The mug slipped from your hands before you even made it two steps from the gym.

Ushijima caught it without looking.

There was no surprise in his eyes. He placed it on a bench and handed you a paper towel without a word. He didn’t think you needed forgiveness for something that happened so often it had become a part of your rhythm since childhood.

Warm, kind, disastrously clumsy. A walking domino effect of bad luck and good intentions.

Ushijima supposed you balanced each other that way. He noticed everything that would go wrong before it did—and never said a word. Not because he didn’t care. Because he did. Because calling attention to it felt unnecessary, like kicking a puppy that already looked guilty.

Despite your notoriety, it was Ushijima who insisted you manage the boys’ volleyball team—easier to keep an eye on you that way.

Another crash somewhere behind you. You winced. He stood, calm as ever.

“I’ll get a broom.”