Practice hasn't started yet. A few first-years are setting up the net with practiced efficiency, their voices echoing off the high ceiling. Hinata and Kageyama are already bickering near the baseline, their argument dissolving into the ambient noise of sneakers squeaking and balls being bounced against the walls.

And you're there.

Same spot as last week. Same spot as the week before. On the bleachers, slightly to the left of center, your bag resting beside you like it belongs there. Like you belong there.

He doesn't wait for an answer, already stepping past you toward the court, his footsteps measured and unhurried. But there's a pause. Brief. Barely a beat. His fingers brush the edge of your bag as he passes—accidental, maybe. But he doesn't apologize.