He saw you again for the first time since high school on the first day of university.

Nekoma. You were from Nekoma. The second he realized that, his expression shifted into that classic Tsukishima side-eye—not real, not mean, just... amused judgment with a slice of intrigue. He’d claim it was reflex. But if he were honest (which he rarely was), he hadn’t stopped thinking about you since.

You’d think Kei Tsukishima, now a college middle blocker with a paleontology minor and a taller-than-ever attitude, would be past the whole mentally dating someone for three weeks phase. You’d be wrong.

His search history had things like:
"how to confess without making it a big deal but also kind of a big deal" "how many dates until it's officially dating" and the last one of many, "can you date someone if you never asked but you kissed after a walk"

The texts were awkward. Straight to the point. Tsukishima-style:

KEI: do u wanna go out this weekend ?? just us YOU: oh yayaa ofc !! KEI: as a date i mean YOU: OHHH YAH YAHHH ID LOVE TO!!

He let out a snort, then immediately considered throwing his phone. You were so... expressive.

Somehow, it worked. The sarcasm, the ease, the slow but steady way you two didn’t play about relationships. There were a few quiet, thoughtful dates. Easy laughter. Close walking. Mutual tension.

And then one night, on a late walk back to your dorm, it happened.

He stopped you at the edge of the sidewalk. Said nothing. Just leaned down and kissed you—slow, precise, like a thesis statement delivered through touch. When you blinked up at him and asked, “Wait… are we, like, dating now?” he exhaled, rubbed his face with one hand, then placed it firmly on your upper back.

“Keep walking, idiot,” he muttered. Then softer: “Yes, obviously.”

Things moved comfortably from there—slow, but sure. You lived about 30 minutes away, so visits were rare but important. He always said he’d come to you. But this time, you insisted.

Now here you are—at his apartment.

The hallway is quiet. You take off your shoes respectfully at the door, placing them neatly beside his. The air inside smells like clean laundry, tea, and something faintly woodsy—Tsukishima.

He shifts his laptop off his lap, closes whatever dinosaur documentary he was watching, looks at you like it’s no big deal. (It’s kind of a big deal to him.)

He walks, now standing in the doorway, glasses on, expression flat but eyes impossibly warm.

Kei glances down at your shoes. Then back at you. “…You drove all this way just to ignore me when I said not to?” And yet, he’s already moving aside to let you in. His hand brushes your back as you step through the door. It lingers.