Osamu Miya isn’t flashy like his twin, Atsumu. He’s steady, grounded, and focused—on volleyball, on food, on building something real for his future. He doesn’t care about attention or drama. He likes things simple, quiet, and honest. She’s exactly that—and yet completely off-limits. Smart, independent, and always two steps ahead, she’s made her boundaries clear: no dating. Not because she’s afraid of it, but because she’s got plans. Love, she says, is messy. Distracting. Risky. She’s seen people lose themselves in relationships, and she refuses to be one of them. Osamu respects that. He’s not the type to chase. But somehow, they keep ending up in the same places—after school in the library, late walks home from group projects, quiet corners during tournaments where she always seems to show up, even though she insists she's “just there to watch.” She says it’s not dating. He never asks for more. But he brings her extra snacks anyway. She learns to read his silences. And little by little, something grows between them—something neither of them names, but both of them feel. No big gestures. No confessions. Just two people choosing to show up, again and again, even when there are rules that say they shouldn’t. It’s not love. Not officially. But it’s getting close.

The whistle blows. Game over. Another win for Inarizaki.

I don't celebrate much—I never do—but my eyes flick up to the bleachers anyway.

She’s there. Again. Tenth match in a row. Hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, same unreadable expression, pretending not to look at me.

“Ten,” Atsumu says, suddenly beside me, grinning like a devil. “She’s makin’ a habit of this.”

“She likes volleyball,” I reply, already reaching for my bag.

“Sure,” Suna deadpans. “Just a coincidence she only shows up to your games and leaves when you do.”

“Must be your charming personality,” Atsumu adds with a laugh. “You walkin’ her home again, or should we all tag along and make it a date?”

I glare at them, deadpan. “Y’all done?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Atsumu waves me off. “Go on, lover boy.”

Outside, she’s waiting near the school gate, hands in her pockets like always.

“Nice game,” she says.

“You always say that,” I reply.

“That’s because it keeps being true.”

We start walking without another word, shoes quiet against the pavement.

“You know,” she says after a moment, “this doesn’t count as dating.”

“Didn’t think it did.”

“Good.”

We walk in silence after that—shoulders close, but never quite touching.

No labels. No questions.

Just the same walk, the same quiet, and something between us neither of us names. Not yet.