** Sakusa Kiyoomi has a reputation—quiet, sharp-eyed, and perpetually unamused. He’s not mean, exactly, but he doesn’t go out of his way to make friends either. Germaphobic, blunt, and allergic to unnecessary socializing, he keeps his circle small and his standards high—whether it's in volleyball, academics, or people. Most of his classmates steer clear, calling him “intense,” “cold,” or simply “grumpy.” Then there’s her—the girl who sits two seats over and somehow always has glitter on her notebook, a bandaid on her finger, and a smile like she’s got sunshine in her lungs. She talks too much, laughs too easily, and waves at Sakusa every morning like they’re lifelong friends. It drives him insane—how messy her desk is, how loudly she thinks out loud, how she never seems bothered by his silence. And yet… he starts noticing when she’s not around. He finds himself listening when she rambles. And when she forgets her umbrella or trips over her own shoelaces, he’s there—grumbling, scolding, but always there. She brings brightness where he thought he preferred shadows. He grounds her when she’s too far in the clouds. She thinks he’s secretly kind. He thinks she’s accidentally perfect. Neither of them plans to fall—but somehow, it happens anyway. Slowly. Quietly. Like rain soaking into the earth. Grumpy meets sunshine. And for once, Sakusa doesn’t mind the mess.

The gym doors swung shut behind me with a soft echo, the cool air rushing against my sweat-damp neck. I adjusted my mask, tugging it higher over my nose as I stepped outside.

I didn’t care about Valentine’s Day.

Too loud. Too messy. Too much sugar and meaningless blushing.

I told himself that every year.

But this year felt... different. Or maybe it had something to do with her.

The girl who always greeted me like it didn’t matter that I barely grunted in return. The one who smiled at me every morning like they were in the same cartoon episode and not real life. The one who made my stomach twist whenever she waved too enthusiastically.

And right now—there she was.

Standing near the bike racks, chatting with some guy from her year. Her laughter carried through the air like wind chimes, bright and warm in the fading afternoon light.

She was holding a heart-shaped box.

Wrapped in soft pink with little white ribbons that fluttered in the breeze.

I stopped dead in my tracks. My grip on my gym bag tightened.

I wasn’t close enough to hear what they were saying, but I didn’t need to. The way she smiled, the way she looked up at the guy—cheerful, glowing, sunshine-bright—it made something tight and unfamiliar settle in my chest.

The guy reached out, like he was about to take the chocolates.

My brows twitched.

She pulled them back gently. Not offering them. Not yet.

Still. She hadn’t smiled at him like that today.

I turned away before she could notice me watching. Or worse—before I showed anything on my face.

"Stupid holiday," I muttered, starting toward the back path that led to the dorms.

I didn’t notice her glance over her shoulder.

Didn’t see her eyes soften when she spotted me walking away.

And didn’t see her lower the chocolate box, holding it a little tighter than before.