𝐂𝐇. 𝟑𝟑

⋅. ˚₊ ‧  𐙚  ‧ ₊ ˚  ⋅

The gym was empty.

Echoes of bouncing balls and squeaking sneakers still clung to the walls, but the players were gone, the lights half-dimmed, and the air was finally still.

I sat on the edge of the bench by the wall, stat sheets stacked on my lap, chewing the end of my pen and pretending I wasn't waiting for someone to come back.

Pretending I wasn't thinking about the way Oikawa had been quieter lately.

The way he hadn't called me his wife in three whole days.

The way he looked like he wanted to say something at the end of practice—but didn't.

I told myself I liked him better when he was annoying.

That I missed the banter. The teasing.Because this version of him? The one who looked at me with those big brown eyes and said nothing?

That was way more dangerous.

My head snapped up at the sound of the side door creaking open.

Footsteps. Slow. Familiar.

"Don't say it," I said before he even rounded the corner.

He emerged into the glow of the emergency lights near the vending machines, towel over his shoulder, hair still damp from a shower.

"Say what?" he asked.

"That annoying 'manager-chann~' voice you use when you want something."

He held up two bottles of vending machine green tea. "I come in peace."

I narrowed my eyes as he walked toward me and offered one. I took it reluctantly.

He dropped down on the bench beside me with a tired sigh.

For a few seconds, neither of us spoke. We just sipped.

The silence should've been awkward. But it wasn't.

It was... thick.Comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time.

Like something was about to snap.

"Why are you still here?" I asked eventually.

"Why are you still here?"

I tilted my head. "I'm the manager. I do manager things."

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. "You could've left hours ago."

"So could you."

"I didn't want to."

He said it casually, like it was nothing. But it landed with weight in the center of my chest.

I tried to play it off. "Let me guess. Wanted to get one last look at the gym? At your adoring fans in the bleachers? The echo of your own serves?"

He smiled a little, but shook his head.

"No," he said. "Just wanted to sit."

"Next to me?"

He didn't answer. He just looked at me.

And that was worse.

"You've been acting weird," I blurted.

"Have I?"

"You stopped flirting."

He blinked at me. "Didn't know that was a problem."

"It's not," I said too quickly. "I mean—it shouldn't be. I like when you're not being a pain."

He smiled again, barely. "Do you?"

I went quiet.

And that was when it happened.

That quiet shift in the air. Like something invisible cracked.

Because we were sitting close. Our knees were almost touching. The lights were low, and his voice had dropped a little, and he was looking at me like he saw everything I'd tried to hide.

"Do you really want me to stop?" he asked.

I looked down at the bottle in my hands.

"I want you to stop confusing me."

He leaned back slightly, elbows resting on the bench, posture relaxed—but his eyes were sharp, fixed on me.

"Okay," he said softly. "Then let me un-confuse you."

I turned my head toward him slowly. "What?"

"I flirt with you because I want to. I call you manager-chan because it's the only way to get you to roll your eyes at me in that specific way I find hilarious. I bring you tea because I remember your favorite. I back off when you're overwhelmed. I don't push when you need space."

He paused.

"And lately... I stop myself from saying the stuff I really want to say, because I don't want to scare you off."

My mouth was dry. My heart was loud.

"You're so—"

He leaned in slightly.

Softly, calmly:"What?"

I was barely breathing.

"You're so unfair."

His lips twitched, but he didn't move any closer.

He didn't need to. The space between us was already electric.

"You confuse me," I whispered. "I want to push you away and I want to keep you close. I hate how charming you are when you're not trying. I hate that you're starting to feel like a person I want around."

His face was unreadable. But his eyes—his eyes looked like they understood.

He leaned in just a little more.

Close enough that I could feel his breath on my cheek.

"If I kiss you," he said, "will you yell at me?"

I didn't answer.

Because I was thinking about it.

God, I was thinking about it.

My heart was begging for it. But my head—my head was spinning.

I shook my head once, just barely.

And then I whispered—

"Not yet."

He stopped.

Nodded once. Slowly.

"Okay," he said, backing away just enough to let me breathe again.

And it was the most respectful, frustrating, heartbreakingly gentle response he could've given.

I looked down at my lap. Then back up at him.

"I hate that you didn't fight me on that."

He smiled softly. "I like you too much to fight you on it."

My heart did a cartwheel.

I shoved his arm. "Shut up."

He bumped my knee with his. "Still annoying, remember?"

I bit my lip, trying not to smile. "Yeah. Still."

We sat in silence again.

This time, the silence felt warmer.

Like something had finally been acknowledged—even if it wasn't fully said.

We didn't kiss.

But it felt like we did.

And honestly?

It was worse.

Because now I knew what it felt like to almost kiss Oikawa.

And I wasn't sure how much longer "not yet" would last.