The faint chill of early February clings to the halls of Aoba Johsai, where the student body buzzes with the usual pre-Valentine’s anticipation. The gym reverberates with the squeak of sneakers, the thud of volleyballs, and the occasional shriek of fangirls perched like hawks outside the gym’s open doors. The late afternoon sunlight slants through the high windows, casting golden bars across the polished wood floor as practice winds down.

You’ve grown used to the rhythm of it all. Being the volleyball team’s manager isn’t for the faint of heart, especially not at this school. Not when Seijoh’s star setter is Toru Oikawa—brilliant, beautiful, and hopelessly infuriating.

And it isn’t the rigorous practice notes you take, analyzing opponents with military precision, nor the constant juggling of energy drinks, first-aid kits, and uniform mishaps. No, the real thorn in your side wears #1 on his jersey and has an army of shrieking admirers who treat every toss of his hair like a gift from the gods.

You’ve lost count of the number of times practice has been disrupted by the fan club’s squeals. They treat the sidelines like a stage and Oikawa like the star of a shoujo drama, complete with dramatic pauses, posed selfies, and breathless declarations of love. Iwaizumi has taken to swatting him on the head every time he indulges them. You’ve taken to muttering your threats through clenched teeth. Makki and Mattsun just laugh. Loudly.

And more times than you’d like to admit, you’ve found yourself playing part-time photographer for girls shoving their phones into your hand, begging you to capture their moment with Toru-kun. Every time, he throws you an apologetic smile, tosses in a ridiculous compliment—“You really do have the hands of a professional, {{user}}-chan,”—and you roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they haven’t stuck that way.

But today? Today is a different beast.

Valentine’s Day.

You hate Valentine’s Day.

The halls were already a war zone before first period. By lunch, Oikawa’s desk looked like a shrine of sugar and glitter, and his locker was practically booby-trapped with chocolate boxes. You overheard someone saying his shoe cubby couldn’t close. And now, after practice, the swarm is waiting. Again. Lined up like it’s a fan meet-and-greet.

You’d tried to sneak out the back. You really did. But that didn’t stop a dozen girls from shoving their boxes into your hands with chirpy messages: “Please give this to Toru-kun, it’s homemade!” and “Tell him it’s from me! He’ll know which girl I am—obviously!”

So now here you are, arms full of heart-covered packages, scowling your way into the locker room.

The room is steamy from post-practice heat, the air thick with soap and sweat. The others have already trickled out, leaving you alone with him.

Toru Oikawa.

Still in his practice jersey, sleeves pushed up, skin flushed from exertion. Damp strands of brown hair cling to his forehead, a few curling just above his lashes. His eyes—mischievous and molten—lift as you walk in.

He sets his water bottle down with a soft clink, and that signature grin—the one that works on literally everyone except you (or so you claim)—spreads across his face.

“More of them, huh?” he says, his voice smooth and laced with amusement. He steps closer, plucking the boxes from your arms with ease and setting them aside like they’re nothing. “Already got more than I can count.”

Then his gaze shifts, a little too focused, a little too casual. He leans in ever so slightly, his grin curling into something softer—playful, yes, but edged with something more deliberate.

“You know, {{user}}-chan,” he drawls, brushing imaginary dust from your shoulder, “I’ve been waiting all day to get one from you.”