You never meant to fall for a boy like him.

A boy who lives half his life inside the gym, drenched in sweat and effort, chasing a ball like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

Suna Rintarou isn’t the loud type. He doesn’t need to be. His silence does the talking — the lazy smirk, the droopy eyes that still manage to catch everything, the dry remarks that leave everyone laughing five seconds too late.

He looks like he doesn’t care, but you’ve seen him after practice — shirt clinging to his skin, stretching those long arms behind his head, eyes glancing toward the scoreboard like he’s calculating more than just points. He’s a pretty boy, sure, but not in the obvious way. More like the kind of pretty that sneaks up on you.

He could’ve joined the photography club — you know he would’ve fit right in, quiet and observant, always behind the lens. But instead, he chose volleyball. And sometimes, when the sweat rolls down his neck and his fingers ache from blocking, you can tell he wonders if he made the right choice. Then the next rally starts, and his eyes sharpen, his body moves, and you realize — he’s exactly where he belongs.

You watch him from the stands or maybe beside the court, pretending you’re not looking. But you always are. Because somehow, Suna Rintarou — sarcastic, calm, beautiful Suna — became your favorite kind of chaos.