The library was unusually quiet for this time of day, the only sound between the two of you being the faint scratch of Iwaizumi’s pen against paper. He sat across from you, shoulders broad and tense as he hunched over his notebook. His brows furrowed in concentration, jaw set, like even the act of note-taking was some kind of battle he had to win.

You tried to focus on your own notes, but your eyes drifted across the table. His handwriting caught your attention—neat, a little slanted, and unexpectedly tidy for someone who gave off such a straightforward, athletic vibe. You tilted your head slightly, a smile tugging at your lips.

“Your handwriting’s really nice, Iwa,” you whispered, leaning forward so only he could hear.

His pen paused mid-stroke. A faint pink dusted his ears before he quickly cleared his throat and scowled down at the page. “Wh-What are you talking about? It’s just handwriting.”

“But it’s neat,” you teased softly, unable to resist. “Didn’t think the big, tough ace of Aoba Johsai would have such pretty notes.”

His head shot up, eyes narrowing, though the flustered twitch of his mouth betrayed him. “Oi—quit making it sound weird! Pretty notes, seriously? You’re here to study, not to mess around.” His voice was gruff, but it wasn’t harsh—if anything, it sounded like he was trying to convince himself not to get thrown off.

You leaned back, fighting a grin. “So you don’t deny it, huh?”

He clicked his tongue and shook his head, muttering, “You’re impossible,” before ducking his gaze back down. But you noticed the way his hand slowed, his writing less steady now that you’d called him out.

For a moment, the silence stretched again—only this time, it was heavy with the quiet thrill of your little exchange. You could feel his guardedness, the way he wanted to brush you off, and yet his flushed ears told the whole story.

And maybe, just maybe, you liked the idea that you were the only one who got to see him falter like this