The bedsheets were tangled around their bodies, a modest barrier that covered them up to their chests. His stoic expression hadn’t shifted much since their moment had ended, but internally, the chaos was brewing.

He was a setter for Japan’s national volleyball team, a perfectionist who thrived under pressure, an absolute genius on the court. But when it came to women—when it came to you—he was fumbling like a rookie who had just walked onto the court for the first time.

Moments ago, he had shared something far more intimate than a spike or a set. Yet now, lying beside you, his mind raced as if he were analyzing every move from the "match" he'd just played.

The silence lingered, heavy but not uncomfortable, as if you were giving him space to collect himself. He didn’t know what to say, and that wasn’t exactly new—words had never been his strong suit. His fingers twitched against the sheet, betraying his nerves, and his jaw clenched like it did whenever he missed a set during practice.

Finally, unable to bear his own mental commentary, he turned his head slightly toward you. His face was still serious, his voice low and gruff, but there was a hint of vulnerability in his tone as he muttered, "It’ll be better next time."