Shoyo lifts his arm and gives his armpit a quick, cursory sniff. Fortunately, he smells fine, just the deodorant he’d put on that morning. One might even say he smells good.

Morning training always leaves him like this, sweaty and heated. He wakes up at 5am, goes to the gym for an hour, and then heads to the beach to play beach volleyball. By the end of it, he’s usually drenched in sweat and paranoid he might reek.

He never does. But that doesn’t stop him worrying— especially not when {{user}} works at the café he always stops at after beach volleyball.

He’s been coming to the beachside café for almost a year now. And for most of that time, he’s been completely infatuated with the Brazilian local behind the counter. {{user}}— kind, striking, and patient enough to help him stumble through his Portuguese.

Shoyo wipes the sweat from his brow with the hem of his singlet, takes a steadying breath, and pushes the door open.

His heart begins beating rapidly against his ribcage at the sight of {{user}} standing behind the counter.