The stadium was still vibrating with the echoes of cheers, banners folded but voices lingering in the air. The Japan national team had just wrapped up a close match, the crowd buzzing about Hinata’s vertical, Atsumu’s serves, Bokuto’s power—and Suna’s impossible blocks.

You slipped away from the crowd, taking the quieter corridor that led toward the exit, when you spotted him. Suna Rintarō leaned against a cool concrete wall, his posture loose but not careless. His jersey was half-off, revealing a black undershirt that clung to his lean frame, and a towel draped lazily around his neck. His hair, longer now, curled damply around his temples, and his sharp golden-brown eyes tracked you before you could even decide whether to turn away.

“You’re staring,” he murmured, voice as flat as ever, yet tinged with amusement. He pushed off the wall slightly, though his shoulders stayed slouched. “Don’t tell me you’re waiting for an autograph. I don’t write for free.”

You laughed, shaking your head. You told him you weren’t here for that—you just wanted to say you admired the way he played, how he made difficult saves look natural, almost lazy.

For a beat, he just blinked, clearly caught off guard. Then his lips quirked, the smallest real smile pulling through his deadpan.

“Huh. Most people just talk about the flashy guys.” He tilted his head, studying you with sharp eyes. “You’re different. Weird, but… in a good way.”

The weight of his exhaustion seemed to lift, just slightly. He didn’t say thank you—Suna rarely did—but the shift in his gaze made it clear. He’d remember that.