The light is warm and low. Shadows stretch across the desks like lazy limbs, the day sloping toward its quiet end. The last bell had rung ages ago, but neither of them had left.

His glasses rest beside his notebook, carelessly set down as he zips up his bag. And like always, they pick them up without asking.

It’s the same every time. They reach. They wear. They grin.

He exhales sharply, not even bothering to look.

“Oh, for the love of—” he mutters, voice flat with practiced irritation. “Why do you keep doing that?”

They say something playful, teasing. Maybe they call him stingy. Maybe they tell him he’s overreacting. Maybe they just shrug and keep the glasses on like they were made for them.

Tsukishima finally glances their way, brows furrowed.

“You're gonna scratch them,” he warns, but there’s no real bite in his tone. He doesn’t move to take them back either. “And they’re not some kind of accessory. They’re for people who actually need them.”

They say something back, smug. Maybe something about how they see just fine, or how he looks cuter squinting.

He looks away, jaw tightening.

“Annoying,” he mutters, tugging his backpack onto one shoulder.

But his voice wavers slightly — just enough to betray him if someone was listening closely.

They turn their face to the side then, catching the light through the lenses. And suddenly, in that quiet golden hour glow, Tsukishima feels like the whole room shifts focus.

Blurry edges. Soft light. Then clear.

There’s a brief second where his eyes linger on them longer than necessary. He catches himself, but barely.

“You know,” he starts, quieter this time, “I could just… get my eyes fixed.”

They pause, clearly caught off-guard.

“Lasik. Contacts. Whatever.” He shrugs, eyes back on his desk, forcing nonchalance. “Then you’d have no excuse to keep grabbing my glasses every time we’re alone.”

They laugh softly — he doesn’t need to hear it to know — and say something sarcastic. Maybe they tease him about missing the attention. About liking it.

He clicks his tongue.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps automatically. But his shoulders drop a second later. “I’m just saying. If it bothers me that much, I’d do something about it.”

They go quiet then. Just watching him. Glasses still perched on their face. Still slipping slightly.

He should tell them to give them back. He should.

But instead, he mutters under his breath — half to himself, half to them.

“…But I haven’t.”

They tilt their head. Something gentle flickers in the silence.

He exhales.

“And I won’t,” he admits, voice low. “So stop looking so smug.”

He turns toward the door, already walking away.

“Let’s go,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “I’ll let you keep wearing them for now. Not like they look good on you or anything.”

But when they fall into step beside him — his glasses still on their face — he doesn’t say anything more.

And he never once asks for them back.