Chapter Text
Olympics were fun, that much was sure. The rush of adrenaline from just being out there on the court, representing his country on such a big scale. It really had Tobio going, it was exactly what he had always wanted, what he trained for all those years. All the exhaustion and frustrations seemed to be so worth it now that he had found himself in France, Paris, as one of the many people in the Olympic Village.
Kageyama spent the majority of his time practicing, but his curiosity got the better of him when he heard about a female hitter from Italy. All he knew that she was apparently 'the best'. So of course he had to check it out.
And he sure did.
The whole men’s team of Japan squished with the huge crowd, watching, completely entranced, automatically joining in on all the cheering and applause. Sure, they were watching the whole team, but Tobio found it particularly difficult to take his eyes off of that hitter. Everything about the way she moved through that court was simply magical to him, and his hands were itching to try setting for her. He was dying to see how it felt like to play with her.
And he hadn’t even noticed the way he was heavily leaning on the railings, with eyes wide and full of wonder, so focused that he had failed to hear his teammates snickering at his obvious infatuation with the woman on the court.
Tobio was already planning on finding her in the Olympic Village later on.
Heck, he even googled her on his phone when the whole team got back to the dorm—all of his teammates were asleep except him.
His search bar was: 'italy woman’s national volleyball team’s ace'
And then she popped up on the screen.
He was startled for some reason.
'Daniella Stella'
He looked at the name on the screen, then the pictures.
There was a picture of her spiking, wiping her sweat with the collar of her jersey—and lots more.
'Daniella Stella',
'Age: 24 years old'.
Oh, she was a year younger than him.
He then watched some interviews of her, and some of her matches that night.
And eventually, he fell asleep.
Time flew, a week had passed.
Tobio wouldn’t be the type to wear his emotions on his sleeve anyway, no matter how captivating her spikes were that day. If anything, he’d probably just hover awkwardly near the Italian team’s dining area during meals. Pretending he wasn’t staring at her hands—those wrists have insane flexibility, how does she angle her spikes like that?—while Bokuto elbows Atsumu and whispers "look at him, he’s doing the thing with his eyebrows again."
And Stella? She didn’t even notice him at first. Too focused on recovery shakes and strategy meetings, until one evening, she’s alone in the training gym and heard a ball hit the wall with terrifying precision.
When she turned, there’s Japan’s setter, drenched in sweat, glaring at a spot on the floor like it personally offended him.
The hitter looked at him intently, watching carefully as she was still grabbing the ball. Her eyes were wide by a fraction, brows furrowed a little, lips were slightly parted, hair damp, bangs sticking to her forehead because of sweat.
It was as if she was admiring from afar. She watched him setting the ball to no one. And, well, she was impressed by the accuracy and precision.
Kageyama’s head snaps up when he senses movement, freezing mid-serve stance as he registers Stella watching him. The ball drops forgotten to the floor with a dull thud.
His usual scowl deepens—not in anger, but in flustered concentration, like he’s calculating wind resistance for a spike instead of processing human interaction.
His voice was gruff, louder than intended “...You’re Italy’s ace.” Instantly regrets stating the obvious. Flexing his fingers awkwardly.
Silence stretches too long. He cleared his throat, eyes darting to her hands gripping the ball—'her grip strength must be insane, look at those fingers'—before forcing himself to meet her gaze again.
When he speaks next, it’s with the same intensity he’d use to argue about pork buns with Hinata.
“Your cross-court spike in the third set. The one where you...” He mimed a vicious angle with his hand, frowns when the motion doesn’t do it justice.
“It was good.” (Translation: It rewired my brain chemistry and I haven’t stopped thinking about it for 48 hours.)
“Thanks.” She answered.
“You’re from... Japan’s national team, right? I think I saw you and your team watching my match against Brazil.” She then asked in a soft and careful tone.
Kageyama shifted his weight, taken aback by the softness in her voice. He's unused to such a contrast to the rough yells of his teammates and the usual sharp back-and-forth banter of the court, but this is good—soft, quiet. He could get used to it.
“Yeah, I—we... yeah.” His ears turned a little pink. He’s suddenly hyper-aware of how damp his t-shirt is, clinging to his chest, and resists the urge to shift in discomfort. He cleared his throat again. “We were watching.”
He glances down as she tilted her head slightly upward to meet his eyes, the shift in posture making the height difference suddenly undeniable—like a lamppost and a houseplant.
But, not unpleasant. Just… noticeable. His fingers twitch at his sides again, resisting the urge to measure the gap with his hands like it's a serve trajectory calculation.
“You jump higher than most.” He blurted out, almost defensive—as if compensating for what he assumes she might be thinking about height. Regrets it immediately after realizing how blunt that sounded without context.
“...I meant—” He cut himself off before he said something even more awkward—like how her vertical is insane or how watching her time her approach gave him actual chills.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, I’m short.” She said as she frowned, but she didn't look disappointed or offended, she looked rather… Amused.
He blinked, taken aback by her response. The frown on her face made him anxious, sure that he'd accidentally touched a nerve. But then he noticed the hint of amusement in her eyes—the corners of Stella’s lips just slightly tilting up—and the tension melted from his shoulders.
“That’s what you took from that?” He said dryly. “I was trying to compliment you.”
“No, you were trying to make me feel better.” She added.
His mouth opens. Closes. A beat passes as he realizes—oh. She's right. He was trying to fix something that wasn’t broken, and she saw through it instantly.
Annoyed at himself, he rakes a hand through his damp hair, exhaling sharply through his nose like a disgruntled horse.
“...So what if I was?” He sounded defensive, but not unkind—more like a setter caught fumbling the ball and refusing to admit it hurt his pride. "You are short."
A pause. Then, quieter—almost grudging.
“Doesn’t mean you don’t fly.”
She furrowed her brows, tilting her head while looking at him. “I don’t have wings.” Stella muttered, she didn’t get what he meant from that sentence.
Then a split second after, she realized what he meant. “Oh, you mean fly metaphorically?”
He exhales a huff of laughter—half in amusement, half in relief. How does a player that sharp on the court process metaphors so literally? He can't tell if it's endearing or annoying.
“...Yes. Metaphorically.”
He runs a hand through his damp hair again, still trying to cool down from the impromptu training session. His gaze drifts to the ball on the floor, then back to you, weighing the pros and cons of asking the question that's currently plaguing his mind…
“Yeah,” She paused. “I... I haven't got your name yet.”
He blinks—once, then twice—like the realization just hit him like a rogue block to the face. How had they exchanged tactical analysis and height-based banter without even introducing themselves properly? His fingers flex at his sides again, that telltale sign of nerves disguised as impatience.
“...Kageyama.” Short. Crisp. Like a perfect set cut mid-air. Then he adds, voice lower, “Tobio Kageyama.”
A beat of silence where he stares at her like she’s a serve he’s trying to read—calculating whether or not to ask for her name in return—even though he already knows, but refusing to outright say it unless she offer first because pride is stupid sometimes.
“Daniella. Daniella Stella.” She answered, although he didn’t asked.
He nodded once, like he’s filing the name away in a very important mental folder labeled "People Who Matter on the Court."
“Daniella.” Kageyama says it like he’s testing the weight of it—short, sharp vowel, rolls off his tongue easier than he expected. He didn’t miss how her eyes light up just slightly at hearing him say it.
A beat passes. The gym is quiet except for distant footsteps echoing down the hall and the soft drip of a water cooler somewhere behind Stella. He shifts, suddenly hyper-aware that this is no longer just about volleyball anymore—but not quite ready to admit that out loud yet.
“...You spike left when you’re nervous.”
It comes out of nowhere—observation as confession. Not an accusation, not a critique… more like I’ve been watching. Too much? Maybe. But he doesn’t look away.
“I spike left when my wrist snaps late.” She informed.
“That’s inefficient.” He said bluntly.
Another beat passes.
“What... Position are you? Wait, lemme guess—I saw you training over there earlier, and it looked like you were setting to some... Imaginary spiker. You must be a setter.”
He raised an eyebrow, amused despite himself. Most people guess his position within seconds. She took a little longer, but she got there eventually.
“Yeah, I'm a setter. Nice guess.”
He’s trying to sound casual, but there’s a subtle note of pride in his voice. It’s no secret that he considers setters to be the heart of a volleyball team.
The conductor, the playmaker, the one that sets the rhythm—like chess pieces, the rest of the team dances to their tune.
“Your footwork, angles, height control...” She said as she looked at his hands. Calloused, big. His fingers were slim, while his arm was veiny. Years of volleyball experience, you know what I mean.
He followed her gaze to his hand, flexing the calloused fingers reflexively, like it's a natural part of him now. Years of volleyball have indeed left their marks—literally—and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
He glanced at her own hand, the subtle manicure catching his eye, the contrast between battle-hardened fingertips and elegant polish making him feel… things. What exactly? He’s not quite sure yet.
“...You’re pretty observant.” He says it like a compliment—just sharp enough to pass as a veiled challenge.
“You’re also observant.” She mumbled, still grabbing the ball.
His eyes flicker to the ball in her hands—the same one she’d been holding. He noticed how her fingers press into it just slightly when you're thinking. Just like he notices the way her left thumb brushes over the seams—left-handed, always adjusting, always precise.
“...You haven’t served once since you came in.” Not an accusation. A quiet observation—curious, not critical. “Just watching me.”
He lets that hang between them like a held breath. Then, almost too casually,
“...Want to hit something? I can set for you.”
It comes out stiff—like he’s offering to pass a water bottle instead of what it really is: an invitation to play with him alone in this half-lit gym at night, no audience but echoes and shadows.
He doesn’t smile—not really—but something in his eyes sharpens, like a switch flipped. He steps back, hands already lifting into position, spine straightening as if the court just became sacred ground.
“One high set. Left side. You spike.” He said, which sounded more like a demand than a request.
No warm-up. No discussion. Just trust.
She tossed the ball—he catches it with one hand, firm and sure. Stepped into the set like it’s second nature—hips rotating just so, fingertips guiding air and momentum upward in one fluid motion.
Thwip.
The ball arcs—perfect height, perfect timing.
Then she flied.
Right hand swinging hard through space—
Smack.
—the kill lands clean in the corner.
Silence follows… then:
“...Good,”
Beat.
“again.”
Kageyama settles under the ball with quick, precise footwork, hands rising calmly as his eyes track its drop, and with a smooth, controlled motion he sends a clean set arcing toward the right side.
The ball floats perfectly into the hitting window, while Stella timed her approach, shoulders opening naturally as she load her swing.
She explode upward, her right arm whipping through with confidence, cutting a sharp angle across the court that feels effortless yet lethal.
He watches the ball slam into the floor, sharp and final. Doesn’t flinch. Just nodded.
“...You’re faster on right-side attacks when someone else sets.”
Not criticism. Observation again. But there’s something beneath it—an itch to prove he can keep up, match her pace, be that rhythm she doesn’t even know she’s searching for.
Without waiting, he jogs to retrieve the ball. He returned fast—too fast—already raising his hands like he’s challenging gravity itself.
“Again.” He commanded.
Higher this time.
Faster release.
The set spirals toward her like it was born in his fingertips.
She flew again. Higher and faster. The ball smacked her palm, shooting back down in a perfect kill on the other side. The impact reverberates through her, the court, the room. She landed with a practiced, controlled slide—a moment of triumph after every kill spike. Her right hand clenched.
“...Nice cross-court.” Tobio mumbled out of nowhere.
He approached, stopping just a few steps away. It's almost surreal, the silence after the impact. Just the sound of breathing, soft and steady—like volleyball is language in its purest form.
Pair of dark blue eyes locked onto emerald green ones.
“Didn’t you just say that earlier.” Daniella said, tilting her head.
“No I didn’t.”
“Yes you did.”
“...Well, whatever.”
He looked at her, really looks and drinks it all in—the way her shoulders rise and fall with each breath, the satisfied gleam in her eyes after a successful spike, the way her hair clings to her temples from all the sweat. It's like his brain automatically catalogues every detail. Because that's what volleyball players do—read the other side, every twitch and flicker of movement. He just never expected Stella to read him back.
“...Your form is good.” He mumbled.
The words sound almost reluctant, but she caught that subtle edge in them—pride (again).
“Now that’s one thing you haven’t said yet.”
“Shut up.” He said, quickly—too quickly.
Once again, silence.
“You have clean handwork.” Daniella blurted out.
He froze. Just for a split second—like his brain short-circuited at the compliment. Not "good hands," not "strong sets." Clean.
As if he’d been reduced to something precise, surgical, elegant—words no one ever uses for him. His fingers twitch at his sides like they’re remembering every set he’s ever made, suddenly self-conscious in the worst (best?) way.
“...You noticed that.” He said. Which was supposed to sound like a question—but didn’t.
“Thanks...?” She said while averting her gaze.
-------
The gym lights flickered slightly, casting longer shadows across the court. An hour slipped by without either of them noticing—just sets, spikes, quiet corrections, stolen glances.
Daniella’s arms are tired. While Tobio’s fingers are raw from repeated contact. The air between them is thick with unspoken rhythm and something softer beneath it—something that doesn’t have a name yet.
They stood on opposite sides of the net now, catching your breath. Sweat glistening at her temples. He watched a drop slide down her neck and disappear under the collar of her training shirt.
“We should go.” He said.
Not because he wants to—he should. It’s late. Someone might come looking.
But his feet doesn’t move.
“...Or not.”
“You look tired.” She mumbled
He scoffed, but it lacked his usual sharpness—more breath than sound. His shoulders rise and fall with a tired exhale, and for once, the perpetual scowl softens at the edges.
“You’re one to talk.” His eyes flickering over her slightly trembling arms, the way you lean on one leg like her body is finally catching up to the hour. “Your left knee bends inward when you’re fatigued. Bad form.”
It’s critique—but gentle. The kind only someone who’s watching closely would even notice.
“I’ll walk you back.”
And he was already stepping toward the net.
Then realizes how that sounds—too soft, too much like caring.
“Not because I care. Just in case you collapse or something.” He added.
“I’m not that tired.” She retorted.
He shrugged didn’t look back, he was still walking.
She jogged toward him, fell into step. She was now walking beside him.
After twenty seconds of full honestly-comfortable silence,
“You’re very observant.” Daniella said.
Tobio rolled his shoulders, trying to shrug off the compliment without showing how much it affected him.
But his steps slow down to match her shorter stride, and there’s a subtle hint of self-satisfaction in the way he holds himself now.
“I pay attention. You did too—saying stuff about my sets and all.”
He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, the sharp line of his jaw tense.
“...You noticed a lot.”
He looked at her again out of the corner of his eye—the way her lips tilt down with the admission, like you're embarrassed at being seen. He didn't say anything. Just walked in step.
The gym lights fade behind her as she passed the building, casting long shadows down the path.
The night air is cool, almost crisp, and the quiet crunch of gravel underfoot sounds like whispers.
“...It’s a good quality. In volleyball, I mean.”
“...In other things, too.” He added.
She hummed in agreement. They continued walking side-by-side in silence through the quiet hallway. Seems like the other athletes are already asleep.
The hallway stretches ahead, dimly lit—just enough to see the path, not enough to hide the quiet tension between them.
The kind that hums like a well-struck ball mid-flight. His footsteps echo softly in sync with his larger strides.
He glances down as her hand briefly brushes against his at her side. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t move closer either—he just lets it happen, like he’s calculating every variable before making a play.
“..Tomorrow,” He started, voice low but firm “there’s morning training at 6:30.”
“...I’ll be there early.” (Meaning: So will I see you? Will you come watch again? Will we do that…Again?)
“Just in case.” He added.
“You... Want me to spike for you again?” She asked.
“I didn’t say that.” He said, defensively.
“That was basically an invite for me to train with you again.”
“Shut up.”
Then she did.
His steps falter—just slightly. He doesn’t look at her, kept his eyes forward.
“You’re good.” He admitted .
“...I want to see you again.”
Not just her spike. Not just her form. But her, Stella—how she moves, how she reads him without words, how one clean hit somehow made something in his chest feel… lighter.
“...If you’re there.” He added.
“Come early.” He said, his voice softening—just slightly.
“Alright.” She answered. Smiling just a little.
He saw the smile—small, quiet, barely there—and feels it like a set perfectly placed: unexpected, but exactly what he needed. His steps stay measured, but something in his chest loosened. Just a little.
The hallway nears the split—one path to the Italian team’s wing, another to Japan’s. He slows without realizing it, letting the silence stretch like warm-up time before a match you don’t want to lose.
“...Don’t be late.” He says it like an order. Sounds like hope wrapped in stubbornness.
“I won’t.” She said, then got inside the dorm.
He stood there for a second too long, staring at the closed door like it holds the answer to a set he can’t read.
The hallway is silent again—empty, ordinary—but something about it feels different now. Like the air changed during that hour of spikes and quiet words.
Tobio finally turned to leave, hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders slightly less rigid than before. His fingertips brush against an old habit—a small indent on his palm where he always grips the ball just a little tighter when thinking.
“...Good.” He said under his breath, almost inaudible.
He didn’t said it because she can hear him.
He said it because he needs to believe it himself.
“Hn.” Just a grunt. That’s all. No grand farewell, no lingering look back—just the soft echo of footsteps down the hall, measured and controlled like everything else about him.
He was now walking down the dimmed hallway all by himself. On his way to his team’s dorm.
But for once… His pace wasn’t quite so fast.