Archive of Our Own ^beta

The campus newspaper office was tucked away in a corner of the humanities building, hidden behind a scratched-up wooden door that stuck if you didn’t kick it just right. Inside, the room smelled faintly of printer ink and burnt coffee, comforting in a way, like old paperbacks and too-long nights. Stacks of past issues lined the walls in precarious towers, some yellowing at the edges, others still crisp from the latest print run. Bulletin boards were cluttered with pinned-up article drafts, scribbled deadlines, and a fading poster of "Journalism is the first rough draft of history."

Mike sat at the corner desk, half-sunken into a creaky office chair that wheezed every time he shifted. The keyboard under his fingers was missing the ‘N’ key, forcing his pinky into awkward contortions. Beside him, a legal pad sat open, dotted with bullet points about rhetorical strategy and Max’s debate team’s latest takedown of another rival college team. A half-empty cup of coffee cooled beside his elbow, its surface filmed over from neglect.

The window behind his desk overlooked the quad. Through its streaked glass, Mike could see students drifting between buildings, backpacks slung low, voices muffled by distance. The afternoon sun had dipped low enough to stretch long shadows across the lawn. A breeze stirred the branches of the old elms lining the path, and a couple of flyers flapped helplessly on a bulletin board nailed to a tree. The golden light made everything look a little softer, less rushed. A few students lingered on the steps of the library across the way, sprawled out with notebooks or guitars, riding the last warm edge of the day.

Inside the room, the only sound was the steady hum of the fluorescent lights and the occasional thud of someone pacing in the hallway beyond. Mike’s screen glowed, cursor blinking at the end of a half-finished sentence. The words came slowly, but steadily, punctuated by the quiet clatter of keys and the ever-present buzz of thought.

A forgotten typewriter rested on a shelf above the filing cabinet; its keys stiff with dust, a ribbon still threaded through like it had once mattered. They hadn’t used them in years, not since the school installed the clunky green-lidded computers with their black-and-amber screens. Still, the typewriter remained, like a relic no one had the heart to throw out. 

The door creaked open then, slow and deliberate, just enough for the late-afternoon light to catch in the dust motes hanging in the air. Nancy stepped inside with the kind of presence that made the room feel smaller. Her heels clicked softly against the linoleum, coat draped over one arm, a folder clutched in the other. Her hair was frizzy around her, and the sharpness of her blazer matched the precision in her stride. She didn’t need to speak to command attention, she never had.

She paused just past the doorway, eyes scanning the room with the calculated poise of someone who already knew what she was looking for.

“Mike.”

Her voice cut through the quiet like the turning of a page. She moved with crisp efficiency, lowering herself into the empty brown chair beside him. The old vinyl seat gave a faint squeak under her weight. She set the folder down in front of her with practiced precision, the corners aligned perfectly with the edge of the desk.

“Josh is sick.”

Mike barely glanced at her at first, lifting an eyebrow with dry skepticism before exhaling through his nose. The sigh escaped him like steam from a kettle long left on the stove. Slowly, he turned toward her, abandoning both his coffee and the blinking cursor on his screen. Not that he’d been writing anything meaningful; his document was more white space than words. “And that’s my problem because…?”

Nancy didn’t flinch. “Can you cover volleyball photos tonight?” she asked, her voice level but edged with urgency. “It’s the start of the new season and we can’t miss it.”

“Ask one of the photographers,” Mike said flatly, already beginning to pivot back to his screen. His tone was curt, but not unkind—more resigned than annoyed.

Nancy sighed, a quiet exhale that barely stirred the papers in front of her. “They’re busy.”

Of course they were. Figures.

For a moment, the room was still except for the distant shuffle of footsteps in the hallway and the faint hum of the building’s old heating system kicking in.

Nancy looked at him then—really looked at him—with that expression she always wore when she was trying not to beg but was too stubborn not to try anyway. Her brows dipped, her lips pressed together in something between frustration and hope. “Please?”

Mike sighed again, “Fine. I’ll get a camera.”

It was around 7pm, and the sky had long since sunk into darkness. The kind that felt thick and endless; more velvet than shadow, stretching between the brick buildings and pooling in corners where the lights couldn’t reach. The campus, once buzzing with afternoon chatter and passing footsteps, had quieted into a sort of eerie calm. The occasional hum of a vending machine or the distant slam of a dorm door echoed louder in the cold night air.

Mike’s jacket felt heavier than usual on his shoulders, stiff from the cold. He pulled it tighter, his fingers shoved deep into the pockets of his baggy black jeans, trying to warm his knuckles. Each breath curled in front of him in pale tendrils, quickly dissolving into the chill. The gravel beneath his boots crunched softly with each step, and the wind needled through the gaps in his collar like icy fingers searching for skin.

The strap of his camera bag dug into his shoulder, weighed down not by its contents, but by the reluctant purpose of the trip. He adjusted it, more out of habit than discomfort, as he passed under a flickering lamppost that buzzed faintly overhead.

Ahead, one of the gymnasiums rose out of the darkness, its windows aglow like fireflies in the night. He could already hear it; laughter, sneakers squeaking against polished wood, the occasional sharp whistle. The brightness spilled out onto the pavement through the wide glass doors, cutting sharp lines into the night, and Mike found himself walking toward it like a moth to a flame.

He didn’t care for sports, never had. They all blurred together in his mind; games of noise and movement that ended with people either crying or screaming in triumph. He found them repetitive, always built around the same rise and fall, the same feverish devotion to rules and rivalries he couldn’t bring himself to care about. But as he approached the doors and felt the subtle warmth radiating from within, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of curiosity.

The sharp contrast between the outside and inside made everything more surreal, like he was about to step into a world that wasn’t his. One built on sweat, adrenaline, and team chants. One that lived under bright fluorescent lights instead of the soft glow of a computer screen.

Still, he kept moving forward, boots dragging slightly now, like even his legs were questioning this whole thing. Behind him, the cold night swallowed the rest of the campus, the buildings now silent silhouettes against a starless sky.

He took a breath, steadying, reluctant, before creaking open one of the heavy gymnasium doors. It groaned in protest, the sound far too loud in his ears, and he winced as it echoed into the space ahead. Half of him braced for every head to snap in his direction, for a crowd of unfamiliar faces to turn and silently demand, “What the hell is this guy doing here?”

But no one even glanced his way.

The noise inside swallowed him whole, rubber soles squeaking across polished wood, the thud of volleyballs being passed, the sharp bark of a coach’s instructions bouncing off the high rafters. Someone laughed, the sound overlapping with another team member slapping the floor in a pre-game drill. No one noticed Mike. No one cared.

He exhaled in quiet relief, stepping further in.

The gymnasium was massive, its arched ceiling disappearing into shadow above exposed beams and flickering overhead lights that buzzed faintly. Banners lined the walls, proudly boasting past victories in faded maroon, blue, and gold. The floor gleamed under the fluorescents, glossy from years of varnish and wear, marked with crisp white boundary lines and a tall net strung tightly across the center court. The sharp smell of sweat and floor polish lingered in the air, mingling with the faint sweetness of someone’s open sports drink.

On either side of the net, two men’s volleyball teams were warming up, mirroring each other in motion but not pace. One side jogged in slow circles, passing balls back and forth between sets of paired players. The other, his college’s team, was more intense, focused; players leapt for practice blocks or dove dramatically to save imaginary spikes, barking encouragement in short, clipped bursts.

Mike stayed near the door for a moment longer, the strap of his camera bag still pressing into his shoulder. The camera felt heavier now, like it somehow knew this wasn’t his world. But the job was simple; take a few photos, write up a paragraph or two, and get out. Easy.

At least, it should have been.

His eyes drifted across the court, finally taking in the blur of movement and color with something closer to focus. His college’s team stood out immediately, dressed in coordinated light blue jerseys that caught the overhead lights like reflections off shallow water. Clean stripes of yellow and maroon lined the sleeves and sides, subtle but sharp, the school’s colors woven in without being loud. Dark blue shorts matched the players’ padded knee guards, and their white shoes squeaked against the floor with every pivot, every jump. Small numbers were printed on the front corner of each jersey, but it was the bold, oversized digits stamped across their backs that made them easy to track as they moved in and out of formation.

Across the net, the opposing team warmed up in a more chaotic rhythm, their uniforms made up of deep green broken by stark white panels and flashes of orange along the shoulders and trim. The contrast between the two teams was striking, like calm water meeting a stormy sky, and Mike couldn’t help but think how easily he could spot the difference through a camera lens.

Still, he lingered near the edge of the gym, pretending to fiddle with his camera settings, hoping he could get through the evening unnoticed. But something tugged at his attention, like static on the edge of a frequency he hadn’t yet tuned in to.

“Hello.”

The voice came from just behind him, soft but clear, cutting through the noise of bouncing volleyballs and sneakers on hardwood. Mike turned to find a girl standing a few feet away, her brown hair tied back in a neat half-up, half-down style. She looked about his age, dressed casually in jeans and his college’s hoodie, a friendly expression on her face as she motioned toward the camera slung around his neck.

“You new? There’s usually a different guy who does photos.”

Mike glanced down at the camera like he’d momentarily forgotten he was holding it. “Oh, uh… yeah, kind of,” he said, scratching at the back of his neck. “He’s sick, so I’m just a fill-in for tonight.”

She nodded, the corners of her mouth lifting in a polite smile. “Cool. I’m Jane, by the way.”

“Mike.” He gave a short nod in return, the name feeling strange on his tongue in a space where he didn’t quite belong. “What’s your job?”

“Oh, nothing official,” Jane said with a small laugh, stepping back slightly. “I’m just here to watch my brother play.”

That made sense. Mike had started noticing a few pockets of students and family members gathering in the bleachers now, the faint murmur of their conversations blending with the warm-up drills. He gave another small nod, unsure of what else to say, but thankfully Jane didn’t seem to expect much more.

Soon after, their conversation faded naturally as the gym lights shifted slightly and the sound of a whistle rang out, sharp and commanding. Jane offered a brief wave before slipping off toward the bleachers, weaving through the rows of seated spectators with practiced ease, sitting next to an older brunette woman.

Left standing alone, Mike adjusted the strap of his camera and took a hesitant step towards the court. The players were already lining up, their bodies tense with energy, and he scanned the edges of the court for the best vantage point. He was no sports photographer, but he figured if he could stay quiet and move with purpose, no one would question his presence. 

Raising the camera to his face, he let the lens become his barrier—something to hide behind, something to focus through.

The match was about to begin. 

The gym lights were too bright, the bleachers too hard, and Mike was already regretting every life choice that had led him here. He raised his camera, zoomed in, mechanically, and tried to focus on the movement across the court.

The game had started fast. Bodies shifted and collided with rhythmic precision, the ball darting like a pulse of light between outstretched arms and airborne hands. Sneakers squeaked across the glossy floor. Hands clapped. A coach barked encouragement from the sidelines while the crowd offered the occasional cheer or groan, depending on the play.

Mike moved stiffly at first, unsure of where to stand, how close he was allowed to get. But once he found his rhythm, the photos started coming out better than expected; sharp, full of motion. Players mid-leap, the blur of the ball just leaving their fingertips. Reactions frozen in time, arms extended, eyes wide. There was something weirdly satisfying about catching a moment right before impact, like pressing pause on chaos.

Then something, or someone, shifted in his lens.

Number 10.

He caught the ball on a clean set and jumped, the motion effortless, precise. His timing was perfect, his palm slamming the ball down with stunning force and accuracy. Mike’s finger hesitated on the shutter. He was still looking through the lens, but not really seeing the photo anymore.

Short, brown curls clung to his forehead, damp with sweat. His brows were slightly drawn, not in anger, but in concentration. His face was composed, serious, but not tense. He looked like he belonged there. Like he was made for this. The other players were good, sure, but none of them moved like that .

Mike lowered the camera slowly, as if waking up from a daze. His heart thudded, but he couldn’t say why.

“…Who the hell is that?”

His voice was barely a whisper, lost beneath the sound of the ball ricocheting off the polished floor and the echo of the whistle. But even as the game played on, his focus had already shifted. His eyes kept finding Number 10 again and again. Watching him move, call out signals, brush his hand quickly over the back of his neck in thought.

The photos were still coming, but now they were mostly of him .

Mike didn’t even notice.

It wasn’t that he demanded attention; he didn’t shout louder than the others, didn’t grandstand or throw exaggerated gestures when he scored. He didn’t have to. He just moved with this quiet command, like the court naturally bent to his rhythm. Every pass he made was clean, every spike calculated, every jump timed like muscle memory. He didn’t waste energy. He didn’t miss.

He didn’t even look like he was trying that hard.

And maybe that’s what made it so frustratingly captivating.

The boy called out to his teammates between plays, his voice clear and low, directing them with the calm urgency of someone who knew what he was doing and didn’t need to prove it. When they scored, he didn’t celebrate dramatically, just exchanged quick high fives, nodded, reset. No ego. Just focus.

Mike kept snapping pictures, but it was starting to feel less like a job and more like a compulsion. His camera tracked the other boy’s every move; mid-air blocks, sudden feints, his fingers brushing the net after a near-perfect play. Mike caught glimpses of him smiling briefly at teammates, adjusting the hem of his jersey, brushing sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist before locking back into the game like nothing existed outside of it.

He made it look easy. Cool in a way that wasn’t forced. Effortless.

Mike lowered the camera again, watching openly now, chest oddly tight.

He should be bored. Or distracted. Or counting the minutes until he could go back to writing a dry little paragraph about “a promising start to the new volleyball season.”

Instead, he couldn’t stop staring.

There was something magnetic about him, like he had stepped out of a movie Mike had never seen, but somehow already knew he’d love.

Mike blinked hard and raised the camera again, hiding behind the lens. He told himself it was just about getting the shot.

Soon enough, a whistle signaled a temporary pause in the match. The teams dispersed across the court, heading toward their benches for water, a quick breather, or energy bars pulled from duffel bags. The pace slowed, but the gym remained loud with scattered conversation, the scrape of plastic water bottles against wood, and the persistent hum of fluorescent lights overhead.

Mike finally allowed himself to sit, sinking onto one of the benches tucked along the side wall. His legs ached from standing for so long, and the weight of his black, camera bag pulled at his shoulder with a dull throb. He rolled his neck, shook out his fingers, and set the camera gently in his lap. Across the gym, players huddled in loose circles, talking, laughing, stretching. The break brought a human softness to the room that hadn’t existed during the intensity of play.

From the corner of his eye, Mike spotted the girl from earlier, Jane, making her way back to her seat in the bleachers, a bottle of soda in hand. She caught sight of him resting and veered off course slightly, her shoes squeaking lightly on the floor as she approached.

“What do you think?” she asked, gesturing toward the court with a flick of her hand. “Pretty good, huh?”

Mike nodded before his brain could even register the question. “Yeah. Really good,” he murmured, the words slipping out quietly, almost distractedly.

Jane barked out a laugh, amused. “My brother’s the captain of our team. Did you see him? He’s number 10.”

“Number 10?” Mike repeated, the words leaping out faster than he meant them to. His head snapped up, eyes scanning the court instinctively, like he was afraid he might have missed something. But there he was.

He stood just off to the side of the bench, one foot braced casually against the wall, chatting with a few teammates. His cheeks were flushed from exertion, curls damp with sweat and pushed back slightly from his forehead. He tipped his head back to drink from a bottle of water, throat moving with each swallow, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before laughing at something someone said. 

Mike watched in a kind of quiet daze, the world dimming around the edges for a moment.

“What’s his name?” he asked, not bothering to hide the curiosity in his voice. His eyes never left the boy.

Jane followed his gaze, then glanced back at Mike with a flicker of something unreadable in her expression. “Will,” she said simply.

The name settled into Mike’s chest like a stone dropped in still water. Will.

It suited him.

And after nearly an hour of crouching, standing, adjusting angles, and craning his neck around taller people, the first volleyball game of the season had finally ended with their college team coming out on top. The final whistle had echoed off the gym walls like a stamp of victory, met with scattered cheers, a few claps, and the thud of tired footsteps.

Even though Mike didn’t care much for sports—and still wouldn’t have been able to explain the scoring system if someone asked—he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pride settle low in his chest. Maybe it was because he went to this college. Maybe it was because they played well. Or maybe it had something to do with one specific player who had somehow taken up residence in the back of his mind.

The crowd began to thin. People shuffled out in small groups, their voices echoing through the high ceilings, fading into the hallway outside. Players trailed toward the locker rooms in a mess of laughter, slung towels, and loose conversations. Some grabbed snacks or water; others disappeared behind swinging doors without a word.

Mike returned to the bench, letting his body fold into it with a groan he didn’t bother to suppress. He pulled his camera into his lap and began scrolling through the shots, his thumb tapping rhythmically against the buttons.

Some of the photos were trash; blurry, overexposed, ruined by a sudden flash of movement, but others were surprisingly sharp. Clean. Balanced. A few even looked professional. He paused on one: Will mid-jump, arm stretched high, eyes focused, the net just inches below his palm. Perfect.

Mike stared for a second too long before flicking to the next one. Another of Will—this time grinning as he high-fived a teammate, curls messy and sticking to his forehead, that same quiet energy radiating off him even in stillness.

He scrolled faster.

It’s not weird, he told himself. He’s the captain. Of course there are photos of him. It’s normal. Necessary. He needed to be included in the write-up. It would actually be bad journalism if he wasn’t.

Okay, maybe there were more than a few.

Mike sighed and sank further into the bench, adjusting his beanie as if that might hide the heat rising slowly to his ears.

“Mike!”

The sharp, familiar voice called from across the gym, slicing through the quiet with that same bright tone as earlier. He looked up to see Jane standing by a pair of double doors, her figure framed in the glow from the hallway beyond. The woman she’d been talking to earlier was gone, leaving her alone and waving him over.

He got up, his legs a little stiff from sitting, and jogged over, slipping the camera strap back around his neck.

“Hey,” he greeted, keeping his voice light as he stopped in front of her. “What’s up?”

Jane didn’t answer right away. Instead, she leaned casually against the wall beside the doors, arms crossed loosely over her chest.

“Get any good photos?” she asked instead, her tone teasing.

Mike smirked quietly and shook his head. “Yeah, a few,” he said, trying not to sound too proud, or too distracted . Before he could elaborate, the doors behind her swung open with a soft, metallic creak.

And then he stepped out.

Will.

Hair damp, curls looser and darker now, clinging slightly to his temples. He’d changed into a plain, gray hoodie and sweats, something casual and worn-in, but somehow it made him look even more unreachable, like a different version of the boy Mike had been photographing all night. He was laughing at something a teammate said behind him, head tilted back just slightly, shoulders relaxed in a way they hadn’t been on the court.

Mike’s stomach did a slow, unexpected flip.

He barely registered Jane saying something beside him. His focus had narrowed again, everything else dipping into a soft blur except for the boy in the doorway.

Will glanced up for just a second, gaze flicking across the room.

And for a heartbeat, Mike thought he might have looked right at him.

Will waved his teammate off with an easy smile before slinging an arm around Jane’s shoulders in a casual, familiar way. “Hey, stranger,” he said, his voice light with affection.

Jane rolled her eyes and laughed, pushing at his chest until he let go. Will’s hoodie wrinkled under her hand, but he didn’t seem to mind. He looked completely at ease, comfortable in the space, in his body, in this moment. Mike could barely process the casual intimacy of it before Will’s gaze shifted… and finally landed on him.

“And hey, actual stranger,” Will added with a grin, playful and warm. His eyes, sharper up close, more expressive than Mike had expected, sparkled a little as he laughed softly at his own comment. It wasn’t cocky, just... charming. Effortlessly so.

Mike felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward into a small, surprised smile. Will had this disarming way of speaking, like every word was meant to include you in the joke.

“This is Mike,” Jane said, reaching out to grab his arm and tug him closer with a careless kind of familiarity. Her fingers were cold against his jacket sleeve. “He’s a photographer.”

“Well, no, actually, I’m not—” Mike began, shaking his head slightly.

Will and Jane both glanced down, eyes landing on the camera still strapped across his chest like an awkward badge of honor. The strap had twisted slightly, and the lens cap hung lopsided.

Will raised a brow. “Sure,” he said, deadpan, the corner of his mouth twitching again.

Mike let out a short laugh, brushing a hand through his hair in that anxious, habitual way he hadn’t quite grown out of. “No, really. I’m just a fill-in. I usually write. Not… this.”

Will gave a small nod, like he understood more than he let on. “Still counts,” he said, voice low and even. “You were in the corner the whole time, right?”

Mike blinked. “Uh. Yeah.”

“You got some good shots, then,” Will added, flashing him another easy smile. “You looked focused.”

Mike’s stomach did something traitorous again at the fact that Will had been watching him, and he had to fight the instinct to look away. Instead, he offered a vague shrug, trying to downplay the fact that most of those "good shots" were of Will himself. 

“Yeah, maybe a few decent ones,” he muttered, shifting the strap on his shoulder.

Beside him, Jane leaned back against the wall again, arms crossed, eyes flicking subtly between the two of them. She didn’t say anything, but something about her expression made Mike feel like she was noticing things—things he wasn’t ready to admit out loud.

“You’re better than that other guy,” Will quipped, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag with one hand, the fabric creaking slightly under the shift. He wore a gentle smile; relaxed, genuine, nothing performative about it. “He barely takes any photos and seems bored the entire time. It’s nice to know someone is actually interested and passionate about what they do.”

Mike opened his mouth to protest—to say something self-deprecating or awkwardly clarify that he wasn’t passionate, he was just filling in—but nothing came out. The compliment hung in the air between them, unexpected and sincere.

His face warmed, not a deep, visible flush, but enough that he could feel the heat gather just under the skin. Not enough for anyone else to notice, maybe, but definitely enough for him to feel like someone might .

He looked down briefly, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of the camera strap. “Thanks,” he smiled, voice a little rougher than usual.

Will didn’t press. He just shifted his weight and looked around the gym, eyes trailing across the emptying space like he was in no rush to leave.

Mike watched him out of the corner of his eye.

He seemed… different now. Off-court Will was nothing like the sharp, commanding presence Mike had seen during the game. On the court, Will had been louder; calling plays, pushing teammates to be their best, driving momentum. Focused. Competitive. Every movement had purpose. Controlled.

But here, in the quiet afterglow of victory, he was softer. Calmer. His gestures were looser, slower. He spoke gently, almost shyly, like every word was chosen more carefully. The contrast was significant, and Mike liked it. A lot.

“I’m Will, by the way.” He offered his hand with a warm smile, casual but open, like it was second nature to be kind to strangers.

Mike mirrored the expression without thinking, reaching out in return. “Mike.”

Their hands met in the space between them, and something about the contact made time shift, just slightly.

Will’s palm was warm, his fingers rough with callouses along the tips, a quiet echo of his time spent in motion, in practice. Mike’s grip faltered for a heartbeat, not from nerves, but from the unexpected awareness of every ridge and line under his touch.

They held the handshake a little longer than necessary. Not awkward. Just... lingering.

Mike’s gaze dropped briefly to their joined hands, his thumb brushing, barely, over the base of Will’s knuckle, as if his skin could memorize the shape before the moment passed. There was something grounding about this version of Will. Something unguarded. Human. Like peeling back the layers of someone who didn’t usually let others see beneath the surface.

Mike didn’t really know how to respond to that, not with words, anyway.

So he just stood there, letting the silence stretch between them, the hum of gym lights above, the distant echo of a door closing behind someone else.

For a filler assignment, this was starting to feel like anything but.

The paper had gone out the next day, a full spread of sharp, striking images: snapshots of movement, blurred limbs mid-leap, focused eyes, outstretched arms. Front and center was the photo of Will; suspended mid-air, body coiled, ready to strike. It captured the exact second before contact, tension in motion. Nancy had praised it more than she usually praised anything. She wasn’t the type to give compliments unless they were deserved.

Apparently, Mike was much better than “the other guy,” as Will had so generously called him.

A week passed. Josh was finally back.

The day of the next match, Josh had slung the camera bag over his shoulder and was halfway out the office door when Mike suddenly said, “Wait!”

Nancy looked up from her notes, startled. Maybe even a little hopeful. “Something wrong?”

Mike hesitated. His gaze dropped to the bag, then flicked back up.  “No, I just…” he trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes found the camera again. “Can I?”

Nancy blinked at him, thrown off. “Take photos?”

He nodded.

“Of the volleyball match?”

He nodded again.

Josh gave a nonchalant shrug like it didn’t matter to him either way. Nancy looked between the two of them, trying and failing to suppress the faintest smile as she reached out and handed the camera to Mike.

“That’s not like you.”

But Mike just took it gently, already adjusting the strap over his shoulder like it belonged there.

As he stepped back into the gymnasium, the familiar echo of his boots on the polished floor filled the empty space. This time, the sun still lingered in the sky, casting long rectangles of light through the high windows. The warmth of it spilled across the court in golden streaks, catching on the waxy shine of the hardwood.

He blinked. The place was nearly empty.

Maybe I was a little too eager, he thought, heat crawling faintly up the back of his neck.

Only one person was inside.

Will.

He sat alone on one of the benches near the far wall, bent slightly at the waist as he tied his shoelaces with quick, practiced fingers. His jersey, blue with sharp maroon and gold stripes, clung gently to his chest and shoulders, the fabric catching on every shift and stretch of muscle. His brown curls were tousled, just messy enough to look good.

Will looked up, his eyes catching the light in a way that made them seem brighter. “Hey, Mike.”

Mike walked towards him, his steps steady, his nerves oddly quiet. Maybe it was the sunlight. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was Will. “Hey, Will. What are you doing?”

Will stood, brushing his hands together before reaching into a worn duffel bag. As he rose, Mike noticed for the first time that Will was actually shorter than him, something he hadn't registered before, probably because of the way Will carried himself. Tall wasn’t always about height.

Will pulled out a pristine volleyball, white with sharp streaks of blue, and gave it a small bounce in his palm. “Just practicing,” he said, tone casual. “Training was cancelled this week, I feel rusty.”

Mike frowned slightly. “But… you’re already really good.”

Will let out a loud, genuine laugh, the sound echoing softly off the gym walls. It was the kind of laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “And how do you think I got really good?”

Mike had no reply. Just silence.

Will grinned, that teasing glint returning to his expression as he spun the ball once on his finger. “From practicing,” he added, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, before jogging backwards toward the center of the court. “Wanna help?”

Mike hesitated, fingers slipping under the strap of his camera bag. His shoulders ached, hours of crouching and angling last week had done a number on his neck. He lowered it to the ground. “I… I don’t really know how to play. I don’t think I’ll be of much help.”

Will turned, the ball tucked under one arm now, his other hand gesturing playfully. “You don’t need to. Just toss the ball.” He shrugged, smile soft and reassuring. “I’ll do the rest.”

Sounded easy enough, so Mike agreed.

He stepped onto the edge of the court, hesitating for a moment before walking to where Will had positioned himself. The space felt bigger now without the crowds and shouting; emptier, but not in a bad way. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was comfortable, filled with the occasional echo of sneakers and the soft rhythm of the ball being bounced.

Will moved to the center of the court, rolling his shoulders back, the sunlight catching in his hair as he bounced lightly on the balls of his feet. His whole body seemed to shift into focus, even now. Controlled, like a coiled spring ready to launch at any second.

Mike picked up the volleyball from where Will had left it, feeling a strange rush of nerves for a task as simple as tossing a ball. He held it for a moment, rolling it in his palms. The surface was smooth and cold, the seams faint beneath his fingers.

“Alright,” Will called out from across the court, squinting slightly into the sunlight. “I’ll go easy on you.”

Mike snorted and rolled his eyes. “Gee, thanks.”

He lifted the ball and tossed it forward with a soft arc. It wasn’t great, more of a wobble than a clean throw, but Will moved fast, arms up, knees bent, and bumped it cleanly into the air before spiking it hard against the floor with a satisfying thud.

“Nice,” Mike said, impressed despite himself.

“Nah, I overrotated,” Will replied, shaking his head and jogging back to his original spot. “Try again.”

Mike didn’t know what that meant but tossed the ball again, a little better this time, and Will caught it with his forearms, adjusted his footing, and executed a clean pass. It soared through the air, landing just short of the far line with near-perfect precision.

And so it went, over and over. Mike tossed, Will moved. Sometimes it was quick footwork and a feint like he was blocking an imaginary opponent. Other times, he leapt into the air, spiking with enough force to make the ball rebound and roll halfway back across the court. He moved effortlessly, every jump and pivot smooth, like he wasn’t even thinking about it.

Mike started to get the hang of the tosses—finding a rhythm, aiming for different spots.

“You’ve got good aim,” Will called out after one clean arc that let him run a mock drill and land flat on his feet.

“This is probably the most athletic thing I’ve done this year,” Mike joked. 

Will laughed, an unguarded, bright laugh that rang through the gym like music.

They kept going. Toss after toss.

Mike tossed it too far once and Will sprinted to catch it, his sneakers squeaking madly as he dove into a slide, barely saving it with the edge of his palm.

“Jesus,” Mike breathed, watching as Will rolled onto his back with a huff, grinning up at the ceiling. “You okay?”

Will flopped back on the floor, arm over his eyes. “Remind me next time not to go full out after a week of no practice.”

Mike grinned, walking over. “You looked pretty impressive, though.”

Will peeked up at him, flushed and breathless. “Fake it till you make it.”

They both cracked up then, laughter bouncing off the high gym walls and lingering in the quiet. The sunlight had shifted lower, streaking golden light across the floor, turning the court into a wash of warmth and fading shadows.

Eventually, Will stood again, brushing himself off, slightly out of breath but smiling. “One more?” 

Mike nodded, tossing the ball once into the air, catching it. “Let’s make it good.”

Will stepped back, braced himself, and Mike launched the ball forward. It spun cleanly through the air, right into Will’s zone, and he moved like a current, fluid and fast, leaping high into the air and slamming the ball down hard, sending it echoing across the court like a thunderclap.

Mike just stood there, blinking. “…Holy shit.”

Will grinned as he landed, spinning slightly from momentum. “That’s the one,” he said between breaths.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The gym was quiet again, and the late sun had dipped just low enough that the windows burned orange. Dust motes danced in the golden haze, hanging in the air like tiny floating stars.

Mike looked at Will, who was still catching his breath, smiling without trying. Hair damp. Face flushed.

And he realized, he was smiling too. He was actually having fun.

Will finally caught his breath, hands braced on his knees, chest rising and falling in steady, controlled rhythm. His curls were damp now, clinging slightly to his forehead, and there was a soft flush to his cheeks that made him look both tired and triumphant. The light from the high gym windows slanted in gold, catching on the sweat at his temple and tracing the edge of his jaw in quiet amber.

Mike tossed the volleyball up with one hand and caught it with the other, the sound of leather against palm echoing faintly in the quiet space. He tilted his head, watching Will with a half-smile tugging at his lips.

“Okay, hotshot,” he said, keeping his tone light, teasing. “Bet you can’t do that again.”

Will straightened slowly, brows raised in mock offense. “Is that a challenge?”

Mike shrugged, trying to look casual, but there was a spark of something sharper in his grin—playfulness, maybe, or anticipation. “If it is, you’re already sweating. Not a great start.”

Will let out a low scoff, stepping forward and swiping the ball from Mike’s hands, their fingers brushing briefly in the handoff. His grin was immediate, the kind that started in his eyes before it reached his mouth. “Alright, fine. But if I land it again, you owe me—”

He paused mid-sentence, tossing the ball lightly from hand to hand as if weighing it—or maybe weighing his options. “Actually… what do I want?”

Mike smirked, folding his arms loosely across his chest. “A framed copy of one of my incredible photos, obviously.”

Will rolled his eyes, but the fondness there was unmistakable. “Please,” he muttered, drawing out the word. “I was going to say… I don’t know. A snack? Or maybe you carry my bag after the match.”

Mike blinked. “That’s it?”

Will shrugged, looking back at him with an easy smile, the ball now tucked against his hip. “I’m easy to impress.”

The words hung in the space between them like a challenge and a confession all at once. Something light, but not empty. The kind of thing that makes you pause, not because you’re confused, but because it makes you feel something.

Mike’s smile softened, and his voice lowered a little. “Good to know.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The gym had quieted again, only the faint hum of fluorescent lights above and the far-off echo of a ball bouncing in another room somewhere down the hall. Dust hung lazily in the beams of sunlight, catching on the slow drift of their shared silence.

Then Will stepped back, spun the ball once in his hands, and turned toward the court, that grin still tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“Get ready to owe me,” he called over his shoulder.

Mike shook his head, but he was still smiling.

He bounced the ball once, twice, and then leapt—another impressive jump, hitting the ball clean over the net. But as he landed, he stumbled slightly, and Mike darted forward on instinct to catch him.

Their laughter overlapped, Mike’s hand reaching out to grab Will’s arm, just to steady him. But he didn’t let go right away.

Will’s hand settled automatically on Mike’s chest, fingers splayed over the fabric like it was instinct, like that was where they were meant to land. His palm was warm, grounding. Mike felt the weight of it through his shirt, right over his heart.

The laughter between them faded, softening into something quieter, something heavier. All the sound around them dulled; no squeak of sneakers, no distant echo of the gym, no hum of overhead lights. Just the hush of their breathing, the steady rise and fall of lungs trying not to race.

They were close. Closer than they’d been all afternoon.

Mike’s hand still curled gently around Will’s arm, not gripping, not forcing, just… there. His thumb brushed the inside of Will’s elbow in a slow, thoughtless pass, like his body had decided for him. He hadn’t even realized he was touching him until he felt the warmth of Will’s skin beneath his fingers.

Will didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. He stayed exactly where he was, one hand on Mike’s chest, the other hanging loose at his side, breathing just slightly faster now. His eyes didn’t dart away like they might before. They held steady, locked on Mike’s, flicking between them like he was looking for something specific, something unspoken. Maybe he already knew what it was.

The golden light pouring in through the high gym windows stretched long and warm across the floor, and it caught at the edges of Will’s curls like it had chosen him on purpose. The soft glow made his skin look like honey, every edge of him outlined in sun. His face was open, unguarded in a way Mike wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before. Not like this.

Mike’s heart beat faster, not from movement, not from the game or the laughter that had come before. But from this . From the silence. From the nearness. From the fact that neither of them had stepped away.

Will’s lips parted slightly, like he might say something, but didn’t. Or couldn’t. And maybe it didn’t matter. Words felt too loud right now.

His eyes dropped for the briefest second, to Will’s mouth, pink from biting his lip earlier, flushed like the rest of him. Then back up again.

Will’s hand tightened slightly on his chest. Just a twitch, barely anything. But it was enough.

The silence stretched long between them, filled with everything they weren’t saying.

Will’s eyes hadn’t moved from Mike’s. And Mike couldn’t look away, even if he tried.

Their breath mingled in the narrow space between them, warm and shallow. Mike could feel the soft exhale of Will’s lungs brushing his cheek, could see the way his lashes trembled slightly with each blink. There was no laughter now. Just heat. Just closeness.

And they didn’t even realize how close they were getting— not really .

It happened gradually, like gravity had shifted, like their bodies were leaning in without permission. Mike’s hand hadn’t moved from Will’s arm, and Will’s fingers were still curled against Mike’s chest, but now their foreheads were nearly touching. Their noses brushed. Just barely. Will’s lips parted again, soft, unsure, and Mike could feel the shape of a breath that wasn’t quite his own.

He wasn’t thinking anymore.

He wasn’t even sure what he was doing.

But it felt inevitable. Like something they’d already started and forgotten to finish.

Will tilted his head a fraction.

Mike leaned just slightly closer.

Their lips were inches apart now. The air between them was still and heavy, the gym impossibly quiet, like it was holding its breath with them.

And then—

BANG!

The gym doors burst open with the clatter of sneakers and a sharp, echoing slap of sound against the floor. “Yo, Byers! We’re starting warm-ups early—”

The voice cut off mid-sentence as a few of Will’s teammates spilled into the gym, laughing, talking, one of them bouncing a volleyball between his hands.

Mike and Will sprang apart like magnets flipped the wrong way.

Mike took a full step back, arm falling limply to his side, pulse slamming in his ears. Will’s hand dropped just as quickly, his eyes wide and startled as he turned toward the noise.

Neither of them said a word.

The gym, now buzzing again with footsteps and shouts and the dull thud of volleyballs, felt too loud. Too bright. Too real.

Mike busied himself immediately, reaching down for his camera bag like it had somehow become the most important object in the world and tugged it back around his shoulder. His fingers fumbled with the strap.

Will ran a hand through his hair, breath still uneven, but now for an entirely different reason. He didn’t look over.

One of the players clapped him on the back as he passed by, none the wiser. “You get in some extra practice?” he asked.

Will laughed, too quickly, too loud. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Mike kept his head down. He didn’t look up again until he heard Will’s voice drift across the court, softer now, saying his name.

And even then, he hesitated.

Because whatever that was —

It had almost been something.

And now it wasn’t.

The café was tucked into the corner of a quiet street just off campus, the kind of place that always smelled like roasted beans and cinnamon no matter the season. Inside, it was dimly lit, cozy—not in a soft, romantic kind of way, but in the mismatched furniture, chalkboard menu, thrift-store lamps kind of way. A vintage fan hummed quietly in one corner, and the windows were fogged with condensation from the sudden change in temperature outside.

Max leaned against the counter while the barista slid a tall paper cup across to her. She grabbed it with her fingerless gloves, muttering a quick “Thanks,” before turning on her heel and walking toward Mike, who was already slumped into a window-side booth.

She moved with her usual casual defiance, shoulders slightly hunched under an oversized red hoodie, jeans ripped at the knees, scuffed black Converse tapping a restless beat against the tile floor. Her copper hair was tied back in a loose braid, little wisps escaping to frame her sharp, freckled face. There was something unreadable in her expression; tired, maybe, or just distracted.

Mike wrapped both hands around his chipped white mug, steam curling up and into the space between them like a silent offering. His coffee was pitch black—no sugar, no milk, just bitter heat and caffeine. Max, by contrast, cradled her cup with both hands like it was the only thing anchoring her in the room. A sticker on the side read Caramel Latte with Oat Milk, and the faint scent of vanilla and espresso drifted across the table.

They sat in silence for a few moments, the low murmur of other students and the occasional hiss from the espresso machine filling the space between them.

Max finally broke it.

“Why have you been so busy lately?” she asked, eyes flicking up over the rim of her cup. Her tone was casual, but there was something pointed underneath. “You’ve cancelled on Lucas, like, twice now.”

She blew on her drink before taking a sip, the sleeves of her hoodie pulled down to her knuckles, hiding cold-bitten fingers. Her eyes, sharp and observant, narrowed slightly as she watched him.

Mike set his mug down with a small clink, brow furrowing as he tried to come up with a version of the truth he was ready to say out loud.

“I’ve just been taking photos for the school paper, that’s all,” Mike said, lifting his mug and taking a careful sip. The coffee was still too hot, but the bitter warmth gave his mouth something to focus on. Something to keep him grounded.

Max raised a skeptical eyebrow over the rim of her cup. “Oh, for what?”

He set the mug back down with a dull clink. “Just the volleyball matches.”

“Isn’t that usually someone else’s job?” she asked, leaning back into her chair with practiced laziness. “You hate sports.”

Mike gave a noncommittal shrug and watched as a bead of condensation slid down the side of her cup. Max had a way of getting right to the point without even trying. “I did notice the photos had improved since last year, though,” she added, eyes flicking toward him with faint amusement.

That made him pause.

He hadn’t really thought about that, about how obvious it might be. That someone could notice. That maybe he’d been a little too eager. A little too focused.

He shifted in his seat, his fingers running along the seam of his mug. “Yeah, well,” he mumbled, “they’re not that bad now. Sports, I mean.”

Max tilted her head. “Really?”

He stared into the dark swirl of his coffee, watching it ripple slightly as he stirred it absentmindedly with a spoon. He didn’t know the rules. He didn’t understand rotations, or scoring, or what the hell a libero was. But the matches didn’t feel boring anymore. Not when Will was on the court. Not when he was watching him move like he belonged there, like he was built for it. Not when he had a camera between them to make it feel safe to look.

Mike cleared his throat, playing casual. “I mean… sure. It’s kind of interesting when you’re actually paying attention.”

Max didn’t say anything right away. She just took another slow sip of her latte, watching him over the edge of her cup like she could see straight through him.

“Especially when you’re paying attention to someone specifically.”

The words landed lightly, but they struck like a spark against dry kindling. Mike froze, cup halfway to his mouth, the bitter steam of his black coffee curling under his nose. The heat didn’t reach his cheeks, though, they were already flushed.

His hand paused mid-air. “Wha—”

Max’s smirk widened like a cat stretching in a sunbeam. She took a slow sip of her cinnamon latte, eyes glinting over the rim of the cup.

“Every article the paper’s posted this season has had Will in it somehow,” she said, voice casual but far too precise. “Action shots. Candids. Even that one of him tying his shoelaces. Very artsy.”

Mike blinked. “That’s not—That’s just—” 

He set the mug down too fast. It hit the saucer with a sharp clink , coffee sloshing dangerously near the edge.

“Why is that weird?” he demanded, the words tumbling out too quickly. “He’s the captain. Obviously he’d be in more photos.”

“Relax, loser.” Max leaned back, her hoodie sleeves shoved up to her elbows, fingers wrapped around the warmth of her drink. “I’m just teasing.”

Mike exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair to hide the pink creeping up the back of his neck.

“Jane told me.”

He blinked. “You know Jane?”

Max shrugged, toying with the cardboard sleeve around her cup. “Not really. She’s in my psych lecture. Always sits in the front. Bright. Talks a lot. She mentioned you were at the game. Said you looked, and I quote, ‘oddly focused’ the entire time.”

Mike’s mouth opened—closed. He tried to find a way to respond without digging himself deeper, but Max didn’t wait.

“She also said you tripped over the bench because you were too busy watching someone serve.”

“I didn’t trip —” Mike grumbled, crossing his arms, eyes darting to the window beside them. “I caught my foot.”

Max snorted into her cup. “Mmhmm. Totally different.”

Outside, the afternoon had shifted into a soft, overcast grey. Rain tapped lightly at the windows, blurring the street view into watercolor shapes. Inside the café, the hum of milk steamers and indie guitar music filled the space. The air smelled of espresso, cinnamon, and wet pavement. Around them, students huddled over laptops or talked quietly in pairs, but Mike barely registered any of it.

He rubbed his thumb anxiously over the seam of his jeans. “It’s not a big deal,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “I’m just… taking photos.”

Max studied him for a long moment, then tilted her head, smile softening just a little, not smug, not teasing. Just knowing.

“It’s okay, you know,” she said, voice quieter now, less performative. “To actually like someone.”

Mike’s eyes lifted to meet hers. There was no sarcasm this time, just that quiet, unshakable honesty Max had always been capable of when it mattered. It made his stomach twist.

He looked down at his coffee again, steam rising gently from the surface.

“…I don’t even think he notices me,” he said finally, voice low.

Max leaned forward, elbows on the table, “I think you’d be surprised.”

It had become a quiet routine between them. Before every match, Mike would show up early with his camera slung lazily over one shoulder—and somehow, Will would already be there. Like he always knew. Like he’d been waiting.

Even on weeks when training hadn’t been cancelled, they still found each other in that soft window of time before the gym filled with noise and movement. When the court was still echoing and half-lit. When it was just them.

Will was already warming up, bouncing the ball lightly against the polished floor with the kind of fluid ease Mike still hadn’t gotten used to watching. Today, the gym light was cool and pale, filtered through high windows with streaks from last night’s rain, casting long soft rectangles across the court. Mike stepped into the space like muscle memory.

“I regret what I said about you having good aim,” Will called out, laughing as Mike’s latest toss hit the bottom of the net and bounced pathetically back near his feet. “That was tragic.”

“It slipped,” Mike lied, but a smile tugged at his mouth. “And this is your practice time, not mine.”

Will grinned, walking toward him with the same steady, unhurried pace that always made Mike forget what he was supposed to be doing. He picked the ball up. “Oh come on, I can help. You’re always tossing like you’re afraid of hurting the ball.”

Mike raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? How exactly?”

Will stopped in front of him, bouncing the ball once between his palms before catching it again. He tilted his head, hair falling slightly into his eyes, and then gestured toward his own body—more specifically, the way he held the ball. One hand cupped gently underneath, the other steady at the side. His stance was grounded but loose, shoulders relaxed, posture confident without being showy.

“Your form,” he said simply, a playful lilt to his voice. “It’s all wrong.”

Mike narrowed his eyes, trying, and failing, not to look at the lines of Will’s arms, which were lightly flexed from holding the ball. Definitely not staring.

“Okay,” Mike said slowly, trying to sound indifferent. He reached forward and took the ball from Will’s hands, fingers brushing in the exchange. “Show me, then.”

Will blinked in mild surprise, then stepped forward, close, closer than necessary, and reached for Mike’s hands. “Alright, hold it like this,” he murmured, voice softer now as he guided Mike’s fingers into place. One hand cupped beneath the ball, the other steady at the side.

Their fingers brushed. Mike’s breath caught in his throat.

Will didn’t pull away.

“Loosen your grip,” he added, not looking up. “You’re tensing too much.”

Mike chuckled under his breath, trying to hide how tightly his heart was beating in his chest. “Maybe that’s because you’re standing so close.”

Will glanced up at that, their faces only inches apart. His smile faltered—just for a second—then returned, softer now. Quieter.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

The gym was silent except for the distant buzz of the overhead lights. Time moved strangely in that moment, stretching, slowing. The volleyball was still between them, balanced on Mike’s palms, and Will’s hands were still there, gently guiding.

Their eyes locked.

And for a heartbeat, maybe two, it felt like something could shift. Like all the almosts and might-bes between them could finally turn into something real.

Then Will blinked, stepping back slightly, clearing his throat.

“Try again,” he said, his voice a little rougher than before.

Mike did. And the ball just barely made it over the net.

But he didn’t care.

Because the look in Will’s eyes when he turned back around wasn’t teasing anymore. It was something else entirely.

Mike held his breath without meaning to. That expression, unspoken, unreadable, but heavy with something, settled in his chest like gravity.

Will didn’t speak. He just stood there for a moment, the volleyball forgotten, his gaze lingering in a way that made the air feel charged. Not in a loud, obvious way, but like the way static crackles in silence, a hum just beneath the skin.

His brown hair was haloed by the soft gold light pouring in through the high gym windows, his shadow stretching long behind him. The space around them had narrowed. Or maybe it only felt that way, like the rest of the gym didn’t exist anymore. Just the two of them, the fading sun, and a quiet that meant more than it should.

Mike opened his mouth to say something, he didn’t know what, but then Will smiled. Small. A little crooked. The kind of smile that didn’t try to be anything other than honest.

“Better,” he said, softly.

Mike’s throat felt dry. He managed a nod.

They kept going after that. Tossing. Moving. Talking. But something had shifted, just slightly, just enough to notice. Their laughter came easier now, but there were longer pauses between it. Glances that lingered. Words that felt heavier than they should.

Not everything had to be said out loud.

Some things, Mike was learning, were better felt first.

It had been a few weeks since that almost-moment in the gym, and somehow, it hadn’t shattered whatever delicate thread that had started to form between them. If anything, it had only grown stronger. They still met before every match. Still practiced. Still laughed.

But today felt different.

The final championship match loomed just an hour away, and the gym, though filled with familiar echoes and golden late afternoon light, felt heavier than usual. Will was already on the court when Mike arrived, the sound of squeaking sneakers and the soft thud of the ball bouncing the only things cutting through the silence.

Mike hovered by the entrance for a second, just watching.

Will was practicing his serves, but he didn’t look like himself. His movements, while technically fine, were stiffer—less fluid. He kept adjusting the hem of his jersey, shaking out his hands like he could rid them of whatever nerves had settled there. His brows were knit in a way they usually weren’t.

Mike finally made his way down to the court, voice softer than usual. “You nervous?”

Will startled slightly at the sound, turning with wide eyes. His expression shifted quickly into something sheepish. “Uh… yeah. A little. We didn’t get this far last year.”

That caught Mike off guard. “Really?” he asked, brows raising. “I mean—your team’s way better than any other team you’ve played.”

Will let out a breathy laugh, the sound half-sigh, half-smile. “We had a couple of… interesting players last season,” he admitted, dribbling the ball idly now. “And I wasn’t captain yet.”

Mike smirked, sensing an opportunity. “Ahhh, so that’s it. New captain, instant success. Makes sense.”

Will froze for a second, blinking, before he spun around on his heel with a flustered huff. “I—You—That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

Mike couldn’t help it, he laughed, the sound echoing lightly off the high walls. There was something weirdly comforting about the sight of Will blushing like that, his ears pink as he turned back toward the net with exaggerated focus.

“Well,” Mike said, quieter now, stepping closer, “I personally did mean it like that.”

Will didn’t reply, but his shoulders tensed slightly. Mike continued, voice softer. “I’ve never really watched volleyball before this year. But… even I can tell they wouldn’t have gotten this far without you.”

Will’s grip tightened slightly on the ball. He ducked his head in an obvious attempt to hide the red spreading across his cheeks. His voice, when it came, was quieter than usual, but honest. “Thanks.”

Mike let the silence stretch between them, not uncomfortable, just… full. The gym lights buzzed faintly overhead. Outside the wide windows, the last of the sun was turning the sky a dusty rose, shadows spilling long across the court.

And for a second, Will looked back over his shoulder, just briefly, but it was enough for Mike to catch the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

As the rest of the players filtered into the gymnasium, Mike instinctively stepped back, giving Will the space he needed. This was Will’s moment to find his rhythm before the storm of the championship match. Mike didn’t want to shatter the fragile bubble of calm hanging in the air.

He raised his camera and moved quietly along the sidelines, weaving through the low murmur of warm-up drills. The familiar sounds—balls bouncing, sneakers squeaking against polished wood, teammates calling out plays—filled the space with nervous energy. Mike framed shots of stretching limbs, focused faces, and tense gestures, capturing the charged atmosphere just before everything exploded into motion.

But even amid the bustle, Mike’s attention kept returning to Will.

Gone was the usual calm that seemed to settle over him like a protective cloak. Instead, Will’s shoulders were tight, his movements sharper and less fluid like they were earlier. His fingers drummed rhythmically against his thigh, betraying a restless energy. His gaze flicked repeatedly toward the entrance, as if bracing for something, or someone, to appear at any moment.

His breath was shallow, uneven, a subtle but unmistakable crack in his otherwise composed exterior.

Mike’s chest tightened with a familiar ache. He recognized that look, the tangled mix of anticipation, fear, and self-doubt he himself had felt before moments that mattered most.

Will caught Mike’s eye and, for a brief second, vulnerability flickered across his face before he masked it with a small, tight smile. Mike wanted to reach out, to say something that might steady the storm inside him. But words felt inadequate, clumsy against the quiet tension.

So instead, Mike simply held his gaze, letting Will know he wasn’t alone.

The buzzer sounded, and Mike raised his camera once more as the game began. The gym erupted; cheers and shouted encouragements bouncing off the walls, the sharp slap of the volleyball slicing through the air, sneakers squeaking in rapid bursts.

Through the viewfinder, Mike followed Will’s movements; usually so graceful and sure, now just a fraction off. His eyes scanned the court with urgency, searching for openings, hesitating for just a moment too long.

The match was tight, the score a razor’s edge. Each point was fiercely contested, the ball zipping unpredictably back and forth. Mike captured the furrow of Will’s brow, the subtle tightening of his jaw, the slight clench of fists after a missed chance.

Will kept pushing, diving and leaping with grit, but the fluid ease Mike was used to was dimmed by something heavier; pressure, doubt, or simply the weight of the moment.

Lowering his camera briefly, Mike studied Will from the sidelines. Sweat shimmered on his forehead; his breath came fast and shallow. 

Eventually, the whistle blew, signaling the much-needed break. Mike lowered his camera and scanned the bustling court, searching for Will amongst the flurry of teammates. His eyes caught sight of him slipping quietly through the double doors that led to the locker room—Will’s usual composed stride now tinged with something heavier, more urgent.

A sudden pang of worry tightened in Mike’s chest, and without thinking, he hurried after him.

Inside, the locker room was cool and dim, a sharp contrast to the roaring energy of the gym. Rows of wooden benches gathered in the center, worn smooth from years of use, along with old, dented lockers lining the walls.

Will moved toward the sinks at the far end, shoulders tense beneath his jersey. He reached up and turned on the cold water, the hiss of the faucet breaking the quiet. The icy stream spilled over his hands before he cupped the water and splashed it onto his face, the sharp chill making his skin flush and eyes blink rapidly.

Mike watched silently from the doorway, the rhythmic drip of water hitting the basin filling the stillness. Will’s fingers trembled slightly as he rubbed his face, as if trying to wash away not just the sweat but the knot of nerves coiling inside him.

For a moment, Will’s gaze met his reflection in the cracked mirror, tired but determined. Then he sighed softly, his breath fogging the glass. 

“Sorry,” Will muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, still damp from the cold water.

Mike stepped closer, his footsteps soft against the tiled floor. He didn’t press for answers, sometimes words weren’t necessary.

“Don’t apologise,” he said gently, his tone steady and warm, like an anchor in the quiet room.

Will hesitated, then looked down, running a hand through his damp curls. “It’s just… my whole life, I’ve felt like I’m not enough. Like I can’t really contribute anything that matters.” He swallowed hard, voice catching. “Or, I don’t know… I’m sorry, I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

Mike’s gaze softened. He reached out, just a small touch on Will’s shoulder, grounding him. “No, I get it.”

Will looked up, his eyes searching Mike’s with a fragile glimmer of hope that seemed to flicker like a candle’s flame in the dim locker room light. The exhaustion and doubt that had clouded his face just moments ago softened, replaced by something raw and unguarded. “Really?” His voice was barely above a whisper, as if afraid that asking might shatter the fragile moment between them.

Mike’s smile was slow and steady, warm and genuine. “Really.” His words hung in the air, steady as a heartbeat, filling the small space around them with something electric, an unspoken promise.

For a breathless moment, the sounds of the bustling gym and distant chatter faded away. All Mike could hear was the steady rhythm of his own heart pounding against his ribs, the faint rustle of their clothes, and the soft catch of Will’s breath. The air felt thick, charged, almost heavy with anticipation.

Then, Will leaned forward. His lips brushed against Mike’s, hesitant at first, feather-light and questioning, as if testing the waters of a secret neither had dared to explore openly.

Mike’s breath hitched, eyes fluttering closed, and time seemed to slow, the world narrowing down to just the warmth of that kiss, the faint scent of sweat and shampoo mingling with the faint musk of the locker room. It was a moment suspended between uncertainty and desire.

But then, almost too soon, Will pulled back abruptly, eyes wide with panic and vulnerability flashing like a warning light. His breath hitched, quick and uneven, and words tumbled out in a frantic rush; apologies spilling like a torrent, “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Mike didn’t wait for another word. His hand shot out, grabbing Will’s arm with a fierce grip, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. The world shrank until all Mike could feel was the heat of Will’s body pressed against his, the sharp thump of their racing hearts syncing. His lips crashed against Will’s again, this time hungry, desperate, demanding.

Will’s back hit the cold locker room wall with a soft thud, and Mike’s hands tangled in his damp curls, fingers threading through strands as if to anchor himself to this moment. Every kiss was an urgent, fierce, raw need breaking through weeks of tension and unspoken longing.

Will’s hands didn’t hesitate either, sliding up Mike’s chest, clutching at his shirt as if afraid to let go, pulling Mike deeper, closer. The air between them pulsed with heat and want, breaths mixing, shaky and shallow, as the world outside faded into silence.

Their mouths moved frantically, as if trying to memorize every inch, every taste, before this fragile moment slipped away. Mike’s thumb traced fire along Will’s jawline, then down his neck, grounding the desperation swirling between them.

Neither cared about control or hesitation anymore, especially as Mike’s mouth left Will’s lips to trail along his jawline, lingering with a slow, burning heat before dipping down to the sensitive curve of his neck. Every soft, deliberate kiss felt like a spark igniting a wildfire beneath their skin, raw and urgent.

Will’s breath hitched, his body stiffening for a moment before melting into Mike’s touch. His back pressed firmly against the cool locker room wall, grounding him as Mike’s hands slid up, fingers tangling in the damp curls at the nape of his neck. The urgency in Mike’s movements spoke of weeks of waiting, of need long pent up, and now unleashed without restraint.

Will’s hands grasped at Mike’s shirt, pulling him impossibly closer, as if trying to erase the space that had stretched between them for so long. Their bodies fit together like pieces of a puzzle finally clicking into place—desperate, messy, and undeniable.

The sharp scent of sweat and faint musk filled the air, mixing with the metallic tang of the locker room. Around them, the distant sounds of footsteps and muffled voices seemed to fade away, swallowed by the heavy, charged silence that hung between their ragged breaths.

Mike’s lips moved back up, capturing Will’s in a fierce, searing kiss, teeth occasionally brushing against soft skin. It was need, hunger, relief all tangled together, a moment of vulnerability and strength that neither wanted to end.

Of course, it had to end. The whistle blew, signaling everyone to return to their positions on the court. They finally pulled apart, gasping for air, foreheads still resting together, eyes wide and shimmering with the heavy weight of what had just passed between them. 

“Hi,” Mike breathed, a grin breaking free across his face like sunlight cutting through a cloudy sky, warm, sudden, impossible to hold back.

Will chuckled softly, the sound low and genuine, like a secret shared between just the two of them. “Hi.”

They held each other’s gaze, the world narrowing until everything else faded away—the distant echoes, the harsh fluorescent lights, the sterile hum of the locker room—all irrelevant compared to this quiet, charged moment.

Then, Will’s eyes snapped wide open, a flash of panic crossing his features. 

“Shit,” He muttered, curses tumbling out as he scrambled back to the present, a mix of embarrassment and urgency painting his face. He gave Mike a quick, apologetic smile before sprinting toward the court.

Mike laughed, the tension breaking as he watched Will’s retreating figure, heart still pounding from the stolen moment. After a brief pause, he followed, not too quickly, to seem casual, but with enough haste to catch up, his camera slung loosely over his shoulder.

This time around, the nervousness that had once weighed Will down seemed to have melted away completely. He moved across the court with a fluidity and confidence that was unmistakably his own; every step sure, every leap precise. His fingers brushed the volleyball with practiced ease, sending it soaring perfectly over the net again and again, each point a testament to hours of dedication and quiet perseverance.

There was a spark in Will’s eyes—a lightness, a joy—that had been absent before. His movements weren’t just skilled; they were graceful, almost effortless, as if the game itself was flowing through him like a familiar rhythm. Mike watched, breath caught in his chest, lens focused but his mind unable to tear away from the boy who had captured more than just the ball in his hands.

Will’s smiles were brighter, genuine and frequent, thrown Mike’s way like small, secret gifts. Each one made Mike’s heart flutter, proof that beneath the sweat and the competition, there was a happiness that transcended the scoreboard. Through the camera’s lens, Mike didn’t just see a captain leading his team to victory; he saw someone unburdened, shining free.

The gym buzzed with energy, but in that moment, all Mike could focus on was Will—the way he moved, the way he played, the way he smiled. And if the school paper’s front cover bore Will’s face plastered in triumphant glory holding a golden trophy, then so what?