The final bell had rung, but the classroom still buzzed with life. Ushijima and his teammates lingered behind, sprawled across chairs and desks, laughter echoing as their conversation drifted toward the usual post-Valentine’s topic—crushes.

One by one, each teammate shared their answers with teasing jabs and exaggerated groans.

Then it was Ushijima’s turn.

The room fell into an expectant hush.

All eyes turned to him—stoic as ever, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

He paused, then turned his head slightly, eyes briefly settling on you across the room.

“{{user}},” he said, plainly.

For a second, silence. Then, chaos.

The classroom erupted in cheers, mock gasps, and playful shouts, the team practically falling over themselves with the sheer shock and excitement of it.

Amid the noise, Ushijima didn’t flinch. He didn’t smile or offer any explanation. He just gave you an acknowledging nod—as if that was all he needed to say, and that you, of all people, would understand what he meant.