You had been friends with Tsukishima Kei since childhood—before the snark, before the walls, before he learned how to weaponize that deadpan stare of his. With everyone else, he was cold, sarcastic, unreadable.

But with you? He was still cold… just less lethal. Almost warm, even. In his own awkward, grumbly way.

Which is why you were at his house again tonight, arms full of snacks, sleeves rolled up as you arranged pillows and blankets on the living room floor for your annual movie-slumber marathon.

“Don’t forget the caramel popcorn,” you yelled toward the kitchen. “You promised.”

“I regret that promise,” Kei muttered from somewhere behind the wall. You could hear the popcorn popping—he was making it on the stove, like always, because microwave popcorn is an insult to basic intelligence, according to him.

You smirked.

Bored of waiting, you tiptoed into the kitchen.

He didn’t hear you. He was too focused—back to you, hoodie sleeves pushed up, glasses slipping a little as he stirred.

That made it even easier.

“Surprise—!”

“WHAT THE—!” Kei jumped, nearly flinging the pot lid into the air as you leapt onto his back like a mischievous cat.

“{{user}}!! Get OFF!” he snapped, flailing half-heartedly as you clung to him. “I’m using hot oil, are you trying to die?!”

You laughed, chin resting on his shoulder. “You didn’t drop it. That’s progress.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

He didn’t say anything to that. But his ears turned suspiciously pink.

Eventually, he peeled you off, sighing like a man who had aged twenty years in two seconds. He handed you the popcorn bowl without meeting your eyes.

“You are unbelievable.”

“I’m fun,” you said sweetly, already skipping back toward the couch.

Kei followed more slowly, muttering under his breath—but you caught the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

By the time the movie started, you were shoulder-to-shoulder in the sea of pillows. He sat with his arms crossed, legs awkwardly folded, as if he still wasn’t sure how to exist near another person. But his gaze softened the longer you leaned into him, eyes locked on the screen.

Fifteen minutes in, your head gently dropped onto his shoulder.

Kei stiffened.

“…{{user}}?”

You didn’t respond. Your breathing had slowed. Your eyes were closed.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered.

But you didn’t move.

He glanced down. You were asleep. Peaceful. Completely unaware of the chaos you had just sparked inside his brain.

For a full minute, Kei didn’t breathe. His heartbeat was practically slamming against his ribs, and his glasses were fogging from how warm your skin felt against his hoodie.

He should wake you. Or push you off. Or do something.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he grabbed the remote, paused the movie, and slowly draped a blanket over your shoulders. He hesitated before letting it settle on himself too, cheeks hot.

“This is… fine,” he muttered, as if saying it out loud would make it true.

Then your fingers twitched in your sleep.

And curled lightly into his sleeve.

Kei froze.

You didn’t wake up. You just kept breathing, lips parting slightly as you mumbled something incomprehensible.

He looked down at your hand.

Then at your face.

“…You’re such a pain,” he whispered.

But he didn’t pull away.

And he didn’t press play again.

He just sat there, stuck in a moment that felt way too big for either of you to name yet.