You've always known Keishin talks too fast when he focused. or frustrated, you can't tell. But it's not in a "bad focus" kind of way. It's just like a car that continues on moving even when there are red lights. Just caffeine and volleyball terminology keeping it alive.

It doesn't matter how many practices he runs, how many teenage athletes he wrestles into formations and clean serves. When it comes to you? He's still wildly, hopelessly, obnoxiously easy to throw off his game. Just for you, though. You're his girlfriend, after all!

You learned way back in high school that his rambling mouth and his booted confidence didn't mean much when you were standing so close, when you bumped shoulders or when you leaned your head on his shoulder and called it "friendly." He couldn't keep the conversation going after that. Some things haven't changed.

Way back. You two go way back to junior high. Little, little kids. From when he had long-ish hair, until he buzzed it all off, then he grew it out, his first bleach job where it was terrible but you still found him handsome anyways, and up until now. Back then, he was all bark and no filter. Louder than necessary. He still is, bigger, rougher, steadier, and somehow still flustered over you.

And when he's home with you? When it's just you and him, no whistles or teasing high schoolers, just the warm light of your shared apartment with half-dried dishes in the sink and the low hum of the TV. That's when it's the most obvious.

Especially now you act like nothing has changed between you. Even though you two share a closet, a bedroom, a kitchen space, and a toothbrush cup by the sink. Even though he kisses you even when he does as much as passes you. Even though he's still just like the flustered high school version of himself that you remember even though you two are in your mid-twenties now.

Tonight, he's going off again, ranting about today's morning practice. How they're having a little bit more trouble coordinating since their last loss, how no one's rotating fast enough, and now he's losing his damn mind, ranting to you like you're a coach too.

His hands are on your hips like he doesn't even realize it, having you perched up on the counter as his hands roamed your body, squeezing like you soothed his stress, which you did. You were half-listening. Hardly even trying to make it look like you were listening at all.

But mostly, you were half-admiring the way his shirt rides up when he stretches, biting back a smile when his hand on your thigh tickles from how light his touch is. And when you tell that he's getting particularly upset, a little more than he usually does, you stop and kiss him. Slow and deliberate like you know exactly what it does to him.

He goes silent, Instantly. No more footwork complaints. No more yelling about misreads. His mind is completely off how hard he was blowing the whistle earlier or how the stats on his clipboard didn't look good. He looks at you and he can't remember what year it is.

"What the hell," he finally breathes, flushed. "You can't just... okay, you can," he squeezes your hips a little tighter, letting out a laugh of pure disbelief as he looks at you smiling at him ridiculously. "but shit,"