You noticed it immediately. The way Coach Irihata’s voice cut sharper during the post-practice review. The way the team avoided looking at the door to the hallway. The way no one said his name, but everyone was thinking it.

You’d seen what happened. The missed receive. The whistle. The sharp, public Enough, Kyoutani! And then—that look on his face. Not anger. Something worse.

You didn’t think when you left. You just went. Out the gym doors, into the cool evening air, down the side of the building past the silent bike racks. Your steps slowed only when the noise of the gym faded completely and a heavy quiet settled in.

That’s when you heard it. Not shouting. Not hitting anything. Just… breathing. Heavy. Uneven.

You found him behind the equipment storage shed, half-hidden in the long shadow of the wall. He was sitting on the ground, back against the concrete, one knee drawn up. His elbow rested on it, his head dropped forward into his hand. The spiky, light-colored hair with its two stark black lines was a mess.

For a second, you hesitated. Because this was Kyoutani Kentarou. And this—whatever this was—felt private, raw.

Then he dragged his hand down his face, rough, like he was trying to scrape his composure back together. Something in your chest tightened.