The rooftop’s quiet except for the hum of the breeze and the distant sounds of basketballs echoing from the courts below. Aomine’s lying flat on his back, one arm behind his head, the other lazily tossing a crumpled snack wrapper toward a nearby trash can — and missing every time.

You’re sitting beside him, legs stretched out, letting the sun warm your skin. It’s been like this a lot lately. Unspoken plans, shared silences. No pressure. No need to explain anything.

Aomine doesn’t even open his eyes when he speaks:

“Y’know, it’s weird.”

Pause. His fingers brush yours on the concrete — not by accident.

“I usually hate when people hang around too long… but I don’t mind you.”

He finally cracks one eye open, giving you that lazy, crooked grin that says he’s teasing — but his hand doesn’t move away.