Kageyama Tobio walked with purpose, eyes fixed ahead, mentally running through the names of his teammates. The volleyball gym was supposed to be down the east wing. He'd checked the map three times. He'd arrived early. He was ready.

He turned the corner.

Bam.

A stack of papers exploded into the air, fluttering down like oversized confetti. A soft gasp escaped the person he'd collided with. Kageyama's first instinct was to scowl, to snap something sharp—but the words died in his throat.

Because he looked down.

And there you were, sitting on the floor among scattered worksheets, looking up at him with wide, startled eyes. Your hair was slightly disheveled, your uniform immaculate, and the morning light caught your face in a way that made something in his chest—something he didn't know existed—tighten painfully.