Chapter 104

The afternoon sun poured across the university stadium, turning the polished court into a glowing stage.

Crowds were already filling the bleachers.

They weren’t just there for any match.

They were there for her.

Jennie Kim.

Star player of the university volleyball varsity team, captain, and the kind of athlete people talked about in whispers and admiration. Every time she stepped onto the court, it felt like the air itself shifted—confident strides, sharp focus, and a presence that made even rival teams hesitate.

She rolled her shoulders, bouncing lightly on her feet as she checked her grip on the ball.

“Kim! You’re distracted,” her teammate called.

Jennie smirked without looking away from the opposite side of the court. “I’m not.”

But she was.

Because in the far corner of the bleachers, sitting quietly like she always did, was Lisa.

Her Lisa.

While the stadium roared and cameras flashed toward Jennie, Lisa Manoban sat with a notebook balanced on her lap, glasses slipping slightly down her nose as she scribbled something that looked like equations—or maybe doodles pretending to be equations. She was small in presence but impossible to miss in Jennie’s eyes.

Simple hoodie. Messy hair tied up lazily. A soft focus that made her look like she belonged more in a library than a stadium full of screaming fans.

And yet, Jennie’s entire world tilted toward her every time.

They had been like this since high school.

Jennie, loud without trying, always in the middle of something competitive.

Lisa, quiet, observant, the kind of person who noticed things others missed—like how Jennie always chewed the inside of her cheek before a serve, or how she tapped her fingers twice before receiving a pass.

Back then, no one would’ve believed they fit together.

But they did.

The whistle blew.

The game started.

Jennie snapped into focus instantly.

The first serve came fast—too fast for most—but Jennie moved like instinct itself. She jumped, arms precise, sending the ball back with a sharp spike that hit the floor like thunder.

The crowd erupted.

Lisa didn’t scream.

She never did.

Instead, she quietly closed her notebook for a second, clapping softly with a small smile that only she gave Jennie.

And that was enough.

Set after set, Jennie dominated the court. Every movement was controlled chaos—dives, blocks, spikes that made the opposing team scramble. Her team fed off her energy, but Jennie’s real anchor was always the same.

A glance upward.

A glimpse of Lisa.

Sometimes Lisa was reading.

Sometimes she was watching so intently she forgot to blink.

Sometimes she was just there, hand curled around a pen like it grounded her.

Jennie’s heart always settled a little more when she saw her.

By the final set, the match point was close.

The stadium was deafening.

“Kim! Last play!” her setter shouted.

Jennie wiped sweat from her brow, eyes narrowing across the net. The opposing team was strong, but she had learned something over the years:

Pressure only mattered when you were alone.

And she was never alone.

The ball was set high.

Jennie launched.

For a second, everything slowed—the arc of the ball, the stretch of her arm, the way her hair whipped across her face—

And then impact.

A perfect spike.

The ball slammed down.

Silence.

Then explosion.

The stadium roared so loudly it felt like the ground itself shook.

Jennie landed, breathing hard, staring at the court as the referee blew the final whistle.

Game over.

They won.

Her teammates rushed her instantly, shouting, laughing, pulling her into hugs. But Jennie barely registered it. Her eyes were already searching.

Up.

Bleachers.

Corner seat.

Lisa stood slowly, adjusting her glasses as she closed her notebook completely this time. Their eyes met across the distance.

And Lisa smiled.

Small. Soft. Proud.

Jennie felt her chest loosen in a way no victory ever managed to do.

The crowd was still cheering when Jennie broke away from her team.

“Kim! Where are you going—?” someone called.

But she was already jogging up the steps, ignoring the noise, ignoring the cameras, ignoring everything except the quiet pull in her chest.

Lisa didn’t move from her spot.

She never ran toward crowds.

She never needed to.

Jennie reached her, breath slightly uneven, sweat still on her skin, uniform clinging from the match.

And Lisa looked at her like she wasn’t a star athlete.

Like she was just Jennie.

“You were late on the second set rotation,” Lisa said calmly.

Jennie blinked.

Then laughed.

“That’s your first comment?”

Lisa shrugged lightly. “It was noticeable.”

Jennie stepped closer, lowering her voice. “We won.”

“I saw,” Lisa replied, adjusting her glasses again. “You were… loud today.”

“That’s my normal volume.”

Lisa hummed as if disagreeing but didn’t argue. Instead, she reached into her bag and pulled out a small bottle of water, offering it without ceremony.

Jennie took it, fingers brushing Lisa’s.

That tiny contact—so casual to anyone else—made Jennie’s shoulders finally drop.

“You came,” Jennie said quietly.

Lisa tilted her head. “You sent me three messages reminding me.”

“I was being considerate.”

“You were being anxious.”

Jennie opened her mouth, then closed it again.

Caught.

Lisa’s lips twitched like she was trying not to smile too much. “I had no choice but to come.”

“That sounds dramatic.”

“It is accurate.”

Jennie leaned in slightly, voice softer now that the noise of the crowd felt far away. “Did you bring your notes or just judge my performance?”

Lisa tapped her notebook. “Both.”

Jennie laughed under her breath. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you still like me.”

That line, simple and quiet, landed perfectly.

Jennie’s grin faded into something gentler.

“Yeah,” she said honestly. “A lot.”

For a second, Lisa’s gaze softened in a way she didn’t always let people see. Not classmates. Not professors. Not even the students who tried too hard to get her attention.

Just Jennie.

The crowd below was still celebrating. Flashing lights. Chants of her name.

But up here, it felt like a different world entirely.

Jennie shifted slightly, standing closer, shoulder almost brushing Lisa’s.

“You know they’re going to ask again,” Lisa said suddenly.

Jennie groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

“Media. Interviews. Your teammates asking who you were looking at every time you scored.”

Jennie leaned her head back with a sigh. “I hate interviews.”

“You hate lying more.”

That made her pause.

Because Lisa was right.

They had kept it quiet for years—not because they were ashamed, but because life had always been easier without the noise of everyone else’s opinions. High school was simple. University was louder.

But Jennie was getting tired of pretending her eyes didn’t always find the same person in every crowd.

She looked at Lisa.

“Are you okay with it?” she asked.

Lisa didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, she glanced down at the stadium, then back at Jennie.

“I don’t like attention,” she said honestly. “But I also don’t like hiding forever.”

Jennie nodded slowly.

Lisa closed her notebook fully and slipped it into her bag.

Then, very quietly, she added, “Besides… you always look for me anyway. It’s starting to feel suspicious.”

Jennie let out a laugh, softer this time.

“I can be subtle.”

“You cannot.”

“That’s hurtful.”

Lisa stepped closer—just enough that their shoulders touched.

“Jennie,” she said simply.

“Yeah?”

“You played well.”

It wasn’t loud praise.

It wasn’t dramatic.

But coming from Lisa, it meant everything.

Jennie’s expression softened completely. “That’s it?”

Lisa thought for a second. Then, like it cost her something, she added:

“I’m proud of you.”

Jennie went quiet.

The noise of the stadium blurred again, fading into something distant and unimportant.

She reached for Lisa’s hand—careful, familiar—and laced their fingers together.

“Stay after interviews,” Jennie said.

Lisa raised a brow. “That sounds like a command.”

“It’s a request.”

“A very loud request.”

Jennie smiled. “Please?”

Lisa sighed like she was burdened by the world’s most unreasonable athlete.

“…Fine.”

Jennie squeezed her hand.

Down below, the crowd still chanted her name.

But Jennie didn’t look at them.

Not once.

Because up here, in the quiet corner above the noise, she already had everything she cared about.