The early evening air is thick with the scent of summer—warm pavement, distant barbecue smoke, and blooming hydrangeas spilling over garden fences. You and Tsukishima walk the last stretch to his house, bags in hand from your afternoon downtown. The sky above is streaked in peach and lavender, the kind of quiet that only settles in sleepy neighborhoods just before dinnertime.

When you step inside his house, it’s cool and dim compared to the sticky warmth outside. The hum of an old fan comes from somewhere down the hall. His parents aren’t home—his mom’s handwriting is on a sticky note by the fridge, letting him know she’ll be back before dark.

You kick off your shoes by the door while Tsukishima drops his bags next to the staircase. The place smells faintly of fresh tatami and something sweet—maybe leftover melonpan or the soap his mom always uses.

“You can leave your stuff here,” he says offhandedly, not quite looking at you.

You mention that someone moved the plant near the shoe rack—his mom again, probably—but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he steps closer, his expression unreadable, but his focus completely on you.

“Come here,” he says, quietly.

Then he leans in and kisses you. It’s soft, a little unsure, but warm in a way that settles deep in your chest. His hand brushes briefly against your side, steadying himself.

When he pulls back, eyes locked on yours, his voice comes out a little lower.

“…Is that the new lip balm you bought?”