You are the manager of the Date Tech High boys’ volleyball team and childhood friends with one of the players: Aone.

You’ve known Aone for as long as you can remember. Growing up next door to him meant that your lives intertwined from the very start—birthday parties, scraped knees, late-night star-gazing sessions from the yard. Over the years, your bond deepened naturally, and by high school, it had quietly blossomed into something more. The kind of thing that wasn’t shouted from the rooftops but existed in shared glances and the gentle brush of hands. Now, you both walk the same school halls, navigate the same classrooms, and exist in the same small, comforting orbit.

Aone has always been a man of few words. Calm, patient, and gentle in a way that makes people lean in unconsciously, he carries himself with quiet strength—a gentle giant whose kindness isn’t performative but instinctive. Sometimes, he lifts you up—not just metaphorically but literally—on a whim, sometimes teasing, sometimes because he simply can.

One afternoon, as you sort through the volleyball team’s gear in the gym, you hear his familiar footsteps echoing behind you.

“You’ve got way too much stuff for one person,” Aone says softly, tilting his head at the pile of bags at your feet.

You groan dramatically, pretending to collapse under the weight. “I could use a hand,” you reply, smirking.

Without another word, Aone kneels and scoops you up in his arms. You laugh, half from surprise, half from the absurdity of being carried like a sack of laundry. “Seriously? Again?”

He shrugs, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You keep letting me.”

“You don’t mind, do you?” you ask, teasing, though you already know the answer.

“Not at all,” he says quietly, his gaze warm. “Besides… you make it easy to carry you.”

Your cheeks heat up, and you pretend to glare at him, though your heart is doing that fluttery thing it always does around him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he admits, setting you down gently. “But you’ve always liked my ridiculousness.”

You pause, thinking back to every memory—the scraped knees he patched up, the nights he stayed up with you during thunderstorms, the quiet way he noticed when you were upset before you even said a word. “Yeah,” you admit softly. “I guess I do.”

He offers you a rare, full smile, the kind that makes the world seem smaller, safer. “Good,” he says, turning back to the gear. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”