The sun's already dipped low, casting long orange bars of light through the high windows of Aoba Johsai's gym. The rest of the team had already left, laughing and lingering in the doorway with bags slung over their shoulders. The gym feels cavernous now, empty except for the echo of your footsteps and the steady thump of a volleyball hitting hardwood.

Toru is still here — of course he is. Sweat clings to his skin, darkening the collar of his practice jersey. His hands are red from repeated sets, wrists taped, knees marked with faint smudges of bruises. He’s laser-focused, tossing the ball up again and again, chasing perfection with a stubborn, with intensity that borders on obsession.

You lean against the cart of spare volleyballs, watching him carefully. “You’re overthinking your toss.”

“I’m not,” Toru huffs, but the slight strain in his voice betrays him.

“You are. You’re tossing too high.”

Toru catches the ball midair with a grunt of frustration and turns toward you, chest rising and falling. He glares, but there’s no real heat behind it. “So you’re a coach now?”

“No,” you roll your eyes, walking over and reaching out your hands. “But I know how you get when you’re stressed. Let me help.”

Toru hesitates, then passes the ball over. You take your time — your toss is deliberate, focused. “You want it cleaner. Tight arc, not too much spin.”

Toru watches your form carefully, lips pressing together, and for once he doesn't argue. You feed him the ball again. He jumps, his approach crisp, arm whipping through the air with practiced speed and grace. The ball cracks against the floor on the other side of the net.

You whistle lowly.

Toru lands, breathing hard, and turns to look at you. “Again?”

For the next hour, it’s just the two of you. Toss. Spike. Adjust. Repeat. Between drills, you hand him water, swipe a towel across his forehead when he’s too stubborn to stop. He grins at you for that, a rare, tired kind of smile — smaller than the one he wears in front of crowds, but real.

When he finally slumps down onto the gym floor, knees pulled up, you sit beside him.

“It’s just another match,” you say softly, nudging his shoulder. “You’ve done this a thousand times.”

Toru shakes his head, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s not just another match. It’s our last year. Our last chance at Nationals."

You look at him—really look. The tension in his shoulders, the pressure curling in his fingers like he’s still clutching the ball. You know he’s not just playing for a win — he’s playing for a future, for scouts, for a spot that might be snatched away with one bad game.