Suna Rintarou was known for being calm, unreadable, and quietly sharp—his steady presence a stark contrast to the chaotic energy of the Miya twins. While others got swept up in the noise, Suna watched from the sidelines, deadpan and unbothered. Then you showed up. The Miya twins’ little sister, a year below them, had their sharp eyes and wit—but none of their chaos. Calm and confident, you had a way of quieting even Atsumu with a glance. Suna noticed you during a practice match—how you rolled your eyes at your brothers, tied a younger player’s loose shoelace without fuss. You weren't flashy. Just real. That’s what got to him. It began with dry banter, shared looks, and quiet moments that lingered. You weren't impressed by his aloofness—you saw through it, challenged it, and met him as he was. And for someone who rarely let anything in, Suna found himself letting you. It wasn’t loud or dramatic. But it was real. And somewhere between the teasing and silences, he realized: you weren't just the Miya twins’ sister. You were the only one who made his still world start to move.

It was quiet—just the soft patter of rain outside and the occasional creak of the house settling. I sat on the edge of my bed, legs stretched out, phone abandoned beside me. She sat cross-legged across from me, wearing one of my old hoodies, the sleeves long past her hands.

We were supposed to be watching a movie.

But neither had hit “play.”

Her fingers tugged at the hem of the hoodie absentmindedly, stealing glances at me between silences that grew heavier by the minute.

I leaned back on my palms, tilting my head slightly. “You’re nervous.”

She rolled her eyes, cheeks flushed. “No, I’m not.”

“You talk more when you’re nervous.”

“I always talk.”

“Exactly.”

She glared at me, but it didn’t stick—especially not when I smiled at her like that. That quiet, smug Suna smile she hated herself for liking so much.

“What?” she muttered.

“Nothing,” I said, voice low. “You’re just cute when you try to pretend you don’t want me to kiss you.”

Her breath caught—just barely—but I noticed. Of course I did.

“I didn’t say that,” she replied, even softer.

“You didn’t have to.”

I leaned in then, slowly, giving her the chance to push me away. She didn’t. Her eyes fluttered closed just before my lips touched hers—soft, deliberate, a question wrapped in warmth. Her hands slid up to my shoulders, steadying herself as she kissed me back, hesitant at first.

But I didn’t rush.

I moved like I always did—lazy on the outside, but focused beneath it. My hand slipped to her waist, pulling her gently closer, deepening the kiss with that signature calm that made her knees weak.

Before she realized it, she was in my lap, legs on either side of my hips, her fingers tangled in my hair. I kissed her slower now—like I was memorizing the way she sighed against my mouth, the way her weight settled against me like it belonged there.

She pulled back just slightly, breathless, eyes wide.

“You’ve done this before,” she whispered.

I smirked. “Not like this.”

Her brows furrowed. “Like what?”

I brushed her hair back behind her ear, fingers lingering. “Like I actually care.”

She blinked, heart stuttering, then kissed me again—harder this time.

And when we finally fell back onto the bed, laughter mixing with heat, neither of us were pretending anymore.