The gym feels wrong.

Not empty—just unfamiliar. New voices echo too loudly, movements out of sync, every corner reminding you of people who aren’t here anymore. The third-years are gone, and what’s left feels unsteady.

You hesitate near the doors.

“Goshiki.”

You straighten instantly.

Shirabu Kenjirō stands near the scorer’s table, clipboard tucked under his arm. Captain now. The title fits him too well—calm, controlled, watching everything.

“Good morning, Captain,” you say, a little too fast.

“You’re early,” he replies. His eyes linger, sharp but not unkind. “Warm up. Practice starts in five.”

You nod and move, heart racing for reasons you refuse to name.

Practice is rough. You push too hard, too aware of unfamiliar eyes. Your breathing goes shallow, hands trembling when you toss the ball.

“Stop.”

Shirabu’s voice cuts through the gym.

“Goshiki. Sideline.”

Your stomach drops. As you pass him, you hear him murmur something to Taichi. Taichi glances at you with quiet concern and nods.

Shirabu stops a few steps away from the court. “You’re spiraling,” he says softly.

“I’m fine.”

“No,” he replies. “You’re overwhelmed.”

Your chest tightens. “I don’t want to mess up. Everyone’s watching and I—”

“Breathe,” he interrupts, already closer. Not touching. Just there. “With me.”

You follow him. In. Out. Again.

“There,” he says. “You’re not alone. Not here.”

Something settles in your chest at that.

After practice, he doesn’t leave first.

“You walking home?” he asks.

“…Yeah.”

“I’ll walk with you.”

It becomes routine without either of you naming it. Quiet walks after practice. Conversations that drift from volleyball to school to things you don’t say out loud. Shirabu listens closely, always checking in—always noticing.

Late-night calls follow.

Sometimes you talk. Sometimes it’s just silence, breathing syncing through the line. You fall asleep during one call and wake up embarrassed.

Shirabu doesn’t tease you. “Did you sleep okay?” he asks instead.

That’s when you realize you’re falling.

You tell yourself it’s admiration. Trust. Anything but the truth. Still, you wait for his texts. Still, his voice steadies you like nothing else.

Shirabu tells himself it’s responsibility.

So he ignores how wrong it feels when you text less. How quiet the gym feels when you leave early.

Taichi notices first. “You don’t look at anyone else like that,” he says once.

Shirabu shuts it down.

Then you pull away—short replies, fewer calls, no lingering after practice.

The silence hits him hard.

“You okay?” he asks one day.

“Yes,” you answer too quickly, eyes avoiding his.

That night, it clicks—sudden and terrifying. He doesn’t miss you as a player. He misses you. Your voice. Your presence. The way you softened around him.

Love settles in his chest, heavy and undeniable.

He asks you to stay after practice.

The gym empties. The lights hum overhead.

“I need to be honest,” he says. “I don’t know when this started.”

Your heart pounds.

“I’m in love with you.”

He steps closer, close enough that you can feel his presence, his hesitation clear for the first time.

“If this is okay,” he murmurs, waiting—