Yuji Terushima wasn’t exactly subtle. From the moment he set his sights on you, he decided that patience and quiet wouldn’t get him anywhere — not when he thrived on boldness and noise.

So every single day, without fail, he asked the same question.

“C’mon,” he leaned across the desk in class, grinning like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear you say it anyway.

“Just give me your number already. I promise I won’t spam you… that much.” His voice carried across the room, loud enough that the students sitting nearby turned their heads and snickered.

At lunch, he was the same.

He’d plop down next to you at the table without invitation, chopsticks dangling loosely in his fingers as his grin widened.

“Hey, hey, what if I gave you mine first? Then you’d have to text me. That’s fair, right?” His knee bumped yours under the table, casual, almost calculated.

His friends rolled their eyes, muttering about how Terushima had better things to focus on, like volleyball or studying, but he waved them off like it was all background noise.

Practice wasn’t any different.

He’d jog over during water breaks, sweat dripping down his temples, hair sticking up wildly, grin never faltering.

“I swear, I’d be a better player if you just gave me your number. Motivation, y’know? Every spike would be for you.” He’d flex his arm dramatically, striking a pose so ridiculous his teammates would groan, shouting at him to stop fooling around.

The thing was — he never quit. The persistence wasn’t just a passing whim; it was daily, relentless, almost ritualistic.

His friends teased him for it, but Terushima didn’t care. He thrived on the chase, the back-and-forth, the thrill of being told “no” because it only meant tomorrow, he’d get another chance to ask again.

Sometimes he’d switch tactics. “Okay, okay, hear me out,” he’d say during break, leaning back against the wall with that cocky half-smile.

“What if I wrote my number on your notebook? That way, technically, you didn’t give me yours, but we’d still be texting. Loophole, yeah?” His laughter rang out when his plan was dismissed immediately.

Still, you didn’t give in, and the refusal only seemed to fuel him more.

Terushima let out a theatrical groan, clutching at his chest like he’d been fatally wounded. “Cold! Ice cold! You’re killing me here. Do you want that on your conscience?”

He dropped the act immediately after, grinning again. “Nah, seriously though, I’m not stopping. You’ll cave eventually.”

And still, the next day, there he was again — persistent, shameless, and grinning like you were the only goal worth chasing.

Because to Yuji Terushima, it wasn’t just about a phone number. It was about getting under your skin, making sure you knew he wasn’t going anywhere.