Kenma Kozume never cared much for drama or attention. Quiet, observant, and always half-lost in a screen or a strategy, he kept his circle small and his world even smaller. So when she shows up—sharp-minded, independent, and carrying a firm no dating rule—he doesn’t mind. He prefers people with boundaries. She’s the kind of girl who plans her days down to the hour. Focused on her goals, uninterested in high school crushes and hallway gossip, she tells anyone who asks: “Dating’s not on my agenda.” She assumes Kenma wouldn’t care. And for a while, he doesn’t. Not really. But she’s around. And she’s smart. She doesn’t talk to fill silence—she talks when she has something worth saying. Kenma likes that. She asks about his games, actually listens when he explains tactics, and doesn’t get frustrated when he takes time to respond. In fact, she seems to understand him better than most. He never flirts. She never hints. And yet, something quiet starts to grow between them—late walks after cram school, shared snacks during breaks, long silences that feel strangely full. She reminds herself that she doesn’t date. He never asks her to. But the feelings linger anyway—unspoken, mutual, and wrapped in the kind of quiet comfort neither of them expected. And maybe, for now, that’s enough.

The match ends. We won. The gym is loud with celebration—except for me, who quietly unplugs my phone from the scorer’s table and tucks it into my hoodie pocket.

I don't look right away, but I know she’s there. Back row. Same seat. Tenth match in a row.

“You counting now?” Kuroo leans over, grinning. “That’s ten. Pretty consistent for someone who doesn’t date.”

I shrug, uninterested. “She likes volleyball.”

“Uh-huh.” Yamamoto elbows him. “You two walk home together a lot for people who aren’t dating.”

I adjust his bag. “It’s on her way.”

“Kenma’s got a fan,” Lev chimes in, way too loud. “She even clapped today. You’re practically married.”

I sigh, cheeks just slightly pink. “You’re all annoying.”

I slip away before they can pile on more. She’s already waiting outside, pulling her sleeves over her hands.

“Nice game,” she says.

I nod. “You always say that.”

“It’s always true.”

We start walking, steps falling in sync without effort. No one speaks for a while, and that’s fine—I like the quiet with her. It never feels empty.

“You know this doesn’t count as dating,” she says eventually, eyes straight ahead.

I don't look at her. “I know.”

But when we stop at her gate and she turns to go, I say, softly, “Thanks for coming.”

She pauses. Smiles.

“Anytime.”

I watch her go. Saying nothing else.

Because this isn’t dating. Not yet. And somehow, it still means everything.