The sun had barely started spilling through the windows when you felt a hand close around your wrist.

Oikawa didn’t say a word.

He just pulled you inside the empty classroom, shutting the door behind him. The click of the lock sounded like a secret.

Before you could ask what was going on, his lips were already on yours.

Urgent. Almost desperate.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t a flirty stolen kiss. It was like he needed to confirm with his mouth that you were still here — still his — that you hadn’t replaced him while he was running on three hours of sleep between practices and matches.

When he finally pulled back just a little, breathing hard, his eyes searched yours with a kind of hunger that had nothing to do with romance.

“I didn’t come here to practice,” he murmured. “I just… wanted to see you.”

There it was again. That line he used to justify what he didn’t know how to name. “See you.” As if that were all.

You knew you weren’t dating. He wouldn’t introduce you to his teammates as anything other than “a friend.” His attention was always split between volleyball, expectations, and an insecurity he hid better than anyone.

But you also knew he didn’t kiss just anyone like that.

“You could be with whoever you wanted,” you whispered, part curiosity, part something bitter.

He laughed. That usual cocky, perfect smile of his — like it didn’t hurt.

“I know,” he said smugly.

But then his eyes dropped to your lips, and something shifted. Softer. More real.

“But you’re the only one who doesn’t believe me when I say I’m fine.”