Chapter Text
The first practice of the new school year always felt different.
Not because the gym changed.
The polished wooden floors were the same. The volleyball net stretched across the court in the same careful tension. Even the hollow echo of volleyballs striking the walls sounded exactly like it always had.
But every April, something invisible shifted.
It lived in the hesitation of new footsteps.
In the quiet voices near the door.
In the way the first-years hovered at the edge of the court like the gym itself hadn’t decided whether it wanted them there yet.
You remembered that feeling.
The strange awareness of stepping into a space where everyone else already knew the rules.
Where everyone else moved like they belonged.
And you were still trying to figure out where the equipment room was.
Now you stood on the opposite side of that line.
Clipboard tucked under one arm, you leaned lightly against the equipment shelves and watched the gym slowly fill.
Second year.
You had made it to second year.
The thought still didn’t feel real.
Last year had been about surviving—learning the rhythm of practices, memorizing the way tournaments ran, figuring out where everything was stored and how quickly a room full of volleyball players could descend into chaos without someone keeping track of things.
Now you were supposed to know what you were doing.
Which, unfortunately, meant everyone else expected you to.
Your fingers tapped lightly against the clipboard.
Attendance sheets. Emergency contacts. Equipment inventory. Updated practice schedules.
Half of it was color-coded.
The other half you hadn’t slept enough to finish.
But that was fine.
You were good at making things look fine.
That had become one of your better skills.
“L/N, you’re staring.”
You looked over to find Yaku adjusting the sleeves of his practice shirt, already halfway warmed up and already sounding annoyed with the world at large.
There was something comforting about that.
Some things didn’t change.
“I’m observing,” you corrected.
“You’re staring,” he repeated.
Kai, crouched beside the ball cart checking the air pressure on a volleyball, glanced up with a small smile. “She’s probably thinking about how weird it is that we’re upperclassmen now.”
“Speak for yourself,” Kuroo said as he walked up beside you, spinning a volleyball once on his fingertips before catching it again. “I was born for leadership. Prestige. Authority. Being admired.”
You turned to look at him flatly. “You were born for hearing yourself talk.”
He grinned.
Easy.
Infuriating.
Entirely too comfortable in his own skin for someone who still occasionally forgot where he’d left his own water bottle.
Kuroo leaned slightly to glance at the clipboard in your hands.
“Roster?”
“Attendance,” you said, shifting it away from him. “And emergency contact confirmations. And updated practice distributions. And a note reminding Coach and our new captain that the manager is one person and not a miracle worker.”
Kuroo laughed under his breath. “Second year looks good on you.”
You ignored the brief warmth that tried to settle under your ribs at that and looked back toward the gym doors instead.
The first-years were finally filtering in.
You could tell immediately which ones were volleyball players.
They carried themselves differently.
Even when they were nervous.
Yamamoto arrived first—or rather, announced himself first. Loud enough that half the gym turned. He bowed so deeply to Coach that he nearly headbutted the ball cart when he straightened, then started apologizing so quickly that even Yaku paused.
“That one’s going to be trouble,” Yaku muttered.
“That one,” Kuroo said, clearly entertained, “is going to be entertaining.”
Fukunaga slipped in behind Yamamoto with the exact opposite energy: quiet, observant, almost invisible. His eyes moved across the gym carefully, absorbing everything.
You made a small note beside his name.
And then Kenma arrived.
Not loudly.
Not nervously.
Just… slowly.
His hair was slightly rumpled, the way it always looked when he had clearly stayed up later than he should have. His backpack hung off one shoulder like he hadn’t fully committed to the idea of school yet.
He stopped just inside the doorway.
And for a moment, he didn’t move.
The noise of the gym didn’t seem to reach him the same way it reached everyone else. It rolled past him instead, like he was standing slightly outside the rhythm of the room.
Beside you, Kuroo straightened slightly.
The shift was small—barely noticeable unless you had spent the last year watching him closely.
But it was there.
Concern disguised as irritation.
Kenma’s gaze eventually landed on Kuroo.
Neither of them waved.
Neither of them said anything.
But something settled between them anyway.
A quiet kind of recognition.
“Well,” you murmured. “Your gamer boy made it.”
Kuroo clicked his tongue. “Don’t call him that.”
“You literally introduced him to me as ‘my weird gamer friend with no survival instincts.’”
“That was affectionate.”
“Sure.”
You checked Kenma’s name off the attendance sheet as he shuffled toward the lockers.
This year was going to be interesting.
The thought came with a strange mix of dread and fondness.
Because second year already felt different in a way that had nothing to do with the gym or the uniforms or the stack of forms clipped beneath your thumb.
It felt heavier.
Like the season ahead was going to ask more of all of you than the first year ever had.
And maybe that was natural.
Maybe that was what happened when you survived the beginning and suddenly had to deal with what came after it.
Practice began with the usual chaos.
Stretching routines half the first-years clearly forgot.
Water bottles rolling across the floor.
Yamamoto apologizing to three different people in under a minute.
You moved through it all with practiced rhythm.
Setting out towels.
Handing Coach the attendance sheet.
Pointing first-years away from the wrong storage area.
Reminding Kuroo that no, he could not “just eyeball” how many volleyballs were missing.
It was familiar work now.
Comfortable.
There was something steady about knowing where everything belonged. Something satisfying about keeping a room full of strong personalities moving in the same direction.
Still, that steadiness didn’t quiet the dull ache behind your eyes.
You hadn’t really stopped moving in weeks.
Final exams had rolled straight into year-end meetings. Meetings had turned into debate prep. Debate prep had turned into helping your godparents reorganize the café inventory. Then the new school year had arrived before you’d quite caught your breath.
Even stepping down from student council hadn’t created the quiet you expected.
If anything, it had only left an empty space that everything else had rushed in to fill.
“You okay?”
You blinked and looked up to find Kai beside you, towel slung over one shoulder.
“Fine,” you said automatically.
Kai gave you a look that said he didn’t believe you but was too kind to press right away. “You’ve been quiet.”
“That’s because Kuroo’s been talking enough for all of us.”
From across the court, Kuroo pointed immediately. “I heard that.”
Yaku barked at him to focus, and Kai laughed softly.
You smiled despite yourself, then glanced back down at the clipboard in your hands.
“I’m just tired.”
Kai’s expression softened. “You’re always tired.”
That was becoming a problem.
Not because you didn’t know it.
But because you had started hearing it too often from other people.
As if the exhaustion had stopped being something internal and become visible enough for everyone else to notice.
You didn’t like that.
You didn’t like being readable.
By the time practice ended, the gym was heavy with sweat and spring humidity.
The first-years looked wrecked.
Yamamoto appeared to be having a full existential crisis over lung capacity. Fukunaga looked exhausted but upright. Kenma was sitting against the wall with a towel draped over his head like he was personally offended by exercise.
Kuroo, of course, looked irritatingly alive.
You were restocking the med kit when his shadow fell across it.
“You know,” he said casually, “most managers don’t look like they’re about to fight God after the first practice of the year.”
You didn’t look up. “Most captains-in-training mind their business.”
“I’m not captain.”
“Yet. You’ve been carrying yourself like one since this morning.”
“That’s because I have natural authority.”
You zipped the med kit shut and looked at him. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re deflecting.”
There it was.
Kuroo was annoyingly good at hearing the strain beneath your voice.
You stood and slung the bag over your shoulder. “I’m going to the café after this.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Today?”
“I work there, remember?”
“I remember. I also remember you were at school before practice started and that you stayed late yesterday finishing class duty.”
You stared at him. “Are you monitoring me?”
He shrugged, expression unreadable for half a second before the usual teasing returned. “Y/N, if you collapse, who’s going to keep the rest of us functional?”
“That’s the most selfish concern anyone has ever expressed.”
“I’m pragmatic.”
You rolled your eyes, but the warmth of irritation didn’t quite take. Not fully.
Because underneath the joke was something else.
Attention.
And for some reason, that bothered you more.
The café smelled like coffee beans and warm sugar the second you stepped inside.
It always did.
The scent wrapped around you like something familiar enough to feel like home.
Your godparents had owned the café long before you came to live with them. Your mom used to bring you here when debate tournaments ran late and she needed somewhere quiet for you to finish homework.
You still remembered sitting at the back table with worksheets spread around you while she and your godmother laughed behind the counter.
You still remembered the sound of her keys hitting the kitchen counter at home.
The way she’d brush hair from your face when you stared too hard at a page.
Sometimes the memory arrived as one whole thing.
Sometimes it came in fragments.
A sound.
A smell.
The feeling of someone walking out the door and promising they’d be back later.
Your mom had left to see you at one of your debate tournaments the day she died.
A car accident on the way there.
Even now, years later, your grief still had strange timing.
It didn’t always come when you expected.
Sometimes it was a dramatic anniversary.
Sometimes it was just the smell of coffee and paper cups and warm pastry cases.
“There she is,” your godmother said warmly. “Our overworked scholar.”
“I’m neither of those things.”
“You’re both,” your godfather said from the pastry case. “And you’re late by four minutes.”
“That’s rude.”
“That’s accurate.”
Still, he handed you an apron with a soft smile.
You tied it around your waist and stepped behind the counter, letting the rhythm of work settle over you. Orders. Milk steaming. Pastries boxed. Registers opened and closed. It wasn’t restful, exactly, but it was familiar, and sometimes familiar was enough.
The evening rush came and went in waves.
Then, just as it began to thin, the café door chimed softly.
You glanced up.
Short, dark hair.
Headphones around his neck.
A familiar slouch.
You blinked. “Kenma?”
He looked up from his phone, clearly not expecting to see you.
“Oh.”
His gaze drifted around the café slowly, like he was taking in a new map in a game. “You work here?”
“Yeah. After school. My godparents own it.”
He nodded once, absorbing that information.
Then he looked at the menu board.
You could almost see the quiet internal shutdown happening in real time.
Too many options.
Too many decisions.
You were about to intervene when a voice slid into the moment.
“You should get the strawberry cream one.”
Kenma blinked.
Marissa had appeared beside him without either of you noticing, one hand resting against the glass display as she pointed casually toward the pastry case.
“That one’s the best.”
Kenma followed her finger. Stared at the pastry for a moment.
Then nodded.
“…okay.”
You rang it up while Marissa watched with the faintest hint of amusement. Kenma accepted the pastry box like he’d been handed a quest item he hadn’t realized he needed.
Marissa slid into the booth near the window.
Kenma hesitated.
Then sat at the far end of the same booth.
Neither of them spoke.
Marissa opened her laptop.
Kenma pulled out his phone.
Ten quiet minutes passed.
You watched from behind the counter, wiping the same espresso stain twice.
“Are they together?” your godfather whispered.
“No.”
“Are they friends?”
“…I’m not sure.”
At the booth, Kenma paused mid-bite and glanced sideways at Marissa’s screen. “What game is that?”
Marissa didn’t look up. “It’s not a game. It’s a coding simulator.”
Kenma blinked. “…that sounds like a game.”
Marissa finally looked over. A tiny smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“Yeah,” she said. “I guess it kind of is.”
Then they both went back to what they were doing.
Quiet again.
But not awkward.
Just… shared.
You looked away before either of them noticed you watching.
This year was going to be weird.
By the time Marissa and Kenma had left, the sky outside had gone dusky blue.
The café door chimed again not long after, and this time Marissa came back in together with Janelle, full force and full volume.
“Look who remembers we exist,” Janelle announced.
“I was going to text you.”
“You said that last week.”
They slid into the booth across from you while you took your break, and Marissa immediately leaned forward.
“The gamer boy from earlier,” she said casually. “Does he have Discord?”
You blinked. “What?”
“The one who I sat with earlier.”
You laughed despite yourself. “I don’t know if he has Discord. He probably lives on Discord. Wasn't aware you knew what discord was either.”
“Haha. Can you find out?”
Janelle reached across the table and squeezed your wrist gently. “You look tired.”
You looked down at your hands. “I am.”
Marissa’s expression softened. “Then maybe this year isn’t about proving you can do everything.”
The words lingered longer than the joke had.
Outside the window, evening settled over the street. Commuters moved past in tired waves. Inside, the café lights glowed warm against the glass, making the world outside look farther away than it was.
Second year had only just begun.
And already, it felt like it was going to ask something different from you than the first.
Not just endurance.
Something harder.
Honesty.
By the time you finished closing the café, the streets outside had gone quiet.
Your godparents had already turned off the pastry lights, leaving only the warm glow above the counter and the dim streetlamps beyond the window. You wiped down the last table slowly, shoulders aching with the kind of tiredness that came from too many long days stacking too close together.
School.
Practice.
Work.
Friends.
Responsibility layered over responsibility until it became difficult to remember what a quiet moment felt like.
“You’re thinking too loud again.”
You looked up to see your godmother leaning against the counter.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
She handed you a cup of tea. “You always make that face when your brain refuses to sit down.”
You accepted the cup.
“Second year just started.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re already worried about it.”
You sighed. “I’m not worried.”
She raised one eyebrow.
“You reorganized the napkin holder three times.”
“…that could mean anything.”
She laughed softly. “You’re like your mother when she got busy.”
The words landed gently.
Not painful.
Just… present.
“You’ll figure it out,” your godmother said quietly. “Just remember you don’t have to carry everything by yourself. Go on home, we'll be there later.”
You nodded.
You wanted to believe that.
When you finally stepped outside, the air had cooled.
Spring evenings in Tokyo had a way of settling softly over the city, the streets quieter than during the rush of daytime commuters.
You checked your phone out of habit.
Three notifications.
One from Marissa.
One from Janelle.
And one from Bokuto.
You blinked.
Bokuto.
You opened the message.
Bokuto:
HEY MATCHA GIRL!!
You stared at the screen.
Then another message appeared.
Bokuto:
WAIT ARE YOU A SECOND YEAR NOW
You laughed under your breath.
You:
Yes.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Bokuto:
THAT’S SO COOL
A pause.
Then—
Bokuto:
WAIT DOES THAT MEAN KUROO IS A SECOND YEAR TOO
You:
Yes, Bokuto.
Bokuto:
WOW
Bokuto:
WE’RE ALL GETTING OLD
You sat down on the bench outside the café, tea warming your hands.
There was something comforting about Bokuto’s messages. They always arrived like a sudden gust of energy—loud, unfiltered, entirely sincere.
You:
You’re a second year too.
Bokuto:
ANCIENT
Another message appeared.
Bokuto:
HOW WAS FIRST PRACTICE
You leaned back against the bench.
For a moment, you considered giving the easy answer.
Good.
But your fingers hesitated.
Then—
You:
Busy.
There was a pause.
Then:
Bokuto:
BUSY GOOD OR BUSY BAD
You exhaled slowly.
You:
Busy “I forgot to eat lunch” busy.
The reply came instantly.
Bokuto:
THAT’S BAD BUSY
You:
I had dinner.
Bokuto:
THAT’S SLIGHTLY BETTER
You shook your head, smiling.
A few seconds later, another message appeared.
Bokuto:
HEY
Bokuto:
YOU KNOW YOU’RE ALLOWED TO SIT DOWN SOMETIMES RIGHT
Your chest tightened slightly.
You typed more slowly this time.
You:
I sit.
Bokuto:
THAT SOUNDED LIKE A LIE
You laughed quietly to yourself.
Then another message.
Bokuto:
JUST DON’T FORGET YOU’RE IMPORTANT TOO OKAY
You looked at the screen for a moment longer than necessary.
The sincerity caught you off guard.
You:
I’ll try.
A second later—
Bokuto:
GOOD
Bokuto:
ALSO
Bokuto:
DOES THE GAMER GUY TALK YET
You burst out laughing.
You:
Kenma talks.
Bokuto:
WOW
Bokuto:
PROGRESS
Another message popped up almost immediately after.
Bokuto:
HEY
Bokuto:
TELL KUROO I SAID HI
Your fingers paused over the keyboard.
Maybe because earlier in the gym, Kuroo’s voice had sounded different when he asked if you were okay.
Maybe because he had been watching you more closely than usual.
Maybe because something about the beginning of this year already felt like standing at the top of a hill where the path ahead split in directions you couldn’t quite see yet.
Still, you typed:
You:
I will.
The walk back to the station was quiet.
The city hummed softly around you.
When you stepped onto the platform, you noticed someone leaning against one of the pillars.
Tall.
Familiar posture.
You blinked.
“Kuroo?”
He straightened. “You’re out late.”
“So are you.”
“I had to grab something from the convenience store.”
He lifted the small plastic bag in his hand.
Energy drinks.
Of course.
You stepped closer. “Were you waiting here?”
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds suspicious.”
“That’s because you’re suspicious.”
“Fair.”
The train schedule sign flickered above you.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable.
But it was… different.
Kuroo studied your face. “You look exhausted.”
“You sound like Kai.”
“That’s because Kai and I both have functioning eyes.”
You crossed your arms. “You don’t even know my schedule.”
“I know enough.”
The answer came too quickly.
For a moment, Kuroo didn’t look at you. His gaze drifted toward the tracks instead, hands sliding into the pockets of his jacket like he suddenly needed somewhere else to put them.
The platform lights hummed faintly overhead.
“You’ve always been like this,” he said finally.
“Like what?”
“Taking on things that aren’t technically your job.”
You frowned. “I’m the manager.”
“You’re a manager,” he corrected. “Not the entire operations department.”
“That sounds like something you’d say after forgetting to bring your own water bottle again.”
“Hey, that was once.”
“Three times.”
“Selective memory.”
You both went quiet again.
The evening train schedule flickered on the display above you.
Kuroo shifted slightly beside you, like he was about to say something else.
His mouth opened.
Then closed again.
You noticed.
“…What?”
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t nothing.”
“It was a thought that decided not to exist.”
You stared at him. “That’s not how thoughts work.”
He huffed quietly.
Then, more softly:
“I was just going to say…”
He stopped again.
Your eyebrows lifted. “Going to say what?”
Kuroo scratched the back of his neck.
For once, he looked almost uncertain.
“…that if you ever needed help…”
The sentence trailed off.
He exhaled.
Then shook his head slightly, the usual teasing expression sliding back into place like armor.
“Actually, never mind.”
Your phone buzzed in your hand.
Kuroo’s eyes flicked down instinctively.
You checked the screen.
Bokuto.
Kuroo’s expression shifted—small enough that someone else might have missed it. A tightening in his jaw. A blink that came just a little too slow.
“Popular tonight,” he said lightly.
You locked the screen. “It’s Bokuto.”
Kuroo hummed. “Of course it is.”
You tilted your head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s the second ‘nothing’ you’ve said in two minutes.”
“Maybe I’m trying something new.”
The train lights appeared in the distance.
You didn’t push him.
But the unfinished sentence stayed with you anyway.
The train rolled into the station with a long metallic sigh, and the doors slid open.
You stepped inside.
Kuroo followed.
For a moment, you stood beside each other in the dim evening carriage. Neither of you sat. Outside the window, city lights blurred into streaks of white and gold.
“Hey,” Kuroo said suddenly.
You looked at him.
“If it gets too much…”
He hesitated.
Which was rare.
“…you should say something.”
Your chest tightened slightly. “You mean to Coach?”
“I mean to anyone.”
The train rattled softly along the tracks.
You looked at the window. “I can handle it.”
“I know you can.”
He paused.
“That’s not the same thing as you having to.”
You didn’t answer.
But the words stayed with you.
Later that night, you were halfway through organizing your bag for the next day when your phone buzzed again.
Another message from Bokuto.
Bokuto:
GOODNIGHT MATCHA GIRL
A second later:
Bokuto:
DON’T STAY UP WORKING
You smiled.
Across the room, your desk lamp cast a soft circle of light over the scattered papers you hadn’t finished organizing.
Practice schedules.
Tournament notes.
Café shift reminders.
Debate prep pages you still hadn’t fully put away, even though every time you looked at them you thought of your mother and the life she’d loved enough to chase right up until the end of it.
Your godparents’ home was quiet around you. Safe. Familiar. Full of the kind of care that didn’t ask to be thanked every five minutes.
Still, there were nights when the quiet made you feel the absence of things more sharply.
Your dad was somewhere abroad again, busy with another business trip, another timezone, another promise to call when he landed.
You loved him.
You knew he loved you.
But love and presence weren’t always the same thing.
Sometimes that was why the café felt like home.
Sometimes that was why the gym did, too.
Your phone buzzed again.
Bokuto:
I’M SERIOUS
Bokuto:
SLEEP
You typed back.
You:
Goodnight, Bokuto.
Then you turned off the lamp.
The room fell dark except for the soft glow of city lights beyond your window.
Outside, Tokyo moved endlessly forward.
Inside, you lay awake for just a moment longer.
Second year had begun.
And something about it already felt different.
Not louder.
Not harder.
Just… shifting.
Like the moment before a volleyball left someone’s hands—
when everything in the air changed direction.