The smell of incense and old wood is the first thing I notice when I walk in.
Gojo-kun's house is... well, it's exactly how I imagined a traditional craftsman's house would be. Quiet, orderly, and full of eyes watching you.
"Sorry for the intrusion," Hinata says, taking off his sneakers at the entrance and lining them up perfectly next to mine.
He bows deeply toward the empty hallway, even though Gojo's grandfather is in the other room.
I glance at Hinata sideways. He's wearing street clothes (jeans and a black hoodie), and he looks strangely... normal. Without the gym uniform and without the ball, he looks like any other guy.
But then he looks up and sees the Hina dolls displayed in the glass case in the foyer.
I expected him to make a comment like "how scary" or "why are there so many?". That's what everyone says.
Hinata approaches the glass, hands behind his back, respectful.
"They have a lot of presence," he whispers, as if he doesn't want to wake them. "It feels like walking onto a court full of veterans. They're judging you."
Gojo, who was coming to greet us with tea trays, stops dead in his tracks. His eyes go wide.
"You... you feel that?" Gojo asks, his voice trembling.
Hinata turns and smiles at him.
"Of course. Someone put a lot of time and soul into those faces. You can tell. Your grandfather is a master, right?"
Gojo nods frantically, red with pride.
I feel a pang in my chest. There it is again. That irritating and wonderful ability Hinata has to say exactly what the other person needs to hear, without faking it, just being honest.
"Well," I say, breaking the moment before Gojo starts crying. "We came to work! The Empire needs uniforms, but Shizuku-tan needs her body!"
We go up to Gojo's room.
It's an impressive workspace. Fabrics, threads, sketches. And now, thanks to my "management," there's also a whiteboard with volleyball tactics in a corner.
We get to work.
Gojo enters what I call "Zen Mode." He sits in front of the sewing machine and the world disappears. His large hands move with a delicacy that hypnotizes me.
I sit on the floor with the dark purple wig on a stand, trying to detangle it carefully.
Hinata doesn't sit. He looks around.
"How can I help?" he asks.
Gojo looks up, confused.
"Uh... you're the guest, Hinata. And the captain. You don't have to..."
"I can't sit still," Hinata admits, laughing. "And my hands need to do something or I'll start practicing serves with your cushions. Give me work, Artisan."
Gojo hesitates, but then points to a pile of black fabric (the lining for my dress).
"That needs to be ironed to mark the seams before sewing. Do you know how to use an iron?"
"I live alone with my mom and little sister. I'm a black belt in ironing," Hinata says, grabbing the iron.
And that's how we spend the next two hours.
The rhythmic sound of Gojo's sewing machine (takataka-takataka) mixes with the hiss of steam from Hinata's iron (psshhh).
I watch them while adjusting the red contacts in my eyes in front of a hand mirror.
It's... domestic.
Hinata irons with the same intensity with which he receives a ball. His face is furrowed in concentration. He smoothes the fabric, passes the iron, checks for wrinkles. He doesn't do it fast to finish; he does it right.
"He treats everything with respect," I think. "His sport, his friends, my outfit, even a piece of cheap fabric."
"Ready," I announce, blinking to get my eyes used to the red lenses. "I'm going to try on the wig."
I put on the heavy wig. I adjust the straight bangs. I put on the black lace choker Gojo finished yesterday.
I look at myself in the full-length mirror in the corner.
The girl staring back isn't Marin Kitagawa. She has purple hair, red eyes, and a gothic expression.
It's Shizuku-tan. Or at least, an attempt at her.
I feel... nervous. I always feel nervous at this point. Do I look ridiculous? Is it just a girl playing dress-up or is it the character?
I turn to the boys.
"Well?" I ask, posing with my hands on my waist, trying to project confidence. "Verdict?"
Gojo stops the machine. He adjusts his glasses.
"The bangs need a two-millimeter trim on the left side," he says, purely technical. "And the choker is a little loose on you, I have to adjust the clasp. But the hair fall is correct."
I smile. I love Gojo and his perfectionism.
Then I look at Hinata.
He has put down the iron. He is standing, arms crossed, staring at me.
He says nothing. His brown eyes scan the wig, the red lenses, the attitude.
I tense up. Why isn't he speaking? Does he think it's stupid?
"What?" I ask, and my voice comes out a little higher pitched than I wanted. "Do I look weird?"
Hinata tilts his head.
"You look... dangerous," he says.
I blink.
"Dangerous?"
"Yeah." Hinata takes a step forward, never breaking eye contact. "You don't look like you. You're not the nice manager anymore. You have that look... that 'Final Boss' look. Like you're going to step onto the court and you know you're going to crush the other team without breaking a sweat."
A half-smile draws on his face.
"You command respect. It's cool."
I feel the blood rushing to my face at an alarming speed.
He didn't tell me I look "cute." He didn't tell me I look "sexy" (which is what guys on social media say when they see Shizuku-tan).
He told me I look strong. That I command respect.
My heart makes a treacherous sound against my ribs. Ba-dump.
"I-idiot," I stammer, looking away and touching my bangs to hide my face. "It's the character. Shizuku-tan is like that."
"Well, it suits your face," he says, going back to his iron as if he hadn't just completely disarmed me. "Let me know when the outfit is ready. I want to see how you scare the rivals with that."
I drop onto the cushion, fanning myself with my hand.
I look at Gojo, who continues sewing happily, oblivious to my internal crisis. Then I look at Hinata's back, still ironing my fabric with absolute dedication.
I bite my lower lip.
This is a problem.
A short, orange-haired, volleyball-obsessed problem.
The Emperor isn't just recruiting players. I think he just conquered something more important, and he hasn't even realized it.
"Hey, Hinata," I call out, trying to make my voice sound normal.
"Hm?"
"When we finish... are you buying me another strawberry juice?"
Hinata turns and smiles at me. That sunny smile that should be illegal.
"Sure. But you're paying for the meat buns."
I smile back, feeling my cheeks still burning.
"Deal, Emperor."