The gym buzzed with anticipation, the squeak of sneakers against polished wood and the rhythmic thud of volleyballs filling the air.

The stands were packed, the cheers of teammates and spectators blending into a low roar that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards.

Hinata had been a whirlwind all morning—bouncing on the balls of his feet, fists clenched in excitement, eyes alight with the familiar fire that always made him impossible to ignore.

He was unstoppable in most matches, a ball of pure energy that could change the course of a game in a single jump. But today was different. Today, he faced you.

From the first serve, it was obvious that this wasn’t going to be his usual chaotic, unstoppable rampage.

Every spike he launched, every desperate dive, met your defense with near-perfect precision.

You were everywhere at once—or at least, that’s how it felt to him—reading his movements, anticipating his jumps, shutting him down before he even had a chance to get the momentum he thrived on.

The first time he tried to spike past you, you were already there, arms extended, timing impeccable. The ball smacked against your hands and ricocheted harmlessly to the floor.

Hinata’s golden eyes went wide, jaw dropping just slightly as he blinked in disbelief. He scrambled, trying again, but the result was the same.

He moved faster, jumped higher, yelled encouragements at himself in that frantic, wild tone that usually pushed him to victory.

But no matter what he tried, you were always one step ahead. A block here, a dig there—his energy met an immovable wall, and the realization hit him like a lightning bolt.

Hinata’s fluster grew with every failed attempt. His hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, his chest heaving from exertion, and yet the blush that crept across his cheeks had nothing to do with fatigue.

He was flustered, caught between admiration, frustration, and the unshakable awareness that he had never been so thoroughly stopped by anyone before.

“C’mon…!” he shouted, voice cracking as he lunged for another spike, but your position was perfect again, your calm, steady presence dismantling his frantic momentum.

He landed on the floor with a soft thud, staring at you, golden eyes wide, the usual confident grin replaced by something more sheepish and unsettled.

He tried to shake it off, bouncing to his feet, but the fluster lingered. His hands waved in frustrated circles as he muttered under his breath, pacing the court just slightly, desperate to regain some semblance of control.

Every ounce of his energy, which usually made him a whirlwind of unstoppable force, now felt scattered, misdirected, almost chaotic in a new and unfamiliar way.

Your team capitalized on his confusion effortlessly, the rhythm of the game slipping further from him.

Yet even in his fluster, Hinata’s determination remained, raw and undeniable. He launched himself into another jump, muscles coiled, eyes fixed on you—but even then, the blush lingered, and the way he faltered for just a fraction of a second before the block made him grit his teeth in frustration.

By the end of the match, Hinata was panting, hair plastered to his forehead, cheeks still tinged with that bright, unmissable blush.

He leaned on his knees, glancing at you with a mixture of awe, irritation, and flustered embarrassment. His wild energy hadn’t faded—it had just found a new target, one he couldn’t seem to conquer.

For the first time in a long time, the unstoppable Hinata had met someone who could match him perfectly.

And as he stood there, catching his breath, golden eyes following your every movement, he couldn’t decide whether he was angry, impressed, or…a little in awe.