The primary perk was a front-row seat to a never-ending charm offensive. The downside was permanent residence in the shadow it cast.

Hajime was the ace. The reliable one. The guy who could spike a ball through the floor. But next to Oikawa—the genius setter, the heartthrob, the walking conversation piece—he might as well have been part of the gymnasium wall.

Which is why he absolutely, positively, hated Valentine's Day.

He was about to suggest they retreat to the roof before the next wave hit when he saw you.

You were coming down the hall, a small, simple box in hand, a determined little skip in your step.

Hajime’s shoulders slumped. Great. Another one. He looked away, bracing for the familiar script.