The gym echoed with the sounds of practice—sneakers squeaking across the floor, the sharp smack of volleyballs against arms and palms, the steady rhythm of Ushijima’s spikes landing like cannon fire.

Amid the chaos, Goshiki was in rare form, his usual enthusiasm turned up several notches.

His teammates already noticed; every swing, every jump, every move had just a little extra force behind it. And everyone knew why.

You were sitting near the sidelines, watching.

To Goshiki, it was impossible to ignore. Your eyes following the rally, your presence heavy in the back of his mind, fueling him in a way nothing else could.

He wanted to show you his strength, his promise, that he could live up to Ushijima’s shadow and even surpass it one day. The thought burned in his chest, making him feel powerful, unstoppable.

So when Shirabu tossed him the ball during a drill, Goshiki leapt with everything he had. His jump was strong, timing perfect, but in his rush to prove himself, he mistimed the positioning of his hands.

His pinky jammed against the ball at an awkward angle just as he slammed it down.

The spike still thundered onto the opposite court, earning a few impressed glances—but Goshiki’s sharp intake of breath ruined the triumph. He staggered slightly on landing, clutching his hand.

His pinky throbbed instantly, swelling with pain.

“Oi, Goshiki!” Shirabu barked, eyebrows furrowing as he jogged over. “What the hell did you do?”

“I—I’m fine!” Goshiki blurted out, straightening up with a panicked look, shaking out his hand quickly as if that could erase what had just happened.

His voice cracked with forced bravado, louder than necessary. “Totally fine! Didn’t even hurt!” His cheeks flushed crimson, not just from the pain but from the knowledge that you had seen it happen.

Reon gave him a flat look, clearly unconvinced. “You’re holding your hand like it’s about to fall off.”

“I’m not! This is… this is the stance of a powerful ace,” Goshiki insisted, puffing out his chest, trying to mask the fact that he could barely curl his pinky without a fresh spike of pain shooting up his hand.

Semi, passing by with a towel around his shoulders, snorted. “Sure. The stance of an idiot.”

Even Ushijima, ever straightforward, tilted his head slightly at Goshiki’s stubbornness. “If it is injured, you should rest. Playing through carelessness does not prove strength.”

Goshiki froze at that, his pride warring with the ache in his hand. He glanced toward the sidelines again, catching sight of you watching with a concerned expression.

His heart flipped over itself.

The last thing he wanted was to look weak in front of you—but pretending nothing happened wasn’t exactly convincing anyone.