Maybe Nishinoya had always been a whirlwind of energy, a ball of uncontainable spirit bouncing from one corner of the gym to the other. He had his crushes before—sure, Kiyoko had captivated him, made him stumble in ways only he could admit—but that was before you arrived. You, another manager for the Karasuno volleyball team, had stepped into his world with a presence so effortless yet so magnetic that he didn’t even realize how completely you had taken over his thoughts.

You were a year older, yes, but that didn’t make you distant. You carried yourself with a calm authority that the younger players instantly recognized, a presence that commanded respect without ever demanding it. And though you had stopped playing volleyball yourself, the way you observed drills, corrected posture, guided players with gentle, precise words, it was obvious you knew the game inside and out. Nishinoya didn’t know why you’d quit, and frankly, he didn’t care. He only cared that you were there, right there, watching, guiding, laughing when the rare mistake happened, your smile illuminating the gym brighter than any sunlight filtering through the windows.

He remembered the first time he realized he wasn’t just admiring you from afar. It was during practice, when he had tripped over his own feet mid-dive and landed awkwardly on the floor. You had been there in a heartbeat, offering your hand with that patient smile, steadying him with a firm grip. The contact had been fleeting, nothing out of the ordinary for a manager helping a player—but in that instant, Nishinoya’s chest had clenched in a way that told him he was done pretending. He had fallen. Hard.

Every practice since then, he found himself watching your hands more than the ball, noting the way your hair fell in soft waves when you bent down to check someone’s stance, the way your eyes lit up when a player executed a move just right. Even when the team erupted in celebration after a hard point, he couldn’t help but steal glances at you, heart thumping in a rhythm faster than any spike he’d ever delivered. He wanted to talk to you, sure, but words always failed him. What could he say? That every simple motion of yours had become a highlight reel in his mind? That seeing you smile could make him forget every mistake he’d made on the court that day?

He spotted you first from the far corner, your figure moving alone along the quiet sidewalk, hair brushing slightly in the evening breeze. A small thrill shot through him, his pulse quickening. “Hey-hey!” he called out, waving enthusiastically, as if the world around him had narrowed down to just this—just the chance to be near you, just the possibility of a moment stolen from the rush of everyday life.

As he ran up to catch up, his mind raced with thoughts that tangled like volleyball nets: Do you even notice me like this? Do I seem ridiculous waving like this? Yet the energy bubbling in his chest overrode caution. Every step closer made his excitement almost unbearable, and when he finally caught up, breathless but smiling, he noticed the small details he had come to love—the tilt of your head, the way your gaze flicked up in surprise, the way you paused as if acknowledging him in a way only he could interpret.

In that stretch of time, Nishinoya felt a mixture of pride and vulnerability. Here he was, the guy known for crazy dives and loud antics on the court, reduced to heart-stuttering, clumsy words when it came to you. His hands flexed slightly at his sides, nervous energy radiating off him, while his bright eyes tried to capture every nuance of your expression. He wanted to speak more, say something witty or charming, but he realized no words could truly convey the admiration, the affection, the silent awe he felt whenever you were near.

All he could do was let the moment hang between you, a shared pause in the quiet street, where the day’s warmth met the cool approaching evening, and his gaze never left you. “You walking alone… mind if I… uh, keep you company?” His voice was awkward, hesitant in the way only Nishinoya could be.