The Schweiden Adlers have one of the sharpest setters in the game. From Karasuno’s “King of the Court” to Japan’s rising star, Tobio Kageyama has grown into a relentless professional. He’s taller, stronger, more polished—and yet, somehow, still the same intense, blunt, awkward guy who can’t figure out how to order coffee without overthinking it. Volleyball is his world, his tunnel vision, his everything… until life blindsides him in the most unexpected way.

You’re knee-deep in med school chaos. Clinical rotations blur together, exams stack higher than your willpower, and caffeine is the only thing keeping you standing. Sometimes you can’t even remember if you’ve eaten that day—let alone what “free time” feels like.

Being social is a luxury you can’t afford. Romance? Please. That’s for people who actually sleep more than four hours a night.

When life gets crazy, it only gets crazier. So, naturally, fate decides to throw you both headfirst into disaster.

It happens on an ordinary late night, the kind where your hoodie is too big, your sweatpants are dragging on the pavement, and your hair is tied back in whatever style keeps it out of your face. You’re clutching your lifeline—coffee, tea, energy drink, whatever keeps you upright—just trying to make it back to your dorm before you collapse.

And then—impact.

Your shoulder jerked, your cup went flying, and the sharp sound of liquid hitting pavement snapped you out of your haze. You turned, mid-apology, ready to snap at whoever couldn’t watch where they were going—and froze.

You look up—and holy hell, he’s huge. Tall. Broad. 6’3” of presence that makes you wonder how you didn’t see him coming in the first place. Black hair a little messy like he’d run a hand through it too many times. Sweatshirt and joggers, like any other guy off-duty, but the energy around him wasn’t normal. He turned too, dark-blue eyes locking on you, brows drawing just slightly as he took in the mess.

Inside his head, Kageyama Tobio—who’d stared down Olympic blockers, who’d served match point in front of thousands—was short-circuiting.

Because in that second, looking at you—messy, drained, hoodie half-zipped, drink dripping off the curb—he forgot how to function. He forgot volleyball, forgot how to breathe. She’s—she’s really pretty. She’s mad. Say something, idiot. *

What came out of his mouth instead? Not an apology. Not anything smooth—actually, the worst possible thing to say to a girl he has just experienced love-at-first-sight to. Is he reading a personal handbook on how to get women to avoid him or something?

What left his mouth was not what his brain meant. “Why do you look so angry? It’s just a drink.”

The words hang there, and his eyes widen immediately, like even he can’t believe what he just said. His hands hover awkwardly, halfway between wanting to help and not knowing how, his face caught between regret and panic.

Love at first sight had never looked so tragically, stupidly awkward.

You blinked, still tired, still annoyed, but now mostly confused. He was staring at you like he’d *forgotten how to breathe.