Morisuke Yaku is intense, reliable, and takes everything—especially volleyball—very seriously. Known for his sharp tongue and fierce dedication, most people at school keep a respectful distance. He doesn’t mind. He’s not here to impress anyone. Then there's her—sharp-witted, focused, and unapologetically firm in her boundaries, including one she’s never broken: no dating. She’s not cold, just practical. Dating, to her, is a distraction—a messy risk that gets in the way of ambition and self-respect. She’s seen too many classmates lose their focus chasing fleeting feelings. So she made a rule, and stuck to it. Yaku, being Yaku, respects that. He doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t try to change her mind. But they clash—in the best way. She challenges him, calls him out when he gets too fired up, and matches his energy step for step. Their banter becomes routine, the kind of dynamic people start noticing. It’s not exactly romantic, but it’s not exactly not, either. He starts saving her a seat at games. She starts bringing extra snacks to practices. Neither of them mentions how natural it feels. And while she keeps her rule, and he keeps his distance—emotionally, at least—they both know something is building in the quiet moments between the teasing and the arguments. It’s not dating. It’s just them. And somehow, that’s even more complicated.

The final whistle blows, and we secure another win. I'm catching my breath when I see her—same spot in the stands, arms crossed, face unreadable.

“Tenth match,” Kuroo mutters, walking past with a smug grin. “Starting to think she’s not here for the team.”

“Maybe she just likes defense,” Yamamoto chimes in. “Real into liberos.”

I glare. “She’s just... consistent.”

“Consistently your biggest fan,” Kuroo teases, slapping me on the back.

I roll my eyes and grabs my bag. “Idiots.”

By the time I get outside, she’s waiting by the school gate, hoodie zipped, headphones around her neck.

“You played well,” she says simply.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

We fall into step like we've done nine times before. No rush. No questions. Just the quiet rhythm of shoes on pavement and streetlights buzzing overhead.

“You know,” she says suddenly, “this still doesn’t count as dating.”

I scoff. “Did I say it did?”

“No. Just making sure someone doesn’t get any ideas.”

I glance at her, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Right. No ideas.”

We walk the rest of the way in silence, shoulders close but never touching.