The silence from breakfast clung to you like a second skin, heavy and suffocating. Kuroo hadn't said a word, not a glance, not even one of his usual teasing remarks. Just the scrape of his chair against the floor as he'd left the dining hall without waiting for you.
And still, his absence sat louder than anything else.
Your chest was tight, thoughts spinning like a ball you couldn't keep in play. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him again jaw tense, shoulders rigid, the storm in his eyes barely held back. You weren't sure if you were angry at him, or at yourself for wanting so badly to chase after him.
That was when you felt it warmth brushing against your hand.
Oikawa.
He was walking beside you, his steps easy, his smile softer than usual, as though he could sense the knots in your chest. His fingers grazed yours once, then again, and before you could stop yourself, you let the contact linger.
It was comforting. Simple. Safe.
And yet, it confused you even more.
"Don't think so hard," Oikawa murmured, his tone playful but edged with something more. "You'll wear yourself out before we even get on the court."
You forced a laugh, shaking your head, but it felt hollow. Because he was right you were already tired. Not from practice, but from the weight of what you weren't saying. From the silence that seemed to follow you no matter where you went.
By the time you stepped into the gym, the air felt different. Heavy. Like the walls themselves knew the storm waiting to break.
You grabbed a ball, trying to focus, but your hands trembled slightly, betraying you. The court blurred at the edges, your body going through the motions while your mind was somewhere else entirely back at breakfast, back with Kuroo, back in the silence that was somehow louder than anything Oikawa could ever say.
And though you forced yourself to square your shoulders and breathe, the truth clawed at you anyway:
You weren't ready for practice.
Not with this storm brewing.
You could already feel it low in your stomach, thrumming in the air like the charge before lightning. The gym smelled of varnished wood and sweat, the usual soundtrack of bouncing balls and squeaking shoes filling the space, but none of it grounded you.
Your body moved, but your head wasn't here. Toss, set, catch. Toss, set, catch. The rhythm should've been second nature by now, something steady you could fall back on. But your palms were slick, your breath uneven, every toss drifting just a little too high, every catch a little too late.
It wasn't practice weighing on you. It was everything else.
The memory of Kuroo's silence at breakfast stuck like splinters, pricking every time you replayed it. You'd grown used to his voice filling every empty pocket of your day sarcasm, jokes, even half-baked advice. And now? Nothing. Just absence. And maybe that was worse than anger.
Then there was Oikawa. Always there. Always smiling, leaning just close enough to catch your attention, his energy like sunlight you wanted to step into except it only highlighted the shadow looming behind it.
You knew Oikawa noticed. He wasn't dumb. Every brush of his hand against yours, every small laugh he drew from you felt deliberate, like he was trying to pull you out of a place he couldn't see but somehow knew existed. He didn't ask for more, not yet, but he didn't need to. His confidence filled the gaps your silence left behind.
And you caught between the two of them felt like the court beneath your feet wasn't solid anymore.
Your gaze flicked toward the entrance, unbidden. Half-hoping. Half-dreading.
Because the storm hadn't arrived yet. But you knew the second he walked through those doors, everything your focus, your pulse, your balance would shift.
And you weren't sure if you were ready for the impact.
A ball skidded past your fingers, bouncing toward the wall. You moved to chase it, but Oikawa was already there, scooping it up with the easy grace that came from years of control. He spun it once in his hands before tossing it back to you, his smile quick but knowing.
"Careful," he teased lightly, voice pitched low so only you could hear. "You're distracted. Thinking about me?"
Your cheeks heated before you could stop them, and Oikawa's grin widened, the smugness softened by something almost tender. He stepped closer, the edge of his shoulder brushing yours. "If you are, I won't complain."
The warmth of him—his nearness, his ease should've been grounding. Instead, it made your chest twist tighter. Because behind his words, another voice still echoed in your head. Rough. Unsteady. A name broken on his lips.
You blinked hard, fingers tightening around the ball, and Oikawa tilted his head, searching your face. "Hey," he said quietly, dropping the theatrics for a breath, "don't get lost in your head, okay? You're here. With me." Your throat bobbed as you tried to swallow the lump rising there. You wanted to answer, to let his words steady you but before you could, the gym doors creaked open.
And just like that, the air shifted.
Kuroo.
His steps weren't hurried, but the weight of them was enough to ripple through the space. His gaze cut across the court, sharp and assessing, landing on you lingering. Too long. Long enough that your pulse stuttered, the ball slipping slightly in your grip.
The fragile rhythm of practice fractured in an instant.
Balls still flew, shoes still squeaked against the polished floor, but the balance was gone. Kuroo's presence shifted everything like a storm cloud edging across an otherwise bright sky.
He slid into drills without a word, his movements sharp, precise, almost too controlled. But it didn't last. You saw it in the smallest cracks: a set mistimed, a pass he should've nailed slipping wide. His jaw tightened each time, irritation sparking hotter, but you knew it wasn't about the ball.
It was about Oikawa.
Because when Oikawa laughed light, charming, with that little tilt of his head that always seemed effortless Kuroo's eyes flicked toward him like a blade. And when you found yourself smiling in response, unable to help it, Kuroo's gaze cut to you, sharp enough to pin you in place.
Your breath hitched.
You dropped your eyes, forcing focus on the drill in front of you, but the tension didn't ease. It only wound tighter.
The next rotation put Kuroo and Oikawa across from each other. Oikawa called a play, quick and fluid, but when the ball sailed toward him, Kuroo shifted just enough subtle, almost unnoticeable to force Oikawa into an awkward catch. The thud of the ball echoed louder than it should have.
"Oi, Kuroo!" someone barked, but he only shrugged, lips quirking like it didn't matter. Like it hadn't been intentional.
But you saw it. You saw all of it.
And it wasn't just Oikawa he was pushing against.
When the drills changed again, you found yourself paired near Oikawa. He leaned in mid-play, whispering some joke under his breath that pulled an unexpected laugh out of you brief, nervous, but real. The sound hadn't even faded before you felt it: the weight of Kuroo's stare. Heavy. Cutting.
Your chest squeezed. Part of you wanted to step in, to stop whatever fire was building between them before it burned too hot. But another part somewhere deeper, quieter froze. Because this wasn't just jealousy. This was something more dangerous. Something raw.
And you weren't sure which side of the storm you belonged to.
The whistle blew, sending everyone back into motion, but the undercurrent didn't fade it only grew heavier. Each serve, each pass, each rotation carried an edge that didn't belong in the rhythm of the game.
It wasn't just you who noticed anymore.
Yaku muttered under his breath when Kuroo barked an unnecessary correction. Kenma's eyes lingered longer than usual, catching the weight in the air without saying a word. Even the newer players shifted uneasily, glancing between captains like they weren't sure whose lead to follow.
But no one said it outright. Not yet.
Oikawa, of course, didn't back down. If anything, he leaned harder into his charm, laughing louder, tossing comments that landed just close enough to you for everyone to notice. His smile never slipped, but you saw the way his gaze kept flicking to Kuroo, sharp beneath the surface.
And Kuroo he played like someone wound too tight. His movements were still good, skilled, but off. Just enough to throw the flow. A spike that went wide. A pass that came too low. Every mistake, a crack in his mask, every glare at Oikawa a warning.
"Focus!" the coach snapped finally, blowing the whistle hard. The sound sliced through the air, but it didn't fix the problem. Not really. You could feel it in the way the team shuffled back into position, eyes a little too wide, silence pressing too heavy between drills.
It wasn't practice anymore. It was a battlefield with a net in the middle.
And somehow, you were standing in the crossfire.
The ball ricocheted off Kuroo's hand too hard, bouncing off the wall with a hollow thud. The whistle blew again, shrill and angry, but this time it wasn't enough to reel him back. His jaw was set, his chest heaving, eyes fixed on Oikawa like he'd been waiting for the chance.
"Captain," Oikawa's voice cut through the silence, smooth but edged like glass. He caught the ball one-handed, spinning it with almost mocking ease. "If you're going to keep missing your marks, maybe you should sit out. Wouldn't want the team's performance dragged down by… personal issues."
The words hung there, deliberate. Too sharp to be mistaken for casual.
Your stomach dropped.
Kuroo froze, his shoulders going rigid. "Personal issues?" he repeated, voice low, dangerous.
Oikawa didn't flinch. He stepped forward, his grin wide, but his eyes hard. "Come on, Kuroo. Everyone sees it. You're so busy glaring at me, you can't even keep up your own play. It's pathetic."
Gasps rippled through the gym. Teammates froze mid-step. Kenma's eyes flicked between the two like he was calculating how fast he could grab you and drag you out before it exploded.
"Watch your mouth," Kuroo snapped, voice rising now, raw with something he couldn't quite hold back. He took a step forward, and you could practically feel the court tremble with it. "You think this is a game? You waltz in here like you own the place, like you own—"
He stopped dead, the word choking in his throat. His fists clenched at his sides.
Oikawa's smirk deepened, sensing the crack. "Like I own what? Or should I say who?"
Your heart slammed in your chest.
"That's enough!" Coach's voice boomed, the whistle shrieking again as if it could slice the tension in half. "Practice is over. Everyone out now."
But no one moved. Not really. The team lingered, silent, the weight of what just nearly came out hanging heavier than the whistle's echo. And you—your feet were rooted to the floor, your breath caught somewhere between panic and something dangerously close to understanding. Because for a second just a second you thought Kuroo had been about to say your name.
The sound of the whistle shattered the moment. Shrill. Final.
"That's it." Coach's voice thundered across the gym, sharp and unyielding. "Practice is over. I won't have this circus on my court. Everyone out. Now."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Sneakers squeaked halfheartedly against the polished floor, teammates shifting awkwardly, exchanging glances they didn't dare voice out loud. Nobody knew where to look at Oikawa's cool smirk, at Kuroo's clenched fists, or at you, standing frozen in the middle of it all.
You kept your head down, but it didn't stop the weight of their stares from pressing against your skin.
The air was thick with something worse than anger disappointment, confusion, the kind of tension that sank into the walls. Kenma lingered by the bench, quietly slipping his phone into his pocket, his eyes meeting yours for a brief second. It wasn't judgment, but… worry. He knew. He always knew.
Guilt twisted in your stomach. This wasn't supposed to happen. None of it. And yet, you couldn't shake the echo of that almost-word, the syllable caught in Kuroo's throat before Coach cut him off.
Your name. You were sure of it.
Your chest tightened, a war raging beneath your ribs. Guilt for being the reason their rivalry had reached this breaking point. Worry for the way Kuroo's shoulders had stiffened, like he was seconds away from fracturing completely. And something else too, something you didn't want to name but couldn't deny.
Desire. Not the simple kind, but the aching one that made your heart race whenever his eyes locked on you, sharp and burning, even now when he refused to look your way.
You wanted to fix it. To step across the invisible line between you, place your hand on his, and drag him back before he slipped further into this mess. But your feet wouldn't move.
The scrape of chairs and the shuffle of bodies filled the gym as everyone gathered their things, the heavy silence broken only by the sound of Oikawa's voice as he chuckled under his breath. "Tense, isn't it?"
The words weren't loud, but they cut all the same.
Kuroo didn't respond. He grabbed his towel, jaw locked, eyes fixed anywhere but you. And somehow, that silence, that refusal hurt more than if he'd yelled.
The gym emptied, but the heaviness stayed, clinging to your skin like sweat. And you were left standing in it, the weight of everything unsaid pressing harder than any drill, any match, any loss ever could.
Because this wasn't about volleyball anymore.
This was about him.
No matter how hard you tried to convince yourself otherwise, your heart had already chosen its battlefield. And it terrified you.
The gym's heavy doors slammed shut behind you, and the cool evening air rushed in like a reprieve. You sucked in a breath, but it didn't ease the ache in your chest. Your pulse still pounded in your ears, echoing the tension you'd just walked out of.
"Y/n."
You turned to find Oikawa leaning casually against the railing, his bag slung over one shoulder, hair still damp with sweat. His smile was softer than usual, the teasing dimmed to something almost gentle. "Rough practice, huh?"
You huffed a weak laugh, hugging your arms to yourself. "That's one way to put it."
He studied you for a beat, his eyes sharper than his easy grin let on. Then, with a theatrical sigh, he reached out and flicked the side of your arm. "Hey. Don't go carrying all that weight by yourself. If Kuroo wants to throw a tantrum, that's his problem. You don't have to wear it."
The words landed like a small balm against the rawness inside you.
Oikawa's tone lightened as he continued, playful again. "Besides, what's the point of me being this charming if you're going to waste your energy frowning? My fans would riot if they saw you ignoring me like this."
Despite yourself, a small laugh slipped free, loosening the tight coil in your chest for just a moment. He grinned at the sound, nudging your shoulder as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "There it is. Much better."
You let the comfort settle, warm but fleeting because even as Oikawa's presence eased the sharp edges of your thoughts, another voice lingered. A cracked whisper of your name. A storm-dark stare.
And before you could shove the thought away, the gym doors opened again.
Your stomach dropped.
Kuroo stepped out, his stride sharp, shoulders tense, his presence heavy enough to still the air around you. His eyes landed on Oikawa's hand brushing against your sleeve, on the way you were angled toward him, and then on you.
That glare.
It wasn't just jealousy. It was fire, raw and lethal, the kind of look that pinned you in place like you'd just betrayed something you hadn't even promised. Your breath caught in your throat. Oikawa shifted beside you, but Kuroo didn't look away, not from him, not from you.
And in that moment, under the weight of his stare, you knew this wasn't over.
Not even close.
The silence stretched, taut and dangerous, until it felt like even the night air had gone still.
Oikawa, never one to be cowed, leaned casually against the railing again, his grin returning like armor. "Relax, Kuroo. We're just talking. Don't look so scary—you'll give Y/n the wrong idea."
The words were light, teasing on the surface, but there was an edge to them—a deliberate poke at a wound they both knew existed.
Your chest tightened, heat crawling up your neck.
Kuroo didn't answer. He didn't need to. The way his eyes burned into Oikawa, then flicked to you and lingered accusing, possessive, almost desperate said more than any words could. And in that suffocating silence, caught between their stares, you realized you weren't just standing in the middle of a rivalry.
You were the spark.
The weight of it pressed down on you, hot and unbearable. Your pulse thundered, waiting for someone to break it, to move, to say anything—
But no one did.
And the moment fractured there, suspended on the edge of something inevitable, leaving you breathless in its wake.