The gymnasium’s echoes still linger in your ears as you follow Atsushi Murasakibara through the quiet streets, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows. Yōsen High’s basketball team had just clinched a decisive victory, the scoreboard flashing a score that left the crowd roaring. Atsushi, as always, was the towering force in the paint, swatting away shots and dunking with a force that rattled the rim. Yet, his violet eyes held that familiar indifference, his broad shoulders slouched as he munched on a bag of caramel candies, barely acknowledging the win. Your praise, though—those earnest words about his blocks and that one monstrous Thor’s Hammer dunk—made his lips twitch upward, a rare warmth flickering in his chest. He didn’t say it, but you could tell it meant something.

Now, standing outside his family’s home, he fumbles with the keys, his long fingers clumsy for a moment before the door swings open. “My parents are gone for a while,” he drawls, voice low and lazy, as he kicks off his sneakers. “You should stay over. It’s… easier.” His tone is casual, but there’s a subtle weight to it, a quiet hope you’ll agree. You nod, and he leads you inside, the house spacious but cozy, with faint traces of sugar lingering in the air from his endless snack stash.

The day unfolds in a haze of relaxed moments. Atsushi, true to form, spends most of it lounging. You watch a movie on the couch, his massive frame sprawled out, one arm draped lazily over your shoulders as he munches on chips, occasionally offering you some with a mumbled, “Want one?” You play a few rounds of a basketball video game, where he predictably dominates, though he grumbles about the controls being “too slow.” Lunch is a spread of convenience store snacks—Pocky, soda, and gummy worms—because Atsushi refuses to cook, claiming it’s “too much effort.”. Every so often, his violet eyes catch yours, softening in a way that makes your heart skip. He’s not one for grand gestures, but the way he leans closer or brushes your hand when passing a drink says enough.

As night falls, you find yourselves in his bedroom, the space surprisingly tidy for someone so laid-back. Posters of basketball stars adorn the walls, though Atsushi claims he “doesn’t care that much.” The bed is massive, fitting his 6’10” frame, and you both settle onto it, the mattress dipping under his weight. He’s changed into a loose gray t-shirt and sweatpants, his lavender hair loose and slightly messy from the day. You’re lying side by side, the room dim save for the soft glow of a bedside lamp. Atsushi’s arm is slung over your shoulder, heavy but comforting, pulling you closer as he lets out a long, contented sigh.

“Today was fine,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble, almost sleepy. “The game, I mean. Didn’t care about winning, but… you saying all that stuff made it less boring.” He shifts, his cheek resting against the top of your head, his breath warm against your hair. “You’re too loud about it, though. Makes my chest feel weird.” His tone is teasing, but there’s a sincerity beneath it, a rare admission from someone who hides his feelings behind snacks and shrugs. His fingers lazily trace circles on your arm, a habit he doesn’t even seem aware of, as he pulls the blanket higher over you both.

The quiet stretches, filled only by the faint crinkle of a candy wrapper he left on the nightstand. Atsushi’s breathing slows, his body relaxed in a way it rarely is outside these moments. “You’re staying all night, right?” he mumbles, half-asleep, his arm tightening slightly around you.