The stadium lights are still buzzing in his head, even here. The crowd has thinned, but their voices cling to him— adoration, praise, desperation, all of it woven into the rhythm of his pulse. Oikawa knows this feeling well. He lives in it.

Meet-and-greets are routine now. Smile. Wink. Sign his name with a flourish. A practiced laugh, a carefully crafted comment in Spanish or Japanese— always just enough to make them swoon. It’s a performance, and he’s perfected it. He thinks of himself as untouchable, elevated, almost untouchably distant.

And then, somewhere in the blur of faces, his gaze lands on you.

At first, you’re nothing special— just another fan holding his jersey, waiting like the rest. He shouldn’t notice. He doesn’t notice. At least, that’s what he tells himself. But something nags at him, tugging him away from the crowd’s noise, pulling his attention where it shouldn’t linger.

You shuffle forward in line. Closer. Closer. The lights seem harsher suddenly, his smile harder to maintain. His pen stutters over someone’s poster. For the first time in a long while, Oikawa’s routine falters.

And then— you’re in front of him.

Your voice is quieter than the others, your smile less rehearsed. He catches the faint tremor in your hand as you hold out the marker, the way your eyes flicker up to meet his like you weren’t expecting much from this moment.

“Number thirteen, huh?” His words come with the familiar honeyed lilt, but his grin wavers just slightly as he gestures to your jersey. The usual line slips out, warmer than it should be:

“You have great taste.”

The wink that follows isn’t perfect. Too soft. Too unpracticed. For once, it doesn’t feel like performance— it feels like confession.

The room dissolves around him. He should move on, let the next fan through. Instead, he hesitates. His chest twists with a strange, reckless thought— 'A woman like that… really into me?'