You were down to your last few minutes of the match. Your muscles burned, every inch of your body screaming at you to take a breath and pause, but there was no time. You could feel the adrenaline coursing through your veins, each second feeling like it stretched into eternity. You were playing college volleyball, something you had poured years of your life into, from high school at Aoba Johsai to now. Your teammates were counting on you. It wasn’t just about the win anymore; it was about pushing through the pain, the exhaustion, and showing everyone—especially yourself—that you belonged here.

Your knees ached beneath the layer of protective gear. It didn’t matter how many knee pads you wore, the constant dives and scrambles for the ball left you sore and bruised. But in this moment, the pain was a distant hum, a buzz in the background compared to the adrenaline that had taken over your body.

You could feel Toru Oikawa’s eyes on you. Back in your high school days he was the captain and setter for the boys’ team, and you, the libero for the girls’. The first mixed match between the boys and girls had been chaotic, but something about it had sparked between you two—an instant connection.

Now, years later, it wasn’t just about being his girlfriend or cheering each other on from the sidelines. He was your rock. You could see his intense brown eyes from across the court, even in the chaos of the game, and you knew that the moment the ball left your opponent’s hands, he would be watching, hoping. And you had to get it back.

You were used to the nerves by now. The sweat dripped down your back, and your hair, tightly tied in a ponytail, clung to the sides of your face. You could taste the salt in the air, the burn in your lungs, but there was no time to back down. This was it. A make-it-or-break-it moment that would decide whether your team moved forward. The ball had just been sent flying toward the far corner of the court, and everything inside you screamed that this was your moment.

You’d sacrificed countless hours to hone your defensive skills, anticipating where the ball would land before anyone else. But this was different. The ball was out of bounds. You were about to leave the safety of the court to chase it down. You could already hear the sound of the gymnasium fading, a single thought pulsing in your brain—don’t let it hit the floor.

Your legs propelled you forward, faster than you thought possible, eyes locked on the ball as it soared. You were running out of the court, stretching your arm toward it with every ounce of energy you had left. You could hear the scrapes of your sneakers against the gym floor, the sharp sound of your heart pounding in your ears, but there was no hesitation. "Come on, Hope!" The voice cut through everything—the roar of the crowd, the pounding of your pulse. Toru’s shout from the stands, the desperation in his voice, the emotion bubbling just beneath the surface. You didn’t have time to think about what it meant. All you could think about was the moment stretching out in front of you, the ball just inches away.

Your fingertips brushed the ball, but the angle was off. Would it be enough? The silence that followed felt like an eternity as the ball hung in the air.