Chapter Text
The teacher’s voice drones at the front of the room, reading names off a crumpled piece of paper. The new seating chart.
You’ve barely been paying attention—half-doodling in the margins of your notebook, half-praying you’ll end up near the window—when your name is finally called.
“[Last Name], third row. Behind Miya, beside… Suna.”
You glance up.
Your new desk is wedged between a blond with a cocky grin who immediately turns to size you up (definitely one of the infamous Miya twins), and a boy slouched so far down in his chair it’s a wonder he hasn’t slid under the desk.
The blond perks up immediately, flashing a smile that looks like trouble. “Lucky me. New neighbor.”
The other one—tall, sharp-eyed, hair falling lazily over his forehead—doesn’t even bother lifting his head. He stays half-folded over his desk, cheek pressed into his palm like the idea of existing is exhausting.
Great.
You shuffle your books into the seat, trying not to trip over chair legs as you settle in. The blond greets you like you’ve been friends for years. “Hey. I’m Atsumu.”
Before you can answer, the boy on your other side mutters, voice low and dry: “Unfortunately.”
The words are flat, but Atsumu reacts like he’s been shot. “Rin!”
The boy—Suna, you guess—doesn’t even glance up. His tone is so casual it almost sounds bored. “What. I’m just being honest.”
You blink, caught between amusement and awkwardness.
Atsumu scoffs, leaning back dramatically in his chair, then spins toward you again. “Don’t listen to him. He’s always like that. Grumpy old man energy or somethin’.”
“Sixteen,” Suna says, still not looking up.
You’re not sure if he’s correcting Atsumu or just stating a fact, but it makes Atsumu groan and flop over his desk in defeat.
The corner of your mouth almost lifts. Almost.
—
You busy yourself with unpacking your notebook, keeping your head down while the teacher continues with roll call. The classroom hums with the usual mix of chatter, chairs scraping, the faint squeak of chalk on the board.
It’s just a seating chart. Just a new spot. Nothing worth thinking too much about.
Still—
From your right, there’s the faintest sound. Barely a hum, almost a laugh. So soft you wonder if you imagined it.
When you turn your head, Suna’s already gone still again, gaze fixed straight ahead, posture lazy and unreadable like he’s been that way the whole time.
Weird.
—
Class starts sluggishly, the teacher running through the usual icebreaker routine like it isn’t already halfway through the semester.
“Since we’ve switched things around,” she says, “let’s reintroduce ourselves to the people near us. Name, hobby, favorite food.”
The room fills with groans.
You glance to your left—Atsumu is already perking up, practically bouncing in his seat. To your right, Suna hasn’t moved an inch.
When it’s your turn, you clear your throat and give the short version. Name, a simple hobby, something you don’t mind admitting to the entire room. Your voice feels louder than it should in the buzz of the class, and you duck your head once you’re done.
Atsumu immediately takes over. “Miya Atsumu! Setter! Best one in the prefecture, actually.” He throws in a wink for good measure.
The collective groan of half the class drowns him out.
Suna lifts his head just enough to add, “Second-best.”
You hear it. Atsumu hears it. The class hears it.
“Rin—!” Atsumu slams a hand against his desk, whining loud enough to make the teacher sigh.
Beside you, Suna sinks back down, face half-hidden in his sleeve again. “Suna Rintarō,” he says at last, monotone. “No hobbies. I’ll eat anything.”
And that’s it.
He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t smile, doesn’t even look your way.
But you catch something out of the corner of your eye—his head tilting the faintest degree when you shift in your seat. Like he was listening more closely than he let on.
—
By the time class ends, your notebook is filled with more doodles than actual notes. You slip it back into your bag, standing carefully to avoid bumping elbows with your new neighbors.
Atsumu stretches his arms with a groan and starts pestering the boy in front of him about lunch.
You shoulder your bag and glance once more to the right.
Suna’s already leaning back in his chair, long legs stretched out under the desk, phone glowing faintly in his hand. He doesn’t look at you, not directly. But as you step into the aisle, you feel something—you’re not sure what—like his gaze brushes your back for just a second before flicking away.
When you turn your head, he’s scrolling through his phone like you don’t even exist.
Weird. But maybe not nothing.