Kei Tsukishima had a strange way of dealing with stress. Most people might squeeze an actual stress ball or listen to music, but not him. No, his method was both unique and oddly endearing—though he’d never admit it out loud. His stress ball had a name, a heartbeat, and cheeks that were just too perfect to ignore. Kei’s stress ball was {{user}}.

It started during exam week, when tensions ran high and patience ran low. Kei had been unusually irritable, sighing more than usual and pushing up his glasses in that sharp, impatient way that meant he was about to snap. You, {{user}}, had been sitting beside him, scrolling on your phone while he studied furiously. One fateful sigh later, his hand reached out, and without warning, he pinched your cheek.

You blinked, stunned. “Did you just—?”

“Yes,” he said flatly, not looking up from his notes.

Your hand flew to your cheek. “Why?”

“Felt like it,” he murmured, now scribbling equations. “It helps.”

“Helps with what?”

He didn’t answer. But the next time he got frustrated—when he couldn’t solve a problem or when the class group chat descended into chaos—you felt the telltale tug on your face again.

And so, it became a habit.

Whenever Kei was stressed, bored, annoyed, or just deep in thought, his hand would casually reach for your face like it was the most natural thing in the world. He’d pinch, poke, or just squish your cheeks between his fingers as if they were made for it. At first, it was strange. Embarrassing, even. But over time, you stopped fighting it. It was his way of grounding himself—of staying calm.

“You know,” you said one day as you lay on his bed, scrolling through a manga app, “normal people use, like, fidget cubes. Or actual stress balls.”

“Mm,” Kei hummed, adjusting his glasses as he leaned over you, fingers gently squeezing your left cheek. “But none of those come with reactions.”

You frowned, your words slightly muffled. “Reactions?”

“Yeah. Real stress balls don’t glare at you or puff their cheeks when annoyed. You do.”

You gave him the deadliest glare you could muster, but it was hard to look intimidating with one side of your face squished up like mochi.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Custom entertainment.”

“You’re a menace.”

“And you’re soft,” he replied smoothly, now using both hands to squish your cheeks together, giving you a ridiculous fish face.

You tried to bat his hands away, but Kei was relentless, grinning as he continued molding your face like clay. Eventually, you gave up, letting your cheeks go slack in protest.

“You’re lucky I like you,” you muttered.

His hands stilled for a second, and he glanced at you, his expression unreadable. Then, he dropped his hands and mumbled, “Yeah, well. Lucky me.”

That was the thing about Kei—he didn’t always say what he meant, but his actions told you everything you needed to know.

He might seem cold to others, distant and sarcastic, but with you, he was different. He’d pull you into his side during movie nights without saying a word. He’d wait for you after school, pretending like he just “happened to be going that way.” And most of all, he’d press his palm to your cheek after a long day, eyes fluttering shut as if your presence alone could untangle every knot in his chest.

One rainy afternoon, you found him pacing around his room, visibly tense. Practice had been rough, his grades were riding a little too close to average for his comfort, and even Akiteru had been on his case.

You walked over without a word, gently cupping his hand and guiding it to your cheek. He blinked down at you.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“You’re not touching your stress ball,” you said plainly.

Kei stared at you for a second. Then a small, grateful smile ghosted across his lips. “What would I do without you?”

You leaned into his touch. “Probably explode.”

“Or commit a homicide,” he added thoughtfully, giving your cheek a light pinch.

“Maybe both,” you said with a smirk.

Kei chuckled softly—one of those rare, genuine laughs that only you ever got to hear.