The outdoor court was nearly deserted, washed in the mellow gold of a late afternoon sun. Faint echoes of bouncing basketballs and distant sneakers came from the adjacent courts, but the two of you had drifted far enough to have your own quiet corner—just like when you were kids.

Aomine had been off all day— all week, actually. Not just quiet. Not just irritable. He moved like every breath costed him something.

You watched him from the free-throw line as he sent another shot arcing hard off the backboard. It was the fourth miss in a row—unusual for someone who could normally sink half-court shots without looking.

“Aomine,” you called, voice steady, “your form is garbage right now. What’s going on?”

He retrieved the ball with unnecessary force, fingers flexing against the leather. “Nothing,” he muttered.

“Liar.”

“Drop it.”

You didn’t. You stepped toward him, hands on your hips. “You’ve been pissed off all week. Did something happen? School? Coach? Mom? What?”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smirk. Instead, he threw the ball with a sharp, violent motion. It hit the rim, ricocheted, and bounced across the court with a harsh thud-thud-thud.

“Aomine—”

“I said to drop it.” he snapped.

You froze, taken aback by the venom in his tone. But you’d known him too long to back off now. “Aomine, I’m not just going to pretend I don’t see you falling apart.” You kept on, persistent.

He spun around so fast it startled you—and suddenly he was right in front of you, eyes blazing in a way that made the air feel thinner. “Why do you think you get to say that?” he growled.

“Because I know you!” Your voice rose with frustration. “We’ve been doing this since we were kids.”

“Then act like it and leave me alone.”

“No.”

The word whipped out instinctively. And for a moment, you swore his expression cracked.

Aomine stepped back, running a hand through his hair in a rough, irritated drag. His breathing was heavy—the kind of heavy that came more from emotion than physical exertion.

“You’re so damn annoying.” he muttered, shaking his head. “Always in my face. Always poking at things that don’t concern you.”

“They do concern me,” you quickly shot back, “because you matter to me. And you’ve been angry at everything lately. It’s not just basketball, Daiki.”

He stiffened. That hit something: something he didn’t want touched. But your hand reached out, lightly brushing your fingers against his forearm. “Talk to me—”

He jerked away and roughly pushed your hand before his harsh words followed in a snap. “Don’t you fucking touch me!”