hold when he feels messy.
Everything inside me tightens and loosens at once.
“I don’t care,” I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel. “Come here.”
For a second, he just looks at me.
Really looks.
His eyes flick across my face, down to my hands curled at his jersey, back up. And whatever he sees there—whatever faint tremble I couldn’t hide, whatever leftover panic still sitting under my skin—makes his shoulders soften in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion.
He drops the towel over his shoulder and opens his arms.
It’s not dramatic. He doesn’t sweep me up or spin me. He just pulls me into him like he’s closing a door, arms wrapping around my back, palms spreading between my shoulder blades and the middle of my spine.
I go willingly.
His shirt is damp and hot against my cheek, the fabric clinging. He smells like sweat and resin and a faint hint of soap that somehow clings underneath it all, like the ghost of this morning.
My fingers bunch in the back of his jersey, holding on tighter than I mean to. My chest presses against his; I can feel his heart still beating hard from the game, and the rhythm settles somewhere under my own ribs, syncing up.
For a moment, everything that’s been coiled inside me—the fear, the doubt, the image of that girl’s face twisted around old hurt—eases. Not disappears. Just… quiets.
Someone whistles.
“WOAHHHH, KAGEYAMA!” Noya’s voice cuts through the gym like a firecracker. “PUBLIC AFFECTION???”
“When did this happen?!” Tanaka yells. “King, you DOG!”
I can feel Tobio tense under my hands, a full-body flinch. His jaw tightens where it rests near the top of my head.
“Shut up,” he snaps, voice dark.
The thing is—he doesn’t let go.
If anything, his arm around my back tightens, pulling me closer. His hand spreads wider over my spine, fingers digging in like he’s bracing himself. Like if they’re all going to stare, he might as well give them something to stare at.
Heat pricks behind my eyes for a completely different reason.
Suga laughs, a little, sounding half-gentle, half-teasing. “Leave them alone, you two. They just won.”
Hinata’s voice comes from somewhere to the side. “Kageyama, your face is so red—”
“Hinata,” Tobio says warningly, and the sound of his voice has an edge that makes even Hinata rethink his life choices.
I don’t look at any of them.
I bury my face a fraction deeper into his chest, the world shrinking down to the thickness of jersey under my cheek and the solidity of his body under my hands. If there’s one thing that can drown out other people’s versions of him, it’s this—what he’s like when it’s just… us.
Eventually, he eases his hold. Not all the way. Just enough to lean back and see my face.
His hand slides up instinctively, knuckles brushing my jaw as he tilts my chin the slightest bit. It’s a small touch, but it anchors me.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
He doesn’t say it like you say “How are you?” to fill silence. His eyes are narrowed slightly, searching, already suspecting the answer might be complicated.
My first instinct is to say “yeah, I’m fine,” the automatic reflex everyone learns in school hallways and online chats.
But his thumb is right there, near the hinge of my jaw, calloused pad resting lightly against my skin like he’s checking whether I’m going to break.
“I am now,” I say instead. The words tumble out, soft but true. “I just… needed a hug.”
His eyes flicker.
Something in his expression loosens—a tiny unclenching, like he’s been holding his breath and finally got permission to exhale.
He doesn’t press. Of course he doesn’t. He’s learning. If it were old him, maybe he’d demand an explanation. Now, his gaze just lingers for a beat longer, like he’s mentally circling the issue for later.
“Okay,” he says quietly.
Then, with no announcement, he leans in and kisses me.
It’s not hesitant. It’s not clumsy. It’s also not the wild, hungry kiss from my basement—that live wire of a moment where control slipped.
This is something in between.
His mouth fits over mine in one smooth motion, steady and sure, like he’s decided that this, right now, is the adjustment he needs to make. It’s not soft, exactly. There’s a press to it, a held-in urgency that doesn’t quite tip over the edge. His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, warm fingers curling into the hair at my nape.
The gym doesn’t go silent—people still talk, shoes still squeak, someone shouts “OI” in the background—but all of it fades to a low hum, like white noise.
My lips part without thinking. His do too, just enough, and the faint hitch of his breath is the only warning I get before the kiss deepens a fraction—no tongue, nothing obscene, just more. More pressure, more intent, more of that same focus he brings to the court, now directed entirely at me.
Every point of contact becomes painfully clear: the wet heat of his jersey against my front, the slide of his thumb at the base of my skull, the way his nose bumps mine lightly. His heartbeat hammers against my chest; mine scrambles to match it, tripping over itself.
My knees feel useless. There’s that same flicker low in my stomach, the one that started in my basement when his fingers brushed too high along the inside of my thigh and never fully went out.
It catches now, feeding on images that flash through my mind too fast to stop:
Him jumping for a serve, shirt riding up, those abs I didn’t know about tightening under his skin.
Him standing in the doorway of my basement, eyes dark, crossing the room in three long strides like he couldn’t stay away if he tried.
His hands on my waist, lifting me like I weighed nothing, that rough sound he made against my mouth when I’d accidentally moaned.
The phantom memory of his fingertips ghosting right over where I’d been burning, skimming once, barely there, and the way my whole body had arched toward him like it belonged to him.
Heat pools low in my belly; my thighs instinctively press closer together.
I try to hold myself still, try not to make anything obvious, but there’s a small, traitorous shiver that runs through me when his thumb brushes the fine hairs at my nape. My fingers curl tighter in his jersey again, bunching the damp fabric, pulling him a millimeter closer.
He feels it.
I can tell in the way his hand tightens at my neck, in the faint stagger of his inhale. The kiss doesn’t grow sloppier or more desperate—he reins it in, keeps it under control—but there’s a new tension in it now, like he’s holding something back on purpose.
He breaks away first.
Not abruptly—he just eases back, lips trailing the tiniest bit before disconnecting, like he’s reluctant to break the contact but decided it was necessary. His eyes flutter open in front of mine. They’re darker than usual, pupils blown wider, a sheen of something unreadable in them.
His breath fans against my face, warm and uneven.
For a second, neither of us says anything.
I’m aware of everything: the press of my body against his, the damp patch of his jersey under my hands, the way my face must look right now—flushed, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. There’s a thrum under my skin that makes it hard to stand still. If we were anywhere else, if the gym were empty—
“We should get out of here,” he says suddenly, voice low.
It’s not a question.
I swallow, nodding once. “Okay.”
He clears his throat, glancing around as if remembering where we are. His teammates have mercifully turned their chaos elsewhere—Tanaka and Noya are currently trying to convince Mai to join the cheer club or something, Hinata is latched onto Suga’s arm, yelling about the last quick, and Hina is still terrorizing Tsukishima with compliments.
No one’s paying as much attention to us anymore.
“I brought my car,” Tobio adds, eyes returning to mine. “We can… go get something to eat. If you’re hungry.”
I’m not, not really. Not for food, anyway.
“Yeah,” I say, voice coming out a little softer than I intend. “I’d like that.”
He nods once, like he’s made a decision and logged it away. His hand slides down my arm, fingers brushing mine before lacing them together. That simple, familiar contact settles me more than anything else could.
We gather our things. I wave at Mai and Hina, mouthing “text me” over the chaos. They both see us, see our joined hands, and flash a quick series of expressions—relief, triumph, something that says we’ll talk later—before getting dragged back into their own whirlpools of attention.
We head toward the exit.
The air near the doors is cooler, the noise from the court dimming behind us with every step. The late afternoon light bleeds in, thinner and paler than the gym’s harsh fluorescents. It feels like stepping out of a storm and into that strange, quiet air afterward, when everything’s still buzzing but slightly dulled.
We’re almost at the doors when I see her.
She’s off to the side, near the wall, half-shadowed by a column. A couple of her friends hover nearby, but they’re not talking now. They’re watching her.
She’s watching us.
Her arms are folded across her chest, fingers digging into the fabric of her hoodie. Her jaw is tight, eyes locked on our joined hands, the way his shoulder angles just slightly toward mine, like he’s unconsciously placing himself between me and the rest of the world.
For a second, our gazes snag.
Up close, without the cushion of distance or a crowd, I can see it more clearly: the raw, ugly mix in her expression. Not just anger. There’s something else under it—a hollow, wounded look, like someone pressed on a bruise that never fully healed.
She just saw him hug me. Saw him kiss me. Saw how he didn’t roll his eyes or pull away, didn’t treat my affection like an inconvenience or an obstacle.
Saw a version of him she never got.
The realization sits heavy on my tongue. It makes my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with jealousy and everything to do with the unfairness of timing.
For a moment, I almost want to go over. Almost want to say something like “he really is different now” or “I’m sorry he hurt you” or “we’re both holding different pieces of the same person.”
But Tobio’s hand tightens around mine, drawing my attention back up to him.
“Come on,” he says quietly, like he can sense I’m teetering somewhere. “I know a place with good curry.”
I look at him.
At the boy who used to scream. The boy who may have stood in front of her and made her feel like she was shrinking.
At the boy who now stands just slightly behind me as we move through crowds, hand on my back, keeping a protective distance between me and any stray elbows. The boy who holds me tighter when people stare. The boy who waited until we were dating for weeks before kissing me like he actually wanted to.
The same boy.
Past and present layered over each other like translucent film.
Maybe everything she said was true. Maybe every ugly memory she carries is real.
But the way he looked at me on the court, the way he wrapped his arms around me, the way he kissed me like I was the only thing grounding him—that’s real too.
He isn’t who he was then. Not with me.
And right now, that’s the version of him I choose.
I squeeze his hand back, a small, firm pulse.
“Lead the way,” I say.
We push the doors open together.
Cooler air hits my face, clearing some of the leftover gym static from my head. Behind us, the noise of the match, of the stands, of old ghosts and bitter voices fades with each step we take toward his car, toward whatever conversation comes next.
His thumb strokes once across the back of my hand, absentminded, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
It’s simple. It’s small.
It’s enough to make the echo of her words finally quiet to a distant murmur, drowned out by the steady rhythm of his presence beside me, warm and solid and very, very here.
~~~
It starts three days after the game.
At first, I don’t even connect the number to her.
Just an unknown contact, no name, no icon. A block of numbers and three dots appearing at the bottom of my screen.
You don’t know him like I do.
That’s the first message.
I’m walking home from practice when it pops up. Streetlight glow on damp pavement, my dance bag digging into my shoulder. My phone buzzes; I glance down out of habit.
Just that one line.
No hello. No name.
I frown, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Sorry, wrong number? I type.
The reply comes almost instantly, like whoever it is has been waiting, watching the screen.
It’s not wrong.
Then:
You’re the new girl, right? The one he’s playing nice for.
My stomach drops.
There’s only one “he” that makes sense.
My fingers pause. Cold air bites at my cheeks. A car drives past, headlights washing over me, then gone.
I don’t answer.
The messages keep coming anyway.
Little bursts of poison that light up my lockscreen.
He used to be different with me too.
At first it was sweet. Then the real him came out.
You think you’re special? You’re not.
He’ll get tired of pretending.
That night, I put my phone face down on my nightstand, screen glowing under my palm like something radioactive.
I don’t tell him.
It’s not that I think he’d be mad at me. He’d be mad for me. I can picture it—his jaw grinding, his eyebrows knitting together, that quiet, simmering fury he gets when someone on the court does something dirty. I can also picture him blaming himself, like he always does.
Somewhere between those two images, my thumb hesitates.
The second day, it’s worse.
This time it’s not just about him.
You must be desperate to date someone like that.
Or dumb.
Or both.
You know he only picked you because you were convenient, right?
He goes for anyone who pays attention. You’re not the first.
I don’t know why you act like you’re pretty. You’re not all that.
The words bounce off at first. I’ve heard worse things in locker rooms, in whispered hallways. Girls in groups are capable of saying anything. But those were always… floating. Random. This is aimless and aimed at the same time.
She doesn’t know me. Not really. But she hates the idea of me enough to steady her hand and type it all out.
By the third day, she’s found my socials.
She doesn’t bother hiding behind a fake account either. Same dyed ginger hair in the profile picture. Same dark eyeliner. Only now I know her name, written in tiny letters under her photo.
She comments under a picture Hina took of me at a café. I’m laughing at something off-camera, straw between my fingers, sunlight catching the edge of my hair.
He used to take pics of me like this too. Didn’t stop him from screaming at me later.
Under a shot of my team at a dance competition, all of us in matching warm-ups, sweaty and smiling:
Hope your routines are better than your taste in men.
Hina deletes what she can, blocks her. Mai messages her once—a short, sharp warning that makes me want to apologize and I’m not even on the receiving end. It doesn’t stop her; she just makes a new account, then another, leaving little stains wherever she can.
By the end of the week, my notifications are a mess. My thumb hovers over each banner, then moves away.
On the morning of the eighth day, I go into my settings and flip my phone to silent.
It’s not that it doesn’t hurt.
It’s that if I hear one more buzz, I’m not sure what will snap first—my patience or the thin, careful balance I’ve built around the idea of who my boyfriend is.
As long as it stays on the screen, I can pretend it’s… far away. A story someone else is telling about someone I don’t know.
Then I see her.
It’s a Tuesday. Sky pale, air cool. I’m cutting across a side street after picking up something from the corner store, plastic bag swinging lightly from my hand. My phone is in my pocket, heavy even on silent.
I’m halfway past an alley when I hear it.
“Hey.”
Just that. Sharp. Familiar in a way that makes my shoulders stiffen before I even turn around.
She’s leaning against the wall with two girls flanking her, like a scene pulled directly from one of those dramas Hina binge-watches. Hoodie, skirt, the same dyed ponytail from the gym—except up close in daylight, the color looks harsher. Her eyes flick down, up, taking in my face, my clothes, the bag in my hand.
“Oh,” she says, lips twisting. “It is you.”
I stare for half a second.
Of course.
It’s almost funny, how exactly she fits the outline. Part of me wants to laugh. The rest of me wants to turn around and walk away.
“Can I help you?” I ask, voice flat.
One of her friends snorts.
“That’s her?” the girl on the left says. “Seriously?”
“She’s not even that cute,” the other adds, loud enough to echo off the bricks.
It’s schoolyard level insult, comically lazy, like they’ve burnt through their creativity already on the messages.
I raise an eyebrow. “You tracked me down in person to give me a six-year-old level critique? Impressive.”
Her eyes flash at that.
“I tracked you down,” she says, pushing off the wall, “because you didn’t get the hint.”
She steps closer. Not too close. Just enough to loom, to test the space between us. I don’t move.
“You read everything I sent you,” she goes on. “Don’t pretend you didn’t.”
“I turned my phone off,” I say. “You’re not that important.”
A faint laugh behind her. One of the friends covers her mouth, eyes wide, surprised.
The girl in front—the ex, I guess I have to call her something—smiles. It’s not nice.
“You really think he’s different?” she asks calmly. “That’s cute.”
“He is,” I say. No hesitation. Whatever else is tangled in my chest, that comes out clear.
She tilts her head, looking at me the way someone might look at a bug that doesn’t know it’s about to get stepped on.
“He used to stand right there,” she says, flicking her gaze to the ground between us. “Same way. Same serious face. Same ‘I’m trying so hard’ act. And then when something went wrong? Boom.” She claps her hands once, the sound sharp in the alley. “You’re the problem. Not him. Never him.”
Her voice is bright, practiced. This is a speech she’s given herself in the mirror.
I could stand here all day and let her throw every sentence she’s sharpened at me. It wouldn’t change what I’ve seen. The way he walked me home in the rain. The way he awkwardly but earnestly apologized when he snapped during a bad practice week. The way he had looked like something inside him was cracking when I hugged him after the game.
But words stick, even when you don’t want them to. I can feel hers catching along the inside of my ribcage, leaving little marks.
“Look,” I say, exhaling, trying very hard not to let my voice shake. “Whatever happened between you two? I’m sure it was real and it sucked and none of that is okay. I’m not saying it is. But that’s not how he is with me. So maybe instead of trying to make me hurt like you did, you could… I don’t know. Heal. Or move on. Or scream into a pillow. Anything else.”
Her mouth tightens. For a heartbeat, I see it again—that flash of hurt under all the sharp edges.
Then it shutters.
“You think I’m doing this because I’m not over him?” she asks, incredulous. “Please.”
“People who are over someone don’t make fake accounts to comment on their girlfriend’s pictures,” I say softly. “Just saying.”
Her friends shift uneasily behind her. One of them tugs at her sleeve, murmuring her name.
She shrugs her off without looking.
“I’m doing this,” she says, stepping close enough now that I can see the faint glitter in her eyeliner, “because you’re walking around like you’re safe. Like you’re not next in line. Someone has to warn you.”
“I don’t need you to protect me,” I reply. “If he ever treats me the way you say he treated you, I’ll leave. Simple.”
The words hang there.
She searches my face, looking for a crack. Something to wedge into.
“That’s what you think now,” she says eventually. “But when it starts, you’ll make excuses. You’ll blame yourself. You’ll tell yourself you can fix him. Just like I did.”
She takes another step, close enough now that I can smell her perfume, something sharp and sugary.
“And when you finally snap out of it?” she adds, voice dropping. “It’ll be too late. You’ll already be broken. Maybe you think you’re tougher than me.” Her eyes flick over me, dismissive. “But everyone breaks eventually.”
She reaches out, fingers catching the strap of my bag, yanking me forward a fraction, like she wants to punctuate the words physically.
It’s automatic—the way my body reacts. My hand shoots out, knocking hers away from my shoulder hard enough that our palms slap together. She stumbles back half a step, eyes widening briefly.
I didn’t mean to shove her like that. Not really. But the contact leaves a satisfying sting in my palm.
“I get that you’re hurt,” I say, voice steady, colder now. “I actually do. But dragging another girl into your pain and using her as a punching bag doesn’t make you right. It just makes you look desperate.”
Her cheeks flame. A sharp collective inhale from the girls behind her.
She recovers fast, grabbing my wrist this time, nails biting into my skin.
“You don’t get to call me desperate,” she hisses. “You’re the one dating him knowing everything he’s done. You’re either blind or pathetic.”
Something hot flashes behind my eyes. My other hand curls into a fist at my side.
This is the moment where, in a drama, someone would throw a slap. Tears would fall, orchestral music would swell, and the scene would cut.
Real life is quieter.
I take a breath instead. Then I yank my arm out of her grip.
“Stop,” I say. “Stop talking about him. Stop talking about me. Stop commenting on my posts. Stop texting. Just—stop. It’s over. You two are over. What you’re doing now? It doesn’t make you look strong. It makes you look stuck.”
The word lands between us like a stone.
She flinches. Just barely. But I see it.
We stand there for half a second, locked in some stupid, silent standoff neither of us has actually signed up for.
Then I turn around.
“Don’t touch me again,” I add over my shoulder. “And don’t talk about me like you know anything about my relationship. You don’t.”
I walk away.
Her friends are whispering behind her. Someone laughs, nervous and small. I keep walking until I hit the main street, until the sound of traffic and people and normal life folds over me like a curtain.
It should feel like a victory.
She grabbed me. I pushed back. Said my piece. Walked away.
But her words are still there, burned into the inside of my mind.
He yelled in my face.
He ignored me for days.
He made me feel like everything was my fault.
Underneath those:
You’re not safe.
You’re next.
By the time I’m standing in front of Tobio’s building later that afternoon, those echoes have twisted themselves into knots in my stomach.
We planned this days ago. “Come over,” he’d said. “No practice that day.” I’d said yes before thinking. Before any of this.
My finger hovers over the doorbell.
I press it.
Footsteps on the stairs. A familiar weight, the sound of his stride. Then the lock clicks, and the door swings open.
He’s in a plain t-shirt and sweats, hair a little messy, like he’s been running his hands through it. The sight of him hits me in a way that’s almost painful—a clean, sharp contrast to the mess in my head.
His eyes take me in in one sweep. They always do that—quick scan, like he’s checking for injuries, like I’ve just come off a court instead of a sidewalk.
This time, he doesn’t even try to hide it when his brows pull together.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
No preamble. No hello.
I open my mouth. The easiest answer—nothing—is right there, ready, automatic.
“Nothing,” I say.
He doesn’t believe me. It’s obvious in the way his shoulders stay tight, the way his hand on the door doesn’t drop. For half a second, it looks like he’s going to push again.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he steps aside, the tiniest bit of space opening between him and the doorframe.
“Come in,” he says. “I… cleaned.”
There’s a hesitance in his voice, like this is an offering. Like the neatness of his room is something he hopes will make me feel better, even if he doesn’t know why I’m sad.
I walk past him, toes of my shoes squeaking faintly against the entryway tile. His scent is there, under the faint smell of detergent and the apartment’s generic hall atmosphere—soap and sweat and something warm I’m starting to recognize as him.
He takes my bag without asking and hangs it on the hook beside his own. The small, domestic gesture lodges somewhere in my chest.
We go to his room.
I’ve been here enough times that the details feel familiar: the narrow bed with its plain sheets, the desk pushed up under the window, stacks of practice notes and textbooks piled with more enthusiasm than organization. A volleyball sits in the corner, near his laundry basket, like a dog waiting patiently to be picked up.
I sit on the edge of his bed. Same spot as always.
Today, the mattress feels less solid. Like it might dissolve if I breathe too hard.
He sits beside me. Not too close. Just close enough that I can feel the heat from his arm, the give of the mattress as it dips under his weight.
He looks straight ahead for a moment, like he’s studying the far wall, then turns to me.
He doesn’t touch me yet. He’s waiting.
The question is in his eyes again. He doesn’t ask it.
The words in my mouth taste like iron.
“Can I ask you something?” I say.
He nods once. “Yeah.”
“About your ex.”
He freezes.
It’s subtle. The kind of freeze only someone who watches him all the time would notice. His hands go still where they rest on his thighs. His jaw tenses. The air in the room pulls tight.
For a second, I think he might shut down. Deflect. Get defensive.
He doesn’t.
He swallows. His gaze drops to his hands.
“What… do you want to know?” he asks, slowly.
The honest answer is everything.
What he said. What he did. Whether there’s any overlap between the ghost she carries and the boy sitting beside me now. Whether I’m stupid for trusting he’s not going to turn into something else entirely.
“I know you had a girlfriend before,” I say instead. “I know you broke up before graduation. And I know you… weren’t good to your teammates back then.”
He flinches at that. Just a touch.
“I just…” I force the words out. “I want to hear it. From you. What happened. What you were like. Not rumors. Not… other people’s versions. Yours.”
He goes very quiet.
For a moment, all I can hear is the faint hum of the refrigerator down the hall and the distant sound of a TV from another apartment.
When he speaks, his voice is low.
“I was… bad,” he says.
No sugarcoating. The word drops between us like a weight.
“Not just on the court,” he continues. “Everywhere. I… I thought I was right. About everything. If people couldn’t keep up, I thought it was their fault. I didn’t… try to understand anyone else. I just wanted them to do what I wanted, how I wanted it.”
He clasps his hands together, knuckles whitening.
“With my team, I yelled,” he says. “I glared. I… said things I shouldn’t have. A lot.” His shoulders hunch slightly, like the memory itself is heavy. “I didn’t think about what it was doing to them. I just… wanted to win.”
He hesitates.
“With her,” he adds quietly, “it was… the same. Worse, maybe.”
My chest feels tight. I keep my gaze on his profile, the line of his nose, the curve of his mouth as he speaks.
“I ignored her when I was mad,” he says, every word dragged out like it hurts. “If she did something I didn’t like, I’d… shut down. Not answer texts. Not look at her. I thought… if she wanted to be with me, she’d just… deal with it.” He blows out a breath through his nose, disgusted with himself. “I yelled, too. Said things about her being distracting. About how she didn’t understand volleyball, so she couldn’t understand me. That kind of crap.”
“Did you ever…” I start, then stop. I don’t know what I’m asking. Hit her? He wouldn’t. I don’t think he would. But words can leave bruises without touching skin.
He seems to know what I mean anyway.
“I never touched her,” he says quickly. “Not like that. But I… scared her. I know I did. I remember her crying and me just… walking away. Because I didn’t know what to do. Because I didn’t want to feel guilty, so I pretended… it wasn’t my problem.”
He swallows. His gaze is fixed on some point on the floor now, far away and too near at the same time.
“I broke up with her because… I thought she was holding me back,” he says. “I thought if I got rid of distractions, I could focus. On volleyball. On… myself.” His mouth twists. “I didn’t even apologize properly. Just said it wasn’t working. Like it was… a bad set I was abandoning.”
Silence stretches.
He’s not looking at me. His ears are red, but not from embarrassment—more like shame turned into heat.
I breathe in slowly. Out. The air feels thick, but not as cold as I thought it would.
“Karasuno… wasn’t like that,” he says after a moment. “They didn’t… let me be like that. Daichi, Suga-san, the others—they made it clear I wasn’t the only one on the court. That I couldn’t just… decide everything and then get mad when people didn’t follow. It took me a long time to get it. I’m still… getting it.”
His hands unclasp. He rubs his thumb over his palm, like he’s trying to scrub something off.
“Then I met you,” he says.
My heart stutters.
He shrugs one shoulder, the motion stiff. “You were… bright,” he says, choosing the word carefully. “You… said what you thought. You didn’t let me talk to you like I talked to everyone else. The first time I snapped, you looked at me like I was… an idiot. Not scary. Just… wrong.”
I remember that. The hallway. The tired day. Him saying something too sharp about me missing a meet to see his game, like I’d failed him.
The way I’d stopped, looked at him, and said, “That’s not fair. Don’t talk to me like I’m a bad teammate because I have my own life.”
“I realized… if I didn’t change, I’d lose you,” he says simply. “And I… didn’t want that.”
He finally looks at me.
The expression on his face twists something deep inside me. There’s fear there, stark and unhidden. Not of me. Of what I might say next. Of what I might decide.
“I know I was terrible,” he says. “I know I hurt people. Her. My team. I can’t… undo that. If I could, I would. But I can’t. The only thing I can do is… not be that way now. With Karasuno. With you.”
His voice drops, barely above a whisper.
“I don’t want to be that person anymore,” he says. “Especially not with you.”
The words settle over me like warm water, like something thick and heavy but not suffocating. For a moment, I just sit there, feeling them sink in.
He’s scared I’ll leave. It’s written all over him. In the tension in his shoulders. In the way his hands are pressed against his thighs, like he’s forcing himself not to reach for me in case he doesn’t deserve to.
And sure—what he’s saying isn’t… easy. It’s not pretty. There’s a part of me that aches for the girl he used to be with, for the version of him she got. Sharp and careless. A storm without shelter.
But everything in his voice now feels like the opposite of that. Soft in a way he doesn’t know how to be on purpose.
My chest feels lighter and heavier at the same time.
“Hey,” I say quietly.
He blinks.
I lift my hand.
He tenses, just a fraction, like he’s bracing.
I put my fingers on the side of his neck.
His skin is warm under my palm, pulse steady, a little fast. I slide my thumb up, feeling the line of his jaw, the small rough patch where he missed a spot shaving.
Then I tug.
He comes willingly.
His mouth meets mine in a way that feels like exhaling after holding my breath for too long. There’s no awkward crash this time, no surprise. Just a deep, steady meeting that fits together like it’s been waiting.
Relief floods through him. I can feel it in the way his shoulders drop, in the way his hand finds my waist, fingers curling there like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on.
I kiss him harder.
All the tension from the day, from the messages, from that alley, pours out of me and into the press of my lips against his. He answers without words—tilting his head, adjusting, letting the angle shift until everything lines up.
His other hand finds my hip. The grip is firm but careful, like he’s testing his own strength. I slide closer on the mattress, knees bumping his thigh. The warmth of him seeps through my jeans, through my shirt, through everything.
The room narrows down to the sound of our breathing and the faint rustle of sheets under shifting weight.
He parts his lips a little. I do too. The kiss deepens, slow but inevitable, like a tide coming in. His thumb strokes absent circles at my side, sending shivers up my spine. My hand slides from his neck into his hair, tangling in the dark strands.
He makes a quiet sound into my mouth—half sigh, half something else—and something in my stomach flips.
Everything is… more. The feel of his hands. The heat of his chest. The way each small movement feels amplified. My pulse is too loud in my ears.
If I let myself, I could fall into this. Completely.
He pulls me closer, guiding me until I’m nearly in his lap, one leg folding under me, the other braced against the mattress for balance. His heart is pounding hard enough that I can feel it where our chests brush.
For a moment, the world feels like it might tip.
It would be so easy.
To swing my leg fully over. To press closer. To let that hungry, aching part of me take over. To see what happens when we both stop holding back.
I feel the line. Thin, fragile, somewhere between where we are and where that would be.
My body leans toward it automatically.
His whole frame goes tight.
His hands still at my waist, fingers digging in—not to pull me closer. To anchor himself.
He breaks the kiss first, just barely, forehead still resting against mine.
His breathing is unsteady. Mine matches it.
For a second, we just stay like that, sharing the same thin strip of air.
“We… should slow down,” he manages, voice rough.
I let out a shaky little laugh, pressing my forehead more firmly against his. “Yeah,” I whisper. “Probably.”
He leans back enough to see my face. His eyes are dark, pupils wide, expression somewhere between dazed and focused. There’s a flush on his cheeks that has nothing to do with volleyball this time.
“You’re not… scared?” he asks quietly.
It takes me a second to understand.
“Of you?” I ask.
He nods, eyes flicking away and back, like he’s not sure he wants to see my answer.
I think of the girl in the alley. Of her stories. Of the boy he used to be. Of the boy sitting in front of me now, holding himself still so carefully it’s like he’s afraid of his own shadow.
I shake my head.
“No,” I say. My voice is firm. “I’m not scared of you.”
He exhales, eyes closing briefly.
“I’m… watching,” I add. “I’m not stupid. If you ever start talking to me the way you talked to her—” I trail off, feeling the words settle between us, real and solid. “I’ll leave. I mean that.”
His gaze snaps back to mine.
“I know,” he says. No protest. No argument. Just acceptance.
“I don’t want to,” I say. “At all. I don’t even… like thinking about it. But I need you to know I’m not staying no matter what. That’s not love. That’s… something else.”
He nods once.
“I don’t want you to stay if I become that person again,” he says. “I don’t… want to be with anyone if I’m like that.”
Something in my chest loosens.
I lean in, brushing my nose against his. Small, soft contact.
“Okay,” I whisper.
His hands at my waist relax, fingers spreading into something more like a hold than a grip. I settle against him, not pushing, not retreating. Just… resting there, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest.
The room feels quieter now. The shadows along the walls are softer. The knot in my stomach, that tight, hard ball of fear and doubt the ex left in me, has unwound a little. Not completely. But enough that I can breathe around it again.
He presses his lips to my forehead. Quick. Awkward. Intensely gentle.
“I’m glad you asked,” he says, voice barely audible.
“Me too,” I say.
We stay like that for a long time—caught somewhere between the past he’s ashamed of and the future we’re both trying to build without really knowing how. Hearts racing. Hands steady.
Wanting more.
Choosing, for now, to stop here.
~~~
After that afternoon in his room—after he sat there and laid everything out in that blunt, halting way of his and I kissed him like an answer—something in me settled. Not perfectly. Not completely. But enough.
I believed him.
I still do.
That doesn’t make my phone any quieter.
Numbers I don’t know. New usernames every few days. Little blocks of words that appear on my lockscreen like stains I haven’t wiped off yet.
You really think he’s changed?
You’re delusional.
Under pictures:
Wonder what he’ll say when you miss something important. He used to scream at me for that.
*Try not to cry when he ignores you for days. :) *
I stopped giving her the satisfaction of a looking at the message on the third day.
Now my phone just glows silently when she throws something at me. If I don’t pick it up, I can almost pretend it isn’t happening. Almost.
I don’t tell him.
It isn’t because I don’t trust him.
It’s because I do.
I know exactly what his face would do if I showed him the screenshots—the way his jaw would clamp, the way that muscle in his cheek would tick, the way his eyes would go dark and flat, like he’s looking not at a phone but at some version of himself he hates.
I know he’d blame himself first. Then he’d want to fix it, and Tobio Kageyama only knows how to fix things in… direct ways.
And I don’t want this ugliness taking up space between us. Not when he’s working so hard to be better. Not when we finally feel like we’re on steady ground.
So I carry it alone.
Or at least, I try to.
By the time the sleepover weekend rolls around, the knot in my chest has shrunk from a fist to something more like a small, hard pebble. I can breathe around it. I can talk and laugh and roll my eyes at Hina’s drama and Mai’s commentary.
I can stand in the fluorescent hum of the corner store at the end of my street and think about nothing more complicated than which flavor of chips Hina will fight me for.
The air inside is cold enough to make my bare arms prickle. Fridges buzz softly along the wall, glass fogged at the edges. Overhead, the lights are that particular convenience-store white—too bright, too flat, making everything look a little more tired than it is.
I run through my mental list as I walk.
Mai: sour gummies, that one specific brand of sparkling soda, the spicy chips she always swears she won’t eat and then finishes.
Hina: chocolate pocky, strawberry milk, literally any candy shaped like something it isn’t.
I grab what I need as I go, basket on my arm. A few things don’t fit right away—two drinks, a couple of instant ramen packets—so I hook them in my fingers, planning to rearrange at the end of the aisle.
My brain is soft around the edges, wandering. Sleepover. Movies. The safety of my room. His hoodie I stole last week that still smells faintly like him.
I turn the corner.
And walk straight into someone.
It’s not a gentle bump. My shoulder hits something solid. The stuff in my hands jolts—plastic and cardboard and glass slipping from my fingers, clattering to the floor.
“Oh—sorry,” I blurt automatically, half crouching already. “I didn’t—”
A familiar voice cuts through the air.
“Of course,” she says. “You.”
The apology dies in my throat.
I look up.
It’s almost ridiculous how unsurprised I am.
Dyed ginger hair in a high ponytail. Dark liner, glossy mouth. Same face I’ve seen in a tiny circle on my screen for weeks now, magnified and unfiltered by the convenience store’s ugly light.
She’s standing there with a drink in one hand, brows arched like the universe personally inconvenienced her by sending me down this aisle.
Two girls flank her, one on each side, as if they practice this formation. Their giggles hang in the sugary air of the candy aisle.
For one long, thin second, everything in me goes very still.
Then my eyes drop to the mess at our feet.
One of the ramen packets slid to her sneaker. A bottle of strawberry milk is rolling slowly, bumping against a lower shelf with a soft, hollow knock.
I exhale through my nose.
Really.
We’re doing this here?
I crouch, setting my basket down, reaching for the milk.
Her foot moves.
The bottle skids, skittering past my fingers, clinking off the far end of the shelf before spinning to a stop halfway down the aisle.
I stare at the space where it was, then up at her.
“Really?” I say.
Her lips twist, pleased. “Oops,” she says, not even bothering to pretend.
Her friends snicker on cue.
“Wow,” one of them says. “Look at all that. Planning to eat it all by yourself?” She drags her gaze over the stuff on the floor, eyes lingering on the snacks like they’ve personally offended her.
“Don’t judge me by your self-control,” I say, picking up the ramen.
It slips out before I can stop it. My voice is calm, flat. I don’t feel flat inside—there’s a thin, sharp line of something running down my spine—but I’m not giving her anything else.
Her eyes narrow.
“You look awful,” she says, as if we’re doing a checklist. “Did he really go for this after me?”
She gestures at me vaguely, like my existence is a crime.
I look down at myself. School uniform. Cardigan. Hair up in a claw clip. Zero makeup, because it’s a convenience store, not a runway.
I shrug. “Guess I have something he likes.”
Her jaw tightens for half a second. Tiny, but I see it.
Her friend on the right leans in, stage whispering, “She really thinks she’s all that.”
The other snorts. “He downgraded so hard.”
I straighten slowly, items gathered back in my arms. I can feel my heartbeat in my throat, steady and too loud.
“You done?” I ask, letting boredom drip into the syllables. “Because I have a sleepover to shop for and you’re blocking the ramen.”
I shift to step around her.
Fingers clamp around my forearm.
She yanks me back with more force than I expect, dragging me a half-step off balance. The plastic basket bangs against my leg. A couple of snacks jump up and out, tumbling again.
“Don’t walk away from me,” she says.
Her friends shuffle subtly, side-stepping and edging closer until the three of them are in a loose, practiced semi-circle. The aisle suddenly feels narrower. Shelves at my back, their bodies in front, the cold wash of the fridge to my right.
For a stupid, tiny moment, it really does feel like a k-drama. Like hidden cameras should be tucked in the cereal.
Except the hand on my arm is very real, nails biting in. The shelf behind me digs into my shoulder blades.
“Let go,” I say quietly.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she leans in, close enough that I can smell her perfume—sweet and artificial, like cheap fruit candy.
“You know, photos don’t show everything,” she says, eyes dragging over my face. “I thought maybe he’d upgraded. But seeing you up close?” Her lip curls. “He really is going for trash this time.”
Her friends laugh, too loud for the small space.
One of them adds, helpfully, “And all those snacks? No wonder. You’re gonna blow up.”
The words hit somewhere soft, somewhere I haven’t cared about in years. Not because I think they’re true, but because the whole thing is so textbook it almost floors me. The script is ancient: pick at looks, at body, at worth.
I feel my jaw tighten.
Not because she’s right.
Because she’s so, so stale.
“You really need new material,” I say. “You said online I wasn’t pretty enough for him. Now it’s that I’m fat. Which is it?”
Her eyes flash.
Apparently, pointing out inconsistency is more offensive than anything else I could have said.
“You think you’re clever?” she snaps.
“I think,” I say, voice cool, “you’re still very obsessed with a boy who broke up with you over a year ago.”
That hits.
Her head jerks back slightly, like the words physically connected. Behind her, one of her friends goes very still, eyes darting between us.
“You don’t know anything,” she hisses. “He treated me like garbage. Screamed at me. Ignored me. Made me feel like I was nothing. And you’re just walking around like you’re safe. Like he isn’t going to do the exact same thing to you.”
The pebble in my chest shifts.
“I do know,” I say. “He told me. He knows he was awful. He’s not proud of it. He’s trying to be different.”
She barks out a laugh. “He told you? Oh, that’s rich. Let me guess—you looked into his sad, guilty eyes and decided you were special enough to make him change.”
My fingers curl tighter around the handle of the basket.
“I didn’t make him anything,” I say. “He chose to change. For himself. For his team. For me. That’s what people do when they grow up.”
Her face contorts—something ugly, something hurt, something furious.
“That’s what you think,” she spits. “He’ll snap. He always snaps. And when he does, you’ll remember this conversation.”
She shoves my shoulder, hard.
The metal edge of the shelf bites into my back. Something rattles above my head—a row of instant coffee jars wobbling, clinking against each other, threatening to fall. One of her friends grabs the edge of the shelf to steady it, eyes going wide.
“Whoa, hey,” the girl murmurs, suddenly less sure. “We’re in public—”
“Oh, she doesn’t mind being seen,” the ex says, voice bright with mean delight. “She loves an audience. Isn’t that right?”
I stare at her.
The absurdity washes over me, slow and cold.
This is a corner store a ten-minute walk from my house. I’ve been coming here since I was a kid. The owner knows my favorite snacks. There is a little bell on the door that chirps every time someone walks in.
And here I am, pinned between ramen and instant coffee because a girl my boyfriend hurt can’t stand that he now loves someone else better.
I’m tired.
“Look,” I say, my voice suddenly flat, all the softness burnt off. “You can keep rewriting history all you want. You can send a thousand texts and make ten more accounts and tell every shelf in this store how terrible he was to you. I’m not saying you’re lying. I’m sure it was awful. I’m sure he made you feel small. That sucks. You deserved better. Truly.”
Her mouth presses into a thin line. The friends glance at each other, thrown by the sudden sincerity.
“But coming after me?” I go on. “Grabbing me? Calling me names in front of the chocolate bars? That doesn’t make him look worse. It makes you look worse.” I meet her eyes, steady. “And obsessed.”
The word hangs there.
Her nostrils flare. For a second, something like tears shine at the edge of her eyeliner.
Then her hand clamps down on my arm again, nails digging harder.
“You—” she starts, voice rising.
“Hey.”
The sound cuts through the aisle like a slammed door.
Not loud. Not shouted. Just sharp. Clear.
Every head turns.
He’s at the end of the aisle, framed by shelves of chips and bottled tea.
Gray practice shirt, black shorts, hair damp from a quick shower that didn’t quite chase away the effort of training. His shoulders are squared, jaw tight, eyes dark in a way I’ve only seen on the court—right before a serve, right before a set that could break a game open.
Behind him, clustered near the entrance, I see flashes of orange and black.
Hinata’s messy orange hair. Noya’s wild grin, gone suddenly slack. Tanaka’s bald head craning over someone’s shoulder. Suga, Daichi, Yamaguchi, Tsukki—Karasuno’s whole after-practice swarm, frozen mid-step.
They all see us.
But he only sees me.
His gaze takes in my posture, the way the girls are standing, the hand on my arm, the scuff in my shoulder where the shelf edge pressed into my cardigan.
Something in his face shifts.
He starts walking.
Not fast. Not running. Just a steady, controlled advance that somehow makes the air feel heavier with each step.
The girls in front of me go quiet.
“Let go of her,” he says.
It’s not loud.
It doesn’t have to be.
His ex lets go like she’s been burned.
He reaches us and steps in without hesitation, putting himself between me and them so smoothly it’s like a practiced rotation. One second, all I see is their faces; the next, it’s the back of his shirt, the broad line of his shoulders, solid and tall and utterly unmoving.
From behind him, the aisle feels wider.
He plants himself there, feet steady, like he’s defending the net.
“What the hell is going on?” he asks.
The curse in his mouth is rare enough that it hits like a slap.
The girls stiffen. One swallows audibly. His ex lifts her chin, but her eyes flick once to his hands—curled, bare inches from the shelf—then away.
No one answers.
His voice drops.
“I asked,” he says, “what you’re doing.”
That quiet heat—the same one he gets when a line judge makes a bad call, when an opponent pulls something dirty—coats every word. He isn’t yelling. Not yet. But that might be worse.
His ex snaps, finally, words tumbling out faster than her brain can catch up.
“You don’t get to talk to me like that anymore,” she says, voice high and sharp. “We’re done, remember? You don’t own me.”
A muscle in his cheek jumps.
“No,” he says. “I don’t.”
He takes half a step forward.
They take half a step back.
“But I can say something when you’re cornering my girlfriend in a store,” he adds, eyes locked on hers. “When you’re grabbing her and pushing her. When you’ve been harassing her for weeks.”
Her head jerks. “She told you?” she spits, darting a glare over his shoulder.
I close my hand in the back of his shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric.
His spine goes a little straighter.
“She didn’t,” he says. “I can put things together.”
He can. Of course he can. He saw how off I was the day I asked about her. He’s not oblivious. He’s just… careful with what he touches.
Something in me loosens at the certainty in his voice, at the way he instinctively names what’s been happening even without proof in his hands.
His ex laughs, brittle. “So what if I talked to her?” she says. “You treated me like garbage, Tobio. You screamed at me. Told me I was a distraction. Broke up with me like I was nothing. You think you get to be the hero now just because you found someone stupider to fall for you?”
My heart clenches.
He takes the hit.
Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t deny it.
“I know I treated you badly,” he says. “I know I was an asshole.”
Hearing him say it like that in public, in front of his team, is like watching someone hand over a knife and lay their wrists down beside it.
Behind us, I hear a muffled noise—Hinata’s soft little “eh?” of shock, Noya sucking in a breath. Suga murmurs something, probably telling them to be quiet.
“I shouldn’t have done any of that,” he goes on. “I can’t fix it now. I can’t make you forgive me. I’m not asking you to.”
He leans in, just slightly, and when he speaks again his voice hardens.
“But you coming after her because of what I did?” His eyes narrow. “That’s not okay.”
She opens her mouth.
He cuts her off.
“You hate me, fine.” His jaw clenches. “You want to talk shit about me, fine. I earned that. But you don’t touch her. You don’t talk to her like that. Ever.”
His words pin her more effectively than any shelf.
For a moment, I see something raw flicker across her face—shock, hurt, anger woven together. He never defended her like this. I know it. She knows it. He probably knows it too, somewhere low and guilty.
Her gaze darts over his shoulder to me. There’s so much in that one look—resentment, jealousy, this deep, hollow bewilderment.
Why you and not me?
I don’t have an answer.
I just tighten my hand in his shirt.
“Stay out of this,” she snaps at him, but the edges are duller now.
He snorts, the sound short and humorless. “You dragged her into this because of me,” he says. “I’m already in it.”
His hand lifts a little, like he’s about to gesture, then stops, fingers flexing.
“I told you I was wrong,” he says. “I told you I was sorry. That’s all I can do. If you don’t want it, fine.” His eyes are steady, flat. “But if you keep bothering her, I won’t ignore it. I won’t just walk away this time.”
There’s weight behind that. Not a threat of violence—he’s not that guy—but the promise of attention. Of consequences. Of him standing in every aisle she tries to corner me in, refusing to look away.
Beside me, his ex’s friends are shrinking more and more, clearly wishing they’d picked a different after-school snack run.
“Let’s just go,” one of them mutters. “This is stupid.”
His ex glares at me one more time—one long, burning look, like she’s trying to set me on fire with her eyes.
Then she turns on her heel.
“Whatever,” she spits. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
They brush past him, past me, the scent of her perfume lingering like a sour note in the air. The little bell on the door jingles as they leave, ridiculously bright.
For a second, all I hear is the buzzing of the fridges and my own pulse.
Then:
“Holy crap,” Noya says, voice echoing from the front of the store. “Kageyama, that was terrifying. In a good way.”
Tanaka claps once, hard. “YEAH! That’s how you do it, little king!”
“‘Little’?” Kageyama mutters under his breath, but the fight is already bleeding out of his shoulders.
Hinata bounces closer, eyes huge. “Kageyama, I didn’t know you could be like that off the court,” he says, sounding both impressed and a tiny bit scared. “You were like ‘RAHHH’—” he throws his hands up to demonstrate—“but, like, quiet.”
“Please don’t ever describe me like that again,” Kageyama says weakly.
Suga appears beside us, expression soft and concerned. “Are you okay?” he asks me, voice gentle, eyes scanning me from head to toe like he’s checking for damage.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
I feel his gaze settle on the faint red marks on my arm, where her fingers dug in.
Daichi’s eyes follow. His jaw tightens. “If it happens again, tell someone,” he says. “Us. A teacher. The store owner. Anyone. Don’t just let them corner you like that.”
“Hey,” Tanaka throws in, fists clenching theatrically. “Next time, call us. We’ll give them something to cry about.”
Suga immediately whacks him lightly on the back of the head. “We will not,” he says. “We’ll talk it out like mature high school students.”
Noya grins, punching the air. “Talking with our fists!”
Suga whacks him too.
Tsukishima pushes his glasses up, looking at Kageyama like he’s just grown a second head. “Wow,” he drawls. “You really are disgustingly in love.”
Yamaguchi chokes on his own spit.
Hinata spins. “IN LOVE? ARE YOU IN LOVE, KAGEYAMA—”
“Shut up!” Kageyama snaps, ears flaming red.
The entire store feels like it exhales with him.
Through all the noise, his hand finds my elbow, light but steady.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, turning slightly so his body still blocks me from the aisle, even though the danger is gone. His voice is low again, the sharp edges sanded down.
I look up at him.
His eyes are still dark around the edges, but the fury has melted into something else—fear, maybe, or the leftover adrenaline. He’s looking at me like I might crack if he blinks too long.
I shake my head. “No,” I say. Then, quieter, “I’m okay.”
He studies my face for a long moment, as if checking every syllable.
Something in me shifts.
Because there it is, in real time: the difference.
Old him would have looked away from tears, from shaking. Would have walked off to avoid the discomfort. New him stands in the middle of a convenience store surrounded by snacks and his entire team, shoulders squared in front of me like he’s the only wall I need.
He didn’t roll his eyes. He didn’t say I was overreacting. He didn’t tell me to handle it myself. He saw me cornered and came straight over, without pausing to think what it would look like.
He chose a side. Mine.
And he stayed there.
“That was…” I start, then trail off, because the words feel too small for my throat.
“Stupid?” he offers, misreading my silence, eyes flicking away. “Sorry. I just—when I saw—”
“No,” I cut in. “It wasn’t stupid.”
He looks back.
“It was…” I search for the word. Brave. Hot. Terrifying. Perfect. “Very you,” I say finally. “In a good way.”
His ears turn red again.
From the front, Hinata’s voice floats over. “Kageyamaaa, hurry up, I’m hungryyyy—”
“We’re going,” Kageyama calls back, not breaking eye contact with me. Then, quieter, “Do you… still need to get stuff?”
I glance down at the poor, abused basket, a few snacks still rolling around at the bottom, half of them not what I came for.
I nod.
He takes it from my hand without asking, bending to pick up the stray ramen packet and the bottle of milk that somehow survived its trip down the aisle. His fingers brush the spots her shoes scuffed.
“Come on,” he says, and this time when he leads me down the aisle, it’s not to stand between me and someone else. It’s just to walk side by side.
His teammates part at the end of the row like a curtain.
Noya throws me a thumbs-up. Tanaka winks. Suga gives me a quiet little smile that says we’ve got you. Daichi nods, captain-serious. Hinata beams. Yamaguchi looks relieved. Tsukki rolls his eyes, but there’s no real bite behind it.
We pay. We leave.
The bell jingles overhead as the door swings shut, cutting off the harsh light. The outside air feels softer, cooler against my skin.
As we step out onto the sidewalk, his fingers curl around mine.
Warm. Solid. Sure.
For the first time in weeks, the pebble in my chest feels small enough to almost forget. Because she has her version of him—the boy who yelled and left and never turned back.
And I have mine—the boy who walks beside me with his teammates trailing behind like a protective flock, who changed because the idea of losing me scared him more than the effort it would take to become someone better.
He’s not perfect.
He doesn’t pretend to be.
But when he squeezed my hand in that aisle and put himself between me and the worst of my fear, something inside me whispered, quietly and fiercely:
This is my proof. Not the apologies. Not the words. The way he shows up.
