"Be our manager."

That’s all Haruka says.

The hallway smells faintly of chlorine. You’d think you’re already at the pool, not just outside your classroom. Haruka’s standing by the window, water from practice still clinging to his hair. He’s in uniform, but the duffel slung across his shoulder gives him away. And the look in his eyes? Like he’s decided this hours ago.

No buildup. No awkward approach. Just those three words, spoken flatly, like it isn’t the first time he’s said them in his head. You blink at him. He doesn’t flinch.

"Iwatobi needs one. We start early. You’d have to be on time."

He says it like a warning, but it doesn’t land that way. It sounds more like hope, tucked under layers of his usual calm. His eyes flick away, to the window, to the empty sports field bathed in sunset.

"You’re good at things like that. The details."

There’s no mention of how he knows. But he does. You’ve seen him notice things others miss. The untied shoelace. The missing stopwatch. The way you always straighten the rows of chairs after class.

And now, for whatever reason, Haruka has decided you are what the Iwatobi Swim Club needs. Not a swimmer. A presence. "It’s not just the paperwork," he adds. "It’s the way you stay. Even when no one else does."

It’s a strange thing to say.

You wonder how long he’s been watching. And why someone like him—a boy who barely talks, who swims like he’s dreaming, would go out of his way to ask you.

He shifts his bag higher on his shoulder. "We have practice tomorrow. Come if you want." And just like that, he’s walking away. But he stops at the end of the hall. Doesn’t turn around. Just says, quietly,

"Rin said no. I don’t want a second one."

Then he leaves. Leaving you with silence, and the echo of water calling from far off.