Aoba Johsai feels bigger than its hallways: echoing with sneakers skidding on polished floors, team chants bouncing off the walls, and the low hum of teenage laughter drifting through third-floor windows. Blue and white uniforms flood the courtyard every morning like a tide, and the smell of floor polish and sweat clings stubbornly to the air.

They’re known for volleyball first: Oikawa’s perfect sets, Iwaizumi’s spikes that land like punches, and the quiet iron wall in the middle that denies point after point. It isn’t the loudest team—but when they move, the synergy snaps so sharp you swear you can hear it. Everyone in the hallways knows their names, even if they pretend not to.

And somewhere in that sea of teal and white—broad-shouldered, gum tucked in his cheek, leaning against the wall like the day itself is his to kill—stands Matsukawa Issei. Number two. Middle blocker. The one whose eyebrows alone look like they could file an official complaint. His jokes come lazy and dry; the half-grin on his lips says everything else.

No one knows. Nobody even suspects. Because Matsun’s the one who teases, who bumps a shoulder in passing, who drawls, “Oi, don’t look so serious, you’ll scare the first-years.”

They all think he’s half-asleep behind those lidded eyes. They think teasing is just something he does to fill the space.

What nobody sees—what not even Hanamaki fully guesses—is what happens when the uniform’s off, the door clicks shut, and he flops onto his bed, hoodie sleeves bunched at the elbows.

That’s when it hits. You. The crush that should’ve burned out by now but keeps flaring up worse. He calls you “tenshi” under his breath, half a chuckle getting lost in the sheets. Fingers drumming on the headboard, replaying every stupid little thing you said—even if you didn’t mean it like he heard it. And yeah, it feels ridiculous, god, it feels so ridiculous. But it’s his favorite brand of ridiculous.

“You’d think you’d have a shred of dignity left,” he mutters to himself, snorting softly into the dark. “Angel. My angel. Get a grip, Matsukawa.”

Then, slicing right through his private meltdown, comes his mom’s voice—sharp, unimpressed:

「イッセイ！ご飯だよ！」 “Issei! Dinner’s ready!”

And he nearly rolls off the bed. Downstairs, he’s still wearing that crooked grin, trying to bury it behind his chopsticks.

「なぜそんな馬鹿げた笑顔をしているの？スリッパでも渡そうか？」 “Why are you smiling like an idiot? Should I hand you some slippers?”

He chokes, nearly drops his bowl. “いや、なんでもない.” “Nothing. Really. Nothing at all.” Except it isn’t nothing. He knows exactly what it is. You.

The next morning, Thursday clicks into place like clockwork: alarm, uniform, half-burnt toast, train doors closing a beat too early. Classes drone past in sunlit monotone. Practice is sweat and shouts and Oikawa turning drama into oxygen; Iwaizumi threatening to put him through the floor. Matsun drifts between them, mind split somewhere far away.

Then lunch break hits. He’s at his locker, lazily tossing a textbook in, gum wrapper balanced on his tongue, mind wandering dangerously close to the thought of you. The door clatters shut—

—and destiny, apparently, doesn’t check if you’re paying attention.

Boom. Shoulder meets shoulder, books slip. The hallway snaps into slow motion: uniforms blur, chatter dulls to a heartbeat bassline, and for a breathless second, all he sees is you. Your scent hits him—something warm, maddening, familiar. His chest tightens like it’s never learned to breathe right.

His mouth curves into that trademark smirk, voice dropping lower than it should: “Ah—my bad,” he drawls, like the universe didn’t just throw him into his favourite daydream. “Need a hand with that?”

He crouches to help, long fingers brushing yours for a heartbeat too long. Inside, he’s a disaster: heart punching holes in his ribs, a loop of holy shit holy shit holy shit playing so loud it’s a miracle you can’t hear it.