The locker room was warm and buzzing with the usual after-practice energy—sneakers squeaking against the polished floor, towels tossed over shoulders, and the faint smell of sweat mixed with sports drinks hanging in the air.

You were rummaging through your bag, searching for your headphones so you could finally listen to your music and unwind after a long day.

That’s when you noticed it: the small pouch was missing, and a familiar set of bulky earbuds you loved were gone.

You looked up, and there he was. Taketora Yamamoto, trying—and failing miserably—to look casual.

His hands were stuffed into his pockets, his usual confident grin plastered on, but there was a faint twitch in his eyes that betrayed him. You didn’t need to say a word; you already knew.

“Uh…what headphones?” he started, voice a little too high-pitched, tone a fraction too fast.

His eyes darted around as if scanning the room for an escape route, but everyone else was preoccupied, leaving just the two of you in this quiet standoff.

You raised an eyebrow. Yamamoto’s grin faltered. “Uh…they…fell out of your bag?” he suggested weakly, gesturing vaguely toward your open backpack. The lie hung in the air like a balloon waiting to pop.

He was terrible at lying.

You crossed your arms, giving him the silent, perfectly patient glare that said, I know, Taketora. He swallowed, and the confidence drained from his posture almost immediately.

The blush began to creep up his neck, spreading to his ears, and his hands fidgeted uncontrollably in his pockets.

“I…uh…” he stammered, trying to recover. “I…maybe…took them? But it was…uh…just for a second! Please don’t be mad! I…can give them back! I’m…uh…so sorry!” His words tumbled out in a rush, a mix of panic and genuine remorse.

You couldn’t help but let out a quiet sigh, part amusement, part exasperation.

Yamamoto’s body language screamed apology—head slightly bowed, shoulders hunched, and eyes wide and earnest. He looked like he might fold in half under the weight of his own guilt.

“Please, I didn’t mean anything bad! I…just wanted to listen…just for a moment! You can have them back! I swear!”

He practically dropped to one knee in his eagerness to show contrition, the blush now fully blooming across his cheeks.

Every desperate hand gesture, every flustered stammer, made it clear: he was completely incapable of maintaining any pretense of innocence.

Finally, you shook your head, unable to hide the small smile tugging at your lips.

Yamamoto’s relief was instantaneous—he practically leapt toward you, hands outstretched, ready to return the headphones immediately.

His voice was soft now, almost reverent. “I…sorry again! I won’t do it again, I promise!” He stayed close, lingering for a moment as if your forgiveness were something tangible he could hold onto.

Even after you retrieved your headphones, he hovered nearby, shifting nervously from foot to foot, eyes darting between you and the bag as if making absolutely sure he hadn’t offended you.

It was classic Yamamoto: boisterous, impulsive, and completely incapable of lying convincingly. And somehow, the mix of flustered panic and earnest apology made it impossible for you to stay mad.