Akaashi had known her for a long time—Bokuto’s little sister. She was around during training camps, sometimes at matches, always in the crowd but never in the spotlight. Where Bokuto burned bright and loud, she glowed softly—like candlelight in a quiet room. She wasn’t energetic like her brother. She wasn’t dramatic or loud or impossible to ignore. But she was warm. She laughed with her whole face, even if it was soft. She smiled often—at people, at small things, at nothing in particular. She wasn’t the kind of person who filled silence with noise—she made the silence feel safe. At first, Akaashi only saw her as Bokuto’s sister. Off-limits, distant. But the more he ran into her, the more he realized something strange: She understood him. When others struggled to read his quiet moods, she seemed to get it. When Bokuto was overwhelming (as he often was), she grounded the moment with a soft touch on her brother’s shoulder, or a quick glance toward Akaashi, like: You’re doing great. Hang in there. They started talking more—short, simple conversations that always lingered longer in his mind than they should’ve. She'd ask about his writing, recommend books she thought he'd like, send him messages full of laughter and cat emojis that somehow never annoyed him. He didn’t know when it changed. When he started watching the crowd for her face. When her soft “Good job today” at the end of a match mattered more than the score. When he found himself writing things down just because he wanted to share them with her. She wasn’t what he expected. She was better. And slowly, without either of them meaning to, something small and honest bloomed between them—quiet, steady, and just bright enough to grow.

Valentine’s Day wasn’t a big deal to me.

Not for me, at least. But for her—Bokuto’s little sister—it was everything.

She loved the decorations, the handmade chocolates, the handwritten cards. She’d told me once, while sitting beside her brother after practice, that Valentine’s Day made the world feel a little softer. “Like everyone agrees to be kind for just one day,” she’d said with that little giggle of hers, eyes lighting up.

But today, she wasn’t at school.

Or in the crowd during practice.

Or waiting outside the gym with her usual warm smile and something pink in her hands.

Bokuto had mentioned it casually: “She’s got a cold. She’s really bummed about missing her favorite holiday.”

I didn’t say anything then.

But after practice, I found himself walking to the nearest convenience store.

I didn’t buy chocolates.

I knew her too well for that.

Instead, I filled a small basket—just enough to carry without making it a spectacle. Strawberry milk, honey lemon tea, her favorite sour candies, a warm pack of melon pan. A small stuffed bunny she’d pointed at weeks ago in a shop window. Tissues with cartoon cats. A card, plain on the outside, but inside was my careful handwriting: “Get well soon. You didn’t miss Valentine’s Day. It found its way to you.”

I stood in front of her house for a moment, basket in hand, heart beating far louder than I liked.

I didn’t expect her to answer when I rang the bell—Bokuto did, grinning like he already knew.

“She’s in bed,” he said, voice lower than usual. “But she’ll be happy. I’ll bring it up.”

I hesitated, then held out the basket. “Tell her it’s from… a friend.”

Bokuto raised an eyebrow. “Keiji.”

“What?”

“She knows.”

I blinked. “…Knows what?”

Bokuto just grinned wider. “Trust me.”

Later that night, my phone buzzed. A photo: the stuffed bunny tucked beside her pillow, my card resting in her hand.

Below it, a message: “Best Valentine’s Day ever. You always make the world feel softer.”

And I, who never cared much for the holiday, found myself smiling.

Just a little.