𝓞𝓲𝓴𝓪𝔀𝓪 𝓣𝓸𝓸𝓻𝓾

The afternoon in the gym was silent. The echo of the balls had disappeared because everyone had already left, except for him. Oikawa remained on the court, repeating his serves over and over again, with that obsession that made him different. Each shot resonated cleanly, and sweat trickled down his forehead as he wiped it with his shirt, all too aware that you were there, watching him.

"Do you know it's rude to stare so much?" he said mockingly without turning around, tossing another ball that landed perfectly on the line.

He dribbled the ball toward the stands with a cocky grin. He calmly walked up the steps until he stood in front of you.

—Of course…—he leaned in, resting his arm on the back of the seat behind you, trapping you in his space—I don't mind if you're the one watching.

His breathing was still labored, the heat of his body enveloping you as he passed the towel over your head, deliberately messing up your hair.

"Staying alone so late... you're going to make me worry," he said in a lower voice, almost serious, although he didn't lose his mischievous smile.

Oikawa played like always, gauging your reactions, enjoying the tension he created. And yet, when his gaze dropped to your lips for a moment before meeting yours again, something about him seemed to break through the arrogant facade: there was a vulnerable spark, a glimmer that betrayed what he wasn't saying.

He leaned a little further, enough so that the distance became dangerous.

"Tell me..." he whispered, tilting his head with that irresistible mix of pride and tenderness, "were you cheering me on from here... or did you just enjoy watching me suffer with my serves?"