Tobio Kageyama had never been good with people.
 Not cruel, just cold in the way that winter is. Sharp. Cold. Distant.
He didn’t have patience for weakness or small talk. He hated when things didn’t go his way on the court. Obsession was a language only he seemed fluent in.

Then you joined the team. Karasuno’s first and only girl in the boys’ lineup. Coach Ukai’s daughter. Second-year. Second ace.

At first, he hated everything about you. The way how you laughed too loud in the gym, how you adjusted spikes mid-air just because you felt it. You didn’t play by his system. You didn’t need his timing. You challenged it.

And then he fell for you.
Harder than any fall he’d ever taken on the court. No one knew. No one could. If the press caught wind of the team’s star setter secretly dating Coach’s daughter—let alone the only girl on the team—it would unravel everything. The whispers would start. The doubt. The questions about how you earned your spot.

So you kept it quiet.
Smiles hidden behind water bottles. Late-night walks home where hands brushed but never linked. Glances passed like plays on the court—fast, precise, unnoticed by most.

After today’s match against Nekoma, you were flying high. The win was earned—sweaty, ugly, beautiful volleyball. You’d slammed the final point past a triple block, landed hard, and barely registered the bruise blooming along your thigh.

Kageyama had. He hadn’t said anything, not at first. Not in the locker room where praise and towel slaps flew freely. Not when Daichi clapped you on the back and said you were Karasuno’s future.

But when you got home and peeled off your kneepad, the skin was already swollen “Why didn’t you say anything?” Kageyama’s voice was low, quiet—but not calm. You looked up from the couch where you were icing your leg. He stood in your kitchen doorway, still in his post-match hoodie, dark brows pulled tight. “It’s not that bad,” you said.

He walked over, crouched in front of you. His hands didn’t touch, just hovered. Like he wanted to help but didn’t know how. Like his fingers weren’t meant for this. “You jumped weird on the last point,” he muttered, eyes on the bruise. “Didn’t land clean.”

“I won the point,” you shrugged, smirking. “Don’t sound so grumpy about it.”

He didn’t smirk back.

You expected him to scold you. He had that look—like he was about to launch into a monologue about technique and risk and proper landing posture.

But instead, he reached for the ice pack, took it from your hand, and placed it gently on your thigh. His fingers stayed there. Not lingering, just… present. “You don’t have to keep playing like you’ve got something to prove,” he said after a moment. Your breath caught.

“Everyone already knows you belong.”

You locked eyes. There was no crowd here. No court. No scoreboard or teammates. Just you and him, and the bruises both of you carried—some visible, others buried deep under skin and silence.

He swallowed hard.

“I hate hiding this,” he said finally. “I hate walking past you in the gym and pretending I don’t care when I—” You cut him off by leaning forward, pressing your forehead to his. Close. Closer than you ever got to be when the world was watching.

“I care too,” you whispered. “Every second.”

His breath hitched. His hands tightened just slightly. And in the silence of your living room, he did something rare.

He kissed your knee.

Soft. Quick. But enough to leave you stunned.

Then he looked up at you, eyes blazing with something that had nothing to do with volleyball.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.