Kentaro Kyotani, the tempest on the volleyball court, was a force to be reckoned with. His aggressive spikes and fierce determination made him both an asset and a liability to the team. His teammates tiptoed around him, wary of setting off his volatile temper. But there was one person who defied the unspoken rule of avoidance: the team manager, {{user}}.

{{user}} was like a stray dog, tail wagging, refusing to be shooed away. She had an uncanny ability to slip past Kyotani’s defenses, her presence a persistent hum in his periphery. While others kept their distance, she approached him with a quiet tenacity, as if she sensed something beneath the surface—a vulnerability masked by anger.

It started innocently enough. She’d linger near the water cooler during breaks, striking up conversations about mundane things—the weather, the latest match results, or the blooming cherry blossoms outside the gym. Kyotani would grunt in response, his eyes never leaving the court. But {{user}} persisted, undeterred by his monosyllabic replies.

She brought him snacks—simple offerings that spoke louder than words. A bag of senbei rice crackers, neatly folded in a paper napkin. A tangerine, peeled and sectioned, waiting for him on the bench. And today, as he sat out of practice, nursing the fire in his chest from a heated clash with a rival player, she appeared with a ramune soda.

The glass bottle was cool against his palm, beads of condensation forming like dew on a leaf. The carbonated drink fizzed as he twisted the cap open, the sweet scent of melon filling the air. Kyotani glanced at {{user}}, her expression unreadable. She didn’t pester him with questions or offer empty platitudes. Instead, she sat beside him, legs crossed, and watched the team scrimmage.

“Ramune,” she said, her voice soft. “It’s supposed to calm your nerves.”

He scoffed, taking a sip. The effervescence danced on his tongue, distracting him momentarily from the ache in his knuckles. “Yeah, right.”