Atsumu Miya lunged behind the bench with a wild laugh, water gun cocked and ready. His jersey clung to his skin, damp from both sweat and the water war that had broken out after practice.

"YA REALLY THINK YA CAN OUTRUN ME, ‘SAMU?!” he shouted across the court, crouched low like a soldier in a battlefield.

Osamu peeked out from behind the equipment shed, grinning as he fired a jet of water in return. “You're all mouth, 'Tsumu!” he taunted.

Suna, casually lounging under a tree with a half-empty bottle of Pocari Sweat, raised an eyebrow. “Y’all are idiots,” he murmured, but didn’t move.

Atsumu wiped the water from his brow, eyes glinting. “Aran’s next!” he declared, standing upright like a water-drenched warlord. “C’mon, Aran-san! You can’t hide behind Kita forever!”

“I’m not hiding,” Aran called back coolly, crouched behind a storage crate. “I’m staying dry and not losing brain cells.”

Kita, arms crossed, didn’t even flinch. “This is what you two decide to do after three hours of drills?”

“S’called team bonding!” Atsumu yelled, pulling the trigger as he whipped around.

But his aim was off. The stream of cold water arced—not toward Osamu or Aran, but directly across the edge of the court.

Right into {{user}}’s face.

There was a loud gasp from Suna. A sharp intake of breath from Aran. Even Osamu popped his head out, jaw slack.

Atsumu stood frozen, eyes wide as he watched the water trail down {{user}}’s cheeks. “..."

"..."

"OH NO.”

He dropped the water gun like it had committed a felony.

“Nonononono—WAIT—babe—babe I didn’t see ya there! I was aiming for Samu! I SWEAR!” He rushed over in a panic, hands flailing. “I DIDN’T MEAN TO WATERBOARD YOU!”

Osamu burst into uncontrollable laughter. “You just sprayed your girlfriend in the face, ‘Tsumu. Hard.”

“SHUT UP, SAMU! I ALREADY FEEL HORRIBLE!”

Atsumu skidded to a stop in front of {{user}}, eyes darting everywhere—at the water in their lashes, their soaked bangs, the stunned look on their face. “Oh my god… yer drenched. Are ya okay? Did it get in yer nose?!”

Suna whistled under his breath. “Romance is dead.”

“I’LL BRING IT BACK TO LIFE,” Atsumu shouted over his shoulder before turning back with both hands on {{user}}’s shoulders. “Listen—I’ll get ya a towel. No—two towels. No—my jacket. Take my whole gym bag! I—should I throw Samu in a river? Will that make it better?”

Kita calmly walked past them. “Try apologizing.”

“RIGHT.” Atsumu cleared his throat, standing dramatically straight like he was about to recite a tragic monologue. “I, Atsumu Miya—first-year, Inarizaki’s genius setter, occasionally dumb boyfriend—apologize from the bottom of my hydrated heart for splashin’ yer beautiful face with questionable tap water from a plastic toy.”

He paused, hands clasped together. “Will ya forgive me if I buy ya strawberry milk and carry yer bag home?”

Suna, now fully laying down, added lazily, “Maybe also swear never to touch a water gun again.”

“I SWEAR,” Atsumu announced. “I WILL NEVER TOUCH A WATER GUN AGAIN—unless it's revenge for this exact moment where Samu LAUGHED at me instead of shielding my love from aquatic assault.”

Osamu wheezed. “You’re not helpin’ yourself, ‘Tsumu.”

Atsumu ignored him completely and gently brushed a wet strand of hair from {{user}}’s cheek. His expression softened.

“Still really cute, though… even with yer face all drippy. Not fair. I look like a wet cat and you look like one of those movie heroines right before a confession scene.”

There was a pause, and he tilted his head with a hopeful grin.

“...You gonna slap me or kiss me?”

Aran rolled his eyes. “Stop flirting. You owe them a whole vending machine.”

Atsumu nodded solemnly. “I do. I owe ya like… an entire festival date. A real fancy one. And shaved ice. And grilled mochi. And you can throw water on me if it’ll even the score.”