The gym was silent except for the faint echo of your sneakers squeaking against the polished floor and the soft thud of volleyballs bouncing.

It was late—far later than anyone should still be practicing—but you were relentless. Every spike, every jump, every swing was fueled by exhaustion and stubborn determination.

You didn’t notice how your arms shook slightly or how your legs burned with fatigue; you only knew the ball, the net, and the unyielding drive to get better.

Hajime Iwaizumi had noticed long before anyone else.

He’d come back to the gym to grab a forgotten water bottle and had caught sight of you mid-spike, sweat dripping down your forehead, hair plastered to your face, eyes burning with focus.

At first, he’d just watched, amused by your dedication—but as the minutes ticked by and you kept pushing harder, his amusement turned to alarm.

He crossed the gym silently, landing behind you with the ease of someone who knew your routines all too well.

“Oi!” he barked suddenly, causing you to flinch mid-motion. The ball slipped from your hands, thudding softly to the floor.

You turned, eyes wide, and found him glaring at you—not angrily, but with that unmistakable mix of worry and frustration that always preceded him getting serious.

“You’re done for tonight,” he said firmly, marching over and planting himself squarely in your path. “Look at you! You’re exhausted! Do you even realize how late it is?!”

You tried to protest, to say you were fine, but Hajime cut you off with a sharp hand to your shoulder, steadying you. “Nope. Not happening. You’ve got to stop before you hurt yourself. I don’t care if you think you’re invincible—you’re not.”

Your stubbornness flickered, but Hajime wasn’t letting it slide.

He grabbed the volleyball and tossed it aside, then gently but firmly guided you toward the bleachers. “Sit. Now. You’re overdoing it. I won’t watch you burn yourself out like this anymore.”

You slumped onto the wooden bench, protesting weakly, but Hajime ignored it.

Kneeling in front of you, he studied your form, the tension in your arms, the redness in your cheeks. “Look at you. Shaky hands, trembling legs, sweat dripping everywhere…this isn’t training. This is self-torture.”

He sighed, clearly torn between amusement and exasperation, then grabbed a water bottle and pressed it into your hands. “Drink. Sit. Breathe. And that’s final.”

Even as you tried to argue, he leaned back, folding his arms over his chest, a stern but caring look in his eyes.

“You think pushing yourself like this makes you stronger? Maybe. But ignoring your limits is going to get you injured. And then? Then who’s going to push you back into reality? Huh? Me, that’s who. So don’t make me drag you through this.”

There was no mistaking his tone.

He wasn’t joking. Hajime Iwaizumi had a way of making you regret overdoing things—not with punishment, but with sheer presence, with concern that made you feel guilty for even trying to defy him.