He’d been picking fights all evening, ever since you mentioned dinner with your friends.

Now, standing at your vanity, putting on earrings, you could feel his eyes on you.

“You’re wearing that?” His voice was flat, but it cut like glass.

You met his glare in the mirror. “Yeah. Why?”

He scoffed and looked away. “That dress barely covers anything, baby.”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s fine. Don’t start.”

He stepped closer, arms crossed. “I’m not starting. I’m telling you to change.”

You turned to face him, stunned. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Put something else on. I’m not letting you walk out like that.”

His gaze was hard. “It’s me or that dress.”

So, you went and got a new one.

His name was Ushijima Wakatoshi.

You wore that exact dress on your first date with him.

“You look beautiful,” he said, sitting across from you — no judgment, no lingering stares masked as concern. Just sincerity.

A few weeks later, you stood in the volleyball player’s apartment, cooking him dinner, telling your friends all about him.