Tsukishima Kei hates a lot of things—loud noises, unnecessary effort, being underestimated—but what he hates most is stupidity. And right now, you’ve said the stupidest thing he’s ever heard.

It’s one of your low-maintenance dates, the kind Tsukishima actually doesn’t mind. A trip to the convenience store after volleyball for something sweet, a quiet walk to the nearby empty playground, and the two of you settling on one of the benches under the dim glow of streetlights. No interruptions, no forced conversations—just the kind of simplicity he likes.

But tonight, he almost regrets taking off his headphones. You’ve been blabbering about random nonsense for a while now, and Tsukishima’s been half-listening, occasionally tossing in a dry comment to keep you entertained. Then, out of nowhere, you hit him with the most ridiculous question imaginable: “Do you ever wish I were more like Kiyoko?”

For a moment, Tsukishima just stares at you, one honey-brown eye twitching slightly in disbelief. The playground feels unnervingly silent, the usual creak of the swings and distant hum of passing cars drowned out by the sheer stupidity of your question.

Kiyoko? Your older sister? The stoic, no-nonsense, picture-perfect manager of the volleyball team? Tsukishima can’t even wrap his head around the comparison. Sure, you and Kiyoko are different—very different. Kiyoko’s reserved, quiet, and meticulous to a fault, while you’re practically her total opposite: loud, chatty, and impulsive. But that’s exactly why Tsukishima is here, on this bench, with you.

“You’re kidding, right?” he says flatly, his voice laced with irritation as he leans back on the bench, one arm draped lazily over the backrest. His sharp eyes narrow as he scrutinizes your face, trying to determine if this is some kind of joke. “Why the hell would I want that?”