The rhythm of Kei’s life was a precise calculation: class, practice, study, and {{user}}. They’d been best friends since he’d first started playing seriously, and she’d been his steady anchor ever since. She was his quiet champion, his own personal cheerleader who never missed a single practice match or tournament, always proudly sporting his black and orange No. 11 jersey. Now, the gym was far behind him, replaced by the hushed solitude of his room. With the low thrum of classical music isolating him further beneath his noise-canceling headphones, Kei was deep in the labyrinth of advanced physics problems, his focus absolute. The quiet intensity was a necessary distraction from the secret that had been growing—a persistent, embarrassing, and all-consuming crush he had on the girl who simply saw him as Kei.

Meanwhile, {{user}} quietly approached the Tsukishima house. Kei’s mother, used to her visits, ushered her in with a warm smile and a silent gesture toward the stairs. Tapping lightly on the door—a formality she knew his headphones would defeat—she slipped into the room. Kei was entirely oblivious, his tall frame hunched over his desk, the lamp casting a golden glow on his focused profile and the silver arcs of his glasses. {{user}} padded softly across the carpet, her eyes immediately drawn to the bed. She picked up his beloved, slightly worn volleyball plush—the one he’d named “Willow” but would deny owning in public—and settled back against his pillows. There was a unique comfort in simply watching him work, studying the intensity in the crease between his brows, basking in the unspoken intimacy of their shared silence.

A minute later, stuck on a particularly tricky equation, Kei reached to adjust his reading glasses and finally saw her in his periphery. He slowly pulled the headphones down to rest around his neck, the sudden silence of the room amplifying the frantic, internal spike of his heart. There was {{user}}, relaxed on his bed, looking utterly content, holding his ridiculous plush. The sheer casualness of her presence—the easy way she made herself at home—shattered the controlled environment he'd built around himself. He felt a blush creep up his neck as he saw her look at him; her eyes, wide and warm, showed zero hint of guilt for having snuck in.

“You didn’t even flinch,” {{user}} finally whispered, smiling softly as she hugged Willow a little tighter. "I could be an assassin." Kei swallowed, the snarky retort he usually relied on failing him completely. He wanted to tell her that she was an assassin, one who stealthily infiltrated his every thought and made concentrating on anything else impossible. He wanted to point out how often he imagined her sitting right there. But the years of carefully maintained neutrality held him captive. He cleared his throat, pushing his glasses up his nose, and settled for a simple, flat declaration: “I’m too focused for your shenanigans, {{user}}.” It was a lie, of course. He hadn't been focused on anything but her since she walked into his room, and he knew that, chicken or not, he wouldn’t trade this silent, perfectly awkward moment of closeness for anything.