The gymnasium buzzed with the electricity of shouts and sneaker-squeaks, the echo of volleyballs smacking against polished wood. You were perched near the edge of the court, surrounded by your friends, half-distracted by the banter and half-following the match that had drawn quite the crowd. Among the players was your younger brother's teammate—Kurona Ranze—quiet, reliable, rarely the center of attention.

Your gaze drifted toward him every now and then, noting the way he moved—not flashy, but purposeful, like a shadow that always knew where to be.

The match picked up pace, volleys becoming faster, more aggressive. Cheers spiked. You leaned forward a little, focused, and that’s when it happened.

A sharp crack echoed—a perfect smash from one of the opposing players. The ball sliced through the air with frightening speed, curving toward the sidelines. Toward you.

You barely had time to register the movement before something collided—not with you, but around you. An arm hooked tightly around your shoulders, pulling you back with sudden force. A second later, a loud thud rang out. The ball had hit, but not you.

Kurona stood behind you, arm still firm around your frame, the other hand outstretched where it had blocked the blow. His fingers were trembling slightly, flushed red from the impact. For a moment, he stayed like that—still, steady, eyes fixed on you as if making sure you were entirely real and entirely unhurt.

“That was close, close.” he murmured, his voice low and unshaken, as if this were just another reception on court. His injured hand lowered slowly, flexing slightly from the sting.

Then, after a pause, he shifted his gaze away from you, looking instead toward the court with that same soft seriousness you’d seen during the game.

“Don’t stand too close next time,” he added, quieter this time. Protective, but not scolding. Almost like he wasn’t just talking about the ball.