𝐂𝐇. 𝟒𝟔

⋅. ˚₊ ‧  𐙚  ‧ ₊ ˚  ⋅

ONE MONTH LATER

When I woke up to three texts, two missed calls, and one ominous calendar alert titled "💕 ONE-MONTH ANNIVERSARY 💕", I immediately knew two things:    1.    Oikawa had lost his mind.    2.    I was never getting a normal day again.

I rubbed my eyes and groaned. It was 6:13 a.m.. The "💕" emojis were blinking in my vision like a warning sign.

Get ready at 5. I'm picking you up.Wear something cute but also practical. But also stunning. But also comfortable.Just trust me.

"Absolutely not," I muttered, already pulling open my closet.

⸻

By the time 5 p.m. rolled around, I was ready—and only slightly terrified.

I was expecting drama. Glitter. Maybe a flash mob.

But when I opened the door, Oikawa was just... standing there. In jeans and a soft sweater, holding a small bouquet of flowers and looking like he hadn't been mentally preparing for this moment since our first handshake.

He blinked.

"You're wearing my favorite color."

I looked down. "I didn't even know I owned something in your favorite color."

"Fate," he whispered.

"Insanity," I corrected, but I still took the flowers.

⸻

He took me to the rooftop of his apartment building.

Not a fancy restaurant. Not a volleyball court. Just the rooftop.

There were fairy lights strung up along the railing. A blanket on the ground. A little box of takeout. And—of course—a tiny cake with "Happy One-Month, Manager-chan 💘" written in icing that was aggressively pink.

"Is this a prank?" I asked, genuinely unsure.

Oikawa shook his head, grinning. "This is love. Or something dangerously close to it."

I stared at him.

"You are so lucky you're cute."

"I know."

⸻

We sat cross-legged on the blanket, eating dumplings and stealing bites of cake.

"Most people don't celebrate one-month anniversaries," I said, poking at my food with my chopsticks.

"Most people aren't us," he replied.

"You mean loud, dramatic, chaotic—"

"—meant for each other?"

I snorted. "I walked right into that one."

He leaned back on his palms, gazing up at the softening sky. "I know it's early. And ridiculous. And maybe a little over-the-top. But I wanted to do this."

I looked over.

"For a long time, I thought the only way I'd ever feel good enough was if I won. At volleyball. At school. At... everything. But then you came along and yelled at me every time I acted like a dumbass."

"I still do."

"Exactly. And somehow that made me feel like I didn't have to be perfect to be liked. Or loved. I could just be me."

My heart stuttered in my chest.

"...Are you giving a speech right now?"

"Shut up and let me be sincere!"

⸻

He reached into his bag and pulled out something small.

A scrunchie.

My scrunchie.

The one I lost during practice a few weeks ago.

"You—? You thief!"

"You left it behind!" he defended. "It smelled like your shampoo. I felt guilty for like... ten minutes. But then I kept it."

"Gross."

"Romantic!"

"...Also gross."

He handed it back to me, but I didn't take it.

"Keep it," I said.

His eyes widened. "Really?"

"It smells like me, right? Perfect way to remember your terrifying, clipboard-wielding girlfriend."

He smiled so wide I thought his face might split in half.

"I'm gonna wear it on my wrist like a knight's token."

"You're such a nerd."

"Your nerd."

⸻

The sun dipped lower, casting everything in that golden-pink hue.

Oikawa turned toward me, serious again.

"I know we're still figuring this out. And we have school and volleyball and your terrifying father—"

"He likes you."

"He glared at me three times this morning."

"That's just his face."

"...Fair."

⸻

He took my hand and laced our fingers together, squeezing gently.

"I don't care how chaotic this gets. I just want to keep choosing you. Every month. Every day. Even when you throw clipboards."

I swallowed past the lump in my throat.

"You're so dramatic," I whispered, smiling.

"Only for you."

⸻

I leaned my head on his shoulder.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel like I had to brace for chaos. No pranks. No yelling.

Just this.

Just him.

Just us.