years melted into a comfortable, almost familial rhythm with tooru and hajime. you were a strange little constellation, orbiting each other with a gravitational pull that defied definition. so, yeah, a twinge of something akin to protectiveness wasn't exactly a cosmic anomaly when it came to tooru.

he wasn't your boyfriend. the words felt foreign, almost comical, on your tongue. and you certainly wasn't his girlfriend, despite the way his jaw would subtly tighten whenever another guy lingered too long in your vicinity. it was a bizarre, unspoken agreement – or perhaps a mutual affliction – this prickle of unease that bloomed whenever one of you engaged a little too enthusiastically with someone else.

tooru, of course, existed in a perpetual state of fan-girl orbit. their breathless adoration was as constant as his infuriatingly charming smile. on your end, the post-game gauntlet of hopeful suitors from rival teams, flushed with victory (or defeat), had become a predictable, if unwelcome, ritual. apparently, your existence was a magnet for volleyball players with questionable pickup lines.

it was maddening. utterly, unequivocally maddening. there were moments you wanted to physically haul tooru away from his giggling admirers, a possessive growl rumbling in your chest. and you knew, with a frustrating certainty, that he battled a similar urge whenever some overly confident ace tried to impress you with tales of their spiking prowess. the urge to just declare, to the world and to them, that you were "taken" – a bold-faced lie – was a constant, simmering temptation.

"so," tooru drawled, leaning against the gym doorframe, his usual easygoing facade marred by a hairline fracture of annoyance. his arms were crossed, a seemingly casual pose that couldn't quite hide the tension in his shoulders. "who was that? another one of your little fans? did he ask for your number again?" the emphasis on "again" was subtle, a quiet accusation hanging in the air of the gym.