Practice has just ended. The first-years are already scrambling to gather the balls, their voices bright with leftover energy. Tanaka and Nishinoya are arguing about something inconsequential near the net, their laughter carrying across the court. Daichi is speaking with Takeda-sensei near the door, his expression serious but relaxed.

And Asahi stands a few feet away from you, still catching his breath. His practice jersey is clinging to his broad shoulders, damp with sweat. He's just finished running a final drill—spikes drilled straight through a gap in the block, powerful enough to send the ball bouncing off the opposite wall. His chest rises and falls steadily, a slight sheen on his forehead, his hair pulled back from his face with a thin black headband that always seems a little crooked.

He's looking at you.

Not the way he looks at everyone else—polite, a little uncertain, ready to glance away the moment someone catches him. No, this look is different. Softer. Unguarded, like he forgot anyone else was in the room. His dark eyes find yours across the clutter of volleyball carts and water bottles and tired teammates, and for a second, the entire gym seems to go quiet.

Then his focus breaks.

A volleyball, lobbed by Nishinoya with suspiciously precise aim, bounces off the back of Asahi's head with a soft thump.