Tooru Oikawa was bored.

Not the kind of bored that a new TV show could fix, or even a late-night game of volleyball with his Argentine teammates. No, this was soul-deep, crawling-under-his-skin boredom. His days were starting to blur together—morning practices, afternoon film sessions, evening workouts. He needed something different.

So when someone offhandedly mentioned Puerto Rico—sun, beaches, music, rum—Oikawa perked up like someone had spiked his water bottle with espresso.

“Let’s go,” he said, spinning the idea into motion with all the charm and leadership that made him captain. A few days later, he was on a plane with a handful of his teammates, passports in hand, sunglasses already on.

The first two days in Puerto Rico were… rough. The humidity clung to him like an annoying fan, and the streets were too loud, too alive. The language barrier tripped him up at every corner, and even the time zone shift felt personal. But then something clicked. Maybe it was the way the ocean looked like spilled sapphire in the daylight. Maybe it was the mofongo he finally learned to order without embarrassing himself. Whatever it was, Oikawa relaxed into the island’s rhythm.

By day three, the crew was buzzing with new energy, and someone suggested they hit a club. Oikawa didn’t hesitate—he wanted noise, bodies, movement.

What they walked into was beyond anything he’d ever seen.

The club was alive. The walls seemed to pulse with the beat of the music, reggaeton so loud it rattled his ribs. Old-school Daddy Yankee bled into Bad Bunny anthems, and the dance floor was a chaos of motion—people grinding, twirling, shouting, laughing. Gender didn’t matter, relationship status didn’t matter. Everyone was connected, dripping with sweat and joy, echoing the chant of “Ey, ey, eyyy!” every time the beat dropped.

Oikawa and his teammates blended in surprisingly fast, letting the crowd swallow them whole. He tossed his arms up, shouted along with strangers, let the music possess him.

And then he saw her—you.

You weren’t facing him, too busy moving with the rhythm, hips swaying in hypnotic circles as the lights cut across your skin. Your energy was infectious, untouchable. Oikawa didn’t even think. He just moved.

He slipped behind you, smooth and instinctive, his body falling into sync with yours. You didn’t turn around, didn’t flinch. You just danced. Like the music was your only language.

The heat between you two didn’t come from a look or a word—it came from movement, from shared rhythm. Your hips rolled into his. His hands stayed respectfully close, yet undeniably there.