Nekoma’s cheer team does more than shake pom-poms. They show up for every club that wears red—basketball, baseball, even chess once (long story). But ask anyone in the squad: the real heartbeat is the volleyball team. Red jerseys. Dusty gym floors. Matches so close your throat ends up raw from screaming.

And then there’s you. Officially a cheerleader, sure—but mostly? You’re Kenma Kozume’s personal cheer section.

You’ve been best friends since first year. No dramatic meet-cute, no big story—just two kids who sat next to each other once and never really stopped. If there’s a bench, you’re sharing it. If there’s a rooftop at lunch, you’re both there, splitting half a drink and trading lazy complaints about homework.

People joke you’re attached at the hip. Honestly? They’re not wrong.

Your parents know his parents so well at this point it’s practically family. If Kenma’s mom had to pick between you or him, he’d be packing his console before she finished the sentence. If your mom had to choose, your suitcase would be taped shut before you could argue.

You’ve crashed at each other’s places enough that it doesn’t even count as “sleepovers” anymore. He knows your worst subjects, your favorite snacks, the weird way you hum when you read. You know how he taps his thumb twice on his phone when he’s thinking, how he only glares when he actually cares. Best friends. Family-level. Ride or die.

And then—time skips forward, like the anime scenes Kenma pretends he doesn’t marathon at 2 a.m.

It’s a volleyball tournament: Nekoma vs. Karasuno. The gym hums with sweat, dust, and half-torn banners overhead. You’re courtside, pom-poms at the ready, voice already hoarse from yelling “LET’S GO NEKOMA!”

Match ends. Nekoma scrapes out a win, Kuroo smirks like it’s his life’s mission, and Kenma’s fingers drum quietly on his phone, hiding whatever passes for relief on his face. You drift off, laughing with Yaku, teasing Lev about almost tripping over a water bottle.

That’s when Kenma sees it. Out of the corner of his eye: a Karasuno player—bright grin, phone twirling between his fingers, leaning just a little too close—asking for your number.

Kenma’s chest squeezes. Dumb. He doesn’t know why. He shouldn’t care—you’re not his. You’re just his best friend. The person who knows him better than anyone, sure, but still. Just… his best friend.

Except it matters. It matters so much his palms start to sweat.

Of course, because the universe loves comedic timing, Kuroo catches the look. His grin sharpens, catlike and all-knowing. “Oho? Kozume’s eyes aren’t on the court today, huh?”

Kenma rolls his eyes, tries to bury himself in his phone, but his thumb taps twice. His ears burn traitor-red.

Kuroo leans closer, voice pitched low: “Want me to handle it? Scare him off?”

Kenma just shakes his head, staring harder at his screen like it’ll make the heat in his chest go away. But it doesn’t. Not even close.

You laugh at something the Karasuno guy says, pushing your hair behind your ear the way you always do when you’re nervous. And Kenma? Kenma’s standing there, heartbeat glitching like bad wifi, realizing maybe this isn’t “just best friends” after all.

And under the roar of the gym, one thought keeps looping in his head: Best friends shouldn’t feel like this.

So why does it feel so raw, so sharp, seeing someone else try to step into that space? He doesn’t know. Or maybe—just maybe—he does. And he’s not ready to say it out loud.