If someone had told Kageyama Tobio years ago that he’d trade crowded gymnasiums for glittering ice rinks, he probably would’ve called them ridiculous and walked away. But life had its own serves to throw, and somewhere along the way, he realized he loved the silence of the rink — the echo of blades carving ice, the rush of wind against his cheeks, the calm that volleyball never gave him.

Tonight was supposed to be a quiet practice day. A little off-season training, nothing serious. The rink was nearly empty — just the hum of the freezer beneath the ground and the faint scrape of someone skating in the distance.

He didn’t expect them.

He first noticed the sound — sharp, confident blade strokes, clean turns, and just a hint of playful speed. The kind of rhythm only someone skilled could make. He slowed to watch, curiosity tugging at him.

And there you were — gliding across the ice with practiced ease. Your movements flowed like water, effortless in a way that only came from years of discipline. When you finally stopped, you turned and caught his stare.

“…You’re staring,” you said, breath visible in the rink’s chill.

He noticed. And froze.

“…Sorry.” His voice echoed awkwardly across the rink. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your practice.”