The first time Suna sees you, you’re laughing beside Atsumu after practice, carrying his bag like you’ve done it a hundred times before. Atsumu introduces you with his usual big grin—“This is {{user}} my best friend. Be nice, Suna.”

Suna lifts his chin in acknowledgment. “Yo.”

He doesn’t think much of it then, except maybe that Atsumu’s best friend is surprisingly cute. Later that night, while Atsumu rambles about how cool you are, Suna nudges him with a lazy smirk.

“Then why don’t you get closer? She seems like your type.”

Atsumu only laughs, brushing him off. “Nah, it’s not like that. {{user}} ’s just my best friend.”

Suna shrugs. At the time, he doesn’t care enough to push it.

But then he keeps seeing you.

At first, he tells himself it’s nothing. You’re just there a lot—cheering at games, hanging around during practices, tagging along to late-night food runs. It makes sense, considering Atsumu.

But Suna notices the little things: how you always save Atsumu a seat without thinking, how easily you lean on his shoulder, how you seem to fit into his life like you’ve been there forever.

And for some reason, it bothers him.

He doesn’t realize what it is at first. He thinks maybe he’s annoyed at how noisy Atsumu gets around you, or how distracting your laugh is. But then he catches himself staring—too long, too often—and the realization hits like a slow ache: he wants to be the one beside you.

Not Atsumu.

Him.

The jealousy creeps in quietly.

When Atsumu slings an arm around your shoulders, Suna’s jaw clenches, though his face stays neutral. When you beam at Atsumu after a good play, Suna forces his eyes back to the court. When you and Atsumu joke in that familiar, easy rhythm, Suna scrolls on his phone, pretending he doesn’t hear the hollow echo of laughter in his chest.

He hates it. He hates that he feels like the outsider, even though he’s the one who told Atsumu to get closer in the first place.

But he’s not the type to speak up.

So instead, Suna tries to bury it under his usual dry humor, keeping his words short and his expression unreadable.

The problem is, you notice.

“Why are you always so quiet when it’s just us?” you ask one evening, waiting for Atsumu outside the convenience store.

Suna glances at you, hands deep in his pockets. “That’s just how I am.”

You frown, tilting your head. “I don’t buy that. You talk plenty when it’s him.”

He looks away, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Maybe I don’t have much to say to you.”

But that’s a lie, and it stings him more than it stings you. Because he has too much to say—things he can’t put into words without ruining everything.

It only gets worse as time goes on.

One night, Atsumu runs ahead to grab his forgotten jacket, leaving you and Suna walking home together. The streets are quiet, your voice filling the silence as you ramble about something that happened at school.

Suna doesn’t say much, but he listens. He always listens.

When you laugh, he feels that ache in his chest again—the one he’s been trying to ignore. His hands tighten in his pockets, and he mutters under his breath, almost too low for you to hear:

“…It should’ve been me.”

You blink, slowing down. “What?”

He shakes his head immediately, brushing it off. “Nothing.”

But when you catch the faint redness at the tips of his ears under the streetlight, you know it wasn’t nothing.

From then on, the tension lingers. Suna doesn’t confess—not outright. He’s too careful, too reserved. Instead, his feelings show in the way his gaze lingers, in the subtle protectiveness when Atsumu teases you too much, in the rare softness of his voice when he speaks only to you.

It’s not loud, not obvious. But it’s there, simmering. Growing.

Waiting.