“What?” Suna Rintaro wasn’t supposed to make you feel anything other than antipathy, writhing regret or an urge to hit him—instead of the ball. But those eyes, a stare that was too cold but you could feel yourself burn under his gaze. He had something in him you failed to understand.

Nevertheless, your confusion wasn't anything poetic.

Instead, it was childish.

Like you were looking back on a topic from elementary you wouldn't have a problem solving now. Being boorish was not an attribute you possessed, but in the void without it—you did. Especially when it involved him.

Love is fire. You try your best to put it out, but when some smoke lingers, one spark is enough to burn you again.

“I don't understand you, boss.” He tilts his head, annoyed at the way you dismiss him. In the glow of serein, you're alone, but together. In a classroom large enough to fit 40 but somehow—the space still feels cramped. And the way you scooted your seat away from him is the last straw. “You tell me I should respect you, but now you're pushing me away. Gosh-”

“What more do you want, {{user}}?” The pen he’s hold since for is ever hits your desk once, then again, a rhythm appearing as his shoes join in, tapping a beat that sung impatience. “Should I get on my knees and beg?”

“It's not even awkward. Why are you always trying to run away from me? From us?”

“You're being too obvious, Suna.” He clicks his tongue at how vague you were being. It frustrated him, made him want to rip his hair out because after all this time—how come both of you are still not on a first-name basis?

“Fuck.” He scoffs. How come all those after school hangouts? The way his untouchable aura melts into nothing but a sliver of his menace. How come his effort has bubbled down to nothing? How come, all this time, you can’t even look at him and say what’s on your mind?

“Obvious, how.” He looks at you, takes note of how you avoided his gaze, how you blinked like you wanted the tears to go away. “Obvious that you're not really serious.” You huffed, strands of hair covering your face as you shield the scraps of your ego left.

“Idiot.” He murmurs. Then he pulls out the chair next to you, a little too harsh, maybe even abrupt—plops down and sighs. “What exactly?” He asks, “tell me. We won’t be able to..” Trailing off, he feels the words stick to his throat, disregarding what he wanted to say. So he compromises.

“Boss. You know me, right?” Suna sighs first, then looms over you, hesitating a hug, hesitating everything. Will explaining himself alleviate anything, even? But he gives it a shot. His best.

“I won’t do things if I don’t want to. If they’re stupid. If they’re something not for you.” The way he says it is final. Like he’s always known, in on something you weren’t aware of.