It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

The original plan had been simple: the whole team would be sharing rooms during the away tournament, two players to a room, enough space to avoid stepping on each other’s toes.

But somewhere between the hotel’s overbooked schedule and Coach’s sloppy last-minute arrangements, the reservation system had betrayed you.

When you walked in with Suguru Daishō at your side, you both froze at the sight of the single, double bed waiting in the middle of the small hotel room.

Daishō broke the silence first, of course. He let out a low whistle, hands finding his hips as that sly grin spread across his face.

“Well, well, isn’t this… convenient?” His voice dripped with faux-innocence, but his narrowed eyes flicked toward you knowingly, already teasing.

You ignored him, dropping your bag onto the carpet and muttering something about checking the reservation, but the truth was inescapable.

This was it. One bed.

The hotel was full, the coach wasn’t answering, and unless you planned on sleeping in the hallway, you and Daishō were stuck.

He flopped down onto the mattress like he’d just won the lottery, sprawling across the middle with a theatrical sigh.

“Ahhh, perfect. Firm, good springs. Just big enough for two.” He peeked over at you with a lopsided grin, his hair falling into his eyes. “Guess you’ll just have to deal with me tonight.”

There was no moving him. When you tried to tug at the blanket to claim your own side, he just laughed, rolling onto his side and propping his chin in his hand.

“Don’t look so bothered. I don’t bite.” His grin widened, sharp as a fox’s. “Unless you ask nicely.”

As night fell, the two of you inevitably ended up shoulder-to-shoulder, the double bed smaller than it had first appeared.

Daishō’s usual confidence never waned—he shifted close, his knee brushing yours, his body radiating warmth under the covers.

At first, he made a game of it, bumping into you on “accident,” whispering sarcastic little comments about how you should be grateful for such great company.

But the longer you lay there, the more the noise faded.

The room dimmed, the silence stretched, and Suguru Daishō’s presence felt less like an intrusion and more like a weight you couldn’t ignore.

You could hear his breathing even out, slower, steadier, and when you glanced over, you caught him looking at you with something quieter than his usual grin.

“…Y’know,” he murmured, voice lower now, almost serious, “I don’t mind this. Sharing a bed with you.” His smirk returned faintly, but softer at the edges. “Kinda feels… right.”

And when he finally rolled over, settling into the pillow with his back warm against yours, the teasing stopped.

No more jokes, no more sly remarks. Just the steady sound of Daishō’s breathing filling the room—too close, too intimate, too much to pretend you didn’t feel.

One bed, two people, and the sly grin of Suguru Daishō lingering in the dark long after you’d closed your eyes.