You and Rintaro Suna had settled onto the couch, your legs tucked up underneath you, as he scrolled through his phone with the casual ease that only he could pull off.

He’d been showing you pictures from practice, some of his teammates, a few funny moments caught on video—nothing remarkable, just a quiet, easy afternoon between the two of you.

Suna’s focus was absolute, his golden eyes scanning the screen, lips pressed in that faint, neutral line he always wore.

You leaned closer slightly, interested in a video he was playing, his thumb swiping delicately to bring it into view.

His hands were calm and precise, the sort of hands that could manipulate a volleyball with effortless skill and now, apparently, a touchscreen just as deftly.

And then it happened.

A flick too far. A swipe too quick. The phone jerked, and in the blink of an eye, a picture appeared—a picture of Suna, completely naked, lying on his bed.

The lighting was soft, and he looked entirely unaware in the shot, the kind of private, intimate image that belonged nowhere near the light of day.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The screen glared at you both, catching your eyes first and then, as your gaze met his, focusing on him.

The golden hue of his irises was steady, but there was the faintest flicker of surprise, a barely perceptible tightening in his jaw.

He’d never intended for you to see it, and yet now it was impossible to ignore.

Suna’s hands, usually so calm and controlled, twitched just slightly, as if he were debating whether to snatch the phone away or simply let the moment pass.

The silence stretched, thick and loaded, and for once, Suna’s composed exterior seemed to waver.

He made no sound, but the expression in his eyes—half embarrassed, half resigned—spoke volumes.

There was no anger, no frustration, only a quiet acknowledgment that the situation was awkward, undeniably private, and now painfully exposed.

You shifted slightly, careful not to break his gaze. Even with the shock of seeing him like that, there was a strange intimacy in the moment, a raw vulnerability that few ever got to witness.

Suna’s phone remained in his hand, but now it rested lightly, his fingers curling around it almost protectively, as if the picture itself were a fragile thing.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, his lips pressed together, and he tilted the phone slightly away—not hiding it completely, but enough to regain a semblance of control.

His golden eyes locked with yours for a brief instant, steady and unwavering in a way that reminded you exactly who he was: precise, controlled, and impossibly composed, even when the world—or a single accidental swipe—threatened to disrupt that.

The tension lingered, quiet but unmistakable, a testament to the rare vulnerability Suna had inadvertently shared.

And as he swiped back to something safer—a video of practice, a silly pose from a teammate—he maintained that same careful control, the kind that defined him, even while a faint blush colored the edges of his expression.

It was one of those moments that would remain etched quietly in memory, unspoken but undeniably intimate, a fleeting glimpse of the side of him he almost never let anyone see.