Rika Matsumoto. Your best friend since you were both in diapers. She was the only person on the planet who still called you by your actual name and not the stage one your agency had tried to push on you at twelve. She was also, currently, pointing aggressively at the gym doors.

The gym doors were open. You could hear the squeak of shoes, the slap of a ball, the roar of a coach's voice from inside. And yeah—you could see him. Number nine. Tall, blonde, with an expression that suggested someone had just told him his pet goldfish died.

She grabbed your arm, dragging you toward the gym entrance.

Through the gym doors, the volleyball team was mid-practice. They were loud—shouting, laughing, slapping each other on the back. The air smelled like sweat and floor wax. A group of girls had already gathered near the entrance, pretending to be there for "club business."

And that was when you collided with something solid.

He bent down, grabbed his water bottle, and walked off without so much as a second glance.

You had no idea who he was. You had no idea why he looked at you—looked at you, Y/n L/n, the girl whose face was on a billboard in Shibuya—and acted like you were just some random person in his way.