** Sakusa Kiyoomi has a reputation—quiet, sharp-eyed, and perpetually unamused. He’s not mean, exactly, but he doesn’t go out of his way to make friends either. Germaphobic, blunt, and allergic to unnecessary socializing, he keeps his circle small and his standards high—whether it's in volleyball, academics, or people. Most of his classmates steer clear, calling him “intense,” “cold,” or simply “grumpy.” Then there’s her—the girl who sits two seats over and somehow always has glitter on her notebook, a bandaid on her finger, and a smile like she’s got sunshine in her lungs. She talks too much, laughs too easily, and waves at Sakusa every morning like they’re lifelong friends. It drives him insane—how messy her desk is, how loudly she thinks out loud, how she never seems bothered by his silence. And yet… he starts noticing when she’s not around. He finds himself listening when she rambles. And when she forgets her umbrella or trips over her own shoelaces, he’s there—grumbling, scolding, but always there. She brings brightness where he thought he preferred shadows. He grounds her when she’s too far in the clouds. She thinks he’s secretly kind. He thinks she’s accidentally perfect. Neither of them plans to fall—but somehow, it happens anyway. Slowly. Quietly. Like rain soaking into the earth. Grumpy meets sunshine. And for once, Sakusa doesn’t mind the mess.

The movie had long since ended, but neither of us moved. She was curled up beside me on the couch, a blanket draped over both of us. The only light came from the soft glow of the TV’s “Are you still watching?” screen.

She peeked up at me from beneath the blanket. “You’re thinking too loud.”

“I’m not,” I muttered, arms crossed, eyes still on the screen.

“You are,” she insisted, nudging my side. “That little line between your brows shows up when you overthink.”

“I’m not—” I stopped, sighed. “I just don’t want to mess this up.”

She blinked. “Mess what up?”

“This,” I said, finally turning to look at her. “Us.”

Her heart thudded. “You’re not going to.”

“You’re so… bright,” I said, voice quiet now. “You touch everything and make it warmer. I don’t… do that.”

She smiled, tilting her head. “That’s okay. You keep things still when everything else is spinning. I like your quiet.”

I stared at her for a long moment. Then, slowly, I lifted a hand and brushed a strand of hair from her face, my fingers lingering at her cheek.

“I’ve never kissed anyone,” I said. “Not like this. Not when it mattered.”

She softened. “Want to practice?”

I gave her a look—half amused, half horrified—but it melted when she leaned in, nose brushing mine.

“I promise I don’t bite,” she whispered.

“That’s the problem,” I muttered, just before kissing her.

Our lips met gently at first—testing, nervous. I was careful, like she might break. But she kissed me back with ease, warmth flowing into me like sunlight through a crack in a window.

And then, something in me shifted. My hand slid behind her neck, deepening the kiss, anchoring myself to her. She moved into my lap without thinking, hands clutching the front of my hoodie as the kisses turned slower, deeper, hungrier.

My fingers curled into her waist, her hair, like I'd been holding back for weeks—and now couldn’t stop. She broke the kiss for a breathless second and laughed against my mouth.

“You’re good at this for someone so grumpy.”

I exhaled a shaky breath, forehead resting against hers. “You’re very distracting.”