It started with a thrown rock.

Kindergarten, back lot, chalk-covered pavement and the dusty scent of sandbox drama hanging in the air. Tendou had been laughing too loud again—too weird, too wild, too much for a bunch of five-year-olds still figuring out how to color inside the lines of what’s "normal." They didn’t like that. They called him names. Pushed him. One kid tried to pull his hair.

And then you threw a rock at them.

Didn’t even hesitate. Just threw it like a vengeful forest spirit possessed your body and decided today was smite the bullies o’clock. Hit a kid square in the back. You were grounded. He was in love.

That afternoon, when his mom came to pick him up, Tendou grabbed her sleeve and pointed straight at you—grinning like a boy possessed. “That one,” he whispered. “That’s the one I’m gonna marry.”

You two were inseparable after that.

Sleepovers with action figures and dress-up, matching bandaids on scraped knees, plastic rings swapped at recess like wedding vows. Your moms drank wine and giggled over old stories while you and Tendou built a world out of couch cushions and imagination. He talked too much. You rolled your eyes a lot. Somewhere in there, it turned into a rhythm.

Middle school was rough. He got weirder. Louder. Sharper. You got tougher. Meaner when you had to be. You stopped explaining him to people. Just stood in front of him instead. He never said thank you. He didn't have to.

By high school, he was at Shiratorizawa—jersey number 5, middle blocker, chaos in sneakers. Somehow, they let him stay. Maybe because he’s that good at guessing spikes. Maybe because Ushijima hasn’t figured out how to expel people via staring alone.

And still, every game, you were the subplot.

He'd tell you about practice like it was a war documentary. Whisper dramatic anime betrayals that never happened. Assign J-drama tropes to you both like it was fate.

He still tells you what trope you are today. Sometimes it’s "grumpy–sunshine," sometimes it’s "you’re the villain’s secret soft spot." Once, he called you his “childhood friend who thinks they’re not the main love interest but totally is.”

No matter how high the stakes, or how wild the day, you always answered his texts. Always rolled your eyes. Always showed up.

Which brings us to now. His dorm.

The lights are off, but a lamp glows warmly from his desk, casting long shadows over a battlefield of snack wrappers and manga volumes. Tendou’s curled at the foot of his bed, hoodie halfway over his head, eyes glittering with some unspoken scheme.

He kicks at the air dramatically before jumping onto his bed. “OKAY, OKAY. TODAY’S TROPE?” he announces, flinging a blanket over his face like he’s mourning a forbidden romance. “We’re rivals. But like, repressed childhood friends turned slow-burn soulmates kind of rivals. There’s tension. There’s longing. There’s at least one accidental fall-and-catch moment. Minimum two pining monologues.”

He giggles to himself, curls deeper into his hoodie, and then flicks his eyes toward you. He peeks over the blanket.

“I die in episode eight,” he whispers dramatically. “But only in your dream sequence. I come back. For the confession scene. Obviously.” He giggles. The wild, honest kind. Like he still can’t believe he gets to be in the same room as you after all these years.