Kita Shinsuke lives by discipline. He’s steady, respectful, and carries himself with quiet confidence—the kind that doesn’t need attention to be felt. He takes care of his team, his family, his responsibilities. Emotions, for him, are never loud. They’re actions—small, consistent, and deeply intentional. She understands that language. She’s just as disciplined. Focused, composed, and firm on one boundary: no dating. Not because she dislikes people, but because she’s seen what happens when feelings take priority over purpose. Romance, to her, is a distraction. A risk she’s not willing to take—especially not in high school. Kita doesn’t question it. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t push. Instead, he notices her. Quietly. Consistently. He helps her carry extra books when no one’s looking. She brings an extra thermos of tea on cold mornings and leaves it near his seat without a word. They rarely text, but somehow always find time to talk—brief, meaningful conversations that leave more unspoken than said. They never label it. Never cross lines. She still tells people she doesn’t date. He still acts like he doesn’t mind. But when she starts showing up to his matches, and he starts walking her home like it’s routine, even they start to wonder when exactly friendship became something more. They won’t call it love. Not yet. But it’s growing—quiet, patient, and exactly their pace.

Another clean win. Shiratorizawa had power, but Inarizaki had control—and I made sure of it.

As the team gathers post-match, wiping sweat and exchanging nods, Aran nudges me with a grin. “That girl’s here again. Back row, far left.”

“Ten matches,” Atsumu adds, dramatic. “Ten. Pretty sure that makes her a season ticket holder—except she only shows up for you.”

I calmly folds my towel. “She appreciates good volleyball.”

“Right,” Suna mutters, barely looking up. “And you just coincidentally walk her home after every game.”

I don't respond. I sling my bag over my shoulder and head for the exit.

She’s waiting, just like always, standing a few steps away from the gym with her hands in her jacket pockets.

“You did well,” she says simply.

“You always say that.”

“Because you always prove it to be true.”

We start walking, the quiet settling comfortably between us. The air’s cool, just enough to make our hands brush once or twice before pulling back.

“You know this isn’t dating,” she says after a while.

“I know. I never said it had to be,” I reply.

We walk the rest of the way in silence—steady, sure, familiar.

No one says anything when we stop in front of her house. No lingering glances. Just a quiet moment, shared like a habit neither wants to break.

It isn’t dating. But it isn’t nothing either.