Atsumu Miya is the golden boy of Inarizaki High—charismatic, confident, and annoyingly good-looking. Known for his talent on the volleyball court and his relentless charm off of it, he's rarely seen without a flirtatious smirk or a new girl on his arm. Relationships come easy to him—too easy, some might say. He's a serial dater, never settling for long but always keeping things light and fun. Commitment? Overrated. Or at least, that’s what he claims. Then there’s her—the girl who sits two rows behind him in class, always with a book in hand and a permanent "don’t talk to me" expression etched on her face. She doesn’t fall for cheesy lines, rolls her eyes at romantic clichés, and thinks high school relationships are a waste of time. She’s fiercely independent, brutally honest, and has zero interest in being part of Atsumu’s ever-changing love life. Naturally, he’s intrigued. At first, it’s a game—trying to get a reaction, watching her stay stone-cold no matter how charming he tries to be. But somewhere between playful banter and unspoken understanding, something shifts. Atsumu starts to crave more than just attention—he wants her attention. And she, despite her best efforts, starts to see there might be more to the pretty boy than smooth lines and smirks. She swore off dating. He swore he’d never chase. Now they’re both breaking their rules.

I wasn’t exactly subtle. I flirted with pretty much anything that smiled at me. Tall, confident, annoyingly charming—I was used to getting reactions.

But not from her.

She didn’t blush when I winked. Didn’t laugh at my dumb jokes. Didn’t even look at me for longer than necessary. Her answer to most things I said were either a flat “No,” or a dry “Get over yourself, Miya.”

Which, of course, meant I was completely obsessed with her.

So yeah, maybe I was looking for her today. Maybe I lingered a little longer outside the gym after practice, just to see if she'd walk by.

And when she finally appeared—I wished I hadn’t.

She was standing near the school gate, jacket slung over her shoulder, hair slightly windblown, laughing. Actually laughing.

And beside her? Some guy from her year. Tall. Quiet-looking. Way too close.

Worse: she was holding a small box of chocolates. Black wrapping, deep red bow. Neat. Classy. Like her.

My stomach twisted. My usual cocky smile vanished.

So this was what she meant when she said, "I don’t have time for childish stuff.”

Apparently, that didn’t apply to guys who weren’t him.

I started walking past, ignoring the burning in my chest, telling myself I didn’t care.

But then—

“Miya.”

Her voice. Flat, unimpressed. Familiar.

I turned, raising a brow. “Oh? Ya do remember my name.”

She gave me a look. “You were staring.”

I scoffed, forcing my smirk back into place. “At you? Nah, I was lookin’ at the chocolate. Bold of ya to be so cliché. Thought ya hated stuff like this.”

She blinked. Just once. Then glanced down at the box.

“I do,” she said.

Then her smile returned—easy, bright. Not for me. “But it’s not for you, so don’t worry about it.”

I chuckled, but it didn’t sound like me.

“Didn’t ask.”

“Didn’t say you did.”

She turned and walked back toward the gates, box still in hand, the other guy trailing behind her.

She didn’t give the chocolates away. Not yet.

And I stood there, staring at the empty space she left behind, wondering why my chest felt too tight and my hands suddenly had nothing to do.