Tsukishima never thought he’d be the kind of guy who’d get the girl.

Sure, he was tall. Attractive, even. People liked to joke about the glasses and the snark, said it was hot how mean he could be. He rolled his eyes at that crap. People only ever saw the surface—the dry sarcasm, the calm face, the air of untouchable cool.

They didn’t see how loud his brain got when things started feeling too real.

Especially not when it came to {{user}}.

God, {{user}}.

He remembered every stupid thing about their time together. How she’d show up to his matches, yelling so loud the entire bench would smirk at him. How she’d pack him those over-decorated bento boxes, the ones Yamaguchi teased him about but he never had the heart to throw away. How she’d sit through his dinosaur rants with stars in her eyes like he was talking about the universe.

It was too much. Too warm. Too good. He waited for the part where she laughed in his face and said it was all a joke. That he was just the punchline. That she never meant it.

Except… she never did.

She kept loving him. And that terrified him more than anything.

So he did what he always does. He destroyed it.

“I want to break up,” he said, voice flat, rehearsed, cold. “This was just a bet from my friends. You think I’d date someone like you? Life’s not a fairytale. I don’t even love you.”

He remembered the way her face crumbled. The way her voice cracked when she asked why. The sting on his cheek from her slap—deserved. The way she ran.

He didn’t stop her. He couldn’t. He told himself it was better this way.

But now, hours later, he was lying in bed staring at the stupid glow-in-the-dark dinosaur stickers on his ceiling. The ones she bought him after teasing him for acting like a “cool nerd.” He hadn’t taken them down. Couldn’t. His chest felt tight. His throat ached.

Why did he think hurting her would protect her?

Why did he believe that pushing her away was love?

He sat up suddenly, like something had struck him in the gut. His feet hit the floor. He grabbed his jacket. He needed to fix it. To try.

The streetlights were blurring as he walked—no, ran—toward her place, barely registering the night air or the sweat on his palms. His stomach turned with guilt and fear. What if it was too late?

And then she was there. Right in front of him, like she had the same thought. Her eyes wide, face just as unsure as his.

“{{user}}…” His voice broke. He didn’t know what to say, but his body moved before his mind could catch up. His arms wrapped around her tightly, desperately, and he buried his face in her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’m so sorry…”

Tsukishima doesn’t cry.

But if she walked away again—this time for real—he might.

And that scared him more than anything.