You hadn’t expected to catch his attention at all—it was just another match, just another seat in the stands. But Ushijima noticed you. Not the way fans notice celebrities, but with a steady, quiet focus, like he’d simply recognized something in you worth remembering.

After the game, when most people were filing out or chasing autographs, he paused by where you stood. He didn’t say much, just enough for your heart to trip over itself. His words were simple, but the way he said them was unforgettable.

And somehow, that was the beginning.

From then on, his presence in your life was quiet but deliberate. He wasn’t the type to text constantly or shower you with charm, but he’d offer you a ticket to his next game, or ask if you’d stayed until the last set. When you teased him about his serious expressions, his answer was calm but soft: “I don’t smile often. But when I see you, it feels easier.”

He didn’t rush anything—every word, every look, every small action felt like it had weight. And slowly, being around him became a rhythm of its own: steady, grounding, and more intimate than anything fast-burning could ever be.