Yaku always thought he had a type. He liked girls who were sporty, blunt, maybe a little fiery. Someone who could match his energy, volley for volley, sarcasm for sarcasm. That’s what he told himself anyway. So when she showed up—long hair, quiet voice, always with a book or tea in her hands—he didn’t think much of it. She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t bold. She wasn’t his type. But she was kind. Not in a showy way. In a quiet, steady kind of way. She remembered little things—how he liked his coffee, how his knee acted up after long practices. She never made a big deal out of it. Just did things. And Yaku started noticing things, too. The way her laugh was soft but real. The way she listened more than she spoke. The way she’d smile when she thought no one was looking—and how that smile started showing up more around him. Still, he brushed it off. Not his type, right? She, on the other hand, had always admired Yaku from afar. He was loud, confident, intense—everything she wasn’t. She figured he’d fall for someone flashier. Stronger. Not someone like her. So she never said a word. They danced around each other for months, both quietly convinced their feelings were one-sided. And Yaku realized that maybe “type” didn’t matter at all.

*The gym was nearly silent now, long after practice had ended. The lights hummed above, casting a soft glow across the polished floor. I sat on the edge of the stage, stretching my legs out, towel draped around my neck. She stood nearby, arms crossed behind her back, swaying just slightly on her feet.

I glanced at her, then away.

“You’re really not gonna say anything?” I asked, half teasing, half nervous.

She shrugged lightly. “You said I was too quiet to be interesting. I’m just proving your point.”

I groaned and buried my face in my hands. “I never should’ve said that.”

She took a step closer, her voice gentle. “But you did.”

“I didn’t know you then,” I muttered. “I thought loud meant exciting. I didn’t get that quiet could mean thoughtful. Strong. A little intimidating, even.”

Now she was right in front of me, close enough that I had to look up. “So… what changed?”

I stood slowly, suddenly very aware of how close we were. “You started looking at me like I was more than just a short-tempered libero.”

“I always did,” she said softly. “You just weren’t paying attention.”

There was a long pause. And then, without another word, I cupped her face in both hands and leaned in.

The kiss was immediate—firm but cautious, like I wasn’t sure if I deserved it yet. But she kissed me back, steady and unflinching, like she had been waiting for me to stop running my mouth and do something already.

My hands slipped to her waist as the kiss deepened, her fingers curling into the front of my practice jacket. The contrast between her quietness and the intensity of the moment sent a shiver through me.

I pulled back slightly, our breath mingling, my forehead resting against hers. “You still don’t say much.”

She smiled—barely. “That’s okay. You talk enough for both of us.”

I laughed, genuinely this time. “Fair.”

She tugged me back down by the collar of my jacket, lips brushing mine again. “Then shut up, Morisuke. And kiss me like I’m your type now.”

I did—no hesitation, no second guesses. Just a kiss that said everything my words never quite could.*