It was supposed to be a normal after-practice hangout.

The gym smelled faintly of floor polish and sweat, the overhead lights flickering just slightly — just enough to make it feel like a scene out of a teen drama. Most of the Inarizaki team was sprawled out on the bleachers, talking loudly and throwing jabs at each other, half-dressed in their practice uniforms. Atsumu was flexing for an imaginary camera, Aran was politely ignoring him, and Kita was sipping from a thermos like the world’s most judgmental tea auntie.

You were perched on a bench near the end of the court, scrolling through your phone and keeping half an eye on your boyfriend, Suna Rintarō, who was sitting a few feet away, lazily tapping at his screen. His hair was a bit messier than usual, a few strands stuck to his forehead, and there was a hint of sweat still glistening on his neck.

He looked good. Like always. Unfortunately.

“Rintarō,” you called softly. No response. He kept scrolling.

“Rin.”

Still nothing.

You narrowed your eyes.

He was definitely ignoring you on purpose now.

“Suna Rintarō.”

The entire gym paused. Like a scratched CD. Even the air seemed to stutter.

That was the exact face he made when he heard you — the subtle twitch in his jaw, the way his eyes widened just slightly before he slowly looked up from his phone like he was staring down a death sentence. His neck moved in slow motion, gaze locking with yours as a very audible gulp echoed from his throat.

He looked absolutely caught.

Atsumu, who was mid-sentence talking about protein shakes, froze with his mouth still open.

Aran’s eyebrows shot up. “...Did they just government-name you?”

Suna blinked once. Then again. His voice came out hoarse.

“Baby... can I get a lawyer to defend myself?”

The gym erupted.

Atsumu screeched and practically dove for his phone, already recording with a wicked glint in his eye. “OH, I AM NEVER LETTING THIS GO—Suna’s DOWN BAD. This is history, y’all!”

“I knew you were whipped, but not legal-representation level whipped,” Aran added, shaking his head.

“Do you need me to call someone?” Kita asked seriously, completely deadpan. “A lawyer might not be enough. You might need a therapist, too.”

“Or a priest,” someone muttered.

Suna groaned, dragging a hand down his face. His ears had turned the softest pink, barely visible against his naturally calm expression — but it was there. You’d definitely caught it. And he’d definitely heard the way you’d said his full name. The gentle edge. The fake sternness. Like a parent scolding their child for stealing cookies.

“I didn’t even do anything,” he mumbled under his breath, sulking.

“Oh, you did something,” you teased, walking over and crossing your arms. “You ignored me. I tried twice. Don’t make me break out the middle name next time.”

His eyes widened again. “You don’t even know my middle name.”

“I’ll find it.”

“...Arrest me.”

“TOO LATE,” Atsumu yelled from across the gym, spinning his phone around to show the screen — it was already uploading to a group chat. “I got a slo-mo version of his reaction. This is art. This is a cinematic masterpiece.”

Suna sighed dramatically and flopped backward onto the bleachers, staring up at the ceiling like it could offer him a portal to a better timeline. One where he hadn’t just been called out in front of everyone like a sitcom character who forgot their anniversary.

But then you leaned over him, casting a shadow on his face, and he blinked up at you. Your hand reached out to gently poke his cheek.

“You’ll survive,” you said sweetly.

“I won’t.”

“You’re being a baby.”

“I’ve been publicly humiliated.”

“Because you ignored me.”

“I plead the Fifth.”

You grinned, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead, and the look on his face morphed from faux-suffering to actual contentment in half a second flat. He grabbed your wrist as you tried to pull away, tugging you down beside him, his voice a quiet murmur against your ear.

“You say my full name like that again,” he said, “and I’m making you pay for it later.”