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POST-RUMOR PEACE (THAT LASTS 0.2 SECONDS)
The gym was loud in the comfortable way only Karasuno’s gym ever was.
Third year meant familiarity. The echoes of shoes against polished wood. The squeak of rubber soles stopping too late. The dull thump of volleyballs hitting the floor. The sound of people who had grown into each other’s presence so completely that silence felt wrong.
Tsukishima Kei stretched near the sideline, towel draped around his neck, glasses slightly crooked from where Hinata had nearly smacked him in the face with an enthusiastic high five.
Third year also meant peace.
Or at least, that was the lie Tsukishima told himself.
Because the rumors were finally dead.
There were no more whispers about him and Kageyama. No more awkward stares. No more well-meaning underclassmen asking if the “Karasuno cold blonde and the setter” were still together.
The truth was out.
Tsukishima Kei was dating Kuroo Tetsurou.
And unfortunately for everyone else, Kuroo Tetsurou refused to let anyone forget it.
“Moonshine!” Kuroo called from the gym entrance, already grinning like he owned the place. “You miss me?”
Tsukishima didn’t even turn around. “We talked last night.”
Kenma followed Kuroo inside, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, eyes already scanning for a place to sit and disassociate. “He missed you. He was annoying about it.”
“I am never annoying,” Kuroo said, immediately leaning over the barrier to rest his elbows on it and stare at Tsukishima like a cat that had decided this human was its favorite now. “I am devoted.”
“You are insufferable,” Tsukishima replied.
Kuroo smiled like that was a compliment.
Yamaguchi waved at Kenma. “Hi, Kenma.”
Kenma lifted two fingers in greeting. “Hi. Sorry. He insisted on coming.”
“I visit because I care,” Kuroo said.
“You visit because you can’t stand being more than three prefectures away from your boyfriend,” Tsukishima said flatly.
“Both can be true.”
Tsukishima sighed, but there was no real bite in it anymore. Just the familiar, resigned fondness of someone who had accepted their fate.
Hinata, meanwhile, was thriving.
He was laughing too loudly. Jumping too high. Sprinting back into position with the kind of energy that suggested he had never once heard the phrase “pace yourself” in his life.
“Hinata, don’t burn out before drills are even done!” Yamaguchi called.
“I’m fine!” Hinata chirped, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I’m in peak condition!”
Kageyama was already moving.
“You’re breathing too fast,” he said, appearing at Hinata’s side like he had been summoned by the mere concept of overexertion. “Drink water.”
He shoved Hinata’s bottle into his hands.
Hinata blinked. “Oh. Thanks.”
Kageyama watched him drink. Counted his swallows. Waited until his breathing slowed by exactly the amount Kageyama deemed acceptable.
Then, satisfied, he turned back toward the court.
Two rallies later, Hinata stumbled on his landing.
Not enough to fall. Not enough for anyone else to react.
Enough for Kageyama to react.
“Your wrap is loose,” Kageyama said, crouching in front of him without hesitation. “Hold still.”
Hinata froze, confused but compliant, as Kageyama adjusted the athletic tape around his wrist with practiced care. Too careful. Too focused.
Tsukishima watched this happen with the dead-eyed patience of someone who had known the truth for years and was now being forced to relive it in high definition.
Tsukishima clocked this years ago.
That was the entire reason he tried to wingman Kageyama in the first place.
Unfortunately, Kageyama Tobio flirted like a malfunctioning robot.
“You’re hovering again,” Tsukishima muttered.
“I’m not,” Kageyama replied instantly.
“You are physically within Hinata’s gravitational pull.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It should be,” Tsukishima said. “You orbit him like a confused satellite.”
Kageyama frowned. “He needs support.”
“He needs a restraining order,” Tsukishima said dryly.
Hinata, oblivious, beamed at both of them. “Hey, do you guys wanna practice quicks later?”
“Yes,” Kageyama said immediately.
“See,” Tsukishima said. “You didn’t even let me answer.”
Kageyama paused. “…You can answer.”
“No, it’s fine. I don’t want to interrupt whatever this is.”
“It’s nothing,” Kageyama said.
Tsukishima gave him a long look. “It’s everything.”
Across the gym, Kuroo leaned closer to Kenma, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Is he… in love?”
Kenma didn’t look up from his phone. “Yes.”
“With Hinata?”
“Since first year.”
Kuroo’s eyebrows shot up. “Wow. That’s a long time to be stupid.”
Tsukishima glanced over at them. “He’s been in love since first year. He’s just stupid.”
Kageyama stiffened. “I am not in love.”
“You fixed his wrist wrap,” Tsukishima said. “You handed him water. You adjusted your sets because his breathing was off. You hovered.”
“That’s normal teammate behavior,” Kageyama argued.
“No,” Tsukishima replied. “That’s emotionally compromised behavior.”
Hinata laughed. “You guys are weird.”
Kageyama relaxed immediately at the sound of it.
Tsukishima closed his eyes.
The rumor had died.
Unfortunately, it had not stayed dead.
It had simply chosen a new victim.
THE RECEIPTS (AKA: THE EVIDENCE COMES FOR HIM)
Tsukishima did not believe in coincidences.
He especially did not believe in coincidences when it came to Kageyama Tobio and Hinata Shouyou.
This was not new behavior.
This was simply behavior that had gone unchecked for years because everyone had been too busy being sixteen, stressed, and emotionally incompetent.
Now they were seventeen.
Which meant Tsukishima had run out of patience.
“You remember first year?” Tsukishima asked casually, stretching his arms overhead.
Kageyama glanced at him. “What about it.”
“When Hinata twisted his ankle during that practice match.”
Kageyama’s posture shifted immediately. Subtle. Defensive. “He was fine.”
“You carried him off the court.”
“He couldn’t walk.”
“You argued with Coach Ukai for five minutes because you thought Hinata should sit out the rest of practice.”
“He was injured.”
Tsukishima tilted his head. “You’ve never argued with Coach Ukai for anyone else.”
Kageyama opened his mouth.
Closed it again.
Hinata jogged past them, waving. “Hey! I’m getting water!”
Kageyama’s eyes tracked him automatically.
Tsukishima waited.
“…That’s different,” Kageyama muttered.
“Sure it is.”
Yamaguchi wandered over, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Are we doing the thing where we list all the times Kageyama was weird about Hinata again?”
Kageyama stiffened. “We are not doing that.”
“Oh,” Yamaguchi said thoughtfully. “Then we’re not mentioning how you stayed up rewatching Hinata’s spiking form from that Seijoh match.”
“That was for analysis.”
“You replayed the same clip seventeen times.”
“…For analysis.”
Tsukishima smiled in the way that meant he was enjoying this far too much.
“Second year,” Tsukishima continued. “You started carrying extra tape.”
“I always carry tape.”
“You started carrying extra tape only after Hinata kept forgetting his.”
Kageyama’s ears turned red.
Hinata returned, already bouncing again. “Okay! Ready!”
“You drank enough?” Kageyama asked automatically.
“Yep!”
“Did you eat?”
“I had a banana!”
“Two?”
“One and a half?”
Kageyama frowned. “You need more fuel.”
Hinata laughed. “You sound like my mom.”
Kageyama did not deny this.
From the sidelines, Kuroo squinted. “Is this what you mean by ‘malfunctioning robot flirting’?”
Kenma nodded. “Yes.”
“It’s painful to watch.”
“It’s worse to live with,” Tsukishima said.
Yamaguchi leaned closer to Tsukishima. “Should we tell him?”
“We’ve tried,” Tsukishima said. “He doesn’t speak Emotional Subtext.”
Practice resumed.
Kageyama adjusted his sets without thinking. Just a little lower when Hinata’s legs looked tired. Just a little wider when Hinata’s timing was off. Just enough that Hinata could still reach them without straining.
Hinata noticed none of this.
Tsukishima noticed everything.
“You don’t do that for me,” Tsukishima said.
Kageyama glanced at him. “You don’t need it.”
“Exactly.”
Kageyama frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean.”
“It means,” Tsukishima said, voice flat, “you don’t treat everyone the same.”
Kageyama opened his mouth to argue.
Hinata tripped again.
Kageyama was already there, steadying him by the elbow.
Tsukishima stared at the ceiling like he was asking a higher power for strength.
“You see what I mean,” Yamaguchi said softly.
Kageyama finally snapped. “I’m just looking out for him!”
Tsukishima met his gaze. “You’ve been looking out for him since first year. At what point do you call that something else?”
Kageyama didn’t answer.
Because he didn’t have one.
Hinata smiled up at him. “Thanks for catching me.”
Kageyama’s ears went red again.
Tsukishima exhaled through his nose.
The receipts were endless.
The problem was not that Kageyama didn’t care.
The problem was that he cared too much and had no idea what to do with it.
And Tsukishima Kei, unfortunately, had front-row seats to the slowest emotional realization in human history.
DENIAL IS A RIVER (AND KAGEYAMA IS DROWNING)
Kageyama Tobio was not in love.
He was aware of what love was supposed to look like.
People got flustered. People said weird things. People wanted to hold hands and go on dates and talk about feelings. People acted stupid.
He did none of those things.
Therefore, he was not in love.
He was just… attentive.
The gym was louder than usual.
Not because Karasuno had suddenly gotten rowdy, but because the third gym alliance had once again decided to invade.
Bokuto Kotarou was in the middle of telling Hinata a very dramatic story about how Akaashi had “betrayed him” by not laughing at his last joke. Akaashi stood behind him, apologetic but clearly used to this. Kuroo and Kenma had claimed a spot near the wall like they were permanent fixtures of the gym now.
Kuroo, unfortunately, had also claimed Tsukishima’s personal space.
Tsukishima looked smug. And exhausted.
Hinata, however, was thriving.
“Bokuto-san said I’m getting better at controlling my jumps!” Hinata said, bouncing on his toes.
“You ARE!” Bokuto boomed. “Your center of gravity’s better! Your timing’s sharper! You’re like a cooler version of me now!”
“That’s not how that works,” Akaashi said calmly.
Hinata laughed anyway.
Kageyama watched from the other side of the court.
His chest did that thing again.
He frowned at the sensation like it was a technical error.
“You’re staring,” Yamaguchi said quietly.
“I’m not,” Kageyama replied immediately.
Tsukishima didn’t even look at him. “You get quiet when he laughs with other people.”
“That’s not—”
“You look like you’re calculating how to reinsert yourself into the situation,” Tsukishima continued. “It’s unsettling.”
Kageyama opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Because that was exactly what he was doing.
Hinata jogged over a moment later, still grinning. “Tobio—”
“Don’t call me that,” Kageyama said too fast.
Hinata blinked. “Oh. Sorry.”
The disappointment on Hinata’s face lasted less than a second.
It lasted longer in Kageyama’s chest.
Yamaguchi stared at him like he was watching someone step on a rake.
“Why would you say that,” Yamaguchi whispered.
“That’s his name,” Kageyama said stiffly.
“You let him call you that for three years.”
“It’s distracting.”
Tsukishima finally turned to look at him. “So is being emotionally illiterate.”
Kageyama glared. “I am not in love.”
“No one said you were,” Tsukishima replied. “We said you’re obvious.”
Hinata tilted his head. “Obvious about what?”
Everyone froze.
Kenma made a noise that might have been a laugh. Kuroo very deliberately turned away to avoid witnessing the disaster. Akaashi suddenly found the floor extremely interesting.
“Nothing,” Kageyama said too quickly.
“Oh,” Hinata said. “Okay!”
And just like that, the moment passed.
Kageyama exhaled shakily.
Tsukishima leaned closer. “You just denied something he didn’t even ask about.”
“I don’t like him like that.”
“You’ve rearranged your entire training style around him,” Tsukishima said. “You track his breathing. You monitor his stamina. You get annoyed when other people praise him first.”
“That’s just—”
“Care.”
Kageyama swallowed.
Hinata laughed again across the gym.
The tight feeling in Kageyama’s chest came back, worse this time.
“You’re not normal about him,” Yamaguchi added gently.
Kageyama stared at the floor. “I just don’t want him to get hurt.”
Tsukishima’s expression softened, just a fraction. “That’s not denial-worthy. That’s human.”
“It’s distracting,” Kageyama muttered.
“Love is distracting,” Kuroo said without turning around.
Kageyama flinched.
Hinata jogged back over. “Kageyama, can you help me with my approach again?”
Kageyama nodded instantly. “Yeah.”
He moved without thinking. Without hesitation. Without pretending he hadn’t already started crossing the court before his brain caught up.
Tsukishima watched him go.
“Denial,” he said flatly, “is a river.”
“And he’s drowning,” Yamaguchi finished.
THE ALMOST-CONFESSION (INTERRUPTED BY BOKUTO BEING BOKUTO)
Kageyama Tobio was not in love.
He was, however, having a problem.
The problem was shaped exactly like Hinata Shouyou and moved around the gym like a sunbeam that had personally decided to ruin his concentration.
They were supposed to be running serve-receive drills.
Kageyama had run these drills hundreds of times.
Normally, he focused on form. Footwork. Timing. Trajectory. The ball. The court. The data.
Today, his brain was full of Hinata’s stupid laugh and the way his shoulders relaxed when Bokuto praised him and the way his eyes lit up when Akaashi explained something in that calm, patient voice.
It was distracting.
Which meant it was unacceptable.
Hinata jogged up to him after a rally, breath a little uneven, sweat clinging to his hairline. “Kageyama, can you toss me one more time? I wanna try changing my takeoff angle.”
“You’re already adjusting your angle,” Kageyama said automatically. “Your right foot is landing earlier than before. If you change your takeoff now, your timing with the set will be off.”
Hinata blinked. “Oh. I didn’t even notice.”
“That’s because you don’t pay attention to your own body,” Kageyama snapped. Then, softer, “You should.”
Hinata grinned. “That’s why I’ve got you!”
Kageyama’s chest did that stupid, painful thing again.
He turned away too fast, grabbing the ball. “Get in position.”
They ran the drill again.
Hinata jumped. Kageyama set. The ball landed clean.
Too clean.
It felt like muscle memory. Like instinct. Like something that had been built over years of shared courts and shared losses and shared victories and shared breathing space.
When the rally ended, Hinata jogged back over, bright-eyed and buzzing. “That felt really good!”
Kageyama swallowed.
He hadn’t planned to say anything.
He hadn’t rehearsed this like Kuroo had rehearsed his confession. He didn’t have a script. He didn’t even have the language.
He just had this tight, unbearable pressure in his chest and the sudden, terrifying clarity that he didn’t want this—whatever this was between them—to stay undefined forever.
“Hinata,” he said.
Hinata tilted his head. “Yeah?”
The gym noise faded around them. Bokuto’s voice blurred into background thunder. Akaashi’s calm corrections softened into white noise. Even Tsukishima and Kuroo’s bickering dulled at the edges.
Kageyama opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He clenched his jaw.
This was stupid. He was stupid. Feelings were inefficient.
Hinata waited. Patient. Unassuming. Trusting in the way only Hinata ever was.
“I—” Kageyama tried again.
“HEY!” Bokuto suddenly yelled, materializing between them like a thunderclap. “AM I INTERRUPTING A MOMENT?”
Kageyama flinched so hard he almost dropped the ball.
Hinata startled. “Bokuto-san!”
“Your vibes were intense!” Bokuto declared. “It felt like when Akaashi looks at me like he’s about to say something important but then I sneeze and ruin it!”
“That has happened exactly once,” Akaashi said.
“IT WAS TRAUMATIC.”
Kuroo made a sound that might’ve been a laugh. “Wow. Wingman of the year.”
Tsukishima covered his face with one hand. “I hate it here.”
Hinata laughed awkwardly. “We were just talking about drills.”
Kageyama stared at the floor like it had personally betrayed him.
Bokuto leaned in closer. “You sure? ‘Cause your faces were doing the thing.”
“What thing,” Hinata asked.
“The thing where it looks like you’re about to emotionally ruin each other!” Bokuto said cheerfully.
“That’s not a thing,” Kageyama snapped.
“It is for you,” Tsukishima said flatly.
Hinata blinked between them. “What are you all talking about?”
Yamaguchi coughed into his hand. “Nothing.”
Kageyama took a step back.
The moment had shattered. Whatever fragile courage he’d scraped together dissolved back into muscle memory and habit and fear.
He turned away too quickly.
“We’re wasting time,” he said. “Drill’s not done.”
Hinata hesitated, then nodded. “Oh. Yeah. Okay!”
They went back to practice.
But something had shifted.
Kageyama’s sets were sharper. Tighter. More aggressive.
Hinata’s jumps were higher. A little reckless. Like he was trying to chase something he didn’t know had almost been said.
Tsukishima watched them with narrowed eyes.
“That,” he muttered to Kuroo, “was almost progress.”
“And Bokuto killed it,” Kuroo replied fondly.
“I’m going to push him down the stairs.”
“I’ll help.”
Across the gym, Bokuto sneezed loudly and gave them a thumbs up.
Kageyama did not look back at Hinata.
He was afraid if he did, he’d try again.
And he wasn’t sure he could survive failing twice.
HINATA STARTS NOTICING (TOO LATE, OF COURSE)
Hinata Shouyou did not think about feelings.
He thought about jumps. About timing. About whether his legs were going to give out before Bokuto stopped yelling encouragement. About whether Akaashi would scold him if he landed wrong again.
He did not think about subtext.
Unfortunately, subtext had decided to think about him.
They were on water break when it happened.
Hinata flopped onto the bench, gulping down half his bottle in one go. “Man, practice with everyone here is so intense. My legs feel like jelly.”
“Drink slower,” Kageyama said immediately. “You’ll cramp.”
Hinata blinked. “Oh. Right.” He obediently took smaller sips.
Tsukishima, sitting two benches down with Kuroo basically glued to his shoulder, glanced over.
“…Does he always sound like that?” Tsukishima asked.
“Like what?” Kuroo said.
“Like someone’s overprotective older brother.”
“That’s not overprotective,” Yamaguchi said. “That’s just… Kageyama.”
Hinata wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Kageyama, can you set me one more after break? I wanna try hitting from further back.”
“Your takeoff point will be off,” Kageyama replied without looking at him. “You’re better adjusting your run-up first.”
Hinata frowned. “How do you even notice that?”
“Because I watch you,” Kageyama said.
The words landed heavier than he meant them to.
There was a beat.
Hinata stared at him.
“Oh,” Hinata said.
Everyone else froze.
“Oh?” Bokuto echoed. “Oh what?”
Hinata tilted his head slowly, eyes narrowing like he was trying to see something that had always been there but out of focus.
“…You watch me. Like. A lot.”
Kageyama stiffened. “I watch everyone.”
“No, you don’t,” Tsukishima said flatly.
Kageyama glared at him. “Shut up.”
Hinata looked between them. “Wait. You don’t watch Bokuto like that.”
“Because Bokuto is unpredictable,” Kageyama said.
“You don’t watch Tsukishima like that.”
“Because Tsukishima is annoying.”
“You don’t watch Akaashi like that.”
“Because Akaashi is competent.”
“You watch me,” Hinata said slowly. “When I drink water. When I stretch. When I land weird. When I breathe weird.”
Kageyama opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Hinata’s eyes widened, just a little. Not with fear. With realization.
“…Do you… like me?”
The gym went silent in the way only a gym full of eavesdropping athletes could.
Bokuto leaned forward like he was watching a live broadcast of his favorite drama. “OOOH.”
“Please shut up,” Akaashi murmured.
Kageyama’s ears went red.
“I—” he started, then stopped.
This was worse than confessing.
This was being seen.
“I care about you,” he said stiffly.
Hinata’s shoulders dropped in relief. “Oh! I care about you too!”
Kageyama’s chest sank.
Tsukishima winced. “This is painful.”
“Emotionally,” Kuroo added.
Hinata kept going, completely oblivious to the tragedy unfolding in front of him. “You’re my partner! Of course I care about you. You’re like… my volleyball soulmate!”
Kageyama felt something inside him shrivel.
“…Right,” he said quietly.
Hinata smiled brightly. “You’re always looking out for me. That’s just you being you.”
That was the problem.
Kageyama had been “being him” for years.
Watching. Adjusting. Hovering. Fixing Hinata’s wraps. Handing him water. Tracking his stamina. Reading his jumps like a second language.
And Hinata had translated all of it into partner behavior.
Bokuto let out a long, dramatic groan. “THIS IS WORSE THAN THE TIME AKAASHI THOUGHT I WAS JUST BEING NICE.”
“That is not comparable,” Akaashi said.
Tsukishima stood up. “I need air.”
Kuroo followed him immediately. “Wait, that’s my line.”
Hinata looked around, confused. “Why does everyone look like they’re dying?”
Yamaguchi patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”
Kageyama turned away.
He felt stupid for expecting Hinata to understand something he’d never said out loud.
He felt stupid for letting himself hope.
Behind him, Hinata frowned, watching the way Kageyama’s shoulders went tight, the way he walked a little faster than necessary back onto the court.
Hinata’s chest did something weird.
Not panic.
Not fear.
Just… a small, unsettled tug.
“…Huh,” Hinata muttered.
For the first time, he wondered if he’d misunderstood something important.
THE PATTERN FINALLY MAKES SENSE
(Where Tsukishima realizes this has been a slow-moving disaster for years.)
Tsukishima had known.
That was the worst part.
He hadn’t figured it out recently. He hadn’t had some dramatic revelation in third year. He hadn’t suddenly connected the dots now that Kuroo was openly insufferable and permanently in his life.
He had known since first year.
He’d just been stupid enough to think Kageyama Tobio would figure it out on his own eventually.
Tsukishima leaned against the cold metal of the gym doorframe, watching Kageyama hover near Hinata like a malfunctioning satellite. Not close enough to touch. Not far enough to pretend he wasn’t orbiting. Close enough to adjust Hinata’s towel when it slipped. Close enough to slide a water bottle into Hinata’s hands without making eye contact. Close enough to notice Hinata’s breathing before Hinata did.
Close enough to be obvious to everyone except himself.
Tsukishima sighed through his nose.
Of course it was still like this.
It had always been like this.
People thought the rumor about him and Kageyama had started because they were “close.”
The truth was much dumber.
Tsukishima hadn’t just clocked it.
He’d been dragged into it.
Because somehow—out of all the people in Karasuno—Kageyama Tobio had decided Tsukishima Kei was the safest person to malfunction in front of.
It had started small.
Questions that weren’t about volleyball.
“Is it normal,” Kageyama had asked once in first year, staring very hard at the floor like it might provide answers, “to… think about someone when you’re not training?”
Tsukishima had looked at him like he was diagnosing a broken appliance. “That’s called having a crush.”
Kageyama had stared at him in visible horror.
From there, it only got worse.
Tsukishima became the unwilling emotional translator. The world’s most underpaid relationship consultant. The only person on the team who could look at Kageyama’s blank expression and somehow decode, Oh. You’re panicking because Hinata smiled at you and now your brain is overheating.
Which was exactly why the rumor had started.
They stayed late after practice because Tsukishima was trying to teach him how to compliment someone without sounding like he was grading a drill.
They stood in corners because Kageyama would ask things like, “How do you tell someone you like them without ruining the team?”
Tsukishima had told him the truth back then.
“You just say it and deal with the consequences like a normal person.”
Kageyama, of course, had not done that.
Instead, the universe decided they were secretly dating.
Tsukishima found that deeply offensive.
Not because of the rumor.
But because of how stupid the logic was.
The irony was that Tsukishima actually knew what flirting looked like.
He’d lived it.
Kuroo had been obvious since day one. Digital flirting. Voice notes. Late-night messages. Stupid selfies. “Accidental” compliments that were extremely intentional. The long, slow burn of two idiots who were clearly in love and just allergic to saying it out loud.
It had taken years for Tsukishima and Kuroo to get together.
But no one had ever mistaken that for confusion.
The difference was simple:
Tsukishima and Kuroo flirted like they knew what they were doing.
Kageyama flirted like a robot trying to learn romance from a broken instruction manual.
And somehow, Tsukishima had been assigned tech support.
THE ATTEMPT
(Kageyama Tobio Tries to Be Normal and Fails Spectacularly)
Kageyama took Tsukishima’s advice very seriously.
This was his first mistake.
He walked over to Hinata.
“You were smiling,” Kageyama blurted.
“…What?”
“I like when you’re here,” Kageyama said suddenly.
The gym went quiet.
“The court feels wrong when you’re not.”
Tsukishima buried his face in his hands.
Kuroo whispered, “This is painful to watch.”
Kenma nodded. “Like a car crash, but emotionally.”
HINATA SHOYOU IS BUILT DIFFERENT
Hinata took a breath. “I think I kinda liked it. The whole time.”
“You… what?”
“Do you wanna date or something?”
Dead silence.
Kenma finally looked up. “Wow. No buildup. Straight to the boss fight.”
Bokuto screamed, “JUST SAY YES, YOU IDIOT!”
“I… yeah. I want to.”
Hinata smiled. “Cool.”
The emotional tension that haunted Karasuno for three years evaporated in two sentences.
“This is why rumors start,” Tsukishima muttered.
“At least this one’s finally accurate,” Kuroo said.
The rumor had been wrong the first time. It tangled the wrong people, missed the right ones, and turned quiet pining into public spectacle.
This time, the truth didn’t even give the rumor a chance to exist.
Kageyama Tobio did not fall in love loudly.
Hinata Shouyou did not realize he was in love until it was already too late to pretend otherwise.
And somehow, against all odds, that was enough.
The gym went back to being just a gym. Practice went back to being just practice.
Their world didn’t end. It just… settled.
Which, honestly, was the most unbelievable part of all.