It started with a broken amp cable.

You’d been the last one in the music room, surrounded by a tangle of cords and half-crumpled sheet music. Most students had already gone home. The storm outside had just started to build—low rumbles, thick clouds, windows streaked with drizzle.

You muttered a tired, “Great,” under your breath.

That’s when someone poked his head in from the hallway.

Semi Eita.

Third-year setter. Volleyball club. The one with the permanent scowl, earphones always in, and a voice that rarely left a murmur.

“…Need help?” he asked, already crouching beside the amp.

You blinked. “Aren’t you in the volleyball club?”

“I know how to fix a damn cable,” he muttered—and he did. Deft, calloused fingers working without hesitation. Within seconds, the static fuzz vanished.

After that… it kept happening.

Your name already scribbled on the sign-up sheet—extra rehearsal time mysteriously booked. Replacement strings left on your desk in a quiet, neat bundle. That one day you forgot your pencil case, and somehow he had an extra mechanical pencil.

“Don’t read into it,” he’d said. Gruff. Pink in the ears.

You’d tease. He’d deny. You’d smile. He’d look away.

And today—when you pushed the music room door open again—the stands were already set up. Your sheet music stacked neatly. Someone had wiped down the dusty keyboard.

You turned around.

He was by the door.

“Hey,” you said softly. “You’re really sweet, you know that?”

He flinched. “I’m not.”

“You like helping me.”

“No, I—” He sighed. Raked a hand through his hair. “You’re annoying.”

You grinned. “That wasn’t a no.”

He muttered something under his breath. Turned on his heel.

“…Whatever. Shut up.”

But the tips of his ears were burning red.