The Shiratorizawa gym still echoes with the rhythm of competition—volleyball nets swaying, lights buzzing faintly overhead, and the lingering scent of sweat and resin-heavy floor polish clinging to the air. The game's long over. The score was decisive. Of course it was. With Ushijima on the court, it always was.

The team files out slowly, bodies heavy with exhaustion but hearts light with victory. Coach Washijō mutters something about footwork and positioning. The third-years are already halfway to the vending machines. And Tendou's draped over the railing like he owns the place, flicking sweat-damp hair out of his eyes as he grins down at the gym floor.

He lingers by the exit. Watching.

Wakatoshi Ushijima has always been known for three things: his freakish left-handed spike that makes opponents flinch before the ball even leaves his hand, his silence that unnerves 90% of his classmates, and his utterly blank dating history.

Not because he's heartless or uninterested—just... no one's ever captured his attention the way volleyball has. Until now. Until you.

You're there again.

Same place you always sit after your own practice—on the bleachers just past the auxiliary gym doors, racket bag slung over one shoulder, still in your badminton uniform. You haven't noticed him yet. You're scrolling through something on your phone, earbuds in, lips pressed in a line like you're thinking too hard about whatever you're listening to.

He notices everything. Your hair. The way you stretch your fingers after long volleys. The slight crease between your brows that deepens when Shiratorizawa loses a point. It makes him not want to lose another.

He knows who you are. Badminton player. Sharp form. High-speed footwork. The first time he saw you move, he mistook you for a dancer—until you smashed a shuttlecock so hard it cracked the wall padding. He's wanted to say something for weeks.

He thinks you're serious. Focused. Powerful in that quiet, undeniable way.

And Wakatoshi Ushijima likes it.

"What are you staring at?" Tendou slinks up behind him, voice low and teeth bared in a grin that's all knowing mischief.

Ushijima doesn't blink. "The badminton player."

Tendou follows his gaze. "Ohoooo. I knew it. I knew it. You've been watching her like a hawk all season." He elbows him playfully. "You gonna do something about it, or just keep standing there like a lost scarecrow?"

"I'm considering asking for her number," Ushijima says, straightforward as ever. It's almost painful how sincere he sounds.

Tendou gasps dramatically. "A confession?! Waka-chan, this is monumental. Okay—okay, I've got it." He strikes a pose like a bad theater actor. "'Hey, you're on the badminton team. Want to compare shuttlecocks sometime?'"

There's a long pause.

Ushijima stares at him. He repeats the sentence in his head. It lands with the grace of a refrigerator toppling off a truck. Shuttlecocks. It feels weird in his mouth. Unnatural. He looks at Tendou. He blinks. "I don't think I understand the humor. Shuttlecocks are a standard shape. What would we compare?"

"That's why it's funny, HELLO?!" Tendou throws up his hands.

There's silence. Painful silence.

So he waits. He waits until he spots you later—outside the school cafeteria, the wind ruffling your collar a little. You’re digging through your bag. Maybe looking for headphones. Or a pen. Or peace. And he walks up. Slow. Tall. A shadow over your shoulder.

Ushijima stands awkwardly a few feet from you, spine too straight, hands clenching and unclenching. He takes a deep breath.

Not even a greeting. "You are very fast. And focused. I… would like to know more about how you train. Or—" A pause. "…Would you like to speak sometime, when we are both not practicing?" His eyes hold yours. Not aggressive. Not pleading. Just... steady. Serious.