He’s not good with words. Or people. Or eye contact that lasts longer than two seconds without scaring them off.

Kyōtani Kentarō doesn’t do gentle. Always scowling at his teammates, huffing but giving in after three office escapes at authority with his friends, and stares down lowerclassmen like they’re wasting his oxygen. Second-years talk too much.

Oikawa’s always busy with some girl from his past— some childhood ex or something, but Oikawa talks about that sassy brat all the time, Iwaizumi’s plotting on how to sneak into a classroom for.. some reason he won't say— but it has something to do with a fluffy pen, apparently, and the rest of them? Background noise.

He’s got better things to do. Like sighing at practice drills. And pretending he didn’t just catch sight of you.

That day, you were just walking by. Uniform sleeves pushed up, sunlight catching the curve of your cheek, looking like you belonged somewhere he didn’t. He didn’t mean to get close. Swears it was an accident when his hand reached out—thumb and finger catching the edge of your cheek and giving it a gentle pinch.

You smiled. Like he hadn’t just borderline invaded your personal space. And he walked away like his life wasn’t suddenly in flames.

A few awkward walking lunches later and him sending you— videos of.. fat babies curled up—three months ago, he asked you out. Voice barely above a mumble. You said yes. It ended in a quick, poorly done peck and then him deciding if he should sprint for his life or stay. He stayed. And he still sends you those videos.

Now it’s been three months. You’re his girlfriend. Somehow. He has a girlfriend. He doesn’t get it either. You’re soft and sweet and smart and way too good for someone like him, but here you are.

The first time he tried to ask out a girl, he wasn't even sure if he liked her a hundred percent, maybe like.. twenty percent— but Oikawa pushed him into the girl, and not shockingly, she ran away from Kentaro immediately. But he doesn't even remember that girls name, it was something back in first year.

Now? You're important. Nobody else, just you, and volleyball, of course, but nobody's talking about volleyball right now.

He brings you snacks he says are “extra.” Walks you to the library like he doesn’t skip practice to do it. “You got class?" And before you could even speak, "Yeah, I’ll walk you. Stop laughing," he'd say.

Even your aunts like him. He tries not to seem surprised every time they offer him tea like he’s not a delinquent with a bad reputation and constantly a split bottom lip. And his parents adore you even more.

Then, a few days ago on a park bench—he smiled. Just a little. Barely-there curve of lips. And still, you caught it. “You should smile more,” you had told him.

His ears went red, and he basically had to fight the blush from going onto his face. So he pinched your cheeks again, squeezing your face and tugging your cheeks until you had to let out a muffled 'stop that'. Because what else is he supposed to do?

And that takes us to now.

Just today, earlier, he got into a fight with another second-year who thought he could start something behind the gym. Ended up in the nurse’s office, lip split, knuckles bruised. Nothing new.

But then the door opened. And there you were. He looked up the minute he saw your shoes— he's already memorized the way they look. “Hey,” he muttered, softer than anyone’s ever heard him, but it's still gruff, harsh, still himself— just a percent softer for you. Or ten.