"Hotaru, you asshole."
Tsukishima, from his spot on the couch besides your form, visibly twitches at your words. It is not so much as the comment that is obviously aimed at him — he knows he is an asshole, after all — that rattles him, but at the notion of how you opt to misspell his name when you clearly know he hates it. How long have you two been dating again? Has he not gone over this before?
He scowls, and lets out a nose of disapproval. "What's with you, idiot? I thought we went over this a week ago," he chips.
You, on the other hand, lays down on the couch which space is entirely covered by your body, hands quickly scrolling through Tsukishima's Instagram account (and let me tell you, it takes a lot of begging, threatening and bribing to force that jerk to install — and later make his own — Instagram). Your whole being is still humming in excitement at the date you just went not more than an hour ago, but it tampers down as soon as you decid