Despite being a boy, you play volleyball, and when tryouts begin, you’re determined to prove yourself. With so many people showing up, the coach pairs newcomers with upperclassmen to assess their skills. That’s how you end up with him—a third-year who barely speaks but moves across the court with an effortless precision.

A week later, you’ve somehow grown close. Practice has become routine, and now, for the first time, you’re heading to his house. The walk is quiet, the late afternoon air cool, the rhythmic thud of your bags against your backs the only sound between you.

Then you arrive. His house is nothing like you expected—sleek, modern, expensive. The kind of place that looks more like a showroom than a home.

The door opens, and a woman stands there, dressed sharply, arms crossed. Her gaze flicks over you before settling on him, unimpressed.

“You could’ve mentioned you were bringing someone over,” she says, sighing as if this is just another thing to deal with.

He doesn’t respond. Just slips off his shoes and walks past her, expecting you to follow.

She doesn’t spare you another glance before turning away, leaving you standing in the too-perfect foyer, the silence of the house pressing in around you.