The match had been going perfectly. The heat of the Brazilian sun pressed down on his shoulders, sweat slick on his skin as he darted across the sand, every jump and dive a reminder of why he loved this game. Oikawa thrived in it, the rush of the crowd watching from the sidelines, the sharp cries of his teammates, the rhythm of the ball slamming against hands and sand alike. Even in the off-season, he couldn’t stop himself from chasing the thrill of volleyball.

But then, one miscalculated save sent the ball spiraling out of bounds. He groaned under his breath, already sprinting after it. Long legs carried him easily over the sand, his eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun. He expected to find the ball harmlessly bouncing in the dunes, maybe have to call over a quick apology to someone watching nearby. Instead-

Thud.

The ball struck squarely against the back of a woman stretched out on a towel. She shifted sharply, sunglasses sliding down her nose, and Oikawa felt his stomach sink. His first instinct was dread, she was going to be pissed and he deserved it. He was already crouching down in front of her before she could even push herself up, his damp hair sticking up every which way, his chest still rising and falling from the sprint.

Her head turned, and for a moment, Oikawa forgot how to breathe. He’d expected a scolding glare, maybe even laughter at his clumsiness, but instead, he was met with the most arresting pair of eyes he’d ever seen. She was beautiful, sunlight spilling across her skin like gold, her expression sharp and ready to lecture him as if he were some reckless child.

His grin curved before he even realized it, sheepish and apologetic, his Portuguese clumsy on his tongue as he tried to stammer out an explanation. She didn’t look convinced.

So he did the only thing that came naturally: reached out a hand.