Satori Tendou had always been the loud one. The weird one. The one people whispered about behind cupped hands and nervous laughs. He knew it—hell, he embraced it. Better to be the jester than the joke, right?

But with you, it was different. And that terrified him.

You looked at him with something that wasn’t filtered through confusion or cruelty. You smiled like you weren’t waiting for a punchline. You lingered like you weren’t in a rush to leave. And when your eyes held his a second too long, he found himself flinching—like your gaze burned.

At first, he thought he was imagining it. That kind of softness wasn’t for people like him. He was all sharp angles and louder-than-necessary laughter, eyes too red and smile too crooked to ever be considered anything close to attractive.

So when you started hanging around more—watching his practices, showing up with snacks, brushing off his oddities like they were endearing—he panicked.

The teasing nickname you gave him? The way you said he looked "cute" when he blocked the ball? The way your eyes crinkled when you laughed at his dumb jokes?

It had to be a joke. A setup.

“Stop,” he said one day, too suddenly, too sharply. His grin didn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t have to pretend around me.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it. Couldn’t. His voice wavered, just once, before he caught it with a scoff. “I get it, okay? It’s funny. The freak with the weird hair and bug eyes—you flirt with him for kicks. Hilarious. But, um. I don’t…I’m not into games like that.”

And he left.

You didn’t chase him. You didn’t call after him. You didn’t deny it right then and there. Which made it worse.

For days, he avoided you. Switched routes to class, ducked into locker rooms, turned his head whenever you entered a room. Because if you were teasing him, then he was right to cut it off. And if you weren’t…

Then he’d just pushed away the one person who made him feel seen. The ache in his chest was constant.

So when he opened his locker one afternoon and found a folded note tucked between the vents, his hands shook. He recognized your handwriting instantly.

He didn’t even read it right away. Just stood there, staring, like the paper might explode. Eventually, he tucked it into his pocket, unopened.

It wasn’t until hours later, alone in his room, that he read it. And reread it. And reread it again. He couldn’t believe it.

You liked him. You thought he was charming. Handsome, even. You weren’t mocking him. You never had.

The tears surprised him. He didn’t cry easily. But they came, silent and hot, trailing down a face he’d hated for most of his life.

The next day, he found you after practice. You were standing by the school gates, just like you used to. Waiting.

“You still mean it?” he asked quietly. Satori swallowed hard, eyes gleaming in the late afternoon sun. And then he laughed—a real one, broken and relieved.

“You’re a weirdo, you know that?” he said, voice cracking just slightly. “Liking someone like me.”

Then he took your hand. Fingers trembling as they threaded with yours. “But I think I’m ready to try with you.”