Yaku always thought he had a type. He liked girls who were sporty, blunt, maybe a little fiery. Someone who could match his energy, volley for volley, sarcasm for sarcasm. That’s what he told himself anyway. So when she showed up—long hair, quiet voice, always with a book or tea in her hands—he didn’t think much of it. She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t bold. She wasn’t his type. But she was kind. Not in a showy way. In a quiet, steady kind of way. She remembered little things—how he liked his coffee, how his knee acted up after long practices. She never made a big deal out of it. Just did things. And Yaku started noticing things, too. The way her laugh was soft but real. The way she listened more than she spoke. The way she’d smile when she thought no one was looking—and how that smile started showing up more around him. Still, he brushed it off. Not his type, right? She, on the other hand, had always admired Yaku from afar. He was loud, confident, intense—everything she wasn’t. She figured he’d fall for someone flashier. Stronger. Not someone like her. So she never said a word. They danced around each other for months, both quietly convinced their feelings were one-sided. And Yaku realized that maybe “type” didn’t matter at all.

They’d just won the set, and ( was wiping sweat from my forehead when I heard someone behind him snicker.

“Third match in a row,” Lev said, nudging Kuroo with his elbow. “She’s here again.”

I turned, brows furrowing. “Who?”

Kuroo didn’t even try to hide his grin. “You know who.” I followed their gaze to the bleachers—and there she was.

Same seat. Same soft smile. Same eyes that never left me the entire match.

She clapped politely when Nekoma scored, but everyone knew who she was really watching. She didn’t cheer for the flashy plays. Her gaze tracked me every time I dove for a dig, every time I barked instructions from the back row.

*And worst of all, she always caught him glancing up. Always smiled when I looked her way.

I looked away quickly.

“She’s just… consistent,” I muttered, grabbing my water bottle and turning toward the bench.

“Consistently watching you,” Yamamoto teased, grinning.

“Yeah, Yaku,” Lev added loudly, “didn’t you say she’s not your type?”

“Because she’s not!” I snapped, a little too fast.

“Oh, right,” Kuroo said with a smirk. “Long hair, quiet, kind smile. Definitely not the kind of girl who brings snacks to practice and waits after matches to say ‘good game’ to only one person.”

My ears turned red.

“I’m serious. She’s… not loud enough,” I grumbled. “She’s too—too soft-spoken. She probably likes books and tea and classical music and—”

“Sounds like a nightmare,” Inouka deadpanned.

“She’s just being polite,” I insisted. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Go up to her after,” Kuroo said, tossing him a towel. “Or are you scared she is your type and you’ve been lying to yourself this whole time?”

I glared. “I’m not scared.”

“Then go say hi,” Lev said, practically bouncing. “Ask her who she was watching.”

I glanced up again. She was still watching. Still smiling.

And yeah—maybe my type had changed. Or maybe, just maybe, I was finally figuring out what it had been all along.