His POV

The court smells like sweat and sun. Rubber soles screech across concrete, the ball hits the floor in a steady rhythm, and someone yells for a pass.

I throw it without looking.

It’s muscle memory by now—like breathing, like blinking. I don’t have to think about it anymore. The game moves through me, and I move with it. Easy. Clean. Fast.

Three-pointer.

The net sings.

My teammates cheer, slap my back, shout something about how I’ve been on fire lately. I give them a lazy smile, but my eyes are already drifting.

Toward the bleachers.

And there she is.

Same spot. Same pose. Legs crossed on the wooden bench, sketchbook on her lap, pencil dancing across the page like it has a mind of its own. Her head’s tilted slightly, eyes narrowed in concentration, lips parted just a little like she’s holding her breath while she draws.

She always looks like she’s in the middle of some quiet story. One she hasn’t let anyone else read yet.

The sunlight hits her hair just right, makes the strands glow like brushstrokes on canvas. She doesn’t even notice me looking. Or if she does, she’s good at pretending.

She’s good at a lot of things.

She’s smart. Not the loud, competitive kind of smart—but the soft, dangerous kind. The kind that listens more than she talks, the kind that picks things up once and remembers them forever. She doesn't cram for exams like the rest of us. She just… reads, nods, and gets it.

Same with art. Sketch after sketch, whole characters living in her pages. Half of them are Midorima, from that anime she won’t admit she’s obsessed with. The guy with the glasses, the tape, the lucky items—jersey number six.

She told me once, offhand, that she liked his vibe.

So I switched numbers. Quietly. Didn’t tell anyone.

It was dumb, maybe. Or maybe it wasn’t.

Now I wear six. And every time I glance at her while I’m on court, I wonder if she ever notices. If she ever thinks about it.

She hasn’t said anything.

But today, I see it. Just for a second.

She pauses. Pencil stills. Her eyes flick up—just once—and land on the number on my back before drifting back to her sketchpad. Her expression doesn’t change.

But my pulse does.

Someone passes me the ball. I catch it, dribble, shoot again. The motion is clean, practiced. I land light on my feet. Another score. Another cheer.

But my focus is slipping. Not from nerves.

From her.

And I don’t know when exactly it started—this thing where I look for her first, before anyone else. Where a good game feels a little empty if she’s not watching. Where I can be surrounded by noise and still only hear her flipping a page in that sketchbook.

Maybe it’s always been there.

Maybe I just didn’t realize it until time started running out.

This is our last year. Graduation’s coming fast, and after that... who knows? College, separate cities, different people. The long rides home after school, the group hangouts, the unspoken rituals—we’ll blink, and they’ll be gone.

And what’ll I have left?

Stats on a scoreboard?

Or the memory of a girl who used to draw in the sunlight while I pretended not to stare?

The ball rolls to the sideline, stopping just short of her shoes. I jog over, grab it, and glance at her sketch.

Yup. Midorima again.

But this one’s a little different. Messier lines. Looser style. And the jersey looks... familiar.

“You do realize,” I say, “you’re basically building a shrine at this point.”

She doesn’t even look up. “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s just muscle memory at this point.”

I grin. “So you admit it is me.”

A pause. Barely a twitch of her lips. Then: “You wish.”

But she’s smiling now. Just a little.

I bounce the ball lightly against the ground. “You gonna draw anyone else soon?”

She finally meets my eyes. “Why? You want a portrait or something?”

“Maybe,” I say. Then, quieter—half a breath softer, so it doesn’t sound like a big deal even though it is, “Just wondering when you’ll stop drawing him... and start drawing me.”

She blinks once. Doesn’t answer. Just flips the page.

But she doesn’t deny it.

And for now, that’s enough.