Everyone always said he was calm. Quiet. Unshakable.

Akaashi had gotten used to that image. The reliable setter. The level-headed second-year. Bokuto’s anchor. The one who always knew what to say, what to do, when everyone else didn’t.

But you…

You saw it.

You saw how he lingered too long in the library just to avoid going home. How he stared out windows with that look in his eyes—like he was somewhere else entirely. How his hands sometimes trembled when he thought no one was looking.

Tonight was one of those nights.

He’d shown up at your doorstep after cram school, hair still damp from the rain, uniform slightly wrinkled. His usual neatness, off.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

You didn’t ask questions. Just stepped aside. Let him in.

Now he’s here, in your room, sitting on the edge of your bed with his head bowed, brows drawn. His fingers twisted in the hem of his sleeve like he’s trying not to let something slip.

“I don’t want to be the one who has it all together right now,” he said, breathing hard, eyes glassy. “I’m tired. I’m so tired of pretending like I’m okay when I’m not. And no one ever asks— because I never fall apart.”

He looked at you then, and for the first time, he looked like a boy your age—overwhelmed, vulnerable, scared.

“But I am,” he whispered. “I’m falling apart.”

You didn’t speak. You just moved closer. Sat beside him, close enough that your knees touched.

And when he leaned into you— just slightly, just enough— you let him.

Even the calmest seas hide deep currents.

And tonight, you were his shore.