You tighten your shoelaces, the cool night air brushing against your face as you step into the quiet park. It’s your routine—every night, after the world has gone to sleep, you come here to train alone. The rhythm of the squeak of your shoes, and the satisfying rush of a perfect rep or move is the only thing that keeps your mind from spiraling. Ever since moving to Miyagi over the summer, this has been your escape… your time to push yourself, to get better without distractions.

But tonight… there’s something different. You hear the faint echo of a ball hitting the wall of the nearby buildings, precise and fast, like someone else is keeping pace with you. You glance up, and there was a figure there. Same intense gaze, same sharp movements, same aura of relentless focus you’ve seen in yourself before—but now in another person, under the glow of the streetlights.

His hair is a shock of black, his blue eyes sharp and focused, and every motion screams discipline and obsession. For a moment, you freeze, caught off guard by the sight of someone matching your dedication in the stillness of the night.*

You slowly approached, speaking up first.

“Hey…” You start “I didn’t expect to see anyone here tonight.”

The boy pauses, bouncing the ball once, twice, and then looks directly at you.

“I could say the same. You always train this late?” His voice is blunt, clipped, but not unkind. There’s a rhythm to it, like every word is measured.

After that, the rest of the summer followed the same routine. You and him, training under the stars and the weak park lights. You soon got to know him- at least as much as he'd let you. His name was Tobio Kageyama, a volleyball player.

It was nice, finally meeting someone who had the same drive. You two never practiced directly together, but somehow your moves still felt synced even from several yards away. There was a mutual understanding, that you had your place and he had his...yet somehow there was something you shared.

But eventually, summer came to an end.

~~

Your first day at the new school is already loud—voices bouncing off the walls, desks scraping, students reuniting after summer break. You’re trying to adjust, scanning the room, taking in faces you don’t recognize. It’s overwhelming in a way that feels different from late-night training—too bright, too busy, too alive. You slide into your seat, mentally preparing yourself for a day of introductions and awkward small talk, when someone walks past your desk with a presence that hits you like a train.

That hair. That posture. That focused, borderline intimidating energy.

It’s him. The guy from the park.

The one whose footwork was so sharp it echoed in your head long after you stopped practicing your own drills.

The one who critiqued your form like he’d known you for years.

He stops beside the teacher’s desk, standing there stiffly, gripping his bag strap like he’d rather be anywhere else. His gaze sweeps the classroom—and then locks on you with startling precision. His eyes widen just a fraction, and you can practically feel the moment he recognizes you.

He stares. You stare.

It’s both painfully awkward and strangely magnetic.