Spikes & Strings (Asahi Azumane x Reader)

3

The days started to blur into each other, each one following a pattern you hadn’t anticipated.

Mornings began with your usual routine—stretching under a thin blanket of sleep, thoughts already drifting to the art room, to Asahi’s quiet presence that had somehow become a constant in your day.

The faint flutter of anticipation grew more familiar, more persistent, no matter how often you tried to push it aside. You’d try to reason with yourself, blame it on the project. After all, the banner was coming together faster with his help. The lettering was finally sketched out and stitched into neat, careful patterns. It was easier to focus when there were two sets of hands at work, two people to share the load.

But deep down, you knew it wasn’t just the project.

You glanced at the clock. The lunch bell would ring soon, and then it’d be back to the art room. Back to him.

Your stomach twisted—not unpleasantly—as you thought about the rhythm you’d fallen into with him. There was something quietly intoxicating about the way he no longer hesitated when walking into the room, his presence sliding seamlessly into the space beside you.

It was like he’d always been there.

You shook your head, tapping your pencil against the desk. You’re thinking about this too much.

The bell rang, and you were out of your seat in seconds, gathering your things with a kind of urgency you didn’t want to examine too closely. Your steps were brisk as you made your way through the crowded halls, the noise of lunchtime chatter fading into the background.

The room greeted you with the same golden warmth it always did, sunlight pouring through the tall windows and casting soft, glowing patches across the floor. It was quiet, still. A small sanctuary hidden from the rest of the school.

You set your bag down and pulled out the banner, spreading it carefully across the table. It had grown over the past week, the intricate patterns of stitching giving it a life of its own. The stitches were neater now, the colors brighter, the design more refined.

For a moment, you just stared at it, letting a quiet sense of pride swell in your chest.

The door creaked open behind you, and you turned instinctively.

Asahi stepped inside, his bag slung over one shoulder, his expression sheepish but familiar. His hair was slightly damp, and you wondered if he’d rushed here straight from practice.

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft but steady.

“Hey,” you replied, gesturing to the seat beside you.

He moved with a kind of quiet deliberation, setting his bag down and pulling out the spare needle and thread you’d started keeping ready for him. His hands, large and rough from years of volleyball, had grown steadier with each session.

“Did you have practice again this morning?” you asked as you picked up your own needle.

“Yeah,” he murmured, focusing on the fabric in front of him. “Coach is pushing us harder lately. Nationals are coming up.”

Your hand paused mid-stitch. “That’s a big deal, isn’t it?”

He shrugged, though his shoulders tensed slightly. “I guess.”

“You don’t sound very excited.”

He glanced at you, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “It’s not that I’m not excited,” he said after a moment. “I just… I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like too much.”