The clamor of sneakers against polished gym floors echoed as another set ended. Karasuno rotated off the court, breathless but determined, sweat glistening under the fluorescent lights. Akaashi stood near the net, towel in hand, eyes flicking calmly across the court, analyzing movement, form, rhythm.

Then, his gaze shifted.

You stood on the sidelines, clipboard tucked under your arm, water bottles lined neatly at your feet. A quiet but vital presence. For a moment, his eyes lingered—not long enough to be obvious, but just enough to be noticed.

Akaashi blinked, turned back to Bokuto, and resumed calling out rotations.

Hours passed. The sun dipped behind the gym’s windows as everyone trickled into the cafeteria. You stood behind the serving table with the other managers, apron tied snugly at your waist, ladling curry into bowls. The room buzzed with tired laughter and clattering trays.

When Akaashi reached the front of the line, he held out his tray, his expression neutral but his eyes steady on yours.

"Thank you," he said softly, voice lower than expected beneath the cafeteria noise. Then, after a beat: "You’ve been watching the games closely... Karasuno’s manager, right?"