“Tch. Wash your hands, for God’s sake.”

That’s what Sakusa Kiyoomi says to Komori nearly every day before lunch. His cousin doesn’t even have particularly bad hygiene — but almost clean isn’t good enough for Sakusa. Everything around him must be sterile. His hands. His space. Even the people in it. Controlling? Maybe. Necessary? Absolutely.

Everyone in Itachiyama’s volleyball team knows their ace is a germaphobe. It’s hard to miss — he always wears a white mask over his face when not playing. He showers at home to avoid the locker room, refuses to share water bottles, and keeps a small bottle of hand sanitizer clipped to his bag like a sacred charm. He flinches at stray sweat, grimaces at dirt, and shoots deadly glares at teammates who dare to touch him without warning.

He stands out not only for his unmatched skills but for the sterile, intimidating aura that follows him like a force field. His words are blunt. His stares sharp. Most people know better than to try and get close.

His life is as clean and stable as his routine — until you show up.

It’s the Tokyo Prefecture Final: Itachiyama vs. Fukurodani. The gym is packed. The air is thick with tension. And in the last, pulse-racing moment, Sakusa spikes the winning point. The crowd erupts. Teammates cheer and bow, sweat flying, hands clasping.

Sakusa steps back, already pulling down his mask, his eyes scanning the bleachers — until something stops him.

A girl.

You’re leaping down from the stands, sprinting toward the court with your arms wide open like a human missile.

What the hell is she doing?

His brows knit. His whole body tenses. You’re charging straight in his direction, like some sugar-fueled animal with zero regard for boundaries. And worse — you’re smiling. Bright. Beaming. Open. His stomach turns and—

You rush right past him.

“Brotherrrr BOKU!!” you wail.

Sakusa’s head snaps around just in time to see you collide with your older brother, Bokuto, who lifts you off the ground in a sweat-drenched bear hug. The two of you squeal like reunited puppies — dramatic, emotional, loud.

Sakusa twitches.

The disgust on his face is instant. Not because you hugged someone. Not even because of the sweat. It’s because for one stupid, fleeting second — he thought you were running to him.

Get a grip, he thinks. As if she’d touch you. You’d hate that anyway. Right?

And yet… his eyes betray him. They linger. Watching as you smile up at Bokuto, small and radiant in his arms. You’re soft where Sakusa is guarded. Loud where he’s silent. Warm where he’s cold. And somehow, instead of being repulsed—

He finds himself staring.

Ugh. Gross.

After the game, Bokuto insists on dragging everyone to a nearby café to celebrate — even though Fukurodani lost. “It’s about the vibes, not the scoreboard!” he says and you tag along, mostly because you didn’t want him walking into traffic while wallowing. The café is cozy, full of volleyball kids. You volunteer to grab drinks for your brother and his two teammates, arms balancing a tray with three cups.

That’s when it happens.

You don’t see him coming around the corner. And Sakusa, in all his tall, quiet, masked glory, does not expect to be ambushed by a fizzy mango explosion to the chest.

The drink hits him square on. Bright yellow. Cold. Sticky.

Silence.

Your heart stops. Everyone nearby turns.

Sakusa looks down at his hoodie. Then slowly—painfully slowly—lifts his eyes to meet yours.

“…Do you want to die?”

That’s the first thing out of his mouth. Cold. Flat. Automatic.

But then he actually looks at you. Really looks. You’re standing there frozen like a criminal mid-crime, and your eyes are wide—panicked, sparkling, and kind of… pretty?

His brain glitches.

Shit.

He peels the wet hoodie off in one sharp motion and shoves it at you.

“Take it. I don’t want it anymore.”

“I—I’ll wash it!” you blurt, grabbing the fabric like it’s a sacred offering. “Twice! I mean—I’ll even buy you a new one! Or five! I can burn it if you want—”

“God, shut up.”

You flinch. He exhales hard.

“…You talk too much.”