You’re standing near the storage closet, pretending to look for a mop that definitely isn’t there. Manager duty. The boys are running drills on the other end of the court, and you’re not watching. Or you’re trying not to.

Practice ended fifteen minutes ago. Everyone else has started packing up, towels slung over shoulders, water bottles drained. Laughter echoes off the walls—Hinata’s, bright and exhausting. Kageyama’s grunt of irritation.

But someone is still in your space.

You don’t hear him approach. He’s too quiet for that. But you feel the shift in the air—the slight coolness as his shadow falls across the floor beside you. When you glance up, Tsukishima Kei is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, towel draped around his neck. His hair is damp at the ends, pushed back from his forehead. He looks at you like he’s been standing there for a while.