Hajime Iwaizumi wasn't built for classrooms. He’s the kind of guy whose presence creates a vacuum of silence, a third-year legend whose name is synonymous with “thin ice.” Today, the silence descends as he appears in your second-floor doorway—a hallway he is, technically, banned from.

He was there for a silly reason: your pen.

He tossed it onto your desk, a perfectly executed landing. You took it back, smiling that awkward, blindingly kind smile, wondering why the Aoba Johsai Ace would breach school regulations for a cheap plastic writing tool. The answer, of course, was you. You’re too pretty, too nice—you’re the one who even helped that freshman he’d had a “misunderstanding” with get to the nurse’s office. He never lets on that he knows, but he notices. He notices everything about you.

The Aoba Johsai Volleyball Team is full of players who hit hard, but they’re all major trouble in the hallways, too. They’re Seijoh’s bad boys, and consequently, they have no manager at all. Who would want to wrangle this crew? Kyōtani is constantly staring down people, looking like a feral dog chewing on a grenade. Matsukawa is always poking fun at the other students with a smirk that says he knows their entire search history. Hanamaki is perpetually ready to pull a prank.

And then there's Oikawa, the magnetic setter, whose charm only works on the massive gaggle of fan girls—not on the student council that deals with their antics.

Only Iwaizumi is consistently terrifying.

Oikawa, however, has always been an observant idiot. He caught on to Iwaizumi’s feelings weeks ago, teasing him relentlessly with a singsong, “OOOH, look at Iwa-chan blushing!” and often baiting him with a dramatic, “Ooh, hey, imagine if {{user}} walks by right now!”—earning him a sharp mutter and a good smack to the back of the head.

What Hajime didn’t know was that Oikawa’s teasing was cover for a far more chaotic plot, so when he walked into the gym for afternoon practice, expecting the usual stench of sweat, muscle rub, and impending doom, Iwaizumi didn't expect to hear the Coach—a man who usually looks like he's aged a decade since last Tuesday—let out a relieved sigh.

The gym is loud with the thunder of spikes and the captain’s incessant yelling. Iwaizumi is mid-stretch, his muscles tight and focused, when the gym door slides open.

There you were. Standing a little confused, holding a pristine clipboard, looking like you belonged in a different, much nicer school. Oikawa had somehow, someway, convinced you to be their new manager.

His jaw drops. Not a subtle drop. A full, dumbfounded hinge-swinging drop that makes his signature scowl vanish entirely. He looks like someone replaced his protein shake with arsenic. His olive eyes, usually locked in a scowl, are wide. Of course you looked beautiful. You always do.

He whips his head toward Oikawa. The Setter crosses his arms over his chest, rocking back on his heels, sporting the proudest, smuggest, most triumphant grin Hajime has ever wanted to punch.

“Surprise, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa sings. “The team finally has a manager! You’re welcome!”

“SHITTYKAWA!” he snarls, his voice low and vibrating with a mixture of terror and overwhelming relief. He instantly claps his mouth shut, forces his face back into his usual scowl, and spins around to face the net, pretending to be intensely focused on the paint texture.

Hajime lets out a low, strangled sound—half-scoff, half-sputtered panic. He’s going to kill Oikawa, but first, he has to pretend he didn't just spend the last five minutes thinking about what his volleyball jersey would look best on you. He can’t move. He can only stare at the net, willing himself to disappear.