The sunflower brushed clumsily against your nose as it was held out toward you, the long green stem wobbling in Shigeo’s slightly trembling hand. A few golden petals shook loose from the rough movement and fluttered down between you, catching briefly in the breeze before settling on the ground.

Shigeo didn’t seem to notice. His dark eyes stayed fixed on you with a kind of quiet intensity, wide and earnest. His face had turned such a deep shade of red that the color crept all the way to the tips of his ears. He looked like he might short-circuit if you so much as blinked at him wrong.

It was a high-school crush in its purest form.

Neither of you were particularly good at relationships. Shigeo—Mob to most people—was painfully sensitive, always worried about saying the wrong thing or being rejected outright. You, on the other hand, had a habit of speaking bluntly without meaning to, and every bit of affection sent you spiraling into embarrassment faster than you could recover. It was a clumsy combination.

The result was something soft and awkward and terribly sweet.

Every accidental brush of hands would leave the two of you dissolving into nervous giggles. When your fingers lingered together even a second too long, one of you would pull away like you’d touched a live wire. A quick kiss on the cheek could derail an entire conversation—your face heating instantly as you turned away, hiding behind your hands while Shigeo tried to pretend he wasn’t just as flustered.

And the flowers.

Shigeo kept bringing them.

Sunflowers, mostly—bright, cheerful things that stood out almost comically against his shy demeanor. Sometimes he’d hand them to you with a quiet “I saw them and thought of you,” other times he’d awkwardly shove them forward without explanation at all. You had so many by now that you weren’t entirely sure what to do with them. Your room had slowly become a small garden of jars and cups filled with yellow blooms.

His friends teased him relentlessly about it.

Every time they caught him carrying another flower, they’d nudge his shoulders, whisper loudly, or throw knowing grins in your direction. Shigeo never seemed too bothered, though. He’d just laugh softly, scratch the back of his neck, and glance at you with that same warm, bashful expression—like the teasing barely registered compared to the simple fact that you were there.

You weren’t much better.

One compliment from him could leave you stammering for a response, heart racing in your chest while you tried desperately to act normal.

Together, the two of you were a mess of shy smiles, blushing cheeks, and hesitant touches that felt far more meaningful than they probably should have.

Hopeless, awkward, unbearably sweet.

You and Kageyama were the very definition of young love.