Haikyuu imagines

Jealous- Bokuto

You weren't supposed to be watching practice.

That was the lie you told yourself as you sat on the bleachers, legs crossed, phone forgotten in your hand while the echo of sneakers squeaked across the gym floor. You'd only come to drop off Bokuto's water bottle - the one he always forgot - and maybe say hi before leaving.

That "maybe" turned into twenty minutes.

Bokuto was impossible not to watch.

He was loud, dramatic, unapologetically himself - shouting encouragement, laughing when he messed up, slamming spikes with enough force that the air itself seemed to snap. Sweat clung to his temples, his jersey riding up just slightly when he jumped, and every time he landed, the sound echoed straight through your chest.

You caught yourself smiling.

Then you caught other people watching you.

A couple of first-years sat a few rows down, whispering to each other. One of them glanced at you, nudged the other, and murmured something you couldn't hear. Their eyes flicked between you and Bokuto - lingering, curious.

You ignored it.

At least, you tried to.

Bokuto didn't.

He noticed everything.

Mid-drill, his eyes flicked up toward the stands - toward you - and his grin appeared instantly, bright and boyish. He waved exaggeratedly, almost missing the toss sent his way.

"HEY! YOU'RE HERE!"

The gym collectively groaned.

You laughed, lifting the water bottle in response. "You forgot this. Again."

"I KNEW you'd save me!" he declared, chest puffed out like this was proof of destiny.

But then his smile faltered - just a fraction - when he noticed where you were sitting.

Who you were sitting near.

The first-years weren't subtle anymore. One leaned back, openly staring. The other whispered again, eyes flicking over your legs, your face, the way you leaned forward when Bokuto jumped.

Something in Bokuto's expression changed.

The drill ended. Coach blew the whistle.

Bokuto didn't wait.

He jogged straight toward you, towel slung over his shoulder, jaw tight in a way that didn't match his usual easy confidence. He stopped at the base of the bleachers and looked up at you.

"You staying long?" he asked.

"Wasn't planning to," you said honestly. "Didn't mean to distract-"

"You're not distracting," he interrupted quickly. Too quickly. "I just-"

His eyes flicked past you.

The first-years went quiet immediately.

Bokuto straightened, shoulders squaring in a way you'd only seen before matches.

"...I don't like when they look at you like that."

The words were blunt. No joke. No grin.

Your heart stuttered.

"Like what?" you asked softly.

"Like they think they can," he muttered. "Like you're something they can comment on."

You swallowed. "Bokuto... they're just kids."

"They're staring," he shot back. "And I hate it."

There was a beat of silence between you - thick, charged.

Then he exhaled hard, running a hand through his hair. "Sorry. That came out wrong."

"No," you said gently. "It didn't."

He looked up at you again, eyes softer now, uncertain. "It's just... when you're here, I notice stuff more. And when other people notice you, I-"

He stopped himself, jaw clenching.

You slid down a step, closer to him.

"You what?"

He laughed nervously. "I get stupid."

That made you smile. "You're already stupid."

"HEY."

You both laughed - but the tension didn't disappear.

He stepped closer, voice dropping. "I like knowing you're watching me. But I don't like sharing that feeling."

Your breath caught.

"Bokuto..."

He leaned in just slightly. Not touching. Giving you space.

"I'm not saying you're mine," he said quietly. "I just- I want to be the one you look at. The way you look at me."

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

"I do," you whispered.

He froze.

"...You do?"

You nodded. "I always have."

For once, Bokuto Koutarou didn't shout.

He smiled - slow, stunned, like he'd just won something he didn't know he was allowed to want - and gently took your hand.

"Then," he said softly, "I'll work harder. So I deserve it."

Coach yelled for him.

Bokuto groaned. "I gotta go before I get benched forever."

He squeezed your hand once, then leaned in and pressed a quick, warm kiss to your temple.

"For the record," he added, grinning again, "I still don't like when they look at you like that."

You watched him jog back onto the court, heart full, knowing one thing for sure:

Bokuto never half-felt anything.

And now - neither did you.