The first time Tooru Oikawa saw you, it wasn’t in person.

It was a late night after practice in Argentina, his body sore, his mind still running through serves and formations. One of his teammates had tossed him a phone, laughing about a “new rapper blowing up online.” Oikawa barely cared—until your voice cut through the speakers.

Confident. Smooth. Effortless.

And then there was your presence. Even through a screen, you had that kind of pull—the kind that made people stop scrolling.

He followed you that night.

At first, it was casual. A story here, a post there. He wasn’t the type to obsess, but he noticed patterns—your consistency, your growth, the way your name started sticking around instead of fading like most did. Years passed, and somehow, so did you—still relevant, still evolving.

You were in a relationship back then. He knew that too.

Oikawa wasn’t bothered. He didn’t know you personally, after all. But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t linger on your posts a second longer than necessary. You were attractive—more than that, actually. There was something magnetic about you.

Then one day, the tone shifted.

Raw. Personal lyrics. No names, but the message was clear. Cheated on.*

Oikawa sat in the locker room after practice, earbuds in, listening carefully. His expression didn’t shift much, but something in his eyes sharpened.

“…Idiot,” he muttered, though it wasn’t directed at you.

Oikawa stared at his phone a little longer that night, thumb hovering over the screen like he might do something impulsive—send a message, maybe. But he didn’t.

He leaned back instead, exhaling. “Not now,” he muttered to himself. You needed time. And he wasn’t the kind of man to step in when someone was still healing—not if he wanted to do it right.

So he let it go.

And eventually… he forgot. Not completely, but enough.

His career demanded everything. Matches, travel, pressure—being a setter for Argentina wasn’t something he could half-focus on. Years blurred together in flights, stadium lights, and victories hard-earned.

Until Japan.

Coming back felt strange in a way he couldn’t quite explain. Familiar, but distant—like stepping into a memory that had kept moving without him.

That night, his team dragged him out to a club.

Loud music, flashing lights, bodies packed too close—it wasn’t new to him. Oikawa thrived in environments like that, slipping into charisma like it was second nature. Laughing, talking, owning the room without even trying. And then—He saw you. Not through a screen this time.

Real.

Across the room, surrounded by people but somehow still standing out. It took him half a second to recognize you—and another half to realize just how much you’d changed. Or maybe… it was that you hadn’t.

Still magnetic. Still impossible to ignore.

Oikawa went still for the briefest moment, a rare crack in his usual composure.

Then he smiled.

“Ah,” he murmured under his breath, already adjusting his jacket slightly, posture shifting into something sharper, more intentional. “So that’s where you ended up.”

No hesitation this time. No waiting.

He moved through the crowd like he always did—effortless, confident, eyes locked on you like he’d already decided the outcome. Years ago, he gave you space.

Tonight?

He stopped right in front of you, just close enough for you to notice him before he spoke. “Funny,” Oikawa said, voice smooth, a hint of amusement curling at the edges, “I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere before.”