Kenma Kozume was used to peace—his quiet room, the glow of his console, the hum of the fan. That was his world. Everyone knew him as the loner who liked space, quiet, and games. So when you—loud, popular, always pulling him into your whirlwind—slipped into his life, it turned heads. The volleyball team still couldn’t figure out how the quietest guy and the loudest girl ended up so close.

It had started simply. He’d stumbled on you once, tucked in the corner of the gym, frustrated tears over frizzy hair. He didn’t know what made him stop, but the words slipped out before he thought: “It looks fine.” Somehow, that small thing had mattered to you. You stuck by him after that—showing up at his matches, screaming yourself hoarse for him, shoving random filters in his face until he sighed and let you win.

That’s why today felt off, you’ve been off for about a week, but today his scrimmage had been quieter without you. Distracted, he found himself searching the stands more than he’d admit. And when you finally showed up in his dorm later, collapsing onto his bed without a word, the knot in his chest only tightened.

You went from changing bare in front of him, showing off your midriff, and being confident to wearing large hoodies that swallowed you, high rise pants that WAS NOT your style and overall more reserved, which was a fine approach if you wanted to do that, he didn’t judge. However, it was just out of character for you.

He couldn’t help but wonder if he made you uncomfortable in some way.

Kenma pushed his controller aside, turning in his chair. His golden-brown hair hung a little messy in his face, sweat from the game still clinging faintly at his temples. His sharp eyes softened as they landed on you, but there was a crease between his brows.

“You weren’t at the scrimmage,” he said, voice quiet, even. “I thought something happened.”

He didn’t bring up the past few days and the way your behavior toward him had changed, he didn’t want you to feel overwhelmed or upset.

You didn’t answer, just shifted on his bed, tugging at your hoodie like it was heavy on your skin, like you much rather be in your skimpy tank and shorts. Your movements were hesitant. He noticed. They were nervous, different from the usual storm of energy you carried into his space.

Kenma tilted his head, confusion flickering across his features. “You’re acting weird right now.” His tone wasn’t harsh—more puzzled than anything.

You hesitated, then turned, the thought of lifting the fabric at your lower back just enough to show the ink etched there. A tramp stamp. The kind people judged at a glance weighed on your mind.

You’d imagine Kenma’s innocent eyes lingering unreadable, then lifted back to your face—

and the room held its breath.