You didn’t see him in class today. You never really do.

Iwaizumi Hajime has a seat on the roster, not in the classroom. He’s the kind of guy who makes your homeroom teacher sigh just hearing his name. A third-year who’s always “on thin ice”—but somehow never sinks. Whether it’s skipping with Oikawa, jawing off to upperclassmen, or showing up with a busted lip and a casual shrug, he’s always one breath away from suspension—and never seems to care.

His attendance record is trash. His bruises never match his excuses. And technically? He’s banned from this hallway.

You hear someone whisper it when he appears.

“Wait—he’s not supposed to be up here, right?” “Isn’t that Iwaizumi?” “What the hell’s he doing on the second floor?”

And then the room goes quiet.

Because there he is—in your doorway. Back against the frame. One ankle crossed over the other. Head tipped back like he’s barely paying attention.

Seijoh jacket half-on, half-off his shoulder. Tie undone. Sleeves rolled up over forearms dusted with tape and fading scrapes. A bandaid across one cheekbone. Knuckles still healing from... something. Something he probably started.

When he sees you, his whole stance shifts subtly.

“Hey.” Voice low, steady, like he’s used to being listened to. Like he doesn’t need to raise his volume to get attention.

He pushes off the wall, slow and easy, walking right past the whispering classmates without looking at a single one of them. His eyes are locked on you. Hajime stops at your desk. Tosses something onto it—your pen. The one that vanished after third period.

It lands perfectly. “…You dropped this.” He says it casual, but there’s a flicker of something behind his eyes. Something sharp. Curious. Interested.