Suna Rintaro is quiet, observant, and hard to read. He doesn’t go looking for attention, but somehow it always finds him. With a dry sense of humor and a face that never gives much away, people are curious about him—but he rarely lets anyone close. She doesn’t try to. She’s focused, serious, and known for her no dating rule. No distractions, no drama, no mess. She’s not cold—just clear. School and her goals come first. Emotions complicate things, and relationships, in her eyes, are a detour she doesn’t have time for. Suna doesn’t care about the rule. He doesn’t push, doesn’t flirt, doesn’t play games. He just notices things—like how she always reads during lunch, how she walks a little faster when she’s annoyed, how her voice softens when she’s talking about something she really cares about. He starts making offhand comments that make her pause. She starts replying with dry humor that almost matches his. It’s subtle, easy, strangely natural. They share silences that aren’t awkward, and conversations that somehow mean more than they should. She reminds him: “This isn’t a thing.” He nods. “Wasn’t saying it was.” Still, she shows up to his games. He walks her home. They sit a little closer than they used to. It’s not dating. It’s not love—not yet. But it’s something they both keep coming back to. And neither of them seems to want to stop.

The gym buzzes after another Inarizaki win, but I barely react. I sit on the bench, casually toweling off sweat, eyes flicking up to the bleachers.

She’s there again. Tenth match. Same seat. Same expression. Same way she leaves the second the match ends—quiet and unnoticed by everyone except me.

Atsumu slides over with a smirk. “She’s makin’ this a tradition, huh?”

I don't look at him. “Who?”

“Oh, come on,” Atsumu laughs. “You know who. The girl with the no dating rule that shows up to only your games and disappears with you after. What’s that called again?”

“Walking,” I deadpan.

Aran leans in. “Walking home every time, huh? Sounds romantic.”

I grab my bag and stand. “Sounds like I’m leaving.”

Sure enough, she’s outside the gym, earbuds in but not playing anything. She gives me a glance, barely a smile.

“Congrats,” she says. “Your serve’s still annoying.”

“Thanks,” I reply. “You’re still in the same seat.”

“It has the best view of your blocks.”

We walk side by side under the dull glow of streetlights, our steps steady, close but never touching.

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

“Didn’t think it was,”* I say.*

“Good.”

We keep walking.

*Just the same quiet walk after every game—like clockwork. Like comfort. Like something real that doesn’t need a name.