Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You clutched the registration form in your hands, its edges already soft from being handled too many times. One of the boys from the volleyball team had passed it to you weeks ago, a casual invitation that somehow stuck. You had filled it out carefully, hesitating only once before writing your name.

Originally, you thought you’d join a cultural club. Something safe. Something expected. But sports had always tugged at you, not as a player, but as someone who wanted to belong to the energy, the rhythm, the heartbeat of a team.

And that’s how your name ended up under Aoba Johsai Boys’ Volleyball Club: Manager.

When the final bell rang, you found yourself walking toward the gymnasium, a mix of nerves and excitement twisting in your chest. The doors opened to the faint echo of sneakers squeaking against polished floors, voices bouncing off high ceilings. You trailed behind Coach Irihata as he led you in, each step heavier than the last.

The team was already assembled. A few familiar faces looked your way—the same ones who had called out to you during recruitment, all easy smiles and playful persistence.

The coach spoke first, introducing you briefly before nodding in your direction.

Your turn.

You stepped forward, forcing a smile even as you felt a dozen curious eyes on you. “I’m [Name], second year,” you began, voice steadier than you expected. “I love volleyball, but I’m not capable enough to be a player. So, I thought I could still be part of the team as your manager.”

For a moment, silence hung in the air. Then, one by one, the corners of their mouths curved into grins. “Manager-chan, huh?” Oikawa Tooru’s voice broke through, playful and honey-smooth. He grinned at you, flashing his trademark charm. “What a relief. With you here, our practices will finally have some order. Right, Iwa-chan?”

“Don’t go dumping all your chaos on her,” Iwaizumi shot back immediately, elbowing his best friend. He gave you a small, genuine smile. “Glad to have you with us. Don’t mind Oikawa—he’s loud, but he works hard.”

“Oi!” Oikawa protested, dramatically clutching his chest.

“Welcome, welcome!” Matsukawa chimed in from the back, waving lazily. Hanamaki leaned on his shoulder, smirking.

“Finally, someone who’ll make sure Oikawa doesn’t hog the mirror before games,” Hanamaki teased.

“Hey!” Oikawa whirled around, indignant. “That’s an important part of my pre-game routine!”

Laughter rippled through the team, the tension breaking. One by one, the boys greeted you, their voices overlapping, teasing, welcoming. The warmth in their energy washed away the last of your nerves.

And just like that, your story with Seijoh began.

Time passed in bursts of practices, tournaments, and late evenings spent in the gym. Wins filled you with pride; losses stung like paper cuts that never fully healed. You grew alongside the team–shouting encouragement from the sidelines, patching up scraped knees, making sure no one overworked themselves.

But nothing stung quite like the end of your second year, when Seijoh once again fell to Shiratorizawa. You watched the third-years bow out with tears in their eyes, the weight of their final loss pressing down on everyone.

And then came the shift. The new leaders of the team were chosen.

Captain Oikawa Tooru. Vice-Captain Iwaizumi Hajime.

The gym buzzed with a new kind of energy that day, half heavy with the past, half burning with determination for the future. You stood at the edge of the court, watching them both: Oikawa with his impossible grin hiding the pressure in his eyes, and Iwaizumi with his steady presence, already grounding the team like he always did.

You didn’t know it then, but everything was about to change.

Chapter Text

APRIL

You arrived at school earlier than usual, your arms full of recruitment printouts for the incoming freshmen. The morning air was crisp, and the cherry blossoms drifted lazily around you as you passed through the school gate. It was a feeling you didn’t think was real that you almost didn’t notice someone watching.

“Oi, you’re here early,” Iwaizumi’s voice called, breaking through your thoughts. He stood by the path with his bag slung over his shoulder, eyebrows raised but lips pulled into the faintest smile.

You held up the stack of papers in your hands. “Manager duties. Someone’s gotta charm the new recruits, right?”

He snorted, falling into step beside you. “More like you’re doing Oikawa’s job for him again. He’s probably still in front of a mirror.”

“Don’t be mean,” you teased, though you couldn’t help but laugh. “At least he’s consistent.”

“Consistently useless, you mean,” Iwaizumi muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

“Don’t let him hear you say that. You’ll be running laps before practice even starts.”

“As if I don’t already.” He reached out without another word, tugging the printouts from your arms as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His fingers brushed yours briefly, warm despite the morning chill.

“You don’t have to—”

“Yeah, yeah. I don’t have to, but I’m going to anyway.” He adjusted the stack under his arm, giving you a pointed look. “What kind of vice-captain would I be if I let you carry all this alone?”

You rolled your eyes, though your smile betrayed you. “A smart one. You’d save your energy for practice.”

“Please. If I can’t handle a few papers, I shouldn’t be on the court.”

By the time you reached the courtyard, Hanamaki and Matsukawa were already in position, waving around their lopsided “Join the Volleyball Club” signs with all the subtlety of a street performance. A small group of girls clustered nearby, whispering to each other while not-so-subtly scanning the crowd.

“Where the hell is Oikawa when you need him?” you muttered, thumbing through your phone. The team group chat lit up with your mentions of his name, unanswered. Your frown deepened. “Figures. Most of these girls are literally just here to see him.”

Iwaizumi leaned over to glance at your screen, scoffing. “Bet he muted the chat. Typical. He’ll probably stroll in late with some dumb excuse.”

You shot him a look. “You’re supposed to back him up, you know. Vice-captain duties.”

“I am backing him up,” he countered, smirking. “By making sure you don’t quit because of his crap.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stuck with me,” he said simply, nudging your shoulder with his as you both approached Hanamaki and Matsukawa.

Hanamaki spotted you first, his grin widening. “Finally! Reinforcements.” He plucked a few flyers from Iwaizumi’s hands and immediately started shoving them at the nearest group of first-years. Matsukawa gave you a mock bow, sign in hand.

“Welcome to the circus,” he said. “Our star attraction’s running late, in case you couldn’t tell.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Don’t remind me. These girls are going to riot if he doesn’t show up soon.”

Almost on cue, a ripple went through the waiting crowd. A few of the girls squealed, and you didn’t even have to look up to know why.

Oikawa Tooru had arrived.

His bag slung casually over one shoulder, hair perfect as ever despite the morning wind, he flashed the group his trademark smile. It was polished, practiced, the kind of smile that had girls lining up to watch games even if they didn’t know the rules. But when his eyes found yours, just for a flicker of a moment, the smile softened, turned into something quieter, more real before he snapped back into his role.

“Sorry for the wait!” Oikawa announced cheerfully, weaving through the crowd with a wave. “Your captain has arrived to personally welcome you all.”

“More like our manager saved your ass again,” Iwaizumi muttered under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear.

You stifled a laugh, giving Iwaizumi a quick elbow to the side. “Behave,” you whispered, though your eyes betrayed your amusement.

Oikawa reached your makeshift booth, giving you a once-over before letting his gaze linger a little too long, hidden behind another charming grin. “Thanks for covering for me,” he said lightly, though his voice carried a warmth that wasn’t there when he greeted anyone else. “You really are our lifesaver.”

Before you could answer, Iwaizumi scoffed. “She’s not your crutch, Shittykawa. Maybe show up on time for once?”

Oikawa pouted, dramatic as always. “Hajime, you wound me.”

“Not yet,” Iwaizumi shot back, earning a round of laughter from Hanamaki and Matsukawa.

You shook your head, caught between exasperation and fondness. This was your team now–your boys, as messy and chaotic as they could be. And standing there with the captain’s bright charm on one side and the vice-captain’s steady presence on the other, you felt a rush of certainty.

Spring had only just begun, and you were right where you belonged.

A week had already passed and registration had ended. You all welcomed the first years joining you this year. A lot of them came from Kitagawa Dai-ichi Middle School, where Oikawa and Iwaizumi once played, so there was an unspoken familiarity between them and the upperclassmen. The team arranged a short welcome meeting that included short introductions, expectations, and of course, Oikawa’s polished speech about Seijoh’s “bright future.”

“Welcome to the strongest team in Miyagi,” Oikawa said brightly, arms stretched wide as if he were addressing an arena instead of a gym full of teenagers. His words earned nervous laughter from the new recruits, and more than a few wide-eyed stares from the girls hanging around the bleachers who had come to watch.

You stood off to the side, scribbling notes on your clipboard of names, jersey sizes, and just quick observations while he carried the room with practiced ease. He caught your eye mid-sentence, just briefly, and flashed a softer smile before slipping back into Captain mode, talking about discipline and teamwork.

Beside him, Iwaizumi clapped a hand on Kunimi’s shoulder, his tone steadier, more grounded. “We’re serious about hard work. Don’t slack, and you’ll fit right in.”

Oikawa shot him a look and added with a grin, “And don’t mind Iwa-chan. He sounds scary, but he’s actually very—ow!” His words cut short as Iwaizumi smacked him in the arm. The freshmen laughed, tension breaking.

You found yourself smiling too. Not just at their antics, but at how natural it all felt—the balance of Oikawa’s shine and Iwaizumi’s steadiness.

When practice started, the gym filled with the familiar rhythm of squeaking shoes and thudding volleyballs. You fell into your responsibilities quickly: checking rotations, timing drills, passing out towels before anyone thought to ask.

“Manager-chan, I think I love you,” Hanamaki groaned dramatically as you tossed him water mid-break.

“Get in line,” Matsukawa quipped, leaning against the wall with a grin.

“Don’t test me, idiots,” Iwaizumi barked, jogging past. His voice softened when his eyes found yours. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Your cheeks warmed at the offhand gratitude, though you quickly masked it with a smirk. “Just doing my job.”

Oikawa slipped up a moment later, sweat glistening on his brow but his smile as bright as ever. “You’re more than that,” he said, tone light but eyes intent on yours. “This team would fall apart without you.”

You laughed it off, shaking your head. “Flattery isn’t going to excuse you from being late to drills.”

“Iwa-chan already yelled at me for that,” Oikawa pouted, but his gaze lingered on you a moment longer before he jogged back to the court.

By the end of practice, the sun dipped low, casting streaks of gold across the gym floor. Most of the team had already packed up and left, but you stayed behind with Iwaizumi, bent over the whiteboard. The smell of dry-erase markers clung to the air as you sketched out possible lineups.

“If Oikawa sets to Kunimi early, it’ll throw off their blockers,” you murmured, drawing arrows across the board.

Iwaizumi leaned in close, squinting at your scribbles. His shoulder brushed yours, warm and solid. “You think that’ll hold against Date Tech?”

“Maybe. It’s risky, but if it works—”

“It’s worth it,” he finished, grinning at you in that straightforward way of his.

Something tugged in your chest. It was something unfamiliar, or maybe something you’d ignored until now. His confidence in you wasn’t showy like Oikawa’s praise, but it was steady, grounding. You felt it linger even as you tucked the marker back in its holder.

When you finally packed up, the gym was nearly silent. Iwaizumi slung his bag over his shoulder, then gave you a look that wasn’t even a question.

“Come on. I’ll walk you home.”

This routine started just a few weeks after Iwaizumi and Oikawa were assigned as the executives of the team, when you two had started to plan strategies together back in your 2nd year. So all of this had been normal for a while now, the two of you falling into step on the quiet streets outside.

The cherry blossoms brushed your shoulders as you laughed about Hanamaki’s failed receive earlier, or Matsukawa’s doodles on the whiteboard. Iwaizumi carried half your things without asking, and though you tried to tease him for it, you didn’t insist he stop.

Your laughter lingered in the spring air, warm and easy. And yet, when you glanced at him, his easy stride, the quiet way he listened, it all felt different than it used to.

You shook the thought away, focusing instead on the petals scattering at your feet. 

You don't notice him, but Oikawa stood at the convenience store across, watching longer than he should’ve, his expression unreadable. When the two of you disappeared from sight, he finally turned away, adjusting the strap of his bag with a too-tight grip.

You safely got home with Iwaizumi’s help since he did live nearby. After changing into your pajamas and eating dinner with your mom, your phone buzzes as you make your way to your bedroom.

Iwaizumi Hajime: You get home safe?

You smiled. He had just been the one to walk you there, but still, he asked.

You: Yeah, thanks to my personal bodyguard.
Iwaizumi Hajime: Damn right. Can’t let our manager get kidnapped.
You: You’d probably miss my water bottles more than me.
Iwaizumi Hajime: Nah. You’re the one keeping this whole circus together.

You sank into your bed, staring at the screen longer than necessary. His words weren’t unusual, he always made sure you knew you were appreciated. But tonight, the warmth of it felt heavier in your chest.

You: Don’t stay up too late practicing, okay?
Iwaizumi Hajime: Look who’s talking. Bet you’re writing in that notebook again.
You: I’m not!
Iwaizumi Hajime: Liar.

You: ...Fine. But only because you all give me too much to write about.
Iwaizumi Hajime: Then do me a favor and write this down: “Vice-Captain says the manager needs to sleep early.”

You laughed softly into the quiet of your room, the sound surprising even yourself.

You: Fine. I’ll listen. Goodnight, Iwaizumi.
Iwaizumi Hajime: Goodnight, [Name]. Sweet dreams.

The phone dimmed, but the glow in your chest didn’t. You hugged your pillow, trying to will your thoughts away from his smile, his voice, the way he always waited for you after practice. Something was changing, and you weren’t sure if you were ready to face it yet.

Practice had gotten heavier than usual. Every drill was sharper, every scrimmage tighter, every lap demanded with more urgency. The team was buzzing with anticipation with word that spread quickly that Karasuno now had Kageyama Tobio, Oikawa’s old junior from Kitagawa Dai-ichi. They were also talking about a weird quick executed by a bunch of first years.

You’d caught bits of conversation from the players during water breaks—Matsukawa joking about “seeing the King in action,” Hanamaki wondering if the rumors of Kageyama’s raw talent were true. A few lines about the Kageyama kid impossibly improving from his attitude from Kunimi and Kindaichi But for Oikawa, there was no joking. He’d gone straight to the coach and requested a practice match, insisting they needed to assess Karasuno’s strength firsthand.

That night, after everyone else had gone home, you found yourself lingering in the gym to finish up inventory. Oikawa sat on the bench nearby, hair still damp from his shower, turning a volleyball slowly in his hands. His usual grin was gone.

“You know Kageyama, right?” he asked suddenly, voice quieter than usual.

You blinked. “I mean, only from what I’ve heard. The genius setter, wasn’t he?”

His laugh was sharp, but humorless. “Genius, sure. He was my junior. Everyone adored him. They called him the next big thing. And me? I was supposed to be the star, but the moment he showed up, it felt like all eyes turned to him.”

You stayed quiet, sensing how heavy the words were. He spun the ball once, then let it rest against his knees. “The worst part? He really is good. Better than me, probably. And I hated him for it. Still do, sometimes.”

Something in your chest tugged. You moved a little closer, sitting on the bench beside him. “Oikawa… maybe he’s good. But you’ve always been more than talent. You work harder than anyone else I’ve ever seen. You’re not just playing volleyball, you’re leading a whole team. That’s something Kageyama doesn’t have, and maybe never will. That’s what makes you irreplaceable.”

For a moment, the gym felt impossibly still. Oikawa looked at you, eyes wide like you’d said something he didn’t dare believe until now. The ball slipped slightly in his hands, his knuckles white as if holding onto it grounded him. A soft smile tugged at his lips, his head dropped and he scoffed lightly, his smile was not the usual dazzling captain’s grin he gave the world, but something smaller, rawer, meant only for you.

But then, almost too quickly, he snapped back into his usual self, tossing the ball lightly in the air with a smirk. “Heh. No wonder Iwa-chan’s been keeping you close. You always know just the right thing to say.”

You rolled your eyes, heat crawling up your neck. “Why are you bringing him up all of a sudden?”

“Because it’s cute watching you flustered.” His grin widened, but his gaze lingered on you just a second too long, a flicker of something bitter in his eyes before he looked away. “Besides… you and Iwa-chan, you’d make a great pair. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

Your heart stumbled, and you busied yourself with the clipboard in your hands. You didn’t know if you wanted to throw a bottle at Oikawa’s head or if that move would give you away so you didn’t answer right away, because the truth was… lately, you had thought about it. And that unsettled you more than his teasing ever could. 

The three of you walked home together that evening, the usual banter between the two boys filling the quiet streets. Normally, their back-and-forth would’ve had you either scolding them for being too loud or laughing until your sides hurt. But this time, you found yourself quieter, your thoughts snagged somewhere else.

Iwaizumi walked on your left, Oikawa on your right, their shoulders occasionally bumping as they argued about who had carried more of practice today. You tried to keep pace with them, but your mind replayed the earlier moment in the gym—Oikawa’s voice when he spoke about his past with Kageyama, how raw it had sounded, how instinctively you had answered him. It had felt important somehow, and yet before you could dwell on it, he’d grinned and thrown Iwaizumi’s name at you again, as if teasing away the weight of the conversation.

Your gaze slid toward Iwaizumi. His grin was bright, unbothered, his laughter carrying over the quiet road. Something inside you tugged tight, that now-familiar flutter that left you restless even as you smiled at him. Maybe you were imagining it. Maybe you were reading too much into every little thing.

You shook your head lightly, trying to focus on their voices instead of your own thoughts.

Because if there was one thing you knew for sure, it was this: your feelings were starting to change, and you weren’t ready to admit it. You didn't want to admit that you love the way Iwaizumi says your name and how his presence affects your mood for the day. Or the way he always seem to know what to say at the right time. Or how you always search for him in every crowd. No, not yet.

Oikawa’s laughter rang sharp and easy beside you, and you joined in just late enough that neither boy noticed your   hesitation.

You safely got home that night as usual, but the routine was slowly shifting. What began as simple “get home safe” reminders from Iwaizumi had turned into longer conversations, the kind you didn’t realize you were waiting for until your phone buzzed at midnight.

Iwaizumi: Don’t forget to stretch your shoulders after carrying all those clipboards today.
You: Are you seriously telling me to do aftercare like I’m the athlete here?
Iwaizumi: Someone has to. Manager or not, you work harder than most of us.

You laughed quietly to yourself, lying on your side as the blue glow of your phone lit up the room. It was such an Iwaizumi thing to say. It’s practical, protective, but with a softness underneath he’d never admit to out loud. Or maybe he was just trying to find something to say just to talk to you.

The texts weren’t flashy or dramatic. Sometimes it was him complaining about Oikawa making him chase stray volleyballs across the gym, or him sending blurry photos of his dinner because his mom “actually made something good tonight.” Other times it was you rambling about a class project or how tired you were, only for him to reply with “Then sleep, dumbass” and then stay up talking with you anyway.

Somewhere along the way, you realized you were waiting for those pings more than you should’ve.

You caught yourself checking your notifications during breaks, smiling down at your phone like a fool. Even the smallest things like a “good luck” before a quiz, a meme he didn’t fully understand but sent because it reminded him of you, they lodged themselves in your chest in ways they never used to.

It was small, quiet, safe.

And maybe that was why your heart always felt lighter when his name lit up your phone, why you scrolled back through your old conversations sometimes just to relive the warmth tucked between the lines.

The air in the gym was different that day. It was tight, buzzing, like everyone was breathing just a little faster. Tomorrow wasn’t just another scrimmage. It was Karasuno. It was Kageyama.

You crouched by the bench, checking water bottles, when you felt someone behind you. Turning, you almost bumped straight into Iwaizumi. He was so close you could see the sheen of sweat on his jaw, the way his hair clung to his forehead.

“Sorry,” he muttered, reaching past you for the spare towel you’d set aside. His arm brushed yours, barely, but enough to make your fingers fumble on the bottle cap.

“You’re jumpy,” he said with a small grin, tilting his head. “Nervous for tomorrow?”

“I should be asking you that,” you shot back, trying to ignore how your heart had lodged itself somewhere in your throat.

Iwaizumi shrugged, but his gaze lingered a moment longer than it should have before he finally stepped back. “Guess we’ll see.”

You barely had time to collect yourself when Oikawa wandered over, grabbing a pet bottle from the stack, smirk firmly in place.

“Manager-chan,” he cooed, “make sure to cheer extra hard for Iwa-chan tomorrow. He only plays his best when you’re watching.”

You froze, nearly spilling the bottle you were holding. “W-What are you talking about?”

From the other side of the court, Iwaizumi’s head snapped up like he’d heard. “Oi, knock it off, Shittykawa!” He hurled a ball across the net with such force Oikawa only laughed harder.

Leaning in, Oikawa lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You can deny it all you want, but it’s kind of obvious, you know.”

Before you could form a comeback, the sharp trill of Coach’s whistle called everyone back. You forced yourself to focus on stacking cones, but your cheeks burned all the way through the rest of practice. And when Iwaizumi wordlessly grabbed the heavier equipment to help you put things away, you couldn’t even meet his eyes.

That night, tucked under your blanket with the lights out, your phone buzzed.

Iwaizumi: Big day tomorrow. Don’t forget to sleep early.
You: You sound like my mom.
Iwaizumi: Someone has to nag you.
You: …are you nervous?
Iwaizumi: A little. But I’m glad you’ll be there.

You stared at the last message, heart hammering harder than it should. After a long pause, you bit your lip and typed back.

You: Then I’ll cheer extra hard for you.

His reply came almost instantly.

Iwaizumi: …You better.

The next day, while waiting for Karasuno to arrive, the gym was a storm. Shoes squeaked, voices overlapped, and the metallic clang of the net posts being secured rattled through the air.

You were taping the edge of a water bottle when Iwaizumi passed by, brushing a hand over the top of your head without a word. The gesture was casual, too casual, but it lingered like static.

Oikawa caught it immediately. “Awww, Manager-chan gets a good luck charm before us? Where’s mine, Iwa-chan?”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes. “Shut it.” But you caught the faintest pink on his ears before he jogged off to warm up.

When Karasuno came in with their jet black uniform, our eyes trailed on Kageyama. He was so different from how Oikawa had described him, so sharp and intense. The tension between him and Oikawa was unmistakable.

But your attention kept being dragged elsewhere.

Iwaizumi’s voice cut through every play. His spikes cracked like thunder, each one making your chest clench tighter. Every time he glanced toward the bench, whether checking a rotation or just catching his breath, you felt pinned in place, like maybe his eyes lingered just a second too long.

At one timeout, while Coach was barking orders, Iwaizumi turned slightly, leaning close enough for you to hear over the din. “You okay?” he asked, like you were the one running the court instead of sitting on the bench.

Your throat went dry. You nodded, managing a quiet, “Yeah.”

“Good.” His mouth twitched, almost a smile, before he turned back.

You tried to will away the warmth blooming in your chest, but a voice beside you startled you. 

“He looks at you a lot,” Kiyoko said softly, her eyes still following the players on court. I turned to her, and she wore the same uniform as Karasuno. I didn’t see her earlier but I figured she was their manager.

It was nice seeing another manager.

You were about to smile, until you realized what she just said. You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

Her lips curved, just barely, in that calm way of hers. “Your team's ace. You haven’t noticed?”

Heat rushed to your face. “He’s just…he’s the vice-captain. He checks on everyone.”

Kiyoko didn’t press. She only hummed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Maybe. But it’s different with you.”

Your gaze darted back to the court, to where Iwaizumi was shouting encouragement as if his voice alone could carry the team forward. You swallowed hard, suddenly unsure if you wanted Kiyoko to be wrong.

Or if you were terrified she might be right.

Everybody seems to be noticing something between you and Iwaizumi, but something in you still can't accept it. 

She ran back to their side of the court, then the whistle blew again, dragging everyone’s attention back to the court. The final rally stretched on and on, palms smacking against the ball in a blur of motion.

As you moved down the sideline to grab another stray towel, you caught Kiyoko’s gaze across the benches. For a moment, in the middle of the chaos, she offered you a small warm, and knowing smile.

You blinked, surprised, before returning the smile with a little wave of the towel. She gave a soft nod, as if to say hang in there.

It lasted barely a second before both of you turned back to your teams, but the quiet camaraderie lingered, tucked between the cheers and the thunder of the game.

The final whistle blew, and the gym’s tension burst like a snapped rubber band. Karasuno’s heads hung low, Kageyama’s especially, while Seijoh roared in celebration. Shoes squeaked across the polished floor, high-fives echoing louder than the cheers from the stands.

Oikawa basked in the win, arms outstretched like a conductor in front of an orchestra, soaking up every ounce of victory. His smile was dazzling, his voice carrying over the noise as he shouted something smug in Karasuno’s direction.

But even in the chaos, you felt Iwaizumi’s gaze snag yours. Not for long, not obvious, just a heartbeat. Long enough that your stomach flipped and you had to pretend to busy yourself with the water bottles in your hands.

The team huddled up, jerseys brushing against you in the crush of bodies, and for a second you swore time slowed. Iwaizumi’s hand brushed against your arm. It’s not a bump, not an accident, but a deliberate slide of his knuckles that lingered one moment too long before he pulled away.

Heat spread across your skin where he touched, grounding you in the storm of noise around you. You looked up, almost on instinct, but he was already turned back toward the others, laughing at something Matsukawa said, like nothing had happened.

And yet, your pulse thudded against your ears, a secret rhythm only you seemed to hear.

The team spilled out of the gym still riding the high of their win, Oikawa strutting at the front while the others trailed behind, joking and replaying plays in loud, animated bursts.

“Victory calls for meat!” Matsukawa declared, slinging an arm around Hanamaki’s shoulders. “Yakiniku, anyone?”

A chorus of agreement went up, and before you could even open your mouth, Oikawa was already looking at you. “Manager-chan, you’re coming too. Non-negotiable.”

That was how you found yourself wedged at a corner booth of a yakiniku place, the smoke of sizzling beef rising between laughter and clattering chopsticks.

Hanamaki reached across the grill, smirking. “Oi, Iwa, don’t burn it this time. Last time you nearly poisoned us.”

“Shut it,” Iwaizumi shot back, but instead of jabbing at him, he slid a freshly cooked slice onto your plate. “Here. Don’t wait too long or it’ll get cold.”

You blinked down at it, warmth curling in your chest. “Th-thanks…”

Matsukawa didn’t miss a beat. “Oho. Special service for the manager, huh?”

Hanamaki chimed in immediately, grinning wickedly. “Careful, Iwaizumi, we’re all watching. You’re not being very subtle.”

Oikawa’s laugh was sharper, a little too quick. “See? I told you she brings out his soft side.” He raised his glass of soda with a sly smile. “To our manager, and to Iwa-chan’s mysterious transformation whenever she’s around.”

The table erupted into laughter, and you felt your ears burn. You ducked your head, fiddling with your chopsticks. “You guys are ridiculous.”

But when you risked a glance at Iwaizumi, he wasn’t laughing. He was just watching you, expression softer than you’d ever seen, like he didn’t care if they teased.

And suddenly, the noise of the restaurant faded, replaced by the sound of your heartbeat hammering in your ears.

The afternoon had quickly faded into a chilly evening. Outside, after waving each other goodbye, we went our separate ways. Hanamaki and Matsukawa headed down the opposite street, tossing in a sing-songy, “Poor Oikawa, having to third-wheel~” before they disappeared around the corner.

You felt your cheeks heat, but Oikawa just laughed a little too loudly. “Idiots,” he muttered, though there was something tight behind his smile.

The plan had been for the three of you—him, Iwaizumi, and you—to walk home together. But a few steps later, Oikawa slowed, patting at his pockets. “Ah, damn. I just remembered, I promised to drop by the convenience store for milk. My mom’ll kill me if I forget again.”

“You could’ve said that earlier,” Iwaizumi pointed out, brows raised.

Oikawa waved a hand, already backing away. “You two go ahead. Don’t wait up.” His eyes flicked between the two of you for just a beat longer than necessary before he turned, striding off down the opposite street with that same too-bright grin.

That left silence between you and Iwaizumi. Not uncomfortable—never that—but heavy with something unnamed.

You adjusted the strap of your bag. “Convenient excuse, huh?”

“Shittykawa’s always like that,” Iwaizumi said, though his voice was softer than usual. He didn’t look annoyed, just… thoughtful.

The two of you fell into step, shoulders brushing now and then. Once could’ve been a coincidence. Twice, maybe. But the third time, you didn’t move away. Neither did he.

Streetlights blinked on overhead, washing everything in pale gold. You slowed near the corner convenience store, not ready to go home yet. “Do you, um… wanna grab a drink or something? Just…so the walk’s not over yet?”

His answer was immediate, no hesitation. “Yeah. I was hoping you’d say that.”

Later, with canned coffees in hand and the night colder around you, the walk stretched longer than necessary. Every time his hand brushed yours, the air thickened, your stomach fluttering. And when he spoke, it wasn’t the loud, commanding vice-captain’s voice—it was low, warm, almost tentative. Like these moments belonged to the two of you alone.

And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t want the night to end.

Because you were tired of pretending, tired of shutting down the idea that maybe, Iwaizumi liked you too. You were finally admitting to yourself that you do like Iwaizumi and the thought of him feeling the same made your heart ache with yearning and fear. Because what if this was all just platonic?

On that starless evening—sitting in the convenience store parking lot, killing time just for the sake of being together, you found yourself watching Iwaizumi. He was leaning back against the bench, gaze tilted up at the blank sky, jaw set in thought.

“Does it bother you when they tease us?” you asked, fidgeting with the pull-tab of your canned coffee.

His eyes slid toward you, unreadable in the dim light. “It’s not the teasing that bothers me,” he said finally. “It’s that they’re annoying about it.”

You pressed your lips together, staring down at the concrete. That wasn’t really the answer you wanted. Or maybe it was, but it was too vague, too slippery. You thought about pressing further, but you didn’t want to risk being brushed off.

He must’ve sensed your hesitation because his voice softened. “But you know those three. They’re always onto something. You just… get used to it with time.”

That only left you more tangled than before. So you hummed, a noncommittal sound, and let it go.

After finishing your drinks, the two of you began the slow walk toward your house. Your mind spun with possible meanings in his words, trying to craft an answer that could pin down how he really felt. But just as you drifted too far into thought—

A hand clamped firmly around your arm, yanking you back. A blaring car horn ripped through the night as headlights streaked past.

“That was close!” Iwaizumi’s voice was sharp, his arm curled protectively around you before you even registered what happened. You blinked, heart hammering, still trying to catch up.

“Rare of you to space out like that, Manager. Are you okay?” His eyes searched your face, every line of him tense with worry.

“I’m okay,” you managed, stepping out of his hold. But it wasn’t just the near-miss that had your chest pounding—it was the feeling of being pulled against him, the solid strength of his arms, the way your heart had nearly burst out of your ribs.

“You should pay more attention to where you’re going,” he scolded gently, his voice lowering, almost fond. Then his hand slid down to your wrist, it was firm but careful, as though to tether you in place. 

His hand didn’t leave your wrist, not even when your neighborhood came into view. The quiet between you wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, humming with something you were almost afraid to name.

When you reached your doorstep, he finally slowed, his fingers loosening but not fully letting go. You looked up at him, the porch light spilling across his face, highlighting the crease of worry in his brow.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, softer this time, like the adrenaline had drained out of him and left only concern.

You swallowed, nodding. “Yeah. Thanks to you.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. His thumb brushed against the inside of your wrist like he didn’t realize he was still touching you. Your heart lurched, your breath caught, and you swore the air shifted between you.

“Iwa—” you started, but the word caught in your throat. You bit your lip, hesitating to release the words clinging stubbornly to your tongue.

He blinked, almost expectant, but then his hand slipped away, retreating into his jacket pocket. “Get some rest. I’m sure you’re exhausted from today.” His voice was steady, but his eyes lingered longer than they should have. You held your breath, as if letting it go would also let the words out. 

I like you, Iwaizumi. The four words lingered like a fever in your chest, haunting every beat of your pulse.

After a moment, you managed a small smile, though your chest ached with everything left unsaid. “Goodnight, Iwaizumi.”

He hesitated, then leaned just slightly closer, close enough that you caught the faint smell of soap and sweat and something distinctly him. “Goodnight,” he murmured, his voice low, before stepping back.

And as you slipped inside, closing the door behind you, your palm still burned with the ghost of his touch.

You let out a loud sigh, replaying the moment in your head. Was it just you who felt that tension, or did he feel it too?

The question trailed you as you trudged to your bedroom.

Exhausted and overwhelmed, you collapsed onto your bed without even changing out of your uniform.

You pulled out your phone, already expecting—hoping for a text from him. 

Because it was already routine.

But with no notification lighting up your screen, disappointment sank deep into your chest.

You fell asleep with his name still weighing heavy on your mind.

Chapter Text

MAY

The thought kept gnawing at you: maybe last night had been the last time you’d be that close with Iwaizumi. Because in the days that followed, something shifted. Not enough to call attention to, not enough for the others to notice, but you felt it in your gut.

Practice had grown heavier, the air between you strained. That evening, as you both tucked stray balls back into the storage cart, you risked breaking the silence. “Aren’t you working yourself a little too much, Iwaizumi?”

He froze for half a second, hands tightening on the rim of the cart, before he shrugged like it was nothing.

“Interhigh’s around the corner. I can’t be caught slacking off.” His voice was flat, clipped. 

And his eyes didn’t meet yours.

You opened your mouth to say something else, but he was already moving, already barking, “First-years, go help the manager.” 

Not our manager. Not your name. Just the manager.

The word landed like a stone in your chest. You told yourself he was just tired, maybe frustrated about practice, but the hollowness lingered.

After changing back into your uniform, you asked a couple of freshmen if Iwaizumi was waiting. You wanted to believe he still would be, that nothing had really changed. But they said he’d already left.

The sting was sharper than you expected. He didn’t always walk you home, but he always told you why he couldn’t. Always.

You clutched your bag strap tighter, pulled out your phone.

You: You went home already?
Iwaizumi: Yeah, something came up.

Your eyes blurred. You typed, deleted.

Why didn’t you tell me?
You okay?
Did I do something?

Delete. Delete. Delete.

Your thumb hovered over the keyboard, then you locked the screen and shoved the phone back into your bag.

“Manager-chan.” A voice from behind startled you, making you swipe quickly at your eyes before turning. Oikawa stood there with Hanamaki and Matsukawa at his shoulder. Their usual grins faltered when they saw your expression.

Oikawa’s voice, usually sing-song, dropped softer. “Were you waiting for someone?”

You forced a smile that didn’t quite hold. “No… was just about to head out.”

Hanamaki and Matsukawa exchanged a glance but didn’t press. They let Oikawa step a little closer, his presence deliberate, like he knew you needed the space filled.

Even if you couldn’t admit it out loud.

You tried to stay present as they coaxed you into a nearby café Hanamaki had been raving about. The warm lights and chatter were a welcome distraction, even if your chest still felt heavy. 

Matsukawa ordered a towering parfait and slid it in front of you with a grin. “On me. You look like you could use it,” he said, casual but kind.

You stirred the whipped cream absently, lost in thought, until you realized all three boys were staring at you, waiting.

“What?” you asked, blinking. “What were you asking me?”

Oikawa leaned back, smile practiced but gentle. “Nothing serious. Just said you were spacing out.”

“You really were,” Matsukawa added with a chuckle, tapping his spoon against his glass.

“That’s because you’re all stressing her out,” Hanamaki cut in, nudging your arm playfully. The corner of your mouth lifted despite yourself.

Then, quieter, almost offhand, Matsukawa muttered, “More like Iwa is.”

Your hand stilled on the spoon. The words landed heavier than he intended, but you didn’t let your face betray it. You just gave a small laugh, shaking your head as if you hadn’t heard.

But you had. And the ache in your chest deepened.

“I’m just tired, guys.” You finally said, though you weren’t sure if you were trying to reassure them or yourself.

After an hour of talking about anything but volleyball, the four of you spilled out into the chilly May evening. Matsukawa and Hanamaki peeled off in their usual direction, still bantering as they disappeared down the street, leaving you and Oikawa behind.

“Come on, I’ll walk you home,” he said casually, adjusting the strap of his bag.

You almost waved him off as you craved the silence, the space to think, but he tilted his head, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

“I won’t let our precious manager wander home alone this late. What kind of captain would I be then?”

You let out a small laugh despite yourself, the corners of your mouth lifting into a weak but grateful smile. “Alright, alright.”

You faintly remember the similar phrase that Iwaizumi told you. 

The two of you walked side by side, the evening air cool against your skin, the sound of traffic in the distance filling the pauses. Oikawa hummed under his breath, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, like he wasn’t in a rush to get anywhere.

Then, without looking at you, he said, “He’s probably just having a bad day.”

Your head whipped toward him. “What?”

He finally turned, his grin sharp but eyes too perceptive. “Don’t tell me he’s not the one you’re thinking about right now. Was I mistaken?” His mock gasp was theatrical, hand flying to his chest.

A startled laugh escaped you. “No… you’re right. He’s just… acting strange, that’s all.”

“Aha, I knew it.” His voice was sing-song as he poked your shoulder. “You were worried about Iwa-chan.”

You swatted his hand away, rolling your eyes, but he only laughed. “Don’t look so guilty. You’re allowed to worry about him, you know.” His tone was light, but the glint in his eyes lingered too long, too carefully.

You ducked your head, suddenly unsure what to say. “It just feels like he’s avoiding me.”

For once, Oikawa didn’t tease. He let the words hang, his smile softening at the edges.

“Iwa-chan can be complicated like that… He bottles things up.” He paused, then shrugged, his voice dropping quieter. “Maybe he’s trying to figure himself out before dragging someone else into it.”

The insight made your chest ache even more. You wondered if Oikawa was talking about Iwaizumi or himself.

The silence stretched again, heavier this time. You caught his profile in the glow of the streetlights: the easy smile, the sharp jawline, but also the weariness he thought he hid so well.

“You care about him a lot, huh?” he asked suddenly, eyes forward.

You froze, not sure how to answer. “…Yeah. I do.”

He chuckled, but it was softer than before, almost resigned. “Figures.” His hands slipped deeper into his pockets. “Iwa-chan’s lucky, you know. Not everyone gets someone who worries about them this much.”

There was a flicker in his voice, something raw beneath the playfulness and it made your throat tighten. You wanted to reach out, to bridge the sudden distance, but before you could, Oikawa was grinning again, his tone bright and teasing.

“Don’t let it get to your head, though, Manager-chan. You’ll make him even more insufferable if he finds out.”

You laughed weakly, but the warmth of his teasing tugged something loose in your chest. Still, the way his grin lingered, just a beat too long, eyes dimmer than they should’ve been, and made you wonder if, beneath it all, Oikawa wasn’t only talking about Iwaizumi at all.

You didn’t know if Oikawa was making things feel better or worse. But you knew—no, you felt it. Behind that charming smile and teasing personality, he was putting on an act for something you couldn’t quite figure out.

“This is close enough,” you said, stopping on your tracks. It was still a block away from your house, but you needed time alone, time to breathe. Oikawa didn’t protest. He just gave you a lazy wave and that same bright smile, as if to cover the weight that lingered between you.

The moment you were alone, your thoughts spiraled back to Iwaizumi. Every word, every shift in his tone today—it all replayed in your head like pieces you couldn’t fit together.

A sudden buzz in your pocket pulled you out of your haze. Your heart lurched as you fumbled for your phone. His name lit up the screen.

Iwaizumi: hope you got home safely.

Your breath caught. Relief, sharp and aching, spread through your chest. He hadn’t walked you home, hadn’t waited for you, hadn’t even looked your way much at practice… but here he was, still reaching out.

Maybe he really had just been tired. Maybe he was just carrying the weight of Interhigh. Maybe you were overthinking everything.

You typed out a dozen different replies

Thanks

you too

are you okay?

Before deleting them all. In the end, you just clutched your phone to your chest, staring at his name until the screen dimmed.

He was still there. 

The next day, practice felt lighter than yesterday. The drills ran smoother, the team’s energy was up, and for a while you almost convinced yourself that maybe you had just imagined the heaviness from before.

Iwaizumi didn’t look your way the way he usually does. There were no subtle check-ins across the court, no casual comments tossed in your direction, but you told yourself he was just focused. He didn’t speak to you once through the whole session, but once, when your eyes accidentally met, he smiled. Small, fleeting, but there.

You clung to that smile like it was proof. Proof that you hadn’t ruined anything. Proof that the thread between you was still intact. Everything was okay. It had to be.

And when practice ended, your heart lifted at the sight of him leaning against the wall outside the clubroom door, bag slung over his shoulder, waiting. He was waiting for you. Just like always.

He was just tired yesterday, you reassured yourself. That’s all.

But as the two of you fell into step together, the fragile hope began to crumble. His stride matched yours, his presence solid beside you—but his words were thin. His replies, when you tried to start a conversation, barely stretched beyond “yeah” or “nope.” The easy banter you were used to was gone, replaced by silence that felt too loud.

Your chest tightened with every step, the silence settling heavier than your schoolbag. You wanted to believe the smile in practice, the way he waited, meant something. But the hollow in his voice told you otherwise.

By the time your house came into view, you were desperate to break the tension. “Don’t overwork yourself too much, ‘kay?” you said softly, forcing a little smile as you turned to him.

He nodded once, polite and distant, before stepping back. “See you tomorrow.”

And just like that, he turned away, the distance between you growing with every step he took. In more ways than one. 

You stood there on your doorstep, heart aching with the weight of unspoken words, wishing his nod had felt more like reassurance instead of a goodbye.

Your gut had been right all along. You only doubted it at first because you thought that maybe, just maybe, denying it could make it untrue. But denial never changed reality.

In about a week, Iwaizumi managed to strip away every ritual that once tethered the two of you together. No more late-night texts that kept you awake with a stupid grin. No more walks home where silence felt safe because it was shared. Whenever you tried to reach him, he always had something else–practice, homework, errands, “busy.” The word became his shield, and you were left outside of it.

He wasn’t entirely withdrawn. He still joked with Matsukawa and Hanamaki or with the first-years, though even those moments seemed dimmer. He still volleyed with Oikawa on court, but their familiar banter was quieter now, strained around the edges. If you noticed all that, surely others did too. But no one else seemed to carry the sting of it the way you did.

The hurt had started small, like a bruise. But with each passing day, it deepened, darkened, and twisted into anger. Not rage, but that quiet, helpless kind of anger that gnaws at you from the inside. And yet, even through that, you still tried to understand him. 

This was him, after all. 

Iwaizumi didn’t unload easily; he carried things until they broke him. You told yourself he must be going through something, that you just had to wait until he came back to you.

So you waited. Patiently, faithfully, like someone standing at a station for a train that may never return. But that patience also felt like betrayal, because every day he didn’t look at you, every moment he walked past without a word, it felt like abandonment. Like you hadn’t done enough to prove you’d stay, no matter what.

Still, you waited. Even as conversations dwindled into silence, even as you felt him slipping through your hands like water, you clung harder. And the harder you held on, the more it hurt.

“Hey, manager-chan.” The sound of Oikawa’s voice tugged you back to the present. You’d almost forgotten he was beside you, walking with you again. He shook a cold can from the vending machine and pressed it into your hand.

“Spacing out again?” His smile was bright but his eyes were sharper than you wanted them to be.

You stared down at the coffee, the chill biting your fingers. “I’m just tired.”

He tilted his head, a soft scoff escaping him. “You’ve been tired for three weeks already.” His tone was teasing, light, but it sank heavy in your chest.

You let out a hollow laugh, not quite convincing even to yourself.

He didn’t speak, but you knew he wanted to say something. He lets it linger in the air and it dies down as you wave him goodbye, still a block away, like the usual. 

As if letting him closer to your house would shatter the routine you had with Iwaizumi. 

Some days after that, you fall into the same routine you and Iwaizumi had, but this time, with Oikawa. 

The usual route, the usual spot to say goodbye.

Until Oikawa didn’t let you wave him off that evening. Instead, when you slowed down at the block where you usually parted ways, he kept walking, glancing back at you with a lopsided grin.

“Come on,” he said, his tone lighter than his expression. “Just follow me.”

You frowned, hesitating. “Where are we going?”

He only shrugged, already leading the way. “You’ll see.”

You followed him, still a bit hesitant, but you couldn’t stop. 

Minutes later, you found yourself at the quiet riverbank just outside town where children usually rode their bikes in the morning but became empty at dawn. The water caught the fading sun in broken ripples, and the air smelled faintly of grass and earth after a long day. You sat side by side on the slope, bags dropped behind you, knees bent against your chest.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The cicadas filled the silence for you, their steady chorus almost mocking in its persistence. You hated how badly you wanted to break first, but you did.

“It feels like I’m being erased,” you say in a voice barely above a whisper, voice trembling. “Like… one day, I was part of his world. Texts, walks home, little routines. And then suddenly, I wasn’t. I can’t tell if he’s pushing me out on purpose or if I was never really important to begin with.”

Oikawa didn’t laugh, didn’t tease. He leaned back on his hands, head tilted toward the sky as if he were holding the weight of your words carefully in his chest.

Finally, he said quietly, “Iwa-chan isn’t good at being weak. He hates letting anyone see him off-balance. So he builds walls. Even with people he doesn’t want to lose.”

Your throat tightened. “And what if… what if he pushes me out for good?”

This time, Oikawa looked at you directly, his usual mask stripped away. His eyes were soft, steady, but you caught the shadow behind them, the kind of sadness he’d never put into words.

“Then let me be here,” he murmured. “If he can’t hold onto you, then at least let me. Even if it’s not the same.”

The ache in your chest deepened. You wanted to protest, to tell him it wasn’t fair, but the words caught on your tongue.

He smiled, small and bittersweet. “You don’t have to carry all of it alone. I can’t fix Iwa-chan, but I can keep you grounded. Even if it’s just walking you home, or sitting here by a river pretending we’re not both tired.”

Something in you broke and healed all at once. You swallowed against the sting in your eyes, whispering, “I don’t want to give up on him.”

“I know,” Oikawa said, and this time his smile softened into something almost fragile. “That’s why he’s lucky it’s you.”

The sun dipped lower, painting the water in burnt gold. You sat there until the sky turned indigo, neither of you needing to say more. And when it was finally time to go, he didn’t insist on walking you all the way home. He just let you go at the block where you usually parted, lifting a hand in farewell.

And you realized, painfully, that Oikawa had always known how to walk just far enough. 

Never closer than Iwaizumi.

It was harder to get used to the same routine when it was with a different person. Oikawa filled in what Iwaizumi had abandoned–walking you home, keeping you company during water breaks, tossing you a sports drink with that easy grin that pretended not to notice how tired your smile was.

Over the next few days, you grew used to him lingering by your side. He knew how to distract you when the silence weighed too much, how to make you laugh when you didn’t want to. Sometimes, when he draped his jacket over your shoulders on late walks, it almost felt natural. Almost.

“Manager-chan,” he teased one afternoon as you sat by the gym doors, face buried in your notebook, “do you ever actually take notes, or are you just doodling hearts around Iwa-chan’s name?”

You jolted upright, glaring. “I do not.”

He peered over your shoulder, smug. “Mm. You cover it fast. Suspicious.”

Rolling your eyes, you snapped the notebook shut and rolled it up, raising it as if you’re about to hit him. “Don’t you have serves to practice?”

He smirked, tossing his hair dramatically. “I’m a natural genius. I don’t need practice. What I need is company.”

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered, though the laugh that escaped you was genuine, the weight in your chest loosening.

On another evening, when the air was warming up, he bought you both canned sodas and tugged you toward the riverbank again. Fireflies flickered faintly in the distance, and the water shimmered with dying daylight, just like the last time you went there. 

“Don’t you have studying to do?” you asked, sipping.

He shrugged, laying on his side atop the grass. “Maybe. But you’ve been studying sadness all month, and I’m staging an intervention.”

The words startled you, and you tried to laugh them off after glaring at him. “Sadness isn’t something you can study.”

“Then why are you such an expert?” His voice was light, but his eyes weren’t. When you looked down, unable to answer, he sighed, leaning on his elbows. “It’s okay, I know what you’re thinking.” He says, assuringly. 

“You can be sad all you want, but don’t get stuck there.” He adds, taking a sip from his soda. I just gave him a smile.

Something in your chest cracked, bittersweet and aching, but all you could do was whisper, “Thank you.”

Most of the time, Oikawa’s distraction works well. But you still catch yourself searching for Iwaizumi’s face after practice, still hoping he’d be waiting for you with that steady presence you missed so much. 

It wasn’t fair to Oikawa, who was trying his best to anchor you, but your heart hadn’t let go.

Iwaizumi noticed. He didn’t say anything, he was trying not to, but you caught the way his gaze lingered when Oikawa leaned close to explain a play, or when you handed Oikawa his water bottle without thinking. His jaw would tighten, his brows drawn just slightly, before he looked away. He never acted on it, and that almost hurt more.

He’s been watching your every move, but he never said anything, he’d just grit his teeth and move on. 

The tension finally snapped over something small. A missed schedule for gym prep. You’d written the wrong time, and the nets weren’t ready when they should’ve been.

“I told you yesterday we needed them by four,” Iwaizumi said, sharper than usual.

You frowned, defensive. “No, you said after class. That’s what I heard.”

“After class, by four!” His voice rose, echoing against the empty gym walls. “How hard is it to listen?”

Heat flared in your chest. “I do listen! You’re the one who’s been vague lately, snapping at everyone and acting like I don’t even exist!”

His shoulders stiffened, and for a moment he looked like you’d slapped him. “That’s not—” He cut himself off, running a hand through his hair, frustration spilling out in a growl. “You’re not paying attention anymore. You’re too busy—”

“Too busy what?” You snapped, your voice shook, though it wasn’t fear. It was anger, hurt, the gnawing ache of being pushed away.

He froze, throat working as if the words were lodged there. His eyes flicked, just for a heartbeat, toward Oikawa, who was setting down a ball cart at the far end of the gym, his presence suddenly too heavy in the room.

“Too busy spacing out,” Iwaizumi finally mutters, the words bitter and flat. He turned his back before you could see the storm in his face. “Forget it.”

The sting of it burned, your fists clenching at your sides. You wanted to scream, to force him to say what he almost admitted that seeing you with Oikawa was eating at him alive, but the wall he threw up between you felt impossible to climb.

As you stood frozen, Oikawa appeared at your side, his hand brushing your arm gently. “Don’t take it to heart,” he murmured, voice low so only you could hear. “He’s just tired.”

But you knew better. And when you looked back at Iwaizumi, barking orders at the rest of the team with more force than necessary, you realized none of you were really talking about volleyball anymore.

And everyone in that gym knew that. 

Tension grew higher with each passing day, as high and unyielding as the walls Iwaizumi had built around himself. His distance was something you could almost measure now, in every clipped word, every avoided glance, every moment he chose to walk ahead instead of with you whenever you were with the other 3rd years. It hurt, and yet you still found yourself watching him, holding your breath whenever he leapt into the air for a spike, as if something in that strength might tether you both again.

During one of Seijoh’s practice matches against a visiting college team, the atmosphere was taut. The gym buzzed with nerves and pride, the weight of Interhigh looming closer. Iwaizumi, as always, carried that pressure on his shoulders, pushing himself harder than anyone else on the court. Each jump was higher, each swing sharper, like he was punishing himself for something you couldn’t name.

Then it happened.

He launched for a spike, the kind of clean, brutal hit that sent the ball slamming into the floor with finality. But when he landed, his foot twisted awkwardly against the polished wood. The thud wasn’t just the ball this time, it was him, stumbling, knees buckling, his hand flying out to steady himself on the court.

“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa’s voice cut through the air, sharp with panic.

The fall knocked the air out of the gym. You didn’t think, you just ran to him. By the time you reached him, Iwaizumi was already trying to stand, gritting his teeth through the pain, refusing help even as his ankle wobbled under him.

“You’re going to make it worse!” you snapped, surprising even yourself with how sharp your voice came out. Without waiting for his protest, you hooked your arm under his and guided him toward the hallway. You heard that he was subbed out immediately with a first year as you exit the gym. He tried to shake you off, but his limp betrayed him.

The nurse’s office smelled faintly of antiseptic and paper. She worked quickly, wrapping a cold compress around his ankle and instructing him to keep weight off it. Then, with a promise to fetch a brace, she slipped out, leaving you alone with him.

The silence was deafening.

You crouched at his side, adjusting the ice pack carefully. His leg tensed under your hand, and a sharp hiss escaped through his clenched teeth.

“Sorry,” you whispered, eyes flicking up, only to find that his gaze was already on you.

The world seemed to narrow.

His breath hitched, chest rising unevenly. The tension spiked, thick enough to choke on.

His hand shot out suddenly, fingers curling around your wrist. It wasn’t harsh, but desperate.

“Look at me,” he muttered, voice rough, almost pleading.

Your breath caught. He tugged gently but firmly, pulling you closer until you were leaning over him, with your faces inches apart. His grip slid from your wrist to your hand, then higher. His fingertips brushing against your arm, your shoulder, as if fighting the urge to touch your face. 

“Iwa—” you started, but your voice faltered when his other hand rose, steadying at your waist.

“I’m fine,” he said, but it wasn’t convincing. His eyes burned, like the pain in his ankle didn’t matter compared to this moment. Compared to you.

It had been so long since you two were alone like this, and it felt like all the time you spent apart didn’t matter in this moment.

You could feel the heat of his breath mingling with yours, fast and uneven. His gaze flicked down, lingering on your lips before darting back up to your eyes. The air between you was molten, both of you frozen at the edge of something you weren’t sure you could take back. 

The way he gazed at you was almost apologetic, yearning but still trying to hold himself back. 

When you leaned in, he did too. Just a fraction. Close enough that the faintest tilt would bridge the space, close enough that you could feel the tremor in his hand against your waist.

And then, the door slammed open.

“Coach said—oh.” Matsukawa froze in the doorway, his voice cutting off mid-sentence. Hanamaki and Oikawa crowded behind him, the three of them blinking as if they’d just stumbled into a scene they weren’t supposed to witness.

You and Iwaizumi jerked apart like you’d both been burned. His hand dropped from your waist so fast it might as well have stung him, and you scrambled back, nearly tripping over the stool in your haste to put space between you. Heat flared up your neck, your chest still tight with the remnants of what almost happened.

Iwaizumi scowled at the floor, jaw tight, like he could erase the moment by sheer force of will. The air thickened, silence stretching until it was suffocating.

“…Uh.” Hanamaki raised his brows, exchanging a glance with Matsukawa. “We’re not interrupting anything, are we?”

“No,” Iwaizumi barked too quickly, the word coming out sharp and unconvincing.

You ducked your head, fingers twisting in your lap. Oikawa, for once, didn’t crack a joke. His gaze lingered between you and Iwaizumi, lips pressed into a thin line before he plastered on that trademark smile. “Relax. We just came to update you. Game ended after you left—barely scraped by, but we pulled through.” His tone was bright, but the weight in his eyes told you he’d seen more than he let on.

The nurse returned then, saving you from the tension. She examined Iwaizumi again and said firmly, “It’s just a mild sprain. But no volleyball for at least a week or two. Rest, or it’ll get worse.”

A week or two.

Iwaizumi’s face twisted, frustration radiating off him like heat. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles pale. For someone who lived and breathed volleyball, the thought of sitting out was torture.

When it was finally time to leave, Oikawa slung one of Iwaizumi’s arms over his shoulders, steadying his vice-captain despite the quiet resistance. You grabbed Iwaizumi’s bag without thinking, hugging it close as the five of you filed out. 

The evening air was cool, but the silence pressed heavy. As usual, Hanamaki and Matsukawa parted ways, reprimanding Iwaizumi and telling him to rest, leaving the three of you to head home. For the first time in so long, you were walking with Iwaizumi again, yet it didn’t feel like the easy rhythm you used to share. He leaned stubbornly into Oikawa’s support, his pride warring with the obvious limp.

“You should let her help,” Oikawa said lightly, adjusting his grip when Iwaizumi winced.

“I don’t need help,” Iwaizumi muttered.

“You’re literally leaning on me right now,” Oikawa shot back with a sigh, though his tone stayed gentle.

You glanced at Iwaizumi, wishing he’d let you in, even just for a moment. But he kept his eyes fixed ahead, jaw set, like admitting weakness in front of you was unthinkable.

So you carried his bag in silence, your heart caught between the boy who wouldn’t let you close and the boy who always made room for you.

After helping Iwaizumi into his room, Oikawa explained the injury to his mom, who fussed over him immediately. You lingered in the doorway for a second, watching Iwaizumi sink into the futon with a frustrated sigh, his eyes closed as if shutting out the world. You wanted him to look at you, to say something, anything. 

But he didn’t.

So you excused yourself.

Outside, the cool evening air hit your skin, and the weight you’d been holding in your chest only seemed to sink deeper. Oikawa closed the door softly behind him, walking down the steps to meet you. His hands were shoved in his pockets, but his expression softened when he glanced your way.

“He’s going to be okay,” he said, tone steady, reassuring. It was the kind of comfort you’d been craving, the words you wished had come from Iwaizumi himself.

Your throat tightened. The question slipped out before you could stop it. “But… are we going to be okay?”

Oikawa paused mid-step, his eyes flicking to yours, searching. For once, the easy grin wasn’t there. He gave a small, helpless shrug, the corners of his mouth tugging into something closer to sadness than a smile.

“Only he can answer that,” he admitted quietly, his voice carrying a weight it usually never held. “And until he does, all we can do is wait.”

The silence stretched between you, filled with everything you didn’t know how to say. Then, with a sigh, Oikawa straightened and started walking ahead, his figure framed by the dim streetlight.

You followed a few steps behind, the distance between you echoing the unanswered space Iwaizumi had left behind.

LATE MAY

The first few days after the accident, Oikawa made it his personal mission to hover over Iwaizumi like an overbearing nurse. He’d sling Iwaizumi’s arm over his shoulder after school, taking most of his weight whether Iwaizumi liked it or not, and drag him along with you by his other side. It was clumsy and uneven, but for a fleeting moment, it felt like the three of you were back in sync.

The walk home became a strange ritual again. Oikawa filled the air with chatter, usually complaining about Coach’s drills, retelling ridiculous rumors from other classes, teasing you both whenever the silence stretched too long. Sometimes you laughed, sometimes you only hummed in response, but Oikawa never seemed to mind. He just wanted to keep things moving.

Iwaizumi, on the other hand, didn’t say much. He answered Oikawa’s jokes with short grunts or a small shake of his head, his usual sharpness dulled by the frustration of being sidelined. To you, he offered little more than a polite nod or a brief comment if you asked how his ankle felt. Casual. Neutral. Almost like nothing had ever happened between you.

But he was always there.

At practice, Iwaizumi sat on the bench or leaned against the wall, his crutches propped nearby. His eyes never left the court, following every play with the same intensity as when he was on it himself. You could feel his gaze sometimes, lingering just a fraction too long before darting away.

And even if you didn’t talk much, his presence was grounding in its own way. It was different from before, quieter, but he was still around, still watching, listening, waiting.

One evening, as the three of you made your slow way home, Oikawa sighed dramatically, shifting Iwaizumi’s weight.

“You know, I think my back is going to break before your ankle heals,” he complained.

“Then stop whining and walk faster,” Iwaizumi muttered, his tone dry.

You snorted, the sound slipping out before you could hold it back. Oikawa gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been mortally wounded. “Unbelievable! She laughs at your insults but not at my best material? Iwa-chan, you’re a bad influence.”

For a brief moment, the three of you almost felt like yourselves again. The ache was still there, unspoken, but the familiarity was enough to carry you through the night.

IWAIZUMI’S POV

The gym smelled the same every day—sweat and Salonpas, faint traces of resin. The squeak of sneakers echoed sharp against the walls, followed by the slap of volleyballs and Oikawa’s voice carrying instructions across the court.

And every day, Iwaizumi sat in the same place. Bench. Left ankle taped, arms folded tight, pretending he was only there to observe. To stay sharp. To keep his head in the game even when his body betrayed him.

But the longer he sat there, the harder it was to ignore the truth.

Because every time his gaze slipped, it didn’t go to the ball. It didn’t go to Oikawa, barking corrections. It went to her.

She was always beside him. Clipboard in hand, jotting down notes, brows furrowed in focus. Sometimes she’d murmur stats under her breath, lips pressed together. He could hear it over the chaos of practice, and every syllable dragged him back to that night in the clinic–her voice closer, softer, when she’d told him to hold still while her hands steadied his leg.

He clenched his fists in his lap. That wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to think about it.

The first few days, he avoided looking her way at all. He thought if he kept his eyes on the court long enough, the memory would stop replaying in his head. But then her pen would roll off the clipboard, clattering against the bench, and he’d flinch like it had landed in his chest. She’d mumble a quick “sorry,” fingers brushing too close when she picked it up. He’d grunt something back.

And then silence.

The silence stretched longer with every practice.

By the third session, he noticed how careful she was being. Not leaning too close. Not meeting his eyes unless she had to. Once, their knees brushed when she shifted on the bench, and she pulled back so fast it almost hurt worse than the contact itself.

It was easier when Oikawa lingered near them. At least then, there was someone filling the air. But when it was just the two of them, when the team was busy on the far side of the court and the clipboard was quiet, the weight of unspoken words pressed down heavier than his taped ankle.

He told himself it was better this way. That maybe the space between them would heal with time. But then she’d laugh, just once, when Oikawa leaned in to crack some joke during a break, and Iwaizumi’s throat went dry. He looked away so fast his neck ached.

It wasn’t Oikawa’s fault. He had every right. But that didn’t make it sting less.

And still, every day, Iwaizumi showed up. Sat on the same bench. Watched the same practice. And stole glances he had no business stealing, his chest aching with something he couldn’t tape, couldn’t ice, couldn’t ignore.

For each day his ankle still hurt, he thought it must’ve been his karma for putting her through so much pain. With everything he’s done to distance himself from her, fate was making a way for him to be closer. 

Over a week and a half already passed, his ankle got better but the feeling in his chest worsened. 

Both of them still insisted on walking home with him. Oikawa still kept close at first, glancing back now and then, like he was worried Iwaizumi might stumble. He didn’t. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

She was there too, walking on his other side. Not too close. Not too far. Just within reach if he needed steadying. He hated how much he noticed that.

Every now and then, he’d catch her glancing at him. Quick, almost cautious, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed. And when their eyes almost met, she looked away, pretending to listen to Oikawa ramble about a new training drill.

He told himself to ignore it. To keep walking, to keep his shoulders squared, to keep this thing between them buried.

But one evening, when Oikawa ran ahead to check a vending machine for drinks, it was just the two of them. 

The sun was dipping low, casting shadows long across the pavement. She slowed her pace to match his.

“You’re walking better,” she said softly, not looking at him.

“Yeah,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the road. “It’s healing.”

Silence stretched again. But not the empty kind from the bench. This one hummed, low and restless. He could feel her presence beside him, steady, patient.

And then, without meaning to, his hand brushed hers. Just a slip of contact, a spark. He froze, ready to pull back. But she didn’t move away this time.

It lasted only a second before Oikawa’s voice came carrying from up ahead, shouting about which drink flavor to pick. The moment snapped, both of them stepping back into the safe distance.

Iwaizumi swallowed hard, his throat dry. He didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. But he felt the warmth lingering in his palm, like proof that something was still there. Something he wasn’t sure he could keep ignoring.

JUNE – DAYS BEFORE INTERHIGH

YOUR POV

Iwaizumi finally made a full recovery, and as soon as he could walk, the faster he was to run away from you and, furthering the distance just as you thought you were finally catching up. 

He didn’t leave early this time. Instead, he stayed later than everyone else, as if trying to catch up with missed practice. He also held Oikawa up with him, tossing and setting him a ball. 

So you were left to walk home alone. 

At first, you told yourself you didn’t mind. But the silence was heavier without his footsteps beside you.

A couple of times, Hanamaki and Matsukawa caught up with you at the gates, grinning like they’d just pulled off a prank.

“Guess it’s our turn to babysit you,” Hanamaki teased, bumping his shoulder lightly against yours.

“More like we don’t trust Oikawa to hog all the attention,” Matsukawa added, his voice dry but his gaze flicking toward Hanamaki like he was in on the joke.

That day, they veered off course, leading you toward the corner convenience store

“Snacks are essential for morale,” Hanamaki declared, grabbing a basket. Matsukawa sighed, already resigned. “You’re going to spend all your allowance in five minutes.”

Hanamaki smirked, tossing in three different kinds of bread. “Good thing I’ve got someone to split with.”

“You mean I’m going to end up paying,” Matsukawa said flatly, but he still added a bottle of iced tea to the pile, shaking his head.

The small things stood out.

How Matsukawa casually plucked a candy bar from Hanamaki’s hand only to slip it back in when he thought no one noticed. The way Hanamaki grinned at him like he did notice, but didn’t say a word. 

You just smiled to yourself at how they seemed so careless about what others would have to say. It made you proud.

And a bit sad. Wishing someone could be like them. 

You slipped in a carton of strawberry milk, and both of them caught it immediately.

“Cute,” Hanamaki sing-songed. “Predictable,” Matsukawa echoed, but his lips twitched like he was suppressing a smile.

Later, the three of you ended up at the children’s park, the plastic bags rustling as you claimed a spot on the swings. The cicadas hummed, streetlights flickering on.

Hanamaki tore open a bag of chips, holding it out toward you first. “Ladies before idiots,” he said with exaggerated gallantry.

“Wow, thanks,” Matsukawa deadpanned, grabbing a handful right after. Hanamaki elbowed him, and Matsukawa let him, not even pretending to be annoyed.

They bickered easily, but you caught the edges of something softer. Matsukawa pulling Hanamaki down by the collar when he tried balancing on the swing’s chains, scolding him under his breath but holding on a second too long. Hanamaki tossing a piece of bread at him just to see him crack half a smile in return.

The three of you laughed until your sides hurt, crumbs and wrappers scattered at your feet. It wasn’t the same as walking with Iwaizumi, or Oikawa but it dulled the ache for a while.

Still, when you tilted your head back to look at the darkening sky, the thought slipped in anyway—if he ever missed you during his own walks home.

INTERHIGH

The night before Interhigh schedules started, nerves buzzed in your stomach almost as badly as if you were the one about to step on the court. You sat with your phone for too long, typing and erasing, before finally sending two separate messages.

To Oikawa, you kept it light, teasing the way you always did:

You: Captain, don’t forget that sleep is more important than hair gel. Good luck tomorrow, you’ve got this. Show them what Seijoh can do. 

His reply came within seconds, full of flair even through text.

Oikawa: Sleep??? Please, I’m strategizing 👑✨ But thank you, Manager-chan, I’ll make sure to win tomorrow just so I can dedicate it to you~ 💕

You couldn’t help rolling your eyes, though your lips curved anyway. He never failed to know how to make things feel easier, lighter.

Then you opened the other chat, the one that made your chest tight. With Iwaizumi, the words came slower, more carefully chosen, less joking. You even contemplated if you should even send him a text in the first place. 

You: Good luck tomorrow. I know how hard you’ve been working, even with your injury, and I believe in you. Play your game, like you always do. I’ll be cheering for you.

For a long time, there was no reply. You stared at the screen, wondering if you’d crossed a line, if maybe you shouldn’t have sent it at all. Then finally, the dots appeared.

“Thanks.”

Just one word. No emoji, no teasing. 

But you stared at it for longer than Oikawa’s whole flamboyant message. Because for Iwaizumi, that was something, maybe everything he could give right now.

You typed and erased a dozen replies before finally setting the phone down and burying your reddened face on your pillows in embarrassment. 

But even still, when you closed your eyes that night, it was his quiet thanks that stayed with you, echoing louder than anything else.

The morning of the first day of Interhigh, you arrive at school early to help prepare. The bus smelled faintly of upholstery and summer sweat, windows cracked to let in the cool morning breeze. The team filled the rows with chatter and laughter, tossing jokes and snacks back and forth, the hum of nerves bubbling beneath it all.

You lingered in the aisle longer than necessary, clutching the small tote of water bottles and energy bars you’d packed for them. Iwaizumi was already slouched by the window at the very back, headphones draped around his neck, eyes fixed on the scenery rolling past outside. Next to him, Oikawa sprawled comfortably, phone in hand, scrolling through playlists.

When his gaze lifted and landed on you, his grin was instant. “Manager-chan! Don’t just stand there. Sit with us.” He patted the narrow space beside him before Iwaizumi could even shift, effectively boxing his vice-captain into the window seat.

Your pulse skipped, but you moved anyway, sliding into the seat so close you brushed against Oikawa’s shoulder. Iwa didn’t look at you, but you could see his reflection in the glass with his jaw tight, eyes focused anywhere but here.

“Perfect timing,” Oikawa said, tugging one of the earbuds free and offering it to you. “You’ll like this one.” His tone was light, teasing, but softer at the edges. You hesitated only a moment before slipping it in, the faint echo of music buzzing between you, a secret shared in the crowded bus.

The road stretched ahead, lined with trees that blurred past the windows. Oikawa leaned in just enough so you could hear him over the engine. “Nervous?”

“More for you guys than me,” you whispered back, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag.

His smile curved, brief but sure. “Then don’t be. We’ve got this.”

The words should’ve settled you, but when you glanced sideways, you caught the way Iwaizumi’s hand clenched around his knee, his jaw twitching ever so slightly before he shifted, gaze pinned on the passing scenery.

You let the music fill the silence, the warmth of Oikawa’s arm brushing yours a steady anchor. But the empty space on the other side of him, where Iwaizumi sat without a word, ached like something you weren’t allowed to reach for.

The first couple of matches passed without much trouble. Seijoh cut through their opponents with clean, efficient plays. You almost lulled yourself into thinking the whole tournament would be like that. Until Karasuno.

Kiyoko caught your eye from across the court before the game started, sending you a small, encouraging smile that you quickly returned. Then the whistle blew, and suddenly, your nails were digging into your knees as the ball went flying back and forth across the net.

Karasuno was nothing like the earlier teams. They were scrappy, unpredictable and every time Hinata and Kageyama connected for a quick, your breath hitched, afraid Seijoh wouldn’t catch it. But Matsukawa and Iwaizumi were there, time and time again, solid as ever. Their blocks slammed down with a force that made the crowd roar, Iwaizumi’s spikes cutting through Karasuno’s defense. You could almost see the fire in his veins every time he shouted to lift the team.

Beside him, Oikawa was dazzling. His serves cracked like whips, impossible to read, and he wore that dangerous grin every time they landed. But there was more than bravado, you knew how much he wanted this win, how badly he needed it. Beating Karasuno wasn’t just about advancing. It was about proving himself, proving he could outplay Kageyama, prove to himself he wasn’t going to be left behind.

From your seat on the sidelines, you saw it all: the way his hands trembled slightly between serves, the faint tightness in his jaw when Karasuno managed to score. And you saw the way Iwaizumi kept steadying him with either a hand on his shoulder, a sharp word to snap him back, the perfect toss to anchor him again. Their partnership was unshakable, even under the pressure.

By the time the final whistle blew, Seijoh had won. The court erupted in cheers, and the boys collapsed into each other’s arms. You jumped to your feet before you even realized it, clapping hard, heart thundering in your chest.

Oikawa spotted you almost immediately. His eyes lit up, brighter than the victory glow already on his face, and before you could blink he jogged over, still sweaty and flushed. “We did it!” he laughed, pulling you into a quick hug before you could react. The scent of sweat and resin filled your nose, and you blinked, stunned but smiling.

“Y-yeah, you did,” you managed, laughing with him. His joy was infectious, spilling into you until your chest felt too light.

From a few steps behind, Iwaizumi lingered, watching. His smile from the victory was still there, but it faltered ever so slightly as his gaze flicked to Oikawa’s hand on your arm. He didn’t say anything, didn’t even come closer. Instead, he gave you the briefest nod, like he couldn’t quite stop himself from acknowledging you, before turning back to his teammates, his jaw tight. You open your mouth to say your congratulations but Iwaizumi was already talking with other teammates. 

The team swept Oikawa away seconds later, but the ghost of that glance, that almost-smile that never fully reached you, lingered in your chest.

After a quick debriefing and congratulations from coach, everyone was visibly exhausted already. Almost everyone had left already but you stayed, perched on the bench with your bag in your lap, watching as Oikawa and Iwaizumi refused to let the night end. The sound of the ball slapping Oikawa’s hands, then Iwa’s palm crashing it down onto the empty court, rang sharp in the hollow space.

“Again,” Oikawa demanded, sweat dripping from his jaw.

“You’re pushing it,” you called, your voice carrying across the polished floor.

“Not enough,” Iwaizumi shot back, catching the rebound and tossing it back to Oikawa. His tone was gruff, heavy with something you couldn’t quite name. “Shiratorizawa’s next. You know what that means.”

The atmosphere shifted. Oikawa’s grin faltered for half a beat before he masked it with steel. He set the ball, and Iwaizumi slammed it down again, the thud echoing through the rafters.

“They crushed us last year,” Oikawa muttered, almost spitting the memory out. “Straight sets. We didn’t even touch them.”

Iwaizumi’s shoulders tensed. “We’ve come a long way since then. You’ve come a long way.”

Oikawa let out a sharp breath, half laugh, half bitterness. “Not far enough. Not if Ushiwaka is still standing in front of us.” His eyes narrowed, sharp with ambition. “I don’t care how many times I’ve been called second-best—I’m not letting him take Nationals from us again.”

You felt the words like a vow, cutting through the empty gym. Nationals. The dream that had haunted them since first year, the one they’d clawed toward through every drill, every failure. And this time, it wasn’t just Nationals on the line—it was their last shot, their last year together as this team.

Iwaizumi straightened, sweat glinting under the gym lights. He looked at Oikawa, solid as ever. “Then we don’t let him. We fight until we break them down. Until there’s nothing left of Shiratorizawa but rubble. You’ve been carrying this team on your back all season, Oikawa. Nationals isn’t his. It’s ours. This is our last chance.”

The words hit you like a current. You saw Oikawa’s jaw unclench, saw the flicker of gratitude in his eyes before he masked it again with bravado. He turned his gaze your way, forcing a grin. “Hear that, Manager-chan? We’re going to Nationals. No matter what.”

You smiled back, though your chest ached with pride and worry. “Then I’ll hold you to it.”

Iwaizumi’s eyes flicked to you at that, brief but burning, before he reached for the ball again. His fingers lingered against the leather, knuckles taut, as if grounding himself.

They fell back into rhythm, set after spike, every hit carrying the weight of last year’s defeat, the hunger for redemption, and the knowledge that this was it. Their last season. Their last chance to make it together.

And you, still on the bench, felt caught between them—the fire of Oikawa’s ambition and the solid strength of Iwaizumi’s resolve, wondering if either of them realized just how much of themselves they were burning to chase the same dream.

The three of you left the gym together, the night air cool against your sweat-damp skin. The streets were quiet, lined with pools of orange from the streetlights.

Oikawa’s voice broke the silence first, still charged with determination. “Nationals… I can see it this time. We’re so close.”

You glanced at him, then at Iwaizumi walking a step behind, hands shoved into his pockets. His expression was unreadable, jaw tight, but you could feel the weight of his thoughts.

“Then all the more reason to rest,” you said firmly, breaking the tension. “You won today. Don’t burn yourselves out before the real fight.”

Oikawa gave you a wry smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”

Iwaizumi only hummed, the sound low, almost reluctant, before his gaze flicked to you for a heartbeat. Subtle, but enough to warm your chest despite the chill.

When you reached the corner where your paths split, you turned to both of them. “Goodnight. And seriously—sleep. Tomorrow, you can keep chasing Nationals. Tonight, just breathe.”

Oikawa waved with that familiar grin, already striding ahead. Iwaizumi lingered just half a step longer, as if wanting to say something but swallowing it back. Then he nodded once and followed after Oikawa, leaving you with the ache of everything unspoken. 

Unanswered questions still lingered in your head despite the weeks of Iwaizumi trying to establish a wall between you two. It still felt heavy as the days when he wouldn’t even acknowledge your presence. 

But you have to swallow all of that for now, because Nationals were important to you as it is to them. 

Maybe if the team wins, Iwaizumi will finally look at you again. 

The next morning, the bus ride was quieter than yesterday. No headphones offered, no teasing chatter. Just the heavy silence of a team staring down their greatest wall. 

When we arrived at the Sendai City Gymnasium, a handful of girls wearing our uniform and some from other schools had gathered near the steps, waving bags and small charms as soon as Oikawa appeared. He slipped into his polite smile, his hands quickly filling with trinkets.

You stood a little off to the side, bag of first aid kit in hand. For once, it wasn’t you who needed to hover near him.

“Oikawa-san! Good luck today!” A girl called out, handing over her paper bag.

“Captain, we made these for you!” Another girl says.

“Oikawa’s popular with girls as usual.” Matsukawa muttered while shaking his head as he walked past the entrance of the gymnasium with Hanamaki and the rest of the team. 

Iwaizumi lingered nearby as I waited for Oikawa, his arms crossed. The two of you stood in the same space, but it didn’t feel the way it used to.

“You sleep okay?” you asked quietly, more to bridge the silence than anything.

He glanced at you, surprised, before giving a short nod. “Yeah. You?”

You nodded back, gripping the bag tighter in your hands. “Yeah.”

The exchange died too quickly, awkward in its simplicity. You used to trade whole conversations on these mornings, teasing him about his messy hair or reminding him not to skip breakfast. Now it was just… fragments.

From across the way, Oikawa was still hemmed in by his fangirls. Iwaizumi exhaled through his nose, then shifted on his feet.

“I’ll… go get him,” he muttered, already moving before you could answer. I watched as he walked over to Oikawa, with a precise throw, he managed to hit him in the back of his head. 

And just like that, you were alone again, the space he left behind colder than the morning air.

The game with Shiratorizawa was nothing like Karasuno’s. Where Karasuno had been fast, messy, unpredictable, Shiratorizawa was brutal and unyielding. Ushijima’s spikes cracked through Seijoh’s defense like thunder splitting stone. Each rally dragged longer, each serve demanded more precision than the last.

Oikawa’s tosses grew sharper, more desperate, sweat plastering his bangs to his forehead. Iwaizumi answered each set with every ounce of power he had, shoulders straining, voice hoarse from calling.

You gripped the edge of your seat until your knuckles whitened, breath caught every time the ball slammed against the floor. You could see the strain in Oikawa’s forced smile, the way Iwaizumi’s back curled just slightly heavier after every failed block.

Still, they fought. Every point won was torn from Shiratorizawa’s grip, every cheer from the Seijoh bench carrying the weight of belief. But in the end, when the whistle blew, the scoreboard glared with finality.

Shiratorizawa advanced. Seijoh had fallen short.

The roar of victory wasn’t theirs this time.

And from where you stood, you could see Oikawa’s shoulders stiffen against the loss, his head bowed for only a heartbeat before he forced it up again. Iwaizumi’s fists were clenched, jaw tight, his chest rising and falling too fast.

Your chest ached with the sight of them–your captain and your ace–standing tall in defeat, but carrying a weight that words couldn’t soothe. You felt tears sting the back of your eyes as you helped the team pack up. The air still felt so stiff, full of frustrations. 

The bus was quieter than it had ever been. Even Hanamaki and Matsukawa didn’t bother filling the air with jokes; they sat slumped against the windows, headphones in, staring blankly at the darkening Miyagi skyline.

You sat near the front, clipboard resting uselessly on your lap. The numbers you had scribbled earlier–the scores, the rotations, Shiratorizawa’s monstrous plays, they all blurred into meaninglessness now. 

None of it mattered anymore.

Oikawa was a few rows back, pressed into the window seat, his head tilted like he was trying to find answers in the passing streetlights. He hadn’t said much since the final whistle. His hands were still red from the ball, knuckles scraped raw, but he hadn’t even let the you clean them.

And Iwaizumi? He was at the very back, arms folded, eyes locked on the floor. His leg bounced restlessly. Every so often, you felt his gaze flicker up toward the aisle, toward you, but it never stayed.

The silence weighed heavier than the loss itself.

Back at Seijoh, the team gathered in the empty gym. The echo of sneakers on the polished floor was muted, like even the court itself felt the sting of defeat.

Coach said what he needed to. He praised the team's effort, acknowledgment of the loss, reminders to reflect and recover. His words skimmed the surface, because the real weight sat in every player’s chest.

Finally, Oikawa stood, his voice steadier than his eyes. “This was our last chance, as this team. Our last chance to defeat Shir–” He paused, swallowing before he looks at everyone and says, “To make it nationals together. This team.” He gripped the ball in his hands, the leather creaking under the pressure. For a moment, his mask slipped, just enough to see the devastation underneath.

But then he forced a smile, too sharp, too bright. “We still have Spring High. We’ll get back on our feet, we’ll be better, and we’ll make it. I swear we will.”

The words landed heavy, half-comfort, half-desperation. 

But they gave the team something to cling to. Heads lifted, even if shoulders still slumped.

You glanced toward Iwaizumi. His jaw was set, his fists tight on his knees, but his eyes flickered with hope, determination, and anger all at once. You wanted to reach for him, to ease that storm in his chest, but he stayed angled just out of reach.

And you stayed silent.

Because the distance between you wasn’t measured in steps.

It was in everything you weren’t saying.

You weren’t supposed to be here because practice had been cancelled for the week to let everyone get a much deserved rest, but instinct had led your feet to the familiar doors anyway.

You almost turned back when you remembered, scoffing at yourself, but the sound stopped you.

A sharp thwack. The ball hitting the hardwood, too hard, too angry.

Peeking through the door, you caught sight of Iwaizumi alone on the court, his shoulders heaving, face set in a grimace. He tossed the ball again and again, muttering words you couldn’t hear. He didn’t need subtitles because you know it was his frustration bleeding into every movement, every bitter line on his face.

You hesitated for a while, gripping the door as you contemplated whether to approach him or not, but you swallowed the fear in your throat.  You knew he hadn’t wanted you close lately. But the weight in your chest told you if you didn’t step in now, you might never get another chance. You weren’t going to let this chance slip away anymore.

“You do realize there’s no practice today, right?” you called, slipping inside. His shoulders jolted, probably shocked that there was someone else inside the gym or surprised because it was you.

“Are you?” he shot back, his voice harsher than he probably intended.

You rolled your eyes, forcing a smile even though your stomach twisted. “Come on, Vice-Captain. Don’t overwork yourself.”

“I’m not,” he muttered, turning away. His tone was flat, but the disappointment laced in his voice was unmistakable. Yesterday’s loss clung to him like a second skin. The words caught up your throat as you watched him turn his back on you to avoid showing his reaction.

“Let’s go home.” You say, the words slow and deliberate. 

His back was still to you, shoulders rigid. He didn’t move right away, and the silence stretched heavy between you. 

“I can’t just go home after losing like that.” He hissed. You could almost hear the arguments in his head. His pride telling him to stay, and the ache begging him to leave.

A beat. Then a sigh. 

Finally, he bent to scoop up the ball and set it aside. “Fine,” he said, but the word lacked any fight. 

Relief and nerves twisted together inside you as you fell into step behind him, the gym door creaking shut on the dim court. 

The sky was heavy with storm clouds, the kind that promised rain. Heavy rain. 

You suddenly remember your mother telling you to bring your umbrella this morning, a warning you had ignored. 

Now the air was thick with that pre-storm taste, metallic and restless. You didn’t say it aloud, but you hoped the storm would finally break. Not just in the sky, but between you and him.

You fell into step beside him on the warm concrete, the silence pressing against your ribs. Each time your shoulders brushed it felt like a live wire, your heart hammering louder than your footsteps. His hands were stuffed deep in his pockets, gaze fixed on the ground as though staring hard enough would make the tension disappear.

Fury bubbled beneath your skin. Why agree to walk you home if he was just going to ignore you? The air was warm, heavy with words unsaid.

The air was warm and tasted of something unsaid, words that hung in the air that never got to leave both your mouths. 

Thunder cracked overhead. Then a fat droplet hit your cheek. And another. Within seconds, the sky opened up.

You quickened your pace, arms crossed as rain soaked your uniform. Behind you, his voice cut through the downpour. “Wait—”

You ignored him.

He catches up to you, extending a hand so the umbrella was shielding both of you from the rain. Your eyebrow just furrowed when you caught his eye. You shot him a glare before pushing him off and took bigger strides away from him. 

Your eyesight blurred with the raindrops clinging to your lashes.

“Hey, you’re gonna get sick.” Iwaizumi calls out, trying to catch up to you. You stop on your tracks to turn and look at him. 

“Oh, it’s nice to hear that you still care.” You say sharply, your breath shook as he finally got nearer. He extended his arm, offering the umbrella again, his head low.

“I didn’t know you still cared about me. Because for the past few weeks, you treated me like I was a stranger.” 

You finally snapped, lips shaking as you finally let the words out from being buried deep in your chest. His arm faltered, the umbrella tilting. You swatted his hand away and it clattered to the street. “I don’t get you. You make this routine with me and then you leave. You—” your voice cracked, finger trembling as you pointed weakly at his chest “—Led me to believe that maybe, maybe, I was special to you. Because you were to me.” 

“You still are.” You admit, “But you went ahead and abandoned me like you didn’t need me anymore. So why are you acting like you care now?” Your voice shook, begging for answers. 

Iwaizumi locked eyes with you, he bit his lower lip as if saying something hurt him. You didn’t want to discredit Oikawa and the support he gave you when Iwaizumi was pushing you away, but you couldn’t help but think that you’ll always choose to be with Iwaizumi despite everything he’s put you through.

“You left me all alone. You didn’t even give me a chance to know the truth. I wanted to be with you, Iwaizumi.” Your voice cracks. Rain pounded harder, soaking you both. He stood rooted, jaw tight, water dripping from his hair into his eyes. You wanted to leave before you completely broke, but then his hand shot out, firm on your arm, spinning you back toward him.

He cupped your face in both hands, palms warm even under the cold rain. His hand tightened against your cheek, rain streaming between his fingers. His voice broke as it rushed out of him, raw and unfiltered.

“I care about you. Too much. And that’s the whole damn problem.”

His chest heaved. “I kept pushing you away because…because it’s not just about me. You’re part of this team, this whole stupid family we built. If I crossed that line, if I let myself want you out loud, I’d mess it all up. The balance, the trust, everything. Oikawa, Makki, Mattsun–they’d see it. And I couldn’t risk that.”

You tried to speak, but he pressed on, the words tumbling faster now.

“And volleyball…this is it for me. My last year, my last shot. Being the ace means I don’t get to fall apart. I told myself I had to give everything to the court. No distractions. Not even you. Especially not you.” His voice cracked around the words.

Rain plastered his hair to his forehead, his eyes burning into yours. “And then there’s Oikawa. He shines, he always has. People follow him. People… follow you. And me? I’m just the steady one. The safe choice. I thought–hell, I still think–you’ll realize someday I’m not enough. Not compared to him. And I couldn’t survive that.”

Your heart clenched, but he wasn’t done.

“And graduation’s around the corner. Everything’s ending. You’ll go your way, I’ll go mine, and maybe none of this will matter in a year. I thought letting you go now would hurt less than losing you later.” His voice dropped to a whisper, his thumb brushing your rain-slick cheek. “But it doesn’t. It hurts like hell.”

“I thought I was protecting you. But it wasn’t worth it. Because I couldn’t get to see your face and how you smile when you look at me or the sound of your voice when you laugh at my jokes. I miss every single inch of you.” 

Finally, he let the silence stretch, the storm roaring around you both. His shoulders sagged as he whispered the truth he’d buried for months:

“I like you, goddammit. I’ve been drowning in it since the first time I asked to walk you home. And I don’t want to protect myself anymore. I just want you. I want all of it–your joys, your pain, whatever the world brings to me as long as I get to have you.” He says. “It aches to see you with someone else, I’ve learned that the hard way.” He swallowed hard. “I’m scared of losing everything. But I’m more scared of losing you.”

Then he closed the distance, his mouth crashing onto yours, warm and desperate against the cold rain. Every movement of his lips spoke the longing he hadn’t dared say until now. 

The kiss wasn’t careful or calculated, it was hungry with months of silence and avoidance igniting all at once. It was full of aching, full of every reason he thought he shouldn’t, and every reason he couldn’t stop. You clutched at his jacket like you’d drown if you let go. 

Rain still poured down around you, soaking through your clothes, cold against your skin, but he was warm, so unbearably warm. 

His hands cupped your face, slid into your hair, tangling there like he was afraid you’d slip away again. You felt the tremor in his fingers, the ache in the way he pulled you closer, chest to chest, as if the space between you had been starving him all this time.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, your own hands sliding up to fist in the fabric of his shirt, dragging him nearer. Every brush of his mouth against yours told you what words never could. All of the longing, the frustration, the relief of finally breaking through. His breath mingled with yours, heavy and uneven, each gasp more frantic than the last.

When he finally tore himself back, it was only for air. His forehead rested against yours, both of you panting, water dripping from your lashes. His thumb stroked your jaw once more, softer this time, like he couldn’t reconcile the violence of the kiss with the tenderness of the feeling behind it.

“I…” he breathed, voice wrecked, “I can’t let you walk home like this. My place is closer. Just…come with me until the rain stops.”

His voice was steadier now, but his eyes betrayed him. It was still stormy, still burning.

You swallowed, chest heaving, every nerve alight from his touch. The rain hammered on, merciless, but you couldn’t find it in you to care anymore.

You nodded, barely able to find your voice. “Okay.” 

He picked his umbrella up from the concrete, you just let out a chuckle. “We’re already soaking wet, let’s just run.” You say as you pull him by his bag. He just closed the umbrella before he just smiled at you before slipping his hand to yours, his touch didn’t feel tentative this time, it felt sure. With that, he led you through the downpour, toward the warm glow of home.

His hands held yours tightly but gently as you ran through the downpour, shoes slapping against the wet pavement. By the time you reached his house, both of you were drenched to the bone, hair plastered against your faces, clothes clinging uncomfortably.

“Nobody’s home yet, so make yourself at home,” he said, already hurrying off to grab towels. His voice was rough, but his movements were quick, careful, making sure you weren’t dripping too much on the floor,still undeniably Iwaizumi.

You followed him into his room, trying not to shiver as the cold air hit your soaked skin. He came back with two towels, thrusting one into your hands before roughly scrubbing at his own hair.

“Here,” you murmured, stepping closer. Without thinking, you reached up and took the towel from him, working it through his damp hair yourself. His shoulders stiffened at first, but then he let out a quiet breath, eyes slipping shut as you gently dried him. The intimacy of it, something so simple, made your chest ache. Like you’re finally allowed to be this close to him. 

When you pulled back, his hair sticking up in every direction, he cracked the faintest smile. The small distance between you made you both chuckle to yourselves after becoming aware of it. You turn away, trying to dry your own hair. 

“You look ridiculous,” you teased, grinning despite yourself.

“Tch. Like you’re any better right now.” he shot back, though his voice was softer, almost fond. His gaze lingered on you for a second too long before he cleared his throat and turned away, rummaging through his dresser, his cheeks slightly tinted pink.

It was only then you glanced down, realizing with a jolt that your soaked shirt had turned nearly translucent, your lacy pink bra visible beneath. Heat flushed your face as you crossed your arms over your chest, shifting awkwardly until he finally pulled out a spare set of clothes.

“Here,” he said, tossing you a neatly folded t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. “They’ll be a bit big, but… better than catching a cold.”

You held the clothes in your hands, the fabric warm from his drawer, and felt a strange flutter in your stomach. “Thanks,” you whispered, suddenly shy.

He nodded quickly, scratching the back of his neck. “I’ll wait outside while you change.”

Minutes later, when you stepped back into the room wearing his clothes, the shirt hanging loose on you, his eyes flicked up instinctively. He looked away almost immediately, jaw tight, ears tinged red.

“You, uh… they fit okay?” he asked, his voice a little rougher than usual.

“They’re comfortable,” you said softly, tugging at the hem. And for the first time in a long time, the silence between you didn’t feel suffocating. Instead, it felt charged, alive, like something fragile and new was blooming in the air.

He grabbed his own towel again, pretending to busy himself, but you caught the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. Without a word, he led you downstairs to the kitchen to get you some plastic bags for your wet clothes.

“You know it’s not true, what you said,” You started, squeezing your uniform dry over the sink. Iwaizumi just looks at you, waiting for you to continue. 

“You’re more than enough. And I’d choose you over anyone, anything.” You say, feeling your cheeks burn up. “I just wish you’d let me be here for you. I was ready for anything you bring.” You added, focusing your eyes on the sink but feeling around for whatever he was doing. He leans on the counter, still gripping onto his towel. 

“I know.” He paused, his voice low, like the words were heavy on his tongue. “I know how much you believe in me. And it kills me that I can’t accept that faith. Because I can’t see myself the way you do.”

You whip your head toward him, empathy softening your expression.

Setting your damp blouse aside, you dry your hands on your shirt before stepping closer. You cup his face in both hands, firm but gentle. “Look at me, Iwaizumi.”

He lifts his gaze slowly until his eyes lock with yours.

“I know you’re anxious about a lot of things right now,” you whisper. “--School, volleyball, your role on the team, graduation… everything. But you’re going to get through all of it. I know you can.”

He leans down, forehead pressing against yours, like he’s drawing strength from the closeness.

“And I’ll be here for you,” you continue softly. “Through the good, the bad-–no, the worst. So don’t give up on yourself.”

Your thumbs trace small, soothing circles against his cheeks. “Everyone believes in you, Iwaizumi. At least I do.”

His eyes flutter shut, a quiet exhale escaping him as if your hands on his skin are the only thing keeping him grounded.

“We’ll figure things out together,” you murmur. “If you’ll let me.”

His eyes open again, meeting yours with something raw and unguarded. His hand lifts to tilt your chin upward, and then he closes the distance between you.

The kiss this time is slow, deliberate, like he’s memorizing the shape of your lips, and you’re memorizing the way he tastes when he finally lets his walls down. When he pulls back, both of you are breathless.

A small, earnest smile breaks across his face, warming you all the way to your chest. “I’ll be the best you’ve ever had,” he mumbles, almost shy despite the intensity of the moment, before pulling you into a tight embrace. 

After what happened in the kitchen, the two of you moved around his house in a comfortable sort of daze, helping each other dry off your clothes. 

With nothing else to do but wait out the weather, you settled in front of the TV together. The room was quiet except for the low murmur of some variety show neither of you were really watching. Somewhere between a commercial break and a bad punchline, his hand found yours on the couch cushion. He didn’t say anything, and neither did you. 

You just let your fingers intertwine, shy smiles tugging at your lips.

It felt like you were quietly making up for all the time you’d spent apart. The air between you was warm, soft, and almost fragile, like breathing too hard might make it disappear.

When the rain finally eased into a drizzle and then stopped, you packed up your clothes into a plastic bag, and he offered to walk you home. He took the bag in one hand and held yours in the other, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The streets glistened with puddles, the cool night air wrapping around you both. You stared down at the oversized slippers he’d lent you, your steps small so they wouldn’t slip off.

“I really missed you,” he blurted suddenly.

The words hit you like a spark, and your face flushed warm.

“Maybe if you didn’t suddenly push me away, we could’ve done this sooner,” you teased, giving his hand a little tug.

“Come on,” he groaned softly. “I already told you my reasons.” His frown was faint, lacking its usual bite.

“I know,” you said gently, edging closer until your shoulders brushed. “And I’m happy you did.”

You glanced down at the shirt hanging loose on your frame. “Thanks for lending me your clothes. I’ll return them after I’ve washed them.”

He shook his head, eyes on the road ahead. “Keep it. I like seeing you in my clothes,” he mumbled, ears turning pink when you looked at him. You bit back a grin, warmth blooming in your chest.

“By the way,” you said suddenly, almost too casually, “that was my first kiss.”

He stopped in his tracks so abruptly you almost bumped into him. His grin spread slow and teasing. “I’m sure it was.”

“What’s that supposed to mean!?” you exclaimed, yanking your hand out of his, offended but more flustered than angry.

He chuckled, easily catching your wrist again and lacing your fingers back with his. “I’m just saying,” he said, still laughing softly. “I knew it was your first, because it was mine too.” He explained while trying to pull you back next to him.

Your breath caught, and for a second you could only stare at him, his grin faltering into something softer.

The world around you was quiet except for the distant dripping of rain from rooftops. And for the first time in weeks, the silence between you wasn’t sharp or suffocating. It felt right.

For a moment that neither of you spoke. The quiet stretched comfortably, and then his expression softened, gaze slipping toward the dark sky.

“Yesterday still stings,” he admitted quietly. “We were so close. And yet…” He trailed off, shoulders tense. “It’s our last year. Our last shot as this team. And we lost it.”

You watched him and the way his jaw clenched, the flicker of frustration and grief in his eyes. It wasn’t just about the game; it was about everything that came with it: pride, dreams, time running out.

“I know,” you said gently. “It hurts for all of us. But that doesn’t mean it’s over, Iwaizumi. Spring High’s still ahead. You’ll come back stronger. All of you will.”

He looked at you then, really looked, like your words were something solid he could hold onto.

“You think so?” he asked, voice low but vulnerable.

“I don’t think so,” you said, your smile turning soft but sure. “I know so. I’ve seen how hard you all work. I’ve seen you. And I know you’re not done yet.”

Something flickered in his eyes, resolve, faint but growing. He exhaled slowly, as if letting go of some of the weight he’d been carrying since that loss.

“Yeah,” he murmured, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “We’re not done yet. We’ll get them next time. We’ll make it to nationals.”

“That’s the spirit,” you said, bumping your shoulder lightly against his. 

“You have me now, don’t you? Not that I wasn’t when we weren’t talking.” You joked, earning a chuckle from him. "I just wish you don't overwork yourself too much, you injured yourself the last time." You reminded. Then a flash of the moment in the clinic went through your head, making you look at him. 

"Iwaizumi, you were trying to kiss me back then at the clinic, weren't you?" You asked, he just averted his gaze and laughed nervously. "Well..." He answered, his voice fading as you shot daggers for looks at him. The two of you burst out laughing after a while. 

For a moment, you both stood there under the streetlight, soaked in quiet determination and something new blooming between you.

When you finally reached your house, neither of you moved right away. His hand lingered around yours like he was reluctant to let go, as if the night might end the moment he did.

He handed you your school bag and the plastic bag of clothes, his fingers brushing yours briefly. He stood there on the dimly lit street, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, clearly fidgeting with something on his mind.

You tilted your head at him, amused as you watched him fumble over his words. “Um, so…” he started, eyes darting anywhere but your face.

“Just so it’s clear,” he muttered, his usually confident tone softening into something hesitant, boyish.

“Are we… dating now?” he asked, finally meeting your eyes.

For a second, you just stared at him, then a grin broke across your face, wide and genuine.

“Do you want to?” you teased, your voice light, almost playful.

His head snapped up, determination flickering in his gaze like a spark. “Well, I did say that I like you,” he said slowly, almost like he was spelling it out for you. “And you said it too.”

“Then you have your answer,” you giggled.

Before he could respond, you rose onto your tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. His breath hitched, his eyes going wide for half a heartbeat before a smile crept across his lips. It was small, warm, a little dazed.

“But…” you added gently, “I think we should keep it between us for now. At least until we figure everything out.”

You could already imagine Hanamaki and Matsukawa’s relentless teasing, and Oikawa’s dramatic reaction.

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah… good luck hiding it from those three idiots.”

You laughed softly, the sound blending with the quiet of the street. “I’m sure they’ll figure it out soon anyway.”

For a moment, the world was still. The puddles reflected the streetlights, the air was cool and damp, and his smile was the last thing you saw before you stepped back toward your door.

“Goodnight, Iwaizumi,” you said softly.

His eyes softened. “Goodnight,” he replied, voice low and sure, before reluctantly turning to walk away.

And as you closed the door behind you, your heart still thrummed with the warmth of his hand in yours.