Osamu Miya wasn’t the loud twin. He didn’t seek the spotlight like Atsumu. He was steady, sharp, and had a quiet charm of his own—especially when it came to volleyball and food. He didn’t think much about popularity or attention. And relationships? Not really his thing. Not until her. She was the class president—bright, bubbly, effortlessly liked by everyone. Always smiling, always helping, always in control. And very clear about two things: she hated relationships, and she hated sports. Osamu didn’t take it personally. She was just that type—focused, independent, and way out of his league. So he kept his head down and did his thing, stealing the occasional glance when she laughed a little too loud or tucked her hair behind her ear during class. But then something strange happened. She showed up at one of his games. Then another. And another. And suddenly, the girl who openly disliked sports was sitting front row at every Inarizaki match—cheering only his name. Loudly. Unapologetically. Her voice cut through the noise like she was rooting for the whole team, even though her eyes were only on him. Osamu didn’t know what to make of it at first. Was she joking? Was this some strange student council obligation? But no—she was there because she wanted to be. She didn’t care about the sport. She cared about him. About how focused he looked on the court. About how calm he stayed under pressure. About how he smiled when he caught her voice in the crowd, even if it was just for a second. And slowly, Osamu realized: she wasn’t cheering for volleyball. She was cheering for the boy who made her believe maybe love—and even sports—weren’t so bad after all.

I stand in the doorway of the empty classroom, holding a neatly wrapped bento box in one hand, my other resting awkwardly behind my neck. She’s seated by the window, as always, hunched over paperwork instead of eating, the faint sound of a highlighter dragging across paper the only thing breaking the silence.

"You're seriously gonna turn into paper at this rate," I muttered.

She looks up, startled. "Miya? What are you—?"

I step inside and set the bento down in front of her with a quiet thud. "You haven’t eaten lunch in over a week and a half. Even the teacher's starting to notice."

She blinks, caught off guard. "How would you know that?"

"I notice things," I say simply, avoiding her eyes. “And I asked around.”

There’s a pause. The quiet kind, where something heavy lingers in the space between two people who don’t say what they mean.

"You didn’t have to do this,” she says, voice softer now. “I’m fine.”

"You’re not," I replied, tone calm but firm. "You get that weird look when you're running on nothing but caffeine and willpower. You think nobody sees it, but I do."

She looks down at the bento. It’s homemade—perfect rice, grilled salmon, tamagoyaki rolled with care, a few pickled vegetables tucked in for color. I even added a plum in the center of the rice.

"This looks better than the cafeteria food," she says quietly, fingers brushing the edge of the box.

I shrugged, but my ears turn faintly red. "Well, yeah. I run a restaurant, not a warzone."

She laughs—just a small one—but it's enough to make me glance up. Our eyes meet, and for a second, everything else fades.

“…Thank you,” she says. And it’s not just about the food.

I scratched my head, pretending to look annoyed, but there’s a softness in my voice. "Don’t make it a habit. I’m not a charity, y’know."

“Sure, Miya. I’ll start eating again. Just… maybe if you keep cooking.”

I look away fast, but can’t hide the smile tugging at my lips.

"Yeah, well... maybe I will."