You weren’t even supposed to be in Miyagi that weekend. A delayed train, a rerouted stop, and a storm that grounded half the country later—and there you were, clutching a cup of vending machine coffee inside a nearly empty bookstore nestled in a quiet corner of the city.

He walked in like a breeze that didn’t belong to the storm outside—hood up, sunglasses on, hoodie just a bit too clean for someone trying to stay low-profile. You barely spared him a glance until you reached for the last copy of a book on display…and his hand landed on it at the same time.

“Ah—sorry!” he said quickly, laughing as he pulled his hand back with a sheepish smile. “You take it. I’ve probably already read it on a flight somewhere.”

You looked up. And he froze.

Not in fear. Not in arrogance. But like he’d just tripped on something invisible.

“…You’re gorgeous.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried with the kind of disarming honesty that made you blink. He laughed again, this time a little flustered. “Sorry. That was…wow. That wasn’t smooth at all.”

He scratched the back of his neck, glancing down at his shoes, then at the book again.

“I guess I’m not as good off the court as I am on it.” It was then that you noticed the duffle bag with the V.League team tag. His height. That annoyingly perfect hair. You’d seen him on posters before, commercials—hell, even passing a billboard near the station.

Toru Oikawa.

But here he was, talking to you like he was just some guy trying to charm a stranger in a bookstore during a rain delay.

He leaned slightly closer, lowering his sunglasses just enough for you to see the warmth in his brown eyes.

“I don’t usually do this,” he said. “I know everyone says that, but I actually mean it. Usually I’m getting tackled by fans or scolded by my coach for smiling too much on camera.”

He smiled again—soft this time. Less performance. More person.

“But today feels like one of those rare moments. Like…maybe I’m supposed to be here. At this exact time. For this exact book. With you.” The rain drummed steadily against the windows. He glanced outside, then back at you.

“If you let me buy you another copy, I’ll let you keep this one,” he said, gently nudging the book closer to you. “And if you’re not too busy after…maybe you can tell me your name.”

He held out his hand—not with the confidence of a celebrity, but the sincerity of someone hoping the moment might turn into something more.

“Deal?”