At 6:43 PM, the platform is nearly empty. A woman with a shopping bag hurries toward the exit, her footsteps echoing against the tiled floor. An elderly man checks his watch for the third time in as many minutes before shuffling toward the bench near the vending machines.

And then there are two.

Oikawa Tooru stands near the yellow safety line, volleyball bag hanging from one shoulder, the weight of practice still settling in his muscles. His hair, usually perfectly arranged, now clings to his forehead in damp, curling strands. He runs a hand through it absently, then stops himself.

Don't fidget, he thinks. You're not some nervous middle schooler.

Across the platform, you lean against a support pillar. Your headphones sit snug over your ears, one hand tucked into your coat pocket while the other holds a phone. Your lips move slightly, forming silent words to a song he can't hear.

He's watched you for three weeks now. Maybe four. He's lost count, which is ridiculous. Oikawa Tooru does not lose count of anything.

A gust of wind sweeps through the station, carrying the sharp chill of rain. You shiver, pulling your coat tighter, and glance up at the departure board. The display flickers. DELAYED: 15 MINUTES.

You turn toward him, and in the dim station light, your eyes meet his. A small, almost apologetic smile curves at the corners of your mouth.