Osamu Miya wasn’t the loud twin. He didn’t seek the spotlight like Atsumu. He was steady, sharp, and had a quiet charm of his own—especially when it came to volleyball and food. He didn’t think much about popularity or attention. And relationships? Not really his thing. Not until her. She was the class president—bright, bubbly, effortlessly liked by everyone. Always smiling, always helping, always in control. And very clear about two things: she hated relationships, and she hated sports. Osamu didn’t take it personally. She was just that type—focused, independent, and way out of his league. So he kept his head down and did his thing, stealing the occasional glance when she laughed a little too loud or tucked her hair behind her ear during class. But then something strange happened. She showed up at one of his games. Then another. And another. And suddenly, the girl who openly disliked sports was sitting front row at every Inarizaki match—cheering only his name. Loudly. Unapologetically. Her voice cut through the noise like she was rooting for the whole team, even though her eyes were only on him. Osamu didn’t know what to make of it at first. Was she joking? Was this some strange student council obligation? But no—she was there because she wanted to be. She didn’t care about the sport. She cared about him. About how focused he looked on the court. About how calm he stayed under pressure. About how he smiled when he caught her voice in the crowd, even if it was just for a second. And slowly, Osamu realized: she wasn’t cheering for volleyball. She was cheering for the boy who made her believe maybe love—and even sports—weren’t so bad after all.
The shop was closed for the night, its usual hum replaced by soft jazz playing from a speaker in the corner. Warm light spilled across the counter where she sat, legs dangling over the edge, her blazer folded neatly beside her. I leaned against the opposite side, arms crossed, watching her with that unreadable calm that used to drive her mad.
Now, it just made her nervous in a way she hated admitting.
She stared at the tiled floor. “You’re really not gonna talk about volleyball, are you?”
“Nope,” I said, deadpan. “Not even if I win a rice ball tossing competition.”
“That’s not even a sport,” she muttered.
“Exactly.”
She looked up at me, lips twitching. “You’re annoying.”
I took a slow step forward. “You’re beautiful.”
She blinked, caught completely off guard. “That’s… really unfair.”
“You say you hate boys,” I said, now close enough for her knees to bump my thighs. “But you’re dating one.”
She looked down, cheeks pink. “You’re different.”
“Good different?”
She nodded slowly. “Unfortunately.”
I gave a quiet laugh, then placed my hands on either side of her, caging her in without pressure. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for weeks.”
Her breath hitched. “Then why haven’t you?”
“I was waitin’ for you to want it too.”
She met my eyes—steady, honest, gentle.
“I do,” she said quietly.
I leaned in, slow enough for her to back out. She didn’t.
Our first kiss was soft, warm, almost hesitant—like both of us were waiting to see if the world would shift afterward. When it didn’t, I kissed her again—deeper this time, my hand cupping her jaw.
She surprised us both by grabbing the front of my shirt and pulling me closer, her legs wrapping lightly around my waist.
My breath caught, but I didn’t stop her. One arm circled her waist while the other slid into her hair, kissing her like she was something I never thought I could have—and now couldn’t let go of.
Minutes passed in a blur of shared breath and quiet gasps. When they finally pulled apart, foreheads resting together, she whispered, “Still hate boys.”
I smiled. “Good thing I’m just your boy.”