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Tsukishima Kei’s eyes followed the volleyball, tracing every toss from Kageyama Tobio and each jump and flick of the wrist from Hinata Shoyo. He timed his moves perfectly, raising his hands to block. The thud of the ball against his palms, the squeak of shoes sliding on the gym floor, the sting of sweat in his eyes—it all merged into a rhythm he didn’t have to think about.
A flicker of satisfaction tugged at the corner of his mouth as he watched the boys’ expressions twist from concentration to frustration. Hinata misjudged a toss, Kageyama’s frustrated shout echoed off the walls, and a small smirk formed—childishly enjoyable, in a way only he would admit to himself.
From the benches, Yachi Hitoka cheered quietly, and he glanced at her just in time to see her turn to talk to Takeda-sensei before scribbling something on her clipboard.
And then… the rain.
A steady thup-thup-thup beat against the gym roof, steady enough to almost fade into the background—until it didn’t. Until the rhythm stumbled, turned into an uneven splatter, and dripped directly onto the court.
Of course.
Because why wouldn’t the roof spring a leak in the middle of practice?
“Alright, everyone, move the equipment before it gets ruined!” Coach Ukai called out, waving toward the dripping spot.
Tsukishima pinched the bridge of his nose and reached for a rolled-up mat, dragging it toward the wall with a grunt.
Perfect, he thought as he rolled his eyes. Nothing like water damage to ruin my Saturday.
Around him, chaos unfolded instantly: teammates stumbling over mats, stray volleyballs rolling across the floor as rain began falling in more spots around the gym. Tanaka Ryuunosuke and Nishinoya Yu hurried to take down the net, while Ennoshita Chikara tried to keep things from completely falling apart.
Tsukishima bent to scoop up a loose volleyball, then another, tucking them both under his arm. He was halfway to the cart when motion snagged at the edge of his vision.
There was Hinata. Naturally.
The orange menace had glued himself to Yachi, orbiting her like some hyperactive planet. She was hugging a box to her chest, navigating carefully through the crowded floor, her steps small but steady. Hinata kept pace beside her, bouncing on his toes as if he couldn’t help it, offering help she clearly hadn’t asked for.
“I’ll take that! No, wait—you shouldn’t carry that, it looks heavy—oh, careful, careful!” His voice was a constant buzz, annoyingly bright.
Yachi shook her head quickly, insisting she was fine, but then—damn it—her lips curved into a small smile. Not the awkward, tight-lipped one she wore when she was overwhelmed. It was a real one—Tsukishima had learned how to distinguish them from her polite ones. This one was quiet, but genuine.
Something clenched in Tsukishima’s chest. The volleyballs slipped in his arms, one thudding onto the floor and rolling crookedly away. He muttered a curse under his breath and bent to grab it, ignoring the way his ears felt hot. He tossed the balls back into the cart harder than necessary, the dull thunk louder than it needed to be.
Tsukishima told himself it was irritating because Hinata was slowing her down. Obviously, that was it.
Not because Hinata could slide so effortlessly into her space, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Not because she smiled at him without hesitation.
And, it was definitely not because Tsukishima had almost walked straight into a stack of chairs while watching them. He jerked back at the last second, teeth clenched, adjusting his glasses like nothing had happened.
No. It wasn’t that.
“Hinata! Kageyama!” Yamaguchi Tadashi’s voice cut through the noise, sharp with just enough authority to make them pause. “Help me with this cart before it tips over!”
Hinata finally stepped away from Yachi and waved Kageyama over. The two idiots scurried away, already bickering about something pointless.
As they left, Yamaguchi’s gaze flicked briefly to Tsukishima. Not long—just a sidelong glance as he tugged the ball cart upright—but it lingered enough for Tsukishima to catch it.
It was that knowing look, the one that said, Don’t think I haven’t noticed where your eyes are.
Tsukishima narrowed his own eyes in return, as if to wordlessly say, Mind your own business.
Yamaguchi only gave a tiny, almost-invisible smirk before turning back to his task.
That left Yachi standing with a couple of boxes at her feet, glancing uncertainly at the highest shelf in the storage corner. She rose onto her tiptoes, box in hand, stretching as far as she could. Predictably, it wasn’t far enough.
Tsukishima sighed, loud enough that she glanced over her shoulder in surprise.
“You’re going to knock yourself out trying like that,” he muttered, striding over.
Without ceremony, he plucked the box from her hands and slid it onto the shelf with ease.
“Oh—thank you,” Yachi said quickly, tucking a strand of blond hair behind her ear.
There was a faint laugh in her voice, like she knew she’d been caught doing something ridiculous. Then, without waiting, she shifted to another box, lifting it herself despite her smaller frame.
Tsukishima stepped forward to help again, and this time, their hands brushed for just a fraction of a second as he steadied the box she was holding. His pulse jumped, though Yachi’s expression didn’t falter; she was focused on the task, placing the box carefully onto the shelf. He felt his fingers linger slightly longer than necessary, aware of the warmth of her hand, but quickly masked it behind a casual adjustment of the box.
“Mm-hmm,” Tsukishima murmured, not looking at her, but he lingered close.
He noticed how her fingers flexed subtly as she balanced each box, how her movements were careful but confident. His chest felt tight with a mix of irritation at himself and… something else he refused to name.
One box turned into two, then three.
Somehow, they fell into a quiet rhythm: he lifted, she steadied, he stacked, she sorted. She occasionally adjusted a box or shifted a stack without asking for help, quietly asserting her presence in the workflow. Each subtle gesture—her hands brushing against his when he moved a box, the way she leaned just slightly closer when adjusting a pile—pulled at him more than he cared to admit.
At first, their exchanges were clipped and practical, but silence with Yachi wasn’t uncomfortable. It was… different. Easier. And for the first time that day, Tsukishima realized he was paying attention not just to the boxes, but to her—every motion, every small laugh, every thoughtful pause.
Out of the corner of his eye, Tsukishima caught sight of Yamaguchi again. His best friend was half-listening to Hinata complain while subtly shifting their task farther down the gym, away from Yachi. It was small, almost unnoticeable—but intentional. Yamaguchi’s glance brushed past him once more, casual and unreadable.
Tsukishima clicked his tongue softly and looked away, pretending the weight of the next box required his full attention. He wasn’t going to dignify it. He didn’t need Yamaguchi meddling, but he didn’t stop helping Yachi, either.
“This gym’s practically ancient,” he remarked after a while, brushing dust off his palms.
His voice came out flatter than he intended, though he wasn’t sure if it was from boredom or the strange comfort of standing here with her.
“It really is.” Yachi nodded, glancing up at the rafters where the rain still pattered through the weak spots. “I guess the leaks make sense.”
“Sense, sure. Convenient? Not so much.”
She giggled softly, the sound almost lost in the storm outside. He didn’t look at her directly, but he heard it. He stored it away.
When Tsukishima bent to retrieve a box that had slipped behind a stack, his fingers slipped slightly on the dust-slicked floor. Without a word, Yachi’s hand shot out and steadied him, fingertips brushing his wrist. It was quick, almost accidental—but deliberate enough to leave a spark of awareness in his chest. He straightened, clearing his throat, refusing to meet her eyes.
“Careful,” she said lightly, stepping back with a small, encouraging smile before turning to adjust another stack. “Wouldn’t want you getting hurt.”
Hinata had taken to racing Kageyama across the gym, trying to see who could reach the storage shelves first. Kageyama’s competitive glare was fully on, but he still tripped over a stray mat. Yachi tried to stifle a laugh, and even Tsukishima felt it—a tug at something he wasn’t ready to name.
“When I was in middle school, we had to clean the storage shed every spring,” she said, still smiling. “My friends always got distracted like that.”
Tsukishima raised an eyebrow, shifting another box into place. “Some people don’t need an excuse to waste time.”
She shook her head. “It’s not always bad. Sometimes little distractions make the work go faster.”
He made a noncommittal sound, but her words lingered in the quiet space between them.
There was a pause, long enough for the noise around them to blur.
Then, almost shyly, she added, “I like rain, though. It reminds me of when I was little—staying inside with my mom. While it poured, I drew pictures, and she taped them onto her notebooks. I always got to choose the washi tape… It felt safe, I guess.”
Tsukishima glanced down at her and nodded slowly. He could’ve let the silence stretch, but instead he found himself saying softly, “That doesn’t sound bad at all.”
Yachi’s smile widened, real this time, reaching her eyes. “It wasn’t. It still isn’t. We don’t do it much anymore—she’s really busy with work. But I’ve seen her keep my art.”
Tsukishima froze, box in hand. He didn’t know why he was speaking, yet the words slipped out before he could stop them. “Akiteru-niisan and I used to play outside when it rained.”
Yachi blinked, surprised.
He set the box down on the shelf, keeping his eyes fixed on it.
“We’d come back soaked, covered in mud. Our mom hated it—used to scold us the second we walked through the door.” His mouth quirked faintly into almost a smile. “We never listened.”
“You?” Yachi’s laugh was bright and incredulous. She scrunched her nose and tilted her head back. “Playing outside in the rain? That’s… really hard to picture.”
Heat crept up the back of his neck. He adjusted his glasses sharply, trying to hide his expression under his usual mask.
“Akiteru-niisan forced me,” he murmured. “Don’t make it sound like I enjoyed it.”
She tilted her head up to look him in the eyes. She was still smiling in that way that made it too easy to keep talking if he wasn’t careful.
Tsukishima cleared his throat and turned back to the box pile. He wasn’t going to explain further. He obviously wasn’t going to admit that sometimes, when the storm was heavy enough, he almost missed it.
Yachi traced the edge of a box lid with her fingertips, eyes thoughtful. He found himself staring longer than he meant to, longer than he would ever admit. He filed away the detail—the softness in her voice, the truth in her expression.
Then Hinata’s voice rang out, half triumphant, half panicked. “Yamaguchi! Look! I’m winning—wait, Kageyama tripped again!”
Yamaguchi groaned in defeat, trying to herd the two idiots back into something resembling productivity.
Tsukishima sighed, low and sharp, like air escaping a cracked valve. The moment dissolved like mist. It was just noise again.
But when he picked up the next box, the thought of Yachi’s quiet laugh, and her words about the rain, lingered—like the storm outside, steady and impossible to ignore.
He wouldn’t say it aloud, not to her, not to anyone.
If Hinata could throw himself into the middle of her orbit without hesitation, then fine—let him. Tsukishima wasn’t built for that kind of blind courage. However, he wasn’t blind, either. Tsukishima noticed the way her laugh softened when she wasn’t nervous, the way her fingertips fidgeted against the cardboard, tracing the edges when she was thinking. He noticed how she made silence feel less suffocating.
And he knew—though he’d rather hide than admit it—that he liked this. He liked helping her stack boxes in an old, leaky gym. He liked hearing her talk about her childhood while the storm rattled outside.
Moments like this weren’t supposed to matter. And yet, even after the rain faded, the memory refused to let go.
He nodded once more, the weight of unspoken acknowledgment between them. The rest of the gym noise fell away: squeaking shoes, thuds of balls, Hinata’s boundless energy—it was all just background to the quiet of this shared moment.
And Tsukishima, who rarely let anyone notice him, realized he hadn’t minded. Not one bit.