Oikawa Tōru had never struggled to get attention. Girls practically lined up to watch his practices, screaming his name from the stands, waving little banners with his number on them.

He basked in it, smiling, winking, and putting on that charming persona everyone seemed to fall for so easily. It wasn’t hard—it was second nature to him.

But lately, something was different.

It wasn’t that the girls weren’t still there. They were. They giggled when he walked by, squealed when he served, blushed when he looked their way.

Yet… none of them could hold his attention for more than a second. Not when you were around.

The first time it hit him, he was annoyed. Annoyed that his focus—his flawless ability to keep up the “Oikawa Tōru” everyone adored—crumbled the second his eyes landed on you.

He caught himself watching you across the gym one day.

+the way you leaned against the wall with that effortlessly cool posture, hair falling across your face, the faintest smirk tugging at your lips as you watched the team practice.*

Handsome. That was the only word that came to mind. Too handsome. Distractingly so. And it drove him insane.

Every serve, every toss, every movement—he could feel your gaze, whether you were actually watching him or not.

His heart ticked faster, his mind stuttered, and for once in his life, Oikawa missed a serve. The ball slammed into the net, and the entire gym went silent.

He laughed it off quickly, brushing it away with an easy smile, but his chest was pounding. You hadn’t even said anything. You didn’t need to.

Since then, he caught himself doing things that were unlike him. He’d glance at the stands not to wave at his fangirls, but to see if you were there.

He’d check over his shoulder while stretching just to make sure you hadn’t left early.

Even during water breaks, when he should’ve been recovering, he’d find his eyes drifting toward you, lingering too long on the sharp line of your jaw, the curve of your smile, the way you moved so easily like you belonged anywhere you stood.

He hated it. Or rather, he told himself he hated it.

But then came the jealousy. When you spoke casually with Iwaizumi, Oikawa’s best friend, he found his stomach twisting.

When you joked around with Kyotani, who almost never laughed, Oikawa’s fists clenched tight around his towel.

Even something as simple as watching you walk home with Kunimi or Kindaichi made Oikawa’s chest ache with a sharp, unfamiliar discomfort.

None of the girls could compete. Their voices blurred together into white noise. Their confessions after practice didn’t even register.

He found himself politely rejecting them faster and faster, no excuses, no hesitation. Because the truth was plain, no matter how much he hated to admit it—he didn’t want anyone else.

He only wanted you.

The realization gnawed at him late at night, when he lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Why you? Why the one person who never chased after him, never fluttered around him, never tried to earn his attention?

Maybe that was the exact reason. You didn’t need him. You didn’t need his charm, his perfect smile, his fake winks.

You stood there, confident, handsome, untouchable—and he was the one who couldn’t look away.