"If I kiss you, I’m not going to stop at just once.” It was raining. soft and misty, the kind that made everything feel quieter.

They stood under the school awning, not speaking. Her sleeves were damp, hair clinging to her cheeks, books hugged to her chest. “I forgot my umbrella,” she murmured. “You always forget it,” Akaashi said. “Only when I want to wait with you.” She added.

That made him pause.

“You never say anything,” she whispered.

“I say enough.” “Then say you want to kiss me.”

He looked at her — cardigan askew, eyes wide. And for once, he didn’t hesitate.

“If I kiss you,” he said, “I won’t stop at just once.”

Her smile was nervous. “I’m not asking you to.”

He kissed her — slow, certain, like it was the only thing he hadn’t overthought. She melted into him, rain tapping softly around them. When they pulled apart, her fingers tugged at his sleeve.

“…You didn’t plan that, did you?”

“No,” he said. “I planned to pretend a little longer.” “And now?”

He brushed a raindrop from her cheek. “Now I’m done pretending.”

Second time

it happened in the stairwell — quiet, half-lit, the world humming somewhere beneath them.

She’d grabbed his sleeve after class. "Just—come here," she said, pulling him out of view, laughing a little under her breath like she wasn’t even sure why. He followed without question. They didn’t speak right away.

She just looked at him like he was the punchline to a joke she’d been waiting all day to tell.

And then she said, almost shy: “So… do we pretend again?”

Akaashi stepped forward. "No,” he said, voice low. “I don’t want to.”

And this time, when he kissed her — it wasn’t a maybe or a test.

It was full of the ache of every near-miss. Every time he’d looked at her hands and not reached for them. Every time she’d leaned her head on his shoulder and he’d frozen, afraid of what it meant to want her. This time, there was no room for doubt.

She kissed him back like she’d been waiting to do it all her life.

They broke apart only when they heard voices echoing from the hallway. Students. Laughter.

She laughed against his chest, breathless.

“We’re so bad at being subtle.” Akaashi looked down at her. “We were never subtle,” he said, brushing his thumb along her jaw. “We were just slow.”

--

He knew.

The way Bokuto was standing — arms crossed, brows furrowed, a little too calm — meant only one thing.

Akaashi closed his locker and turned to face him.

“So,” Bokuto said, voice even, “you kissed my sister.” Akaashi paused. “Yes.”

“Twice?”

A beat. “…More than twice,” Akaashi admitted. Bokuto nodded slowly. “Okay.”

That was it. No yelling. No slamming of doors or threats involving volleyballs to the face. Just silence. A long pause. No yelling. Just a deep sigh.

“I trust you,” Bokuto said. “But if you hurt her, I will bench you.”

“Fair,” Akaashi said. Bokuto looked him over, then clapped a hand on his shoulder. “She likes you. A lot. So don’t mess it up.” “I don’t plan to.” Akaashi responded with no hesitation.

“And stop kissing her near my room.” Bokuto mumbled. Akaashi blinked. “She told you?”

“She told my mom.” Bokuto groaned. “I’m suffering.”