A week had passed since the match.
Gojo Namena sat cross-legged on the floor of the music room, back resting against the wall, watching as Hinata Aoki played the piano. The sun filtered through the tall windows, casting golden streaks across the polished floor. Her fingers moved like water over the keys, smooth and deliberate. The melody was warm, hopeful — the kind of sound that could slow time.
He still couldn't believe it — she was his girlfriend now.
He tilted his head, admiring her not just for her beauty, but the calm she carried, the way she turned feelings into sound. "Where'd you learn that one?" he asked, chin resting on his palm.
Hinata didn't stop playing. She glanced at him with a shy smile. "I wrote it."
Gojo straightened. "Wait… you wrote that?"
"It's called Heartline," she said. "I started it the day after we first talked. And... I finished it after the game."
Gojo's eyes widened. "Seriously?"
She nodded, fingers still moving across the keys. "It helped me sort through everything I was feeling."
Gojo stood slowly, walking toward her like approaching something sacred. "You're incredible."
Hinata gave a small shrug, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "I just turned everything I couldn't say into music."
She played the final note gently, and the room was wrapped in silence.
Gojo sat beside her on the bench, close enough that their shoulders brushed. The scent of her — faint vanilla and something floral — settled into him like comfort.
"Want to hear what I've been working on?" he asked.
Hinata raised an eyebrow, amused. "Let me guess — your footwork?"
Gojo grinned. "Nope." He reached out and tapped a piano key awkwardly. "I've been trying to learn the one song that made me fall in love."
Hinata blinked, startled, then let out a laugh — light, bright, like bells in springtime.
"Seriously?" she said.
"I mean… I suck. But yeah." His smile turned soft. "It's stupid, but I thought, if I could just play that one song you were humming that day in the hallway... maybe you'd feel what I felt."
She looked down at their hands resting on the piano — his slightly calloused from football, hers delicate from years of practice. Quietly, her fingers slid over his.
"I already felt it," she whispered.
Their eyes met. And in that look — no fireworks, no fanfare — just something simple and true. A connection that didn't need to be loud to be real.
Hinata gently lifted his hand and placed it on the keys. "Then let's learn it together."
They spent the next hour hunched over the piano, laughing at his fumbling, her correcting him with patient smiles and soft guidance. Outside, the school grew quieter as afternoon gave way to evening, but inside the music room, time slowed to a rhythm of its own.
And as their hands moved together — her music blending with his effort — something began to grow:
Not just love, but partnership.
Not just a song, but a shared future.
It wasn't the end of a story.
It was the opening line of a new one.
A story written in both music and movement.
A story traced along the same heartline.