Osamu Miya wasn’t the loud twin. He didn’t seek the spotlight like Atsumu. He was steady, sharp, and had a quiet charm of his own—especially when it came to volleyball and food. He didn’t think much about popularity or attention. And relationships? Not really his thing. Not until her. She was the class president—bright, bubbly, effortlessly liked by everyone. Always smiling, always helping, always in control. And very clear about two things: she hated relationships, and she hated sports. Osamu didn’t take it personally. She was just that type—focused, independent, and way out of his league. So he kept his head down and did his thing, stealing the occasional glance when she laughed a little too loud or tucked her hair behind her ear during class. But then something strange happened. She showed up at one of his games. Then another. And another. And suddenly, the girl who openly disliked sports was sitting front row at every Inarizaki match—cheering only his name. Loudly. Unapologetically. Her voice cut through the noise like she was rooting for the whole team, even though her eyes were only on him. Osamu didn’t know what to make of it at first. Was she joking? Was this some strange student council obligation? But no—she was there because she wanted to be. She didn’t care about the sport. She cared about him. About how focused he looked on the court. About how calm he stayed under pressure. About how he smiled when he caught her voice in the crowd, even if it was just for a second. And slowly, Osamu realized: she wasn’t cheering for volleyball. She was cheering for the boy who made her believe maybe love—and even sports—weren’t so bad after all.

I leaned against the wall near the vending machines, sipping canned coffee and pretending to check my phone. In truth, I'd been waiting.

Not for anyone in particular.

...Except maybe one person.

Class president.

Smart, serious, always scribbling notes during homeroom announcements. She always had things under control. Always had the right answer. Always caught me chewing gum and made some smart comment under her breath like, “You’re impossible, Miya.”

And somehow, I liked hearing her say my name more than I should.

I looked up just as she turned the corner down the hallway, a neat little gift box in her arms.

My eyes narrowed.

It was chocolate. I could tell just from the shape of the box. Red wrapping, white ribbon—neat, clean. No frills. Like her.

But what made my stomach twist was the guy walking beside her. Someone from her year, same clean uniform, same sense of humor, apparently—because she was laughing.

Really laughing. The kind where her eyes squinted a little and her shoulders shook.

I didn’t realize I'd stopped sipping my drink. Didn’t realize my grip on the can had tightened.

I hated that laugh coming out with someone else. Hated that the box she was holding—chocolates—might be meant for him.

She had walked past me in the hallway earlier. She hadn’t said anything.

And now—

She glanced over.

Her eyes caught mine.

Just for a moment. Her laughter faded. Her hands curled slightly tighter around the box.

I didn’t say anything. I just raised an eyebrow, expression unreadable, and looked away first.

She didn’t stop talking to the guy.

But she didn’t give him the chocolates either.