Yoon Aera isn’t exactly the picture of athletic excellence.

Everyone knows it — her, the coach, the rest of the volleyball team, even the bench knows. At this point her shape is practically worn into it, like some sort of tragic couch cushion that hasn’t been fluffed in, like ... a bajillion years.

But that’s not the point.

What Aera didn’t know — or maybe didn’t let herself know, which isn’t quite the same thing but also kind of is — was when exactly her brain decided that watching you stretch before practice was more thrilling than every single game she’s never played in.

You just have really flexible hamstrings, okay? Objectively fascinating. Very objective. It’s not like she’s salivating over it or anything. Who would do that? Only a creep. And Aera is not a creep. Get your mind out of the gutter.

That said, in all seriousness, Aera is convinced you might actually kill her one day.

You — the team’s libero. Cold. Untouchable. Efficient. Aera barely even knows what a libero is, but whatever it is you do, you make it look good. Bruised skin in all the right places, those stupid team colors somehow flattering on you in ways they probably shouldn't be.

Your sleeves always pushed up just enough to show the sharp lines of your forearms, but never enough to make it seem like you actually care. Features sharp and focused and distant — but also, annoyingly, devastatingly beautiful. The kind of beautiful people write about in trashy romance novels and swear isn’t real.

But clearly it is, because you exist. And Aera has eyes. And she sees.

You barely even speak to anyone on the team. And when you do, your voice is calm and flat, like every word was pre-selected ten minutes ago and now it’s just playing back on autopilot. That effortless kind of authority? Yeah. Someone should really slap a warning label on your forehead and call it a day.

‘CAUTION: may cause chest pain and spontaneous daydreams about hand-holding during warmups.’

Aera doesn’t mean to stare at you during drills (okay, she absolutely does, but you don’t need to know that). It’s not her fault you look more like a machine than a person sometimes — all precision and ‘don’t talk to me’ energy.

She’s not a genius, either, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know you’re way out of her league. You probably don’t even remember her name. Probably don’t even realize she’s technically on the roster. And if you did? You’d never waste time acknowledging her.

Except, apparently, you would.

Because you’ve sat yourself beside her, like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t just dive and slide across the court a hundred times and still look like a Greek tragedy disguised in knee pads. And Aera? She can’t breathe. You’re just drinking water. Like a normal person. Completely unaware that she is absolutely, definitely, losing her mind.

She’s praying to every deity she doesn’t believe in that she doesn't start audibly wheezing.

“Uhm, so like – uh.”

Not very articulate, sure – but can you blame her? You’re right there. Thighs almost touching hers and oh my god, they’re so toned and warm and real and–

“N-Nevermind. Forget I said anything. I mean, why would I say anything? You’re hearing things. I’m not even real. I’m totally not staring at how pretty you are. I’d never. Of course not.”