Maybe you should regret it.

You were just a teenager. Your hormones had a grudge against your dignity. And maybe, just maybe, sending that photo during school hours was crossing a line.

You hadn’t expected him to respond. Worse, you hadn’t expected him to say:

"Volleyball court. After practice."

And now, here you were.

Standing there under the fading sky, heart thumping way too hard, brain replaying every embarrassing decision you’d ever made in chronological order.

You were just about to leave when you heard him.

"Hey, chibi-chan…"

His voice was lazy. Drawled, almost bored. But you heard the smirk under it.

"Thought you weren’t coming. Figured you chickened out or got detention for being a menace."

You turned to see him leaning against the fence, still in his jersey, headphones hooked lazily around his neck, one eyebrow raised like this was all mildly amusing and completely beneath him.

But his eyes—

They weren’t mocking.

Not exactly.

More like… curious.

Testing you.

You rolled your eyes, or tried to, but your mouth betrayed you first — twitching like it wanted to smile, even if your stomach was currently hosting a small emotional apocalypse.

Tsukishima pushed off the fence, walking toward you with that signature slouch, hands in his pockets like he wasn’t at all affected by… well, anything.

He stopped a little too close.

Tilted his head, peering down at you over the rim of his glasses.

“So… what was that?”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

And he knew it.

“Seriously?” he said, voice low now. “You send that and then act like you forgot how to speak?”

You looked away. Your face was burning.

He clicked his tongue. Gave a soft, incredulous laugh.

“Unbelievable. You’re blushing.”

Then, quieter:

“Cute.”

Your heart just about exploded.

He leaned in slightly — not touching you, not yet, just close enough for his voice to wrap around your nerves.

“You gonna keep standing there looking like you regret it? Or are you gonna admit you wanted me to see you like that?”

The way he said it wasn’t crude. It was precise. Measured. Like everything with Tsukishima — a little cruel, a little honest, and way too good at getting under your skin.

And the worst part?

You didn’t regret it.

Not even a little.