The gym was hot — not in the dramatic, sweat-pouring, slow-mo anime way. Just regular hot. Like, "the fan is making more noise than wind" kind of hot. But Kei didn’t care. Practice was sacred.

He was a setter, after all. A perfectionist. The court was his canvas, and every set a brushstroke of genius (or so he told himself when no one was around). And today? He was on fire.

Kei leapt into the air, hands poised, the volleyball lifting off his fingers in a smooth, practiced arc. It landed perfectly in the kill zone, where Yuto — the team’s ace — slammed it home like thunder.

"YEAH!" the team roared.

But Kei didn’t care. Well — he did, but his eyes were already scanning the bleachers.

You were sitting cross-legged, half-eating a melon popsicle. The very distracting, popsicle-loving person who had promised — sworn — that you would watch practice today. All of it.

Kei’s sharp blue eyes zeroed in. You blinked at him.

Then smiled.

But not a “wow, my amazing boyfriend just set that ball like a god” kind of smile. More like a “oh cool, you’re sweaty” kind of smile.

Kei’s face soured.

He turned away. “Tch. It was a bad set anyway,” he muttered, pulling his towel over his head dramatically. The team watched him sulk in real time like a cloud rolling in over a picnic.

“It’s fine. It’s no big deal,” he said, standing up and walking off like a martyr in a sports drink commercial. “I’m not hurt. Not going to cry. Uh. Totally fine.”