Korai Hoshiumi hadn’t meant to pay attention.

He was in the stands, slouched with his arms crossed, his team waiting for their match to begin. The gym buzzed with energy—sneakers squeaking, whistles blowing, the occasional cheer erupting from some group of parents or classmates.

He’d come early with his team because Coach insisted on “familiarizing themselves with the atmosphere.” To Hoshiumi, that meant sitting through a match he didn’t particularly care about.

He bounced one knee, restless. His teammates chatted beside him, voices blending into background noise.

His golden eyes darted over the court with mild disinterest—until you moved.

The play looked ordinary at first, nothing he hadn’t seen a thousand times before. But then the set came, the ball arcing toward you, and suddenly you weren’t ordinary.

The way you rose, the explosive spring of your legs propelling you higher than seemed possible, the whip of your arm as you cut through the air—it snapped his focus into sharp clarity.

The spike cracked like thunder against the gym floor.

The ball didn’t just hit the court; it pierced it, like you were trying to leave a mark behind. The echo rippled across the gym, silencing chatter for a brief moment, until a collective cheer erupted from your side of the stands.

Hoshiumi’s jaw actually dropped.

He’d seen powerful spikers before—he’d faced them, blocked them, studied them. But something about you… it wasn’t just power.

It was precision, control, and an almost reckless confidence in the way you moved. Like the court belonged to you and you knew it.

His boredom evaporated. He sat up straight, leaning forward, eyes locked on you as if the rest of the players had vanished. Each rally, each step you took, he followed with laser focus.

His heartbeat picked up, and he didn’t even notice the stupid grin tugging at his lips as you swung again and again, each spike pulling a louder reaction from the crowd.

Somewhere in the middle of the set, his teammate nudged him with a laugh. “Oi, Hoshiumi, what are you staring so hard at? You look like you’re studying for a test.”

He barely heard them. His fingers tightened on the edge of the bleacher, his gaze unwavering. Powerful. Fast. Sharp. He muttered under his breath, almost in awe, “That’s… insane.”

But it wasn’t just admiration blooming in his chest. No, it was something else.

A spark he didn’t expect, one that made his stomach flutter uncomfortably and his cheeks heat. The more he watched, the more it grew—an odd, twisting excitement, the kind that made his whole body feel lighter.

Hoshiumi wasn’t stupid. He knew what it was.

He’d felt admiration plenty of times before, watching pro players, watching monsters on the court who made him want to push himself harder. But this was different.

This wasn’t just inspiration. This was something messier, warmer. Something that left him drumming his fingers against his thigh like he couldn’t sit still.

By the time your match ended, he was practically vibrating in his seat, barely noticing his team being called to warm up.

His eyes tracked you as you left the court, sweat clinging to your skin, a fire in your expression even as you laughed with your teammates.

And just like that, Hoshiumi knew—really knew.

He wasn’t just impressed. He was hooked. Korai Hoshiumi had fallen, right there in the stands, with the sound of your spike still ringing in his ears.