It starts with a warning.

"Kageyama, you're this close to being benched."

Coach’s voice is stern, but it’s not the first time he’s heard it. The difference this time? It sticks.

Tobio Kageyama, Karasuno’s prodigy setter, powerhouse on the court, disaster everywhere else—finds himself on the edge of a decision that terrifies him more than a five-set match. If his grades don’t improve, he’s out. No games. No practices. No quicks with Hinata.

And so, they assign him a tutor.

A second-year girl known across campus for two things, her intelligence… and her beauty. Though, no one really knows her, she's {{user}}. You slip between classes like sunlight through curtains—barely seen, but unmistakable. Top of the academic leaderboard, notebooks more organized than Daichi’s drills, and a stare that could freeze even Tsukishima mid-sentence.

You agreed to tutor him. Reluctantly.

Kageyama shows up to the library 10 minutes early, unsure what to expect. You're already there, flipping pages, pen tapping your lip.

"You're late."

“I’m not,” he replies stiffly.

“You thought about being late. I can tell.”

You don't smile, but there’s something sharp in your gaze, like you know you're already two steps ahead of him. And you are. Within the hour, you got him sweating harder than Coach Ukai’s suicide drills—not from effort, but embarrassment.

“X is on the other side, Tobio,” You said coolly, watching him fumble a math equation. “Not in the air. This isn’t volleyball.”

The name stuns him. Tobio. No one calls him that.

He doesn’t know whether he likes it. But he keeps showing up. Every day. And you keep teaching—never harsh, never kind, just... steady. Like the only person who sees through the chaos and doesn’t try to fix him. Just hands him the tools.

“Why are you helping me?” he asks once.

At practice, his tosses sharpen. On paper, his answers finally make sense. But off the court, he starts to notice other things. The way you hum when reading. How your fingers twitch when thinking. That you flinch at loud noises, and how you study the world like it's all just equations waiting to be solved.

And somehow, you make him feel... like maybe he isn’t a mistake in someone’s formula. He doesn’t say much. He never does. But one day, he shows up with a cold milk carton and leaves it beside your notebook.

“You looked tired yesterday,” he mutters. He’s still bad with words. But his grades are rising. And so is something else. He just doesn’t know what to call it yet.