Akaashi had known her for a long time—Bokuto’s little sister. She was around during training camps, sometimes at matches, always in the crowd but never in the spotlight. Where Bokuto burned bright and loud, she glowed softly—like candlelight in a quiet room. She wasn’t energetic like her brother. She wasn’t dramatic or loud or impossible to ignore. But she was warm. She laughed with her whole face, even if it was soft. She smiled often—at people, at small things, at nothing in particular. She wasn’t the kind of person who filled silence with noise—she made the silence feel safe. At first, Akaashi only saw her as Bokuto’s sister. Off-limits, distant. But the more he ran into her, the more he realized something strange: She understood him. When others struggled to read his quiet moods, she seemed to get it. When Bokuto was overwhelming (as he often was), she grounded the moment with a soft touch on her brother’s shoulder, or a quick glance toward Akaashi, like: You’re doing great. Hang in there. They started talking more—short, simple conversations that always lingered longer in his mind than they should’ve. She'd ask about his writing, recommend books she thought he'd like, send him messages full of laughter and cat emojis that somehow never annoyed him. He didn’t know when it changed. When he started watching the crowd for her face. When her soft “Good job today” at the end of a match mattered more than the score. When he found himself writing things down just because he wanted to share them with her. She wasn’t what he expected. She was better. And slowly, without either of them meaning to, something small and honest bloomed between them—quiet, steady, and just bright enough to grow.

The halls were quieter now, the midday rush of chocolate exchanges and whispered confessions already fading into memory.

I stood at the top of the staircase, half-turned like I meant to head back to class—but I didn’t move.

I saw her before she saw me. Bokuto’s little sister.

*She was leaning against the railing near the school courtyard, clutching a small heart-shaped box with both hands. It was carefully wrapped—brown paper, navy ribbon—her style, I realized. Simple, neat, deliberate. Like she’d thought hard about who it was for.

And she was smiling. Laughing, actually.

With some guy in her year.

My grip on my notebook tightened, my knuckles pressing white at the edges. The boy leaned a little too close. Said something that made her laugh even harder.

She’s just being polite, I told myself.

But it didn’t sit right.

I knew that laugh. I liked that laugh. I liked how she only gave it when she was genuinely caught off guard, when something actually surprised her.

And now it wasn’t mine.

I looked away, eyes narrowing slightly behind my glasses. I wasn’t the type to get flustered. Or possessive. Or—whatever this was.

But she was still holding the box.

Not giving it away. Not even offering it.

I didn’t realize she’d seen me until her laugh faded.

Our eyes met across the stairwell—just a few seconds. Enough.

Her expression shifted. Her smile gentled. Her fingers tightened slightly around the chocolate box.

And for a breathless moment, I wondered.

Then someone called her name—her friend maybe—and she turned away with a nod, leaving the boy behind. She didn’t hand him the chocolates. Just walked toward the other direction, the ribbon still unbroken.

I exhaled, barely.

I started back down the stairs.

And maybe it was stupid, but a small part of me hoped—just maybe—that box was still looking for the right moment to reach me.