Ushijima Wakatoshi

Ushijima Wakatoshi had never spilled anything in his life.

He had perfect balance. Excellent coordination. A terrifying kill rate.

So when he dropped his coffee the moment he saw you — sitting alone at the campus café, sipping something with a book in hand and the sunlight haloing around you like an aesthetic choice — he just stared down at the spilled drink like gravity had betrayed him.

Tendō, walking behind him, snorted.

“Did you just fall in love and lose to a paper cup?”

“I… no,” Ushijima said. _____________________________________________________________________________ He watched you for two weeks.

Not in a creepy way (he hoped). Just… from a safe, emotionally repressed distance.

You came every Tuesday. Same drink. Same spot. Always alone. Ushijima didn’t know your name. Or your major. Or your voice.

But he was absolutely in love.

It was probably fine.

Until Tendō handed him a black coffee one Tuesday and said, “You’re going over there.”

“I don’t have a plan,” Ushijima replied.

“Perfect,” Tendō grinned. “You never do.”

He walked over like a man heading into war. You looked up. Just barely. No smile. No surprise. Just polite acknowledgment. Ushijima opened his mouth...

And immediately ruined everything.

“…Your aura is… dense,” he said.

Silence. Even the café music seemed to pause.

You blinked. He panicked.

“I meant… you have a powerful energy signature.”

Still silence.

“I read that in a book about forests,” he added, completely flat.

You stared at him like he had personally insulted your ancestors.

He quickly placed the coffee on your table. “I brought this. I don’t know if you like it. But it’s bitter. Like… mortality.”

Tendō was choking on a muffin in the corner. You still hadn’t said a word.

Ushijima nodded stiffly. “You are visually symmetrical. That is statistically rare.”

You blinked and he tried again.

“Your hands seem… efficient.”

Tendō fell off his chair. Ushijima gave a small bow — because what else does a man do after that level of catastrophic courtship — and turned to leave.

You didn’t stop him. But next Tuesday, you were at the café again. Same seat. Same drink. Same book. And next to it?

A napkin. Folded neatly.

With two words written in tiny, perfect print:

“Dense aura?”

Ushijima nearly passed out.

Your handwriting was neat. Almost annoyingly precise. As if even your sarcasm followed MLA format. He read it twice. Then a third time.

Then folded it and put it in his pocket like he was storing evidence from a crime scene he had emotionally committed. He could feel the fucking amusement in the note.

This time, he sat down without asking.

You didn’t stop him.

Progress.

He cleared his throat. Very quietly. So quietly it might not have actually happened.

Then, serious as a eulogy: “I apologize for calling your energy signature ‘forest-like.’ That was… inaccurate. You are more like… the ocean.”

You blinked. Slowly. Ushijima panicked. Again.

“Because of the depth. And the… salt content.” Tendō, two tables away with a camera, audibly snorted into his matcha. You picked up your cup, taking a deliberate sip, still saying nothing.

Ushijima straightened his posture like that somehow gave him more flirting power.

“I was wondering,” he said. “If you would like to accompany me… to a volleyball match.”

Pause.

“For companionship,” he clarified, “not spectacle.”

Another pause.

“I will provide water.”