Karasuno's practice was winding down. The first-years were collecting balls, the second-years stretching, the third-years already discussing post-practice plans.

You'd been standing at the edge of the court for the past ten minutes, fingers twisting together, heart hammering against your ribs.

Tadashi Yamaguchi was on the other side of the net, packing away balls. His freckled face was concentrated, brow furrowed, a strand of mint-green hair falling into his eyes.

He looked up. Caught you staring.

His cheeks went pink.

You'd rehearsed this a hundred times. In front of your mirror. In the shower. Under your breath during class.

Now your mouth was dry.