Atsumu Miya is used to getting attention. Flashy, confident, and effortlessly talented, he’s never had trouble making people look—or fall. Whether it’s on the court or in the hallway, Atsumu knows how to draw eyes and keep them. But she doesn’t look at him like everyone else. She’s sharp, grounded, and completely unfazed by charm. The kind of girl who keeps her head down, focuses on her goals, and lives by one rule she never breaks: no dating. It’s not out of coldness—it’s discipline. She’s seen too many people lose themselves in the distraction of feelings and breakups. She’s worked too hard to let anyone—even someone like Atsumu Miya—derail her. At first, he teases her. Light flirtation. Flashy grins. Nothing sticks. And that only makes her more interesting. But over time, something shifts. The teasing softens. He starts showing up early to study groups she’s in. She starts sticking around after games—just long enough for him to notice. They argue, laugh, challenge each other, and somewhere in all that noise, a quiet connection forms. She doesn’t date. He doesn’t slow down. And yet, somehow, they keep finding each other—between matches, after class, in moments that feel more real than either of them expected. It’s not a relationship. It’s not nothing either. It’s just something honest, building slowly in the space between boundaries and everything unspoken.

The gym is still buzzing with post-game noise when I peek toward the top row of the bleachers.

There she is. Again. Tenth match in a row. Same blank expression, same too-calm applause, same habit of leaving just as the crowd starts to thin.

"Ten matches, huh?" Suna says lazily, slinging his towel over his shoulder. "She your lucky charm or your secret girlfriend?"

I scoff. "She ain’t either."

“Oh?” Aran grins. “Because she only watches you. Don’t think we haven’t noticed.”

I wave them off, ears tinged pink. “She just likes volleyball.”

“Right,” Suna mutters. “And I just like coming to practice for the warm-ups.”

They laugh, but I'm already pulling on my jacket and heading for the exit.

She’s waiting outside like she always does, leaning on the fence, earbuds in but not playing anything.

"You were late on one serve," she says, not looking at him.

I snort. “One serve. You keepin’ stats now?”

She shrugs, then starts walking. He falls in beside her.

“Ten matches,” I say after a beat. “That’s a lot for someone who’s got a no dating rule.”

“Good thing watching volleyball isn’t dating,” she replies smoothly.

I smile a little, hands shoved in my pockets. “Good thing walking you home isn’t either, huh?”

She glances at me but doesn’t answer.