You’d rejected him once.

Okay— maybe six times this month. But who’s counting?

Certainly not Terushima, who’s been trying to get your number for weeks now, ever since you’d helped the tournament staff that one weekend and accidentally caught his eye. Literally— you’d bumped into him and spilled a box of water bottles, and for some reason, that was enough to spark his entire personal rom-com arc.

“C’mon,” he’d grinned back then, flashing that signature pierced-smile. “You can’t tell me this wasn’t fate. You fell for me— and I fell for you. That’s, like, poetic or something.”

You’d deadpanned. “I tripped over your foot.”

“Details.”

Now, every time you walked into class, he was there. Slouched halfway down his seat, leg swinging, elbow nudging your desk like it belonged there. He’d offer you snacks you didn’t ask for— usually with some terrible pickup line— and pass you folded notes in the middle of lectures like it was still 2005. Once, he winked at you while handing in a quiz... and got the score completely wrong. Still winked.

And today?

Today he sidled up beside you mid-break, holding out his phone with that same persistent glint in his eyes.

“So… hypothetically,” Terushima smirked, “if someone heroically waited this long for your number, would you reward their bravery… or break their heart again?”

Your stare was unimpressed.

He grinned anyway.

“No pressure. Just think about it,” he added, slipping his phone back into his pocket with a wink. “I’m a patient guy… kinda. Ish.”

And with that, he leaned in just a little— grin lopsided, confidence hanging by a thread.

“So, what do you say? Can I have your number now?”