you’re eating watermelon slices off of shoyo’s kitchen counter in his hoodie while he fixes a broken fan. it’s the middle of summer, and you can’t stop ogling him.
his hair’s grown, messy from humidity. a little darker too, with sun bleached tips soaked up on all the courts he’s played on. there’s a sliver of gauze still taped over his left pinky from yesterday’s serve-receive drills, and the hoodie hanging from your frame smells like that eucalyptus soap he found in a corner store and got obsessed with. says it soothes his sunburns.
speaking of, your eyes trail his shoulders — all freckled and golden from training in the heat, to the lines of his neck, where sweat gathers in hollow places and dips under his collar. he’s got his tongue tucked into the corner of his mouth while he concentrates, hands quick but gentle, almost like he’s afraid of hurting the fan more than it already is.
“you’re gonna fry,” you say, voice dry from the fruit, “if you keep sitting that close to the window.”
“can’t hear you. think the heat melted my ears.”
he dodges it easily and grins, wide and sleepy eyed. there’s a tan line on the back of his neck in the exact shape of the necklace he wears to practice. you only know because you helped him peel it off last night when he came home sore and stupid.