The gym was a furnace.

Sweat-drenched and pulse-pounding, Bokuto’s body moved on instinct—spike, land, shout, recover. His voice echoed off the walls, rivaling the sound of rubber soles screeching on wood and volleyballs cracking against forearms. His team fed off his energy, and Karasuno, relentless as ever, pushed them to their limits.

But then—fuck.

Everything fucking tilted.

Right as he pivoted to line up another spike, eyes flicking past the blockers—he saw her.

Karasuno’s third manager.

She wasn’t even doing anything special. Just standing by the bench, clipboard in hand, mouth chewing on the end of a pen like she didn’t know what she was doing to him.

He’d seen the other two before—Shimizu, cool as ice, and the new one, Yachi, jittery as a goddamn chihuahua.

But her?

Her.

She didn’t look like she gave a fuck if the team won or lost. She watched everything with this bored sort of curiosity, eyebrows twitching only when things got heated. Her mouth didn’t move much, but when it did, Bokuto swore he saw sarcasm written in the lines of her jaw. The kind of girl who’d call him a dumbass to his face and make it sound like Shakespeare.

And suddenly, he wasn’t in the game anymore.

His spike soared, alright.

Right out of bounds.

---

They lost the third set. Not by much. But enough.

Bokuto sat slumped on the bench, towel over his head, trying to not scream. His sweat-drenched shirt clung to his back, his knees spread wide, elbows on thighs. Akaashi sat on the bench across from him, unwrapping tape from his fingers with surgical precision. Quiet. Observant. Until he wasn’t.

“You’re off.”

Bokuto groaned.

“I said,” Akaashi repeated, tone flat but dangerous, “you’re fucking off, Bokuto-san.”

“I know, I know,” Bokuto grumbled from under the towel. “Don’t rub it in, man. I fucking know.”

“Your spikes are going too sharp,” Akaashi continued, voice calm like he was dissecting a body, “which is why they keep sailing out. You’re over-rotating your wrist.”

“I know, damn it,” Bokuto snapped, yanking the towel off his head and chucking it at the locker. “I’m not fucking blind!”

“Then why the hell are you doing it?” Akaashi asked sharply, leaning forward, brows furrowing. “You’ve never been this distracted. What’s going on?”

There was a beat.

Then Bokuto ran both hands through his sweat-slicked hair, still panting like a dog, and muttered, “Fuuuuuck...”

Akaashi raised an eyebrow.

Bokuto inhaled.

“I’m fucked, Keiji.”

“Oh god.”

“No, like—I’m fucked. Totally. Irrevocably. Thoroughly. I saw her and now my brain’s just—gone.”

Akaashi blinked once. “Who?”

“Karasuno’s manager.”

“We’ve met Shimizu-san before—”

“No, not her. The other other one. The new-new one. The one standing by the bench with the pen in her mouth. Looked like she didn’t give a single shit about the game, but somehow saw everything.”

Akaashi gave a slow blink. “You're telling me you sabotaged your own spike because of a girl?”

“I’m telling you I can’t think straight because my dick and my brain are having a custody battle over my body right now,” Bokuto spat, gripping the edge of the bench like it owed him money. “Did you see her? No, fuck, of course you didn’t, you were playing like a normal human being. But I saw her. I saw her and suddenly volleyball didn't make fucking sense anymore.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m not!” Bokuto said, jumping to his feet, pacing in the cramped locker room. “She’s hot in a menacing way. Like, she’d ruin my life but also reorganize my planner and call me stupid while doing it. You know that vibe?”

“No,” Akaashi said flatly, “I don’t.”

“She looked at me once. Once, Keiji. And my fucking soul levitated.”

Akaashi pressed his palms together like he was praying for patience. “So let me get this straight—you tanked our last two spikes because of a manager from the opposing team?”

“She’s not just a manager,” Bokuto said, wild-eyed. “She’s a vision. A curse. A test from the gods to humble me.”

“She’s a high school student with a clipboard,” Akaashi deadpanned. “And if I’m being honest, you sound unwell.”

Bokuto flopped back onto the bench like a corpse. “I think I want to ask her out.”

Akaashi actually choked on his water bottle.

“Are you—you just met her!”

“I didn’t even meet her!” Bokuto yelled, arms flailing. “I just saw her! Which is worse, somehow!”

Akaashi stared at him, a look of secondhand embarrassment blooming in real time.

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Yeah,” Bokuto agreed. “But I’m motivated. I’m gonna find out her name. And then I’m gonna talk to her.”

“You don’t even know if she’s single.”

“I don’t even care. She breathes in a way that makes me want to rearrange my life.”

Akaashi ran a hand down his face. “God help her.”

Bokuto looked up at the ceiling like it held the answers. “She probably thinks I’m a dumbass.”

“She’s not wrong.”

“But like... do you think dumbass is her type?”

Akaashi grabbed his bag and stood. “I’m not indulging this anymore.”

“Wait, wait—hear me out,” Bokuto said, scrambling to follow him. “What if—what if—we run into Karasuno again during regionals, and by then I’ve fixed my spikes, and she sees me actually nail it, and then I like, casually toss her a towel or some shit—”

“She’s not a fucking retriever, Bokuto-san.”

“—and then I ask her to grab coffee and she rolls her eyes but still says yes because underneath it all, she wants to see if I’m more than just a loud idiot.”

“You’re going to scare her.”

“Or seduce her with my intensity.”

Akaashi stopped in the hallway and looked Bokuto dead in the eyes. “Just promise me one thing.”

“Yeah?”

“If you’re gonna crash and burn, at least take Karasuno down with you.”

Bokuto grinned, full and feral.

“Oh, I’ll take them down, alright.”

He slung his towel over his shoulders, eyes already lit with reckless, romantic delusion.

“And then I’m takin’ her out.”