The moment you walked into class that morning with sleepy eyes and a lazy yawn, Hinata knew it was going to be another hard day… trying not to stare.

He was subtle—well, as subtle as Hinata could be—stealing glances from behind his textbook, pretending to check the clock behind you, accidentally turning a little too far in his seat during group discussions.

“Dude,” Kageyama whispered from beside him, not looking up from his notebook. “You’re doing it again.”

“I’m not,” Hinata hissed back, cheeks turning the exact color of his hair.

But he was. And how could he not? You laughed at your friend’s joke in that way that made your nose scrunch just slightly. You answered questions even the teacher didn’t expect anyone to get. You chewed on the end of your pen when you were thinking, and Hinata—he was smitten. Completely. Helplessly.

He didn’t know what he liked more—how smart you were, how calm you always seemed, or how you always told him “good luck!” before volleyball matches like it actually meant something.

He looked down at his notes, realizing he hadn’t written a single word since you entered the room.

Yup. Totally doomed.