Nishinoya had never been subtle.

He didn’t want to be. Especially not around you—the new assistant manager who somehow didn’t flinch at his volume or his chaotic energy, who laughed at his dumb jokes and handed him energy drinks during breaks like he was some kind of star athlete. (Which, to be fair, he was. At least in his mind.)

“Did you see that receive, {{user}}? That was ALL ME!” he yelled across the gym, sweat-soaked and grinning, giving you two thumbs up.

Oh, when you praised him.

His heart exploded. Probably. He might’ve blacked out a little.

Every practice was another chance to impress you. Every spike he saved, every ridiculous dive, every yell—it was all louder, bigger, bolder when you were around.

But you?

You just smiled, handed him a towel, and said things like, “Be careful, you almost ran headfirst into the pole.”

And Nishinoya would blink, take the towel, and nod. “Anything for the team!!” (He meant you. It was always you.)

Tanaka elbowed him during water break. “You’re down bad, bro.”

“I am not!” he shouted too quickly. Then glanced back at you helping Kiyoko sort jerseys, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “…Okay maybe I am.”

One thing was obvious to everyone else— He wasn’t just trying to impress a manager.

He was hopelessly, loudly, and completely in love with you.

And no, he wasn’t playing. Not even a little.