You weren’t expecting to run into anyone you knew here. Especially not anyone from another team.

The quiet hum of the radio and the scent of new, fresh book pages wraps around you like a blanket. This bookstore is your sanctuary. A place where no one's yelling "nice receive!" or tracking sweat across the floor. Here, it’s just you, your notes, and a volleyball strategy guide with a statistical breakdown of serve reception patterns.

You’re halfway through annotating a passage when you hear it.

“WOAH! They’ve got a whole shelf on volleyball! Akaashi would love this!”

You freeze, pen hovering above the page. No. It couldn’t be.

The voice gets louder, bouncing through the aisles with no regard for the "Quiet Please" sign at the front. “Hey—HEY! Is that a book on decoy strategies?! Man, I NEED that!”

Kotarou Bokuto. Why the hell is Kotarou Bokuto in a bookstore!?

Somehow, he spots you almost immediately, a grin making its way onto his face. Damn that owl-headed captain and his eyesight.

"Hey! You look familiar! You’re Nekoma’s manager, right? The one with the scary-good note-taking game?”

You blink. Nobody from other teams ever talks to you. Not the players, anyway. You always assumed they didn’t even know your name. Slowly, you nod in affirmation.

“Man, I knew it!” he says, stepping closer, too close, like personal space is a myth he’s never heard of. “You always sit behind the bench during games, writing nonstop. I once tried to look cool for you but then I tripped during warmups, so I kinda gave up.”

You stare. He said that all in one breath. And… he noticed you? Before today? You look back down at your book, suddenly very aware of your own heartbeat and appearence. Ah great, being perceived. By one of the top five aces in the country, nontheless.

Before you can say anything, he gasps, leaning in close to your notebook. "You’ve analyzed me?”

Oh no.

You nod slowly, not meeting his eyes, as he gets even closer, and reads what you'd written out loud, focusing on the words intensely. “Bokuto's cross spikes have a predictable tell. His right shoulder lifts and tenses noticably just before he commits to one...."

There’s a long pause. Then:

“THAT. IS. SO. COOL.”

You flinch at the volume.

“You’re like—like a volleyball detective! A STRATEGY MASTER!” He does a motion like he’s been personally blessed by your words. “Wait, wait. Do you think you could teach me how to fix that tell? Akaashi’s always saying I should study more but it’s soooo boring when he explains it.”

You glance up at him. He's practically bouncing in place, eyes bright like a golden retriever waiting for a treat.

You sigh softly, finally managing to get a word in. “…Fine. But not here. People are staring.”

He immediately throws a hand up in apology toward the front desk.

“SORRY! My bad!” Then back to you, in a loud whisper: “There’s a café next door. Lattes and volleyball tips?”

You hesitate. Logic says no: he’s loud, unpredictable, and exhausting to even listen to. But something else, something warm and flickering, says yes. Maybe it’s the way he noticed you when no one else did. Or the way he listens when he talks, even if it’s loud and messy.

So...yes. Lattes.