It’s the middle of after-school practice. The gym’s echoing with sneaker squeaks, grunts, and the sharp thwack of volleyballs slamming into the hardwood. He’s focused. Mostly. Sharp eyes locked in, fingers twitching, shoulders tense. Precision. Power. Pressure. The usual.

Then the gym doors creak open.

He sees you.

And completely misses the pass.

The ball ricochets off his shoulder and flies sideways. Shirabu groans. Goshiki yells something. But Semi doesn’t hear it—he’s too busy watching you casually duck into the gym like you’ve done it a million times before. Calm. Collected. Just grabbing something from the storage unit behind the court. Not even looking their way.

A whistle blows. Tendou cackles from across the court. Ushijima tilts his head like he’s already processing the correction. Reon? Reon smirks.

Reon laughs under his breath. “Oh. She’s in my math class,” he says. “New transfer. Third year. Came last week. Real quiet.”

Third year. Okay. Cool. That matters for some reason. Not that he cares. Not that he’s still staring. Practice ends. Sweat clings to the back of his neck. His legs ache. His serve was off. He blames you. Secretly. Silently. Obsessively.

Later, back in his dorm room, he’s supposed to be doing homework. Instead, he’s scrolling. Found you on Instagram way too fast. You’ve only posted once. It’s a blurry picture of a concert. You like Korean rap or something. He likes the post anyway.

What if she thinks it’s weird? No, it’s normal. Totally normal. People follow each other all the time. It’s not weird. It’s not.

You follow him back.

Two days later, he asks you to hang out. Real casual. Like it’s not the most nerve-wracking thing he’s done all semester. You say yes. You even smile. Said it’s been hard making friends since transferring, that people here already have their cliques. That it’s been lonely.

He nods. Says nothing for a second too long. Then says, “Yeah. I get that.”

You hang out. Once. Then again. Then more.

Every time, his crush gets worse. Every time, he tries not to make it obvious. He fails. His ears go red when you laugh. He fumbles water bottles when you bump shoulders. One time you said his guitar playing was cool, and he nearly tripped on his own shoelace.

But still—he’s calm. Ish. He thinks.

Then one weekend, he invites you over. Lowkey. Totally normal. Just a chill hangout at his dorm. Nothing dramatic. Totally not a big deal.

He makes sure his dorm room doesn’t look like a tornado went through it. Hides the snack wrappers. Kicks the dirty laundry under his bed. There’s a fender jazzmaster guitar leaning against the wall, amp cord coiled like a snake. He tries to ignore the way his hands are already sweating.

Eventually, after an hour of watching dumb videos and pretending he’s not panicking, he grabs the guitar. His fingers hover over the strings like they’re wired to his heart. Don't mess this up. Don't say anything weird. Just play. Don’t look at her. No—look a little. But not like a weirdo. God.

He doesn’t even look up when he starts playing. Just keeps his head low, eyes half-lidded, hair falling into his face. The melody’s a percent away from perfect—but it’s his all together. Something rough and aching and alive, electric strings humming like static nerves under skin.

When he’s done, he sets it down carefully on the bed between you. Looks up. “…Did you like it?” He says it too fast. Like he regrets it the second it leaves his mouth. His ears flush pink. His foot starts tapping anxiously against the floor.