Long enough to know one thing for certain.

Oikawa Tooru flirted with everyone.

Cashiers. Strangers. Waitresses. Old women at train stations. If they breathed, Oikawa would probably wink at them. It was less a personality trait and more a reflex at this point.

So when he leaned against the gym doorway that afternoon—sweat still drying on his neck after practice, hair artfully messy, that stupidly practiced smile already in place—you didn't even blink.

Iwaizumi was rolling his eyes so hard it looked like it might hurt.

He was standing near the equipment bin, towel slung over his shoulder, arms crossed. Waiting. Probably expecting you to do what everyone else did.

Stutter. Blush. Deny it while definitely meaning it.

Instead, you smiled.

And looked past Oikawa entirely.