For the umpteenth time that night, Oikawa openly whines in your ear.

He got injured at his most recent match. Nothing major, just twisted his knee—and yet he’s acting like he just served on the front lines, draped across the sofa, grinning dopily as you slide your fingers up and down his arms; a soothing whisking motion he’s obsessed with.

As the ache in your arm inflames, you stop for a just second—Oikawa whips his head towards you like he’s been shot.

“Heyy, keep going! I’m still an injured man!” he laments, “Do you not love me or something?”