Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You don’t realize how transparent Hitoka can be until tonight.

“Please, just come with me,” she’d begged earlier that week, hands clasped like she was about to pray. “I don’t want to be stuck alone if it’s awkward.”

And somehow, against your better judgment, you agreed.

Which is how you find yourself at a crowded izakaya on a Friday night, the tables sticky with condensation, laughter bouncing off the low ceiling, and Hitoka beaming as she introduces you to the arranged group.

And him.

“Daichi, this is the friend I was telling you about,” Hitoka chirps, gesturing toward you.

You expect a polite nod, maybe a quick hello. Instead, he offers a warm smile that reaches his eyes. Broad-shouldered, relaxed posture, hair just slightly mussed — he’s not what you expected when she said she had a “reliable senior” tagging along.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, voice steady, open.

You smile back, something loosening in your chest.

As the group settles in, chatter fills the table — introductions overlapping, teasing remarks. It should feel intimidating, but Daichi doesn’t let it. He leans in just enough to make sure you’re included, asking simple questions that never feel forced.

At one point, he chuckles and tilts his head toward you. “You know, Hitoka begged me to come tonight so you wouldn’t get stuck with some weirdo.”

You bite back a laugh, leaning closer like you’re sharing a secret. “That’s funny. She begged me to come so she wouldn’t be stuck alone.”

For a moment, it feels like you’re the only two in on the joke. His mouth curves into a grin, his eyes warm. And when you laugh — genuine, unguarded — his gaze lingers, tilting slightly, like the sound surprises him in the best way. He looks down at the menu after a beat, but the moment hangs there, quiet and golden.

The group date rolls on around you: jokes, banter, the occasional not-so-subtle flirtation between others. But your focus drifts. Every time Daichi laughs, low and genuine, you feel it in your chest. Every time his gaze flicks your way, you straighten without meaning to.

That’s when someone suggests a drinking game.

At first, it’s harmless — quick questions, lighthearted dares, playful teasing that has everyone groaning and laughing. You sip along, not wanting to kill the mood, but one of the guys across from you keeps pushing.

“C’mon, it’s your turn again. Don’t chicken out,” he says, sliding another shot your way.

You try to wave him off. “I’ve already had enough, thanks—”

“Just one more,” he insists, grinning in a way that makes your stomach twist.

Hitoka jumps in, her voice a little too bright. “Hey, let’s not push it, okay? We’re all already pretty buzzed—”

But the guy keeps pressing, the table’s energy threatening to turn sharp.

That’s when Daichi leans forward, calm but firm. “I’ll take it.”

The chatter quiets for a second as he pulls the drink toward himself, knocking it back without so much as a wince. He sets the glass down with an easy smile that somehow doesn’t invite argument. “There. The game keeps moving. No problem, right?”

The tension breaks. Laughter bubbles up again, the energy shifting back to playful.

You exhale softly, grateful, and catch Daichi’s gaze across the table. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make it a big deal — just offers a small, reassuring nod before turning his attention back to the game.

And it works. The vibe recovers, no one’s uncomfortable, and the night goes on.

But even as he joins in the laughter, Daichi finds himself thinking about the way your shoulders had stiffened, the way relief softened your face when he stepped in. He tells himself he’s just being polite. Just being a good senior to his underclassmen’s friend. You’re younger, yes — but the way you meet his eyes without flinching, the way your smile lights up when you’re amused, it strikes him harder than he wants to admit.

She’s definitely my type, he realizes. That’s the problem.

By the time the game dies down, plates are empty and the group is slipping into that hazy, full-bellied buzz. Hitoka leans heavily against your side, cheeks flushed pink as she mumbles about being so glad you came.

You laugh, steadying her as everyone gathers their things. “I’ll walk her back,” you offer, looping an arm around her waist.

“Thanks,” Daichi says automatically, standing to help corral the group toward the door. Out on the street, the cool air is sobering, brushing over your skin after the warmth of the izakaya.

Hitoka is already distracted, trying to wave down a cab to share. That leaves a brief pause — just you and Daichi at the curb, the crowd’s noise fading to a dull hum.

“Thanks for earlier,” you say quietly, glancing up at him. “With the drink.”

He shakes his head, brushing it off. “Don’t mention it. I didn’t want the mood to crash, that’s all.”

Still, his gaze lingers a moment longer than it should. You notice, even if he tries not to let it show.

“Well,” you say, adjusting Hitoka’s bag over your shoulder, “guess I’ll see you around?”

Something flickers in his chest at that — the easy way you say it, like you’re already certain you will see him again. He swallows it down, gives a simple nod. “Yeah. See you around.”

You smile once before turning away back to Hitoka, half-carrying her to the cab she managed to get. Daichi watches until you disappear into the night, then exhales, raking a hand through his hair.

The echo of your laugh follows him step for step.

She’s Hitoka’s friend, he reminds himself. Nothing more.

So why does he already hope he’ll see you again?

Chapter Text

Campus is buzzing, the midday rush spilling across the courtyard as students hurry between classes. You’re juggling a stack of books against your hip, weaving through the tide of people, when a familiar voice calls out.

“Hey—need a hand with those?”

You glance up, surprised, and there he is. Sawamura Daichi, looking relaxed in a hoodie and jeans, his hair a little messier than it was at the group date.

You blink. “Daichi?”

He grins, already reaching to take half the books before you can protest. “Thought I recognized you. What are you doing hauling around half the library?”

“Some of us actually study,” you tease, adjusting the strap of your bag.

“Hey, I study plenty,” he shoots back, mock offense softened by the twinkle in his eyes. "Now come on, can’t have you collapsing under the weight of your own textbooks.”

You laugh, the sound carrying easily between you. It shouldn’t feel like anything — just a senior helping out, making a joke. But there’s a warmth in his tone, a steadiness in the way he matches your pace, that makes it feel… different.

As the two of you head toward the academic building, Daichi asks, “So, where’s your next class?”

You tell him, and his brows lift. “That’s mine, too. You’re in there with Hitoka, right?”

You blink, heat creeping up your neck. “Wait—you’ve been in that class this whole time?”

“Sure have,” he says, chuckling at your expression. “Guess I blend into the back row better than I thought.”

“I can’t believe I never noticed,” you mutter, clutching your books tighter. “All this time I thought it was just me and Hitoka drowning in that class together.”

He smirks. “Nah, I’ve been drowning quietly in the back. I pushed it off as long as I could — still can’t figure out where it’s supposed to fit into my major.”

You laugh, a soft little huff. “Exactly! I was starting to think it was just me who didn’t get it. Like… what are we supposed to do with any of this?”

Daichi sighs, dramatic, and shakes his head. “Graduate, apparently.”

That earns him another laugh, brighter this time. “Glad to know I’m not alone.”

“Trust me,” he says, looking over at you with a grin, “you’re definitely not.”

For a moment, your steps fall in sync, the conversation easy, the banter light. And yet, there’s a subtle awareness hanging between you now — something that wasn’t there before.

When you slip into the lecture hall, though, the room is already packed. You and Daichi both scan the rows, but the only open seats are scattered at opposite ends.

“Guess I’ll have to leave you to it,” he says lightly, shifting your books into your arms again. “Can’t exactly fight someone for a chair.”

You smile, even if you’re a little disappointed. “Tragic. I was counting on you to save me from the boredom.”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Tell you what—since we can’t sit together, why don’t we trade numbers? That way, if Hitoka or you ever want to study, we’ve got a way to set it up.”

Your eyes brighten, relief slipping through before you can mask it. “Honestly… that would be great. Having someine who actually understands this stuff might save me.”

Something about the sincerity in your tone makes his chest tighten unexpectedly. He hands you his phone with an easy smile, like it’s no big deal. “Then it’s settled.”

A moment later, your screen lights up with a new contact: Sawamura Daichi.

“Now she can’t say we’re impossible to reach,” he says, tucking his hands into his pockets.

You nod, a grateful smile on your lips. “Thanks, Daichi. Really.”

With that, you weave into the crowded lecture hall, leaving him just outside.

---

Later that evening, Daichi sits at his desk, textbooks open but untouched. His phone rests beside his notes, face-up, the glow of the screen washing pale light over the clutter.

Your name stares back at him from the contacts list. Ordinary. Innocent. Nothing special about it, except that it’s you.

He tells himself he’s only checking to make sure the number saved correctly, only confirming Hitoka hasn’t already created and spammed a group chat. But his thumb hovers too long over the screen, tracing the letters without pressing down.

The memory of your smile slips in uninvited, the way relief had softened your face when you thanked him.

It was nothing. Just a thank-you. Just appreciation for a little help.

Still, he can’t shake the way his chest had tightened, how it had felt almost… good, being the one you looked to.

Daichi scrubs a hand over his face, groaning under his breath. You’re Hitoka’s friend, you're just being polite. Stop thinking about it, it's nothing.

So why does he feel like he’s already in trouble?

---

The next day, you and Hitoka settle into your usual spot in the campus café, books spread between you in the name of studying. In reality, the conversation drifts more toward gossip than coursework.

“So…” Hitoka leans forward, chin propped on her hand, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “I saw you with Daichi yesterday.”

You blink. “Oh, that? We just ran into each other on the way to class.”

“Uh-huh.” She drags out the syllables, eyes sparkling. “And now you magically have his number. Totally normal.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “He was just being nice. You should be thanking him, actually — he only suggested it so you wouldn’t have to do all the work of organizing study sessions.”

Hitoka squints at you, lips twitching like she’s holding back another grin. “Mm-hm. I’m sure that’s the only reason.”

“Yes!” you insist, nudging her foot under the table. “Come on, he’s practically graduating. He’s not looking at me like that.”

“Maybe not,” she concedes, though her tone is suspiciously light. “But if he was, would you even notice?”

Your face warms, and you duck back toward your notes. “Not happening. End of story.”

Hitoka hums in mock defeat, but the sparkle in her eyes says she’s far from convinced.

Later, as you walk back toward your dorm, her teasing circles in your mind no matter how many times you try to shake it off. But if he was, would you even notice?

You sigh, pulling your bag higher on your shoulder. She was exaggerating. Reading into nothing. Daichi was just being helpful. Just a good upperclassman making things easier for you both.

Still, the thought lingers, trailing after you all the way to your door.

Chapter Text

The library table had been claimed for nearly an hour, but progress was minimal at best. Notebooks lay open, pens scattered like fallen soldiers, and a collective weight of indecision hung over your little group.

Hitoka chewed at the end of her pencil, brows furrowed in exaggerated concentration. “It’s been a week,” she sighed dramatically, letting her forehead fall against the table with a dull thunk. “And we still haven’t decided on a theme. We can’t do much before that’s nailed down.”

Hinata groaned and slumped back in his chair. “Maybe I’d have ideas if I had brain food. Seriously, how am I supposed to think when all I’ve had today is vending machine crackers?”

Tsukishima didn’t even look up from his notes. “You’d still be useless on a full stomach.”

You snorted, unable to help yourself. “Maybe the problem isn’t hunger, maybe it’s your one brain cell trying to keep up with the rest of us.”

Hinata gasped, pointing at you in betrayal. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“I am,” you said sweetly, leaning back in your chair. “But I also believe in honesty.”

Hitoka snickered into her sleeve, and even Tsukishima’s mouth twitched before he covered it with the back of his hand.

They were comfortable with each other—that much was obvious. Hitoka could read Hinata’s antics before he even started, and Tsukishima wielded his sarcasm with the kind of ease that came from long practice. You hadn’t been around for all of that, hadn’t built the shorthand they seemed to share so naturally.

But before the thought could drag too deep, Hinata let out another theatrical groan and flopped forward, his arms dangling over the edge of the table like he’d given up on life itself. “I need food. My brain is literally dying.”

Tsukishima didn’t even blink. “Good. Maybe the rest of us can finally think in peace.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “You’d miss him if he was gone.”

Tsukishima’s eyes slid toward you, unimpressed. “Doubtful.”

But Hinata perked right up, pointing at you with sudden energy. “See? She gets it! You all bully me, but she actually cares!”

You grinned. “I said he’d miss you, not me.”

Hitoka laughed so hard she nearly dropped her pencil. “Okay, okay, maybe food is the only way to keep this civil.”

Tsukishima leaned back, expression flat. “Finally, a good idea.”

Which was how the four of you ended up cramming your things back into bags and shuffling out of the library, Hinata practically vibrating with excitement over the prospect of lunch.

The campus buzzed with midday traffic—students spilling across the quad, voices blending into the background hum. Hinata darted ahead, pointing toward the cafeteria like he was leading a charge into battle. Tsukishima followed at his usual, deliberate pace, while you and Hitoka fell into step together.

“He’s always like this,” she said, gesturing at Hinata, who was already complaining about line lengths you hadn’t even reached yet.

“And you still hang out with him,” you teased.

Her smile tilted. “You get used to it.”

You laughed, the sound folding into the rhythm of the group as naturally as if it had always been there.

That was when a familiar figure caught your eye—broad shoulders, dark hair, walking down the steps from the seminar hall with a stack of papers tucked under one arm.

Without thinking, you lifted a hand. “Daichi!”

He looked up at the sound of his name, and his face softened into that steady smile you’d already come to recognize. He shifted the papers in his grip, free hand raising in return.

Hinata, though, stopped dead in his tracks. His head whipped around so fast you worried for his neck, eyes huge as they bounced between you and his captain.

“Wait—wait—you know Daichi?!”

Your cheeks flamed instantly under his shock. “Uh… yeah. Kind of?” You rubbed the back of your neck, painfully aware of Tsukishima’s raised brow and Hitoka’s stifled giggle. “Hitoka introduced us. And then I realized we actually share a class.”

Tsukishima adjusted his glasses, expression caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “So you didn’t realize you were in the same class as him until after you’d met?”

“Hey!” you shot back, defensive. “I always sit with Hitoka, and he sits in the back! How was I supposed to know?”

Hitoka’s giggles only made it worse, her shoulders shaking as she hid her face in her hands.

“Guess I’m not as memorable as I thought,” he teased lightly.

“That’s not what I—” you started, then stopped yourself, flustered. “I just—ugh.”

Hinata either didn’t notice your embarrassment or chose to ignore it, already bouncing again with renewed energy. “Wait, wait, Daichi—you already took this class, right? You and the others? You’ve gotta give us pointers!”

“Others?” you echoed, looking between them.

As if summoned, a bright voice called down from the steps. “Daichi! You ditching us already?”

You turned to see a silver-haired man approaching with an easy grin, a taller one with gentle eyes at his side, and a striking woman following with quiet poise that turned heads as she passed.

Before you could ask, Hitoka leaned in, voice pitched conspiratorially. “That’s Sugawara, Asahi, and Kiyoko. We all went to high school together—with Daichi. Volleyball team.”

The casual way she said it hit harder than you expected. Of course they had history—years of inside jokes, practices, victories, losses—whole seasons of their lives stitched together. The kind of bond you couldn’t fake, the kind you couldn’t just… slip into.

You forced a smile, but the weight of it settled in your chest.

It explained things, though. The way they moved around each other so effortlessly, conversations folding in like threads of the same fabric. And maybe it also explained why Daichi and the others still looked like they could walk onto a court tomorrow and dominate.

Not that you were staring. Obviously not.

You tore your gaze away, pretending to focus on Hinata, who was practically vibrating as Sugawara joined the group. “You’ve gotta tell us everything about this class! Secrets, tips, which assignments are impossible—come on, senpai!”

Sugawara grinned, clearly delighted by the attention. “Oh, we’ve got plenty of stories.”

Asahi gave a sheepish laugh, already shaking his head like he knew where this was going. Kiyoko’s calm gaze swept over the group, landing on Hitoka with a faint but genuine smile that made the girl’s face light up.

By the time you all filed into the cafeteria together, you felt the edges of that earlier twinge pressing at you again. They all moved with such easy familiarity—the way Sugawara teased Hinata without missing a beat, the way Asahi opened doors without needing to be asked, the way Kiyoko’s steady presence seemed to anchor the whole group. It was… comfortable. Seamless.

And you? You laughed at the right moments, smiled when you were supposed to, smothered the little pang in your chest each time you realized you didn’t know the story behind their banter.

The tables filled quickly, and somehow you ended up squeezed between Hitoka and Asahi, across from Hinata and Daichi. Hitoka immediately leaned forward, launching into an animated conversation with Kiyoko at the end of the table, leaving you to fiddle with the edge of your tray.

“You’re in my psych lecture, aren’t you?”

You blinked, startled. Asahi had turned slightly toward you, his expression open, thoughtful.

“I—uh. Yeah,” you said, relief sparking at the recognition. “Mondays and Wednesdays. I usually sit toward the middle.”

His mouth curved into an almost-smile. “That makes sense. I thought I recognized you.”

Something warm loosened in your chest. For a moment, the din of chatter around you softened, and the distance you’d been feeling didn’t seem so sharp.

Across the table, Daichi’s hand stilled briefly on his cup. His eyes flicked toward you, then toward Asahi, before he smoothed his expression back into something neutral.

You didn’t notice. You were too busy telling Asahi about the professor’s habit of going off on tangents and how you weren’t sure if you were supposed to be taking notes on the lecture or the life advice hidden between anecdotes. Asahi chuckled, nodding along like he knew exactly what you meant.

“Honestly, sounds about right,” he said. “He used to go off on tangents in my intro course, too. I think half my notes were just random life quotes.”

You laughed, the sound easing the last of the tension in your shoulders. It wasn’t until Kiyoko’s calm voice threaded through the noise of the table that the conversation shifted.

“You all should think about meeting up once or twice a week,” she suggested, her gaze sweeping the group. “Studying together would probably keep everyone more motivated.”

Hitoka perked up instantly. “Yes! That’s such a good idea. I was going to say the same thing but… you know, it always feels less convincing when it’s just me nagging.”

Hinata slammed his hands down on the table with far too much enthusiasm. “Group study sessions! I’m in!”

Tsukishima rolled his eyes, leaning back in his seat. “You’re just excited because you’ll procrastinate less if someone else forces you to work.”

“I don’t procrastinate!” Hinata shot back.

You grinned, unable to resist. “Hinata, I’ve been in a group project with you for a week. You absolutely procrastinate.”

Hinata’s jaw dropped in mock offense while the table erupted in laughter. Even Tsukishima smirked, tilting his head toward you. “Finally, someone else who gets it.”

You shot him a playful glare. “Don’t think I’m siding with you. I’m just stating facts.”

Sugawara chuckled, already pulling out his phone. “Alright, I’ll make the group chat." He looks to you, "Send me your number—no excuses. First meeting’s tonight, my place. That way there’s no chance of anyone backing out.”

Phones buzzed around the table as notifications rolled in.

Daichi leaned back in his chair, a small smile tugging at his lips as he watched the easy flow of banter, the way you bit back at Tsukishima without hesitation, the way Hinata already seemed to think of you as part of the fold.

He told himself it was just good to see the first-years settling in. That it made sense you’d click with the people you spent the most time with.

Still, something about it lodged in his chest, warm and unshakable.

Chapter Text

Sugawara’s dorm wasn’t large, but it radiated the kind of warmth that made it feel lived in—mismatched mugs on the counter, textbooks stacked beside the TV, throw pillows scattered across the couch.

“Alright,” Sugawara announced cheerfully, balancing a tray of snacks as he nudged the door shut with his hip. “Tonight’s mission: get your project off the ground before it tanks your grade.”

Hinata made a dramatic noise of despair as he dropped his bag on the floor. “I told you we needed brain food first!”

Tsukishima tugged his hood down, exhaling like he’d aged fifty years. “What you need is discipline.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Sugawara cut in, grinning as he set the snacks down. “You’ve got the four of us to help—there’s no way you’re failing.”

That reassurance seemed to relax everyone. Hitoka claimed a place at the coffee table, notebooks spread like she was ready for battle. Hinata hovered by the snacks, Tsukishima sat back with a sigh that said he’d rather be anywhere else, and you… Well, you hesitated.

Until Asahi shifted on the couch, his hand resting lightly on the cushion beside him. “There’s room here,” he said softly.

You smiled, grateful, and slid into the spot. The warmth of his presence steadied you in a way you hadn’t expected.

“Okay,” Sugawara said, clapping once. “Rule number one: nobody leaves until this project has a theme. Rule number two: you actually write something down before the night ends.”

Hinata groaned loudly. “Cruel.”

“Effective,” Sugawara corrected.

The meeting unfolded in fits and starts. Hitoka worried at her pencil while pitching ideas, Hinata rejected every theme that didn’t involve food or sports, and Tsukishima poked holes in every suggestion just to see if anyone could defend it. Sugawara wrangled the chaos with practiced ease, while Daichi leaned forward, steady and patient, guiding the discussion.

“What about narrowing it down?” he asked, tapping his pen lightly against his notebook. “It has to be something you can actually research, not just something that sounds cool.”

When Hinata blurted out another half-baked idea, Daichi didn’t dismiss it. He tilted his head thoughtfully, breaking it down into simpler parts. “Okay, but if that’s the theme, how would you prove it? What examples would you use?”

The room buzzed with energy as everyone jumped in, voices overlapping. You tried to follow, scribbling as fast as you could, but the words on the page blurred together, refusing to stick. By the third time you reread the same sentence without understanding it, frustration pressed at your temples.

“Here,” Asahi murmured, leaning slightly toward you. His notebook slid into your space, neat handwriting filling the page in clean lines and tidy underlines. “I wrote it down differently. Maybe it’ll help.”

Relief loosened the knot in your chest as you scanned his notes. “This is… actually way clearer. Thank you.”

His mouth curved into a small, almost shy smile. “Anytime.”

Across the table, Daichi’s hand stilled on his cup. His eyes flicked toward the couch where you and Asahi leaned close, heads bent over the same page, your laughter quiet but warm. For a fraction of a second, his jaw tightened before he forced his gaze back to his own notes, telling himself this was good—helpful.

Just Asahi being Asahi.

By the end of the night, the chaos had softened into something almost productive. Sugawara’s steady hand and Daichi’s patient questions kept everyone tethered, and finally—miraculously—you all agreed on a theme. Hinata’s grin stretched wide with triumph, Hitoka breathed a sigh of relief, and even Tsukishima conceded with a low hum that at least it was “passable.”

“Progress,” Sugawara announced, stretching his arms over his head like he’d just coached a winning set. “See? Group work doesn’t have to be painful.”

Daichi chuckled, gathering stray papers into a neat stack. “Don’t celebrate too early—we’ve got a lot left to do.”

But his gaze flicked, just once, toward the couch where you and Asahi were still bent over the same notebook, heads close, voices quiet. The warmth in your expression lingered in his mind long after everyone started packing up.

---

The first Monday felt like any other—papers shuffling, laptops opening, conversations spilling in low hums. You slid into your usual seat near the middle, flipping open your notes with a sigh.

A moment later, movement caught your eye. Asahi hovered at the row, hesitating just a second before gesturing toward the open seat beside you. “Is this… okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” you said quickly, offering a small smile. Truthfully, you didn’t mind at all.

He settled in with quiet efficiency, pulling out a well-worn notebook. When the professor launched into the lecture—dense, meandering, full of half-finished tangents—you found yourself scribbling faster and faster, your handwriting slanting into barely legible scrawls.

Halfway down the page, your notes devolved into arrows and question marks. You frowned, chewing your lip, trying to decipher the mess.

“Here,” Asahi murmured, sliding his notebook just enough into your space. His writing was clean, every concept underlined neatly, examples noted in the margins.

Relief warmed your chest. “You’re a lifesaver. I’d have no idea what to write otherwise.”

He smiled faintly, like it was nothing. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

You turned back to your page, copying down the missing pieces. For the first time that lecture, the knots of frustration in your chest loosened.
And then the professor asked a question. The room went still, silence stretching uncomfortably. From the corner of your eye, you saw Asahi’s hand twitch around his pen, his shoulders drawing tight like he knew the answer but couldn’t bring himself to speak.

You leaned closer, whispering, “You’ve got this. Just say it.”

His eyes flicked to yours, hesitant.

“Go on,” you urged, your voice barely above the hum of the room. “You’ll be fine.”

It took a heartbeat, but he raised his hand, answering with a quiet clarity that had the professor nodding in approval. When he exhaled, relief flooding his face, you grinned. “See? Participation points secured.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Guess I owe you for that.”

“You saved me with your notes,” you whispered back. “We’re even.”

By Wednesday, a rhythm had started to take shape. Asahi sat beside you again without hesitation, his neat notes grounding you when the professor’s tangents lost you. You kept pace as best you could, scribbling, circling, underlining, but whenever your handwriting faltered into confusion, his notebook slid a little closer.

And when the room fell silent over another open question, you nudged him, whispering encouragement until he raised his hand. This time, his voice didn’t waver.

The pattern repeated the next week. Mondays and Wednesdays—his notes steadied you, your nudges pushed him past hesitation. The partnership was so natural, you hardly thought about it. But others did.

Whispers from the class slipped into the halls. Little comments passed between classmates—half-teasing, half-knowing. They’re always together. Look how she makes him smile. They’d be cute, don’t you think?

That same afternoon, Asahi was tucked into a corner of the library with Sugawara and Daichi, their books spread in a loose sprawl across the table. The quiet was companionable, broken only by the scratch of pens and the rustle of turning pages.

Sugawara was the first to break it, leaning back in his chair with a sly grin. “So… you and her always sit together in psych, huh? People are starting to talk. You’d make a cute pair.”

Asahi sputtered, nearly dropping his pen. “Wha—no, it’s not… It’s not like that.” His voice dipped, embarrassed, eyes fixed firmly on the page.

Daichi’s jaw tightened before he realized it. His pen stilled above his notebook, the words in front of him blurring. A cute pair. The phrase lodged deeper than it should have, sharp in a way he didn’t want to name.

He forced himself to breathe, to tell himself it was nothing. That it was good you had someone steady, someone kind like Asahi. But the image of your smile—soft, warm, angled toward him instead—slipped unbidden into his mind.

The plastic of his pen creaked faintly under his grip. Sugawara chuckled at Asahi’s flustered denial, but Daichi didn’t join in. He bent back over his notes instead, as if focus alone could quiet the twist in his chest.

Chapter Text

The study session buzzed with the usual chaos. Hinata sprawled across half the table, claiming he needed “space for his genius,” while Tsukishima kept sliding his notes just out of reach whenever Hinata tried to peek. 
The seniors looked on with a mix of patience and long-suffering amusement.

Hitoka sighed dramatically as she balanced her pencil across her upper lip, already exasperated.

“We’ve been at this project for weeks,” she groaned, “and we still don’t have the second section done.”

“Brain food,” Hinata whined immediately, clutching his stomach like he might wither away. “We can’t work on an empty stomach!”

“You just ate two rice balls,” Tsukishima said flatly, not even looking up from his laptop.

“Yeah, but I burn energy fast! I’m a high-performance machine!”

You snorted. “More like a broken vending machine. Loud, takes forever, and half the time nothing useful comes out.”

The table went still for a beat before Hinata gasped, scandalized. “Hey!”

Hitoka nearly toppled off her chair from laughing, Tsukishima actually smirked, and Sugawara nearly choked on his water.

Daichi, sitting across from you, pinched the bridge of his nose with exaggerated patience, though you caught the twitch of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“Alright, enough,” he said, voice warm but firm. “We need to get this second assignment drafted tonight. Two solid sections, minimum.” He tapped his pen against his notebook for emphasis, scanning the table until everyone stilled. “If we split it up, we’ll finish faster.”

Somehow, miraculously, it worked. Pages began to fill, laptops clattered, and the room settled into a steady hum of work. You caught yourself glancing across the table more than once — every time Daichi leaned over someone’s notes to point out a missing detail, or the way his voice softened when he checked if Hitoka understood an explanation. He made leadership look effortless, and the thought left a strange tightness in your chest.

Eventually, Sugawara stretched, arching his back until it popped. “Well, that’s one down,” he said, grinning. “Not bad, considering how many times Hinata tried to derail us.”

Hinata sat up indignantly. “Hey! I was contributing!”

“Contributing chaos,” Tsukishima deadpanned.

Hinata gasped, clutching at his chest. “You guys are so mean.”

Daichi didn’t even look up from his notes. “You’ll live.”

“You sound like my coach,” Hinata muttered.

That pulled a snort out of you before you could stop it. “He kind of looks like one too. See? Arms crossed, all stern, probably thinking about making us run laps for fun.”

The table rippled with laughter — even Kiyoko’s lips curved faintly — and Daichi arched a brow at you, clearly fighting his own grin. “Laps, huh? Should I add that to the plan for next meeting?”

“Depends,” you said lightly, flipping through your notes. “You want the group to revolt?”

The laughter around the table faded back into a steady hum of work. Pens scratched, laptops clattered, and for a while, everyone was focused.

You leaned across the table toward Daichi, tilting your page toward him. “Does this actually go with the theme,” you asked, chewing your lip, “or am I overthinking it?”

Daichi leaned in, scanning your notes with that calm, deliberate focus he carried everywhere. “Overthinking it, probably.” He tapped the margin with his pen. “Yeah, that’s solid. Just adjust this part here so it connects back better. Otherwise, it’s right on track.”

Relief softened your expression. “Okay… good. Thanks.”

His gaze lingered for half a second longer than necessary before he nodded. “Anytime.”

Hitoka, watching the exchange with barely restrained glee, suddenly piped up: “You two would make a cute couple.”

The words hit the table like a spark. Hinata’s eyes lit up instantly, his grin wide and mischievous. “Ohhh, yeah! Totally! You guys—”

You cut in before he could finish, forcing your voice to stay light, steady. “Relax. It’s not like that.” You flipped a page in your notebook with a little more force than necessary. “We’re just trying to get this thing finished.”

“Exactly,” Daichi said, but his tone carried an edge sharper than yours, clipped enough to make the laughter stumble. “She’s just a friend.”

The air thinned for a beat, the weight of his words heavier than he probably meant.

Tsukishima broke it with a pointed sigh, stretching his arms overhead. “Great. Riveting drama. Can we finish this already? Some of us actually want to sleep tonight.”

The others snorted, the tension slipping as the group drifted back into the rhythm of typing and scribbling. But across the table, you felt Daichi’s words still lingering like a stone dropped in your chest.

Later that night, when the room was quiet and the others’ voices had long since faded, Daichi lay awake staring at the ceiling. He replayed the moment over and over—the look on your face when he said it, the sharpness in his own voice.

Why had he snapped?

It was just a joke. Harmless. He should’ve laughed, brushed it off, moved on. Instead, he’d shut it down like it was dangerous. Like it meant something it didn’t.

You’re just Hitoka’s friend, he told himself. Just an underclassman. Just a classmate. Just…

The word rang hollow.

Because the truth was, the joke had struck too close. And the idea of anyone pairing the two of you together—it hadn’t annoyed him. It hadn’t embarrassed him.

It had scared him.

Scared him because of how much he wanted it to be true.

Daichi dragged a hand over his face, groaning into the quiet. If he wasn’t careful... he'd be in too deep.

---

Sleep came late, and when it finally came, it wasn’t peaceful.

At first it was just flashes—your laugh, the tilt of your head when you looked at him, the brush of your arm when you leaned across the table. But the pieces sharpened, threaded together until he was there, sitting too close, your knee brushing his under the desk. Close enough to feel the heat of your body, close enough to see the way your lips parted when you smiled.

And then you were leaning in, whispering something he couldn’t quite hear, your breath ghosting across his jaw. His hand found your waist in the dream without hesitation, pulling you flush against him. The soft sound that slipped from your throat when his fingers tightened—it went straight through him, leaving him hard and aching.

Your lips found his, eager, insistent, and the taste of you—sweet, intoxicating—unraveled every last shred of control. His mouth moved hungrily against yours, his hands roaming, memorizing the shape of you pressed so perfectly to him. The friction burned, sharp and heady, and he wanted more—needed more—

He woke with a harsh gasp, sheets tangled around his legs, sweat slick on his skin, his body straining with want.

Your name stuck in his throat, shame and desire coiling tight in his stomach.

It was just a dream. Just his imagination running wild. Just—

But even as he tried to convince himself, the ghost of your warmth lingered on his skin, impossible to ignore...

Chapter Text

The library was nearly empty, just the low hum of the fluorescent lights and the occasional shuffle of papers breaking the silence. Your laptop screen glowed in the dim space, your notes sprawled in a messy constellation across the desk.

Your phone buzzed, the vibration rattling against your notebook.

Daichi: Still at the library?
Daichi: It’s late.

You chewed your lip, glancing at the time. 9:47 p.m. Okay, maybe it was a little late. But the assignment wasn’t going to finish itself. You thumbed back a reply:

You: The books have me hostage. Send help.

You smirked at your own joke, expecting him to just leave it at that. Instead, ten minutes later, a shadow fell over your table.

“Held hostage, huh?”

You jumped, nearly dropping your pen. Daichi stood there, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, looking at you with that steady, unflinching calm he always carried. Except here, in the quiet of the library, it felt… heavier.

“You—what are you doing here?” you hissed, pressing a hand over your racing heart.

He shrugged like it was the simplest thing in the world. “You didn’t answer for a while. Figured I’d check.”

You blinked at him. “Daichi… I answered ten minutes ago.”

“Exactly.” He pulled out the chair across from you and sat, leaning his elbows on the table. “Plenty of time for you to get dragged off by rogue textbooks.”

You stared at him for a long beat before letting out a soft laugh. “You know you sound like a dad, right?”

His mouth curved into a grin, unbothered. “If making sure you don’t pass out at your desk makes me a dad, then fine.”

“Captain Dadichi,” you teased, mimicking Hinata’s dramatic tone. “Patrolling the library for wayward students.”

That earned the faintest chuckle, and something about it warmed the quiet between you. He leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking over the chaos of your notes. “You’ve been at this for hours?”

“Yea...” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face. “And it’s still a mess.”

He reached across the table, nudging one of your pages straight with his fingertip. “It’s not a mess. You just buried the important points under too much detail.”

You frowned. “So… a mess, but a fancy one.”

He gave you a look that was half amusement, half patience. “More like organized chaos. Here, group these—main idea first, examples after. Otherwise, you’re just chasing your tail.”

You blinked at him, then did as he said, rearranging your scribbles. To your shock, it actually… worked. The argument looked cleaner, sharper.

“Okay,” you admitted slowly. “That’s… way better.”

“Told you.” He smirked, just a little, and something in your chest fluttered.

You shoved your notebook toward him. “Fine, coach. Since you’re already here, might as well make yourself useful.”

“Coach?” His brows lifted, amused.

“Yeah. All stern and correcting my form. You may actually make me run laps to stay awake.”

His laugh was soft, but genuine. “Don’t tempt me.”

The low rumble of his laugh curled warm through the quiet space, pulling a smile out of you before you could stop it.

“Not sure the library staff would appreciate that,” you whispered back. “Me doing laps around the stacks while you time me.”

“Maybe not,” he conceded, leaning back in his chair, arms folding across his chest. The movement only added to the image you’d painted — Coach Daichi, ready to lecture. “But you’d finish the assignment faster.”

You rolled your eyes, tapping your pen against your notebook. “Or collapse in a dramatic heap in front of the reference section.”

He tilted his head, pretending to consider it. “I’d make sure you got back to your dorm first.”

There was something about the way he said it—so steady, so certain—that sent an odd flutter through your chest. You ducked back toward your notes quickly, masking it with a laugh. “See? Dad mode activated again.”

He grinned at that, unbothered, and for a while the two of you fell into a rhythm: you writing, him glancing over occasionally to point out where a sentence could be tighter or a paragraph better placed. It was easy. Too easy, maybe.

When the clock finally ticked past ten-thirty, Daichi pushed his chair back. “That’s enough for tonight. You’ve done plenty.”

You stretched, groaning softly as your shoulders popped. “Guess so. My brain stopped forming words like twenty minutes ago.”

“Then I’ll walk you back.”

You blinked. “Daichi, it’s literally a five-minute walk.”

“Five minutes too many when it’s this late.”

You rolled your eyes but fell into step beside him. The campus was hushed, lamplight spilling in golden pools across the pathways. Your breath clouded faintly in the cool night air.

“You really don’t have to play bodyguard,” you said lightly, nudging his arm.

“Not a bodyguard,” he corrected. “Just making sure you get back safe.”

“Mmhm. Dad mode.”

He huffed a laugh, but didn’t argue.

---

At your dorm, you stopped at the door, keycard in hand. “Well, mission accomplished. I made it back alive, thanks to your heroic escort.”

He leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, his expression softened by the dim light above the door. “Glad to be of service.”

You tilted your head. “You’re really going to stand there until I go in, huh?”

He didn’t answer, just gave you a small, steady smile.

You shook your head, lips quirking as you swiped your card and pulled the door open. “Goodnight, Captain Dadichi.”

The coy lilt in your voice lingered even after the door clicked shut behind you.

Daichi stayed rooted to the spot.

The dorm hall light buzzed faintly above him, casting thin shadows across his face. He told himself to move, to turn around, to head back across campus like a normal person. But instead, his gaze lingered on the door you’d just slipped through, like maybe if he stared hard enough he could still catch a glimpse of your smile.

That smile… soft, teasing, playful.

It was too much.

It clung to him like static, refusing to fade even after the door shut. His chest felt tight, his throat dry, like he’d just come off the court after a match that had gone too long. Except this wasn’t exhaustion. It was sharper. Hungrier.

He dragged a hand over his face. Pull it together.

It was nothing. Just a smile. Just a thank-you. Just the kind of look you’d give any friend.

But he knew better. He felt it—deep in the pit of his stomach, curling hot in his chest. That flicker when your eyes had met his, the way you’d leaned closer than you needed to, the way your voice softened when you teased him.

None of it should’ve meant anything. And yet every small detail replayed on loop, searing into him. It had undone him.

Another breath, rougher this time. He was being ridiculous. You were just an underclassman, just a classmate, just—

The word hollowed out before he could finish it.

Because if that were true, he wouldn’t still be standing here. He wouldn’t be wishing he’d said something different. Wishing he’d stayed a second longer. Wishing—

Daichi exhaled hard, tilting his head back toward the night sky. He needed to walk away. To clear his head. To stop standing here like some idiot waiting for another glimpse that wasn’t coming.

But his body wouldn’t move. His feet stayed planted in front of your door, like there was a tether binding him to the place you’d disappeared into.

The hallway was quiet, only the low hum of the light above breaking the silence. Every other dorm room had gone still, but he lingered, rooted in place as if stepping away would sever something he wasn’t ready to lose.

His fists curled in his jacket pockets. You’re being insane. Anyone who saw him standing here would think so—the dependable captain, the steady one—waiting outside a girl’s dorm like a lovesick idiot.

And yet he couldn’t shake the pull. He hadn’t asked for it, hadn’t expected it, but there it was, as unavoidable as breathing.

Another minute passed, maybe two, before he finally forced himself to step back. His legs felt heavier than they should, like the tether resisted every movement. He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and started down the hall, each step echoing louder than the last.

But no matter how far he walked, the image of your smile lingered. The way he’d wanted—needed—it to be meant for him.

Daichi groaned under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. He was supposed to be better than this. Supposed to have control. But the truth pressed hot and unyielding against his ribs:

He didn’t want control.

He wanted you.

---

Back in his room, Daichi dropped his bag and sank onto his bed. The silence pressed in, heavier here, broken only by the faint hum of the heater. He pulled out his phone, the screen lighting up the dark.

A new message blinked at the top.

You: Thanks for walking me. You really didn’t have to, but I appreciate it.

His chest tightened. He stared at it for longer than he meant to, thumb hovering uselessly above the keyboard. It was such a simple text, casual, exactly what you’d send to anyone. But to him, it wasn’t simple at all.

Eventually, he typed back:

Daichi: Anytime.

He stared at the word, then hit send before he could overthink it. The three little dots of your typing didn’t appear, but it didn’t matter.

Because he meant it.

More than he should.

Chapter Text

The study room buzzed with its usual chaos, voices overlapping with the clatter of pens and the low hum of laptops. Papers littered the table in a half-organized sprawl, as though the group had tried—once—to keep things neat and then collectively abandoned the effort.

Hinata was the loudest, as always, waving his pencil like a baton as if sheer enthusiasm could finish the assignment. “I’m telling you, if we just—”

“No,” Tsukishima cut in without looking up from his notes, tone flat. “Whatever you’re about to say is wrong.”

“It’s not wrong!” Hinata sputtered, leaning halfway across the table. “It’s creative!”

“Creative doesn’t mean correct,” Tsukishima muttered, scribbling down another line without so much as a glance.

Across the table, Kiyoko sighed and pushed her glasses higher on her nose, her focus unshaken by the bickering. Hitoka tried valiantly to play peacekeeper, reminding Hinata to keep his voice down and attempting to redirect him back to his own notes.

In the middle of it all, Daichi sat with his arms folded, watching the circus with his trademark patience. His gaze flicked between group members, stepping in only when the noise threatened to overtake the work completely. “Focus,” he said firmly, and somehow the room settled for a few blessed minutes.

You had been keeping up—barely—but by now your eyelids were heavy, and the steady warmth of the room only dragged you further down. You’d been up late the night before, grinding through another assignment, and now every sentence in your textbook seemed to blur into the next.

You stifled a yawn and scribbled one more line before your pen faltered.

Beside you, Daichi noticed. His voice was low when he leaned in. “Hey. You okay?”

“Mhm,” you mumbled, your head propped in your hand. “Just tired. I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” he said, softer this time. But he didn’t push. He never did.

The group pressed on, pages shuffling, mutters trading back and forth, but your attention wavered. You blinked hard, willing yourself to stay awake. Just a little longer. You could make it through this.

Except the next thing you knew, your hand slipped from under your chin, and your head tilted sideways—landing against Daichi’s shoulder.

His entire body went still.

He froze mid-note, pen hovering above the page as though the simple contact had cut the thread of his focus clean through.

Your head was light against him, hair brushing the fabric of his jacket, your breathing slow and even. You’d drifted off in an instant, wholly trusting, your weight slumped comfortably against his side.

Daichi’s pulse kicked hard.

He should move. Wake you gently, nudge you upright, pass it off as nothing. That was the reasonable thing to do. The right thing.

But he didn’t.

Couldn’t.

Because the warmth seeping through his shoulder was—God, it was overwhelming. The softness of you leaning into him, the rise and fall of your breath against his arm, the quiet trust of it—it was more intimate than anything he’d prepared himself for.

He kept staring straight ahead, every muscle locked, terrified that if he shifted even an inch you’d stir and the moment would vanish.

Around the table, the others kept working, mercifully oblivious. Kiyoko glanced up once, her gaze flicking to where you rested against him. She didn’t comment, only returned quietly to her notes.

Daichi tried to breathe normally. Failed. His heart was hammering against his ribs, the steady rhythm replaced with something frantic, uneven.

And then—when his eyes betrayed him—he glanced down.

Just a flicker.

The loose neckline of your shirt had shifted as you leaned against him, offering the barest glimpse of cleavage. Not intentional. Not for him. But the sight...

Heat rushed up the back of his neck, flooding his ears. He dragged his gaze back to the page in front of him so fast it nearly made him dizzy, gripping his pen like it could anchor him.

Focus. Words. Notes. Anything.

But the text blurred into nothing, unreadable. All he could register was the phantom press of your weight, the warmth bleeding into his body, the forbidden image branded into his mind with merciless clarity.

It was too much.

And he knew—even as he sat perfectly still, pretending to study—that this simple, accidental intimacy would haunt him long after tonight.

The room dulled around him. Hinata’s muttering, Tsukishima’s sighs, Sugawara’s faint chuckle—all of it faded to background noise. All Daichi could feel was you. The warmth, the closeness, the quiet trust of your weight slumped against him.

Something dangerous bloomed in his chest at the thought.

He let himself memorize it—the faint scent of your shampoo, the way your breaths evened out against him, the softness of your hair brushing his jaw whenever you shifted the slightest bit. He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t. But the longer you stayed there, the harder it became to think about anything else.

Minutes stretched, each one tightening the coil in his chest.

“Alright,” Sugawara finally announced, snapping his laptop shut with a sigh. “Mental break. Five minutes or I’m calling it for the night.”

Chairs scraped as the others shifted, Hinata already bouncing to his feet with a dramatic groan about snacks. But before Daichi could move, Hitoka’s soft gasp cut through the noise.

“She’s asleep,” she whispered, pointing a smile plastered on her face.

Daichi stiffened. Sure enough, your head was still slumped against his shoulder, your breathing slow and even. The weight of you—so small, so trusting—pressed into him like it belonged there.

Tsukishima leaned over with his usual unimpressed air. “Seriously?” he muttered, and before Daichi could stop him, he reached out and gave your cheek a sharp little pinch.

You stirred with a startled noise, blinking blearily. “Ow—what?”

Daichi’s jaw tightened. He wanted to swat Tsukishima’s hand away, the irritation rising so fast it surprised him.

“Told you not to overdo it,” Tsukishima said flatly, pulling back. “Now look at you.” His tone carried the casual scolding of an older brother more than real malice, but Daichi’s teeth still ground together.

You rubbed at your cheek, waving them all off. “I’m fine. Just tired. I’ll stay here while you guys take a break.”

“Suit yourself,” Hinata chirped, already halfway out the door. Tsukishima trailed after him, Sugawara in tow.

Daichi lingered, his pen still resting between his fingers. “You should rest too,” he said, quieter than before.

You gave him a small smile, already reaching for your notebook again. “I kinda already did. I’ll just finish this section while it’s quiet. Promise.”

He hesitated, torn between staying planted at your side and not making a fuss. In the end, he forced himself to stand, sliding his chair back with more reluctance than he’d ever admit. “Don’t overdo it,” he muttered, before following the others into the hall.

The break stretched on just long enough for the restless edge in him to build. When the group trickled back inside, the room felt warmer again, the faint scent of snacks and vending machine coffee trailing in with them.

You looked more awake now, tapping your pen against the margin of your notes with renewed focus. There was even a faint brightness in your eyes, though a trace of fatigue lingered under it.

Asahi came in last, holding a can of coffee from the vending machine. He set it down in front of you with a quiet smile. “Since you were crashing out earlier, figured this might help. We’ve all been there.”

Your eyes widened, then softened, warmth blooming across your tired features. “That’s so sweet. Thank you.” You smiled at him, genuine and bright, as if the small gesture meant more than it should.

Daichi’s jaw tightened before he could stop it. He forced his gaze back to his notes, pen scratching too hard across the page. It was just coffee. Just Asahi being considerate. Nothing worth reacting to.

And yet the warmth of your smile lingered in the air, curling sharp in his chest. He had to breathe slow, steady, clamping down on the flicker of jealousy clawing its way up his ribs.

Around the table, the others eased back into place, shuffling papers and cracking jokes as if nothing had happened. To them, it was just another late-night study grind. Normal. Ordinary.

But Daichi couldn’t shake the edge buzzing under his skin. Every time you lifted the can for another sip, every time your lips curved faintly in thanks again when Asahi glanced your way, something twisted inside him.

He forced himself to focus, eyes drilling into the text in front of him until the words stopped making sense. His pen hovered, unmoving. All he could think about was how natural your smile had been—how easily it had gone to someone else.

The minutes stretched, the hum of the group carrying on around him. Slowly, your laughter slipped back in, soft and tired but real, and Daichi felt it cut through him with equal parts ache and want.

He straightened in his chair, shoulders tense, willing the night to end before he gave himself away.

---

Asahi was the first to stand, slinging his bag over his shoulder with a tired stretch. “I’ll see you in class tomorrow,” he said, giving you a small wave before heading for the door.

One by one, the rest of the group followed suit—Hinata still buzzing despite the hour, Tsukishima rolling his eyes at him, Sugawara corralling them both with practiced ease. The room thinned until it was just you and Hitoka, quietly gathering your things.

Daichi lingered, slower than usual, though he told himself it was only because he was double-checking his notes. When you stepped out with Hitoka at your side, your voices low and tired but warm, he trailed a beat behind before veering off toward his own dorm.

The walk felt endless. He forced himself into a jog, the night air sharp in his lungs, as if speed could outrun the mess curling through his head. But no matter how fast he pushed himself, it clung to him—the memory of your weight against his shoulder, the warmth of your laugh, the way you’d smiled at Asahi like it cost you nothing.

By the time he dropped his bag onto his desk, his pulse was still racing. He tried to read, even scribbled down a stray note or two, but nothing stuck. His body hummed with restless energy, keyed up with something he couldn’t shake.

When he finally collapsed onto his bed, sleep came harder than usual, dragged out of him in fits—until it didn’t. Until the dream took hold.

You were there. Always, lately, you were there. This time it was closer, heavier, blurred in a way that felt half-memory, half-fantasy. Your head still rested on his shoulder, but your hand brushed lower—down his arm, skimming the edge of his thigh. The faint brush of your breath against his neck turned hotter, heavier, and when you shifted, he caught the soft give of your chest pressing closer than it should.

The heat of it shot straight through him.

You whispered something—words he couldn’t make out, only felt, warm against his ear. His hand moved before he could stop it, sliding over your hip, holding you there. Too tight, too desperate. You didn’t pull away. You leaned in.

Your mouth found his, soft at first, then greedy. The kiss dragged a groan out of him, rough and unguarded, as your lips parted against his. He drank you in like he’d been starving for it, every stolen breath, every muffled sound breaking him open further.

Your hands slipped under his shirt, fingertips skimming hot over his stomach. His muscles twitched at the contact, his pulse surging. He pulled you in until you straddled him, your body pressed flush against his. The weight of you, the heat, the way you rocked just slightly—it wrecked him.

He kissed you harder, mouth hungry, almost frantic, one hand tangling in your hair, the other gripping your thigh like he couldn’t let go. The friction was unbearable—perfect, dizzying, dangerous.

Daichi jolted awake in the dark, chest heaving. Sweat dampened his skin, the echo of your body still burning into his. He was hard, throbbing, the ache sharp and impossible to ignore.

He clenched his fists in the sheets, willing himself to breathe, to calm down, to let the dream bleed out of him. But the heat only worsened, pulsing low and insistent, dragging his thoughts back to you with merciless clarity. The weight of your body, the sound of your breath, the way your mouth had moved under his in the dream—it was too vivid, too real.

A curse tore out of him. His hand slipped lower, almost without his permission, pressing against the rigid length straining beneath his boxers. The shock of relief made his head fall back against the pillow, a ragged exhale spilling from his lips.

“Fuck—”

He shouldn’t. God, he knew he shouldn’t. But the ache demanded more. His palm curled around himself, stroking slow at first, desperate for some measure of control. Your face burned behind his eyelids—your smile, soft and warm, twisting into the way you’d straddled him in the dream, hips moving against him like you’d belonged there.

His grip tightened, pace quickening, breath growing uneven. Shame prickled hot in his chest, but it didn’t stop him—it only fueled the edge of desperation clawing through him. He wanted more. He wanted you. The fantasy tangled with the rhythm of his hand, every pump dragging him closer, until the line between memory and dream blurred.

Your name caught on his tongue, a hoarse whisper he barely choked back. His body arched, release tearing through him harder than he’d braced for, spilling into his hand with a guttural groan he buried against his arm.

For a moment, the haze dulled. His chest rose and fell, slick heat cooling against his skin, the raw edge of need easing.

But then the shame sank in, sour at the edges. But even as it did, another truth lingered, hotter, heavier.

He wanted more.

Not the dream. Not his hand.

You.

And no amount of control was enough to stop that anymore.