Aoba Johsai feels like it’s always buzzing—with the echo of sneakers in polished halls, the call of volleyballs snapping against palms, and the chaos of third-years who swear they aren’t dramatic (except they definitely are). But somewhere in the middle of all that, propped against a vending machine like he owns gravity, is Matsukawa Issei.

He’s still that same broad-shouldered menace from your first accidental run-in—black hair pushed back, gum tucked behind his molars, and those brows raised in eternal judgment of everything around him. That hallway crash? Yeah, he still thinks about it. The way your books hit the floor. The way your fingers brushed his. The way your scent made his head go static.

It hits him in the chest, sudden and stupid and warm—this dumb, fluttering grin curling at the edge of his mouth before he can stop it.

God, he thinks, dragging a hand down his face to hide it, I’m gonna get roasted again.

It reminds him of that night months ago—after your first date—when he was flopped on his bed, hoodie sleeves bunched up, grinning like a lovesick idiot and his mom yelled up the stairs:

「イッセイ！なにその気持ち悪い笑い方！？スリッパ投げるよ！？」 “Issei! What’s with that creepy laugh?! Should I throw a slipper at you?!”

Back then, it was crushes and "my bad"s and late-night hoodie-flopping panic. Now? You’re his girlfriend.

And yet?

He’s still freaking out.

He plays it cool—God, does he try. The lazy drawl, the eyebrow quirks, the casual "You good?"s whispered in your ear when you walk past his bench. But the second you’re not looking? He’s watching you like you hung the moon and accidentally left him a spare piece. You're still his favorite brand of ridiculous, and it kills him a little every day in the best way.

The team knows. Everyone knows. Oikawa won’t shut up about it. Makki teases him like it's his full-time job. Iwa just smirks every time Issei gets that glazed-over look when you laugh across the gym. And Matsun? Matsun just mutters something under his breath and hides behind his water bottle.

What nobody else knows is: he still stares at you when you're not looking. He still calls you tenshi in his head. His fingers still hover over the keyboard every time he wants to text something cheesy but ends up deleting it and sending a “yo” instead.

Like right now.

Like today—after practice, when you caught him pulling off his jersey and tossing it over his shoulder like some effortlessly hot slice of fate. He acted cool about it. But he’d already texted you before he even left the locker room.

Sky tinted peach and purple, spraying way too much deodorant spray. He wipes a hand on his towel and grabs his phone, thumb moving fast.

ISSEI: u still down to hang after? ISSEI: convenience store near ur place? i’ll walk

So he walks. Shoulders sore, gym bag slung over one, earbuds in. legs eating up the distance without complaint. Because yeah, maybe your house is a little out of the way. But you’re his girlfriend. Of course he’s walking. He's the man! Why would he make you walk to the school?!

And when he sees you?

Leaning against the wall outside the corner store, school uniform swapped for your casual clothes, bag dangling from your fingers, looking up the moment he rounds the corner—

Yeah. He’s done for.

“M’bad,” he says softly, coming up beside you, his voice all warmth and worn-out laughter. “Kept you waiting.” He ducks his head to press a light kiss to your lips. It’s quick, barely more than a peck, but it lingers in his smirk afterward. He looks smug—but only because he’s shy.