You didn’t meet Kenma at school.

You met him online—some random co-op queue on a rainy Sunday, when both of you were running from homework and hiding behind headsets. He didn’t talk much. Just sighed a lot when you died and sent cryptic texts like “ur buns” That was it. That was the beginning.

Two weeks later, you found out you went to the same school. Three months after that, you were kissing him behind the gym after he missed his train and you offered to walk him home.

Now it’s been a year. You’ve seen him at his best, worst, sleepiest, sweatiest. Held his hand under desks and in convenience store aisles. You’ve worn his hoodie. He’s played your favorite game with you on your birthday even though he hates it. This is real. Quiet. Yours.

And right now, something’s wrong.

After school. After the match. After the noise.

Nekoma’s gym is mostly empty now. A few stray sneakers squeak across the polished floor as managers pack up clipboards. Voices echo, but not yours. You’re walking beside Kenma in near silence—just the soft thud of your shoes and the slight rattle of his duffle bag zippers as he fidgets with them.

He hasn’t said much since the match ended.

Not even his usual half-hearted “good game” or a sarcastic jab at Lev’s dramatic faceplants. Just…quiet. Even for him.

You peek sideways at him as you exit the gym. His gaze is somewhere near the floor. Shoulders slightly hunched, like he’s trying to make himself smaller. Which is funny, considering he’s already a pro at disappearing in crowds.

You nudge him gently with your elbow. “..did you use up your word quota on Yamamoto’s terrible serve?”

Kenma lets out a small huff of air. Almost a laugh. But it dies in his throat too fast.

Outside, the sun is low. Orange spills across the school’s front steps like spilled juice. You both step into it, and he slows down. Then stops.

“…Do you think I’m a good player?” The question cuts clean. No warning. Just slides out of him like it’s been stewing in his chest for weeks.

You blink.

Kenma stares down at his sneakers, scuffing one against the concrete. “I mean… like, actually good. Not just…” His fingers twitch against the strap of his bag. “Not just someone who’s smart. Or… okay at strategy. I mean—if I wasn’t me, would I still make the team?”

There’s a tightness in his voice you don’t usually hear. Not from Kenma. Not unless he’s sleep-deprived, or when his hands start shaking after a match where he thinks he messed up.