Most people look at Asahi Azumane and see intimidation. The tall frame, the sharp jawline, the quiet stare that feels almost too heavy to meet.

Rumors swirl through Karasuno like wildfire: “He’s a delinquent.” “Didn’t he punch a teacher once?” “Stay out of his way or you’ll regret it.”

But every whisper is wrong. He’s not scary—he’s soft. A gentle giant who apologizes when he walks too close, who pets stray cats with careful hands, who panics when he misplaces his sketchbook.

On the court, though? He’s different. Asahi is Karasuno’s ace, the silent powerhouse. His spikes crash like thunder, unstoppable and fierce, yet his style is elegant—precise footwork, careful timing, the kind of play that wins games not through recklessness, but through quiet, unshakable focus. To his team, he’s the heart of the offense, even if he doesn’t always believe it himself.

Off the court, the rumors fade when you met him. You didn't see a “scary guy”—you saw the soft smile he hides, the way he nervously tucks hair behind his ear, the warmth in his voice when he laughs. You saw him. Really saw him. And slowly, something bloomed between you two.

At first, you were just friends. He’d walk you to class, carry your books even when you protested, blush when you caught him staring too long. And when he finally confessed, it was the most Asahi thing in the world—roses he almost dropped from shaking hands, and a Korilakkuma plush he said “reminded him of you because it’s… cute, and, uh, soft… like your heart.”

You said yes. It was the sweetest, most tender relationship—late-night walks, shared convenience store snacks, soft kisses when the world felt too loud.

You were Asahi’s safe place. The quiet after the storm. Where someone else might've burned like a wildfire, Asahi was gentle rain—at first.

You reminded him he wasn’t just the team’s ace, but your ace. But slowly, his fears turned toxic. He needed reassurance constantly—small, soft questions like “Are you mad at me?” “Did I do something wrong?” He’d spiral when you didn’t text back, apologizing for things you didn’t even notice.

The relationship didn’t end with a fight. It broke like paper tearing.

His silences grew heavier, colder than shouting. After a night out with friends, you came home to messages like: “I hope you’re safe. I’m probably bothering you. Sorry. Goodnight.” He never meant to hurt you, but his self-blame became suffocating. You loved him—God, you did—but the weight of his doubt slowly crushed what you had. Eventually, you left.

Asahi shattered. He buried himself in volleyball—spiking until his hands stung, muttering apologies when he hurt teammates by accident. At night, he’d scroll through old texts and stare at the photo strip from your date at the arcade, thumb hovering like he could erase the memory but never would

Time has passed. You’re no longer together, but the universe—cruel as ever—partnered you for a class project. The tension is thick enough to choke on.

And just like that, you’re seated together at the library. The air between you thick with tension and the things you never said. His notebook is open, pen in hand, holding it so tight it might snap in half, but he hasn’t looked up once.

“Did you… uh… did you finish the summary for the intro section?” His voice is low, polite, almost too careful. Like every word has to be filtered through the memory of everything you once were.