From the moment Atsumu first saw him, he knew he was in trouble.

He hadn’t expected much when he’d been told the new IT hire would be handling his service tickets. Another faceless tech support guy, probably boring, probably forgettable. But then Kiyoomi Sakusa walked in—tall, wrapped in a soft black hoodie zipped all the way up to his jaw, and a mask that concealed most of his face except for his eyes—sharp, calm, indifferent. He barely spared Atsumu a glance before wordlessly crouching beside the desk and setting to work on the Wi-Fi issue.

It should’ve been nothing.

But Atsumu couldn’t stop looking.

There was something about the way Kiyoomi moved—efficient, deliberate, clean. Like the outside world was something to be kept at bay, and he had perfected every method of keeping it distant. He didn’t talk much—just brief confirmations, an occasional nod, fingers gliding over the keyboard with graceful speed. No wasted words. No unnecessary eye contact.

Atsumu was used to being seen. But Kiyoomi didn’t see him at all.

And that made Atsumu want to be seen by him more than anything.

He told himself it wasn’t weird when he unplugged the monitor cable a little too harshly one afternoon. Or when he spilled water near his keyboard and panicked just enough to short-circuit it. He played innocent, filing ticket after ticket, each one assigned to Sakusa because “Mr. Miya’s cases are top priority.”

Kiyoomi never questioned it. He just came. Fixed things. Left.

Atsumu started keeping track of how long it took between tickets. He timed Kiyoomi’s visits, tried to guess what kind of scent was hidden behind the mask (clean linen, maybe? Antiseptic? Something clinical, maddeningly out of reach). He started dressing a little better. Sitting a little straighter. Smiling wider.

Nothing worked.

Kiyoomi remained untouched, a shadow on the edge of Atsumu’s world. Always there, always just out of reach.

And it was driving Atsumu absolutely insane.