There’s a box in your hand.

Wrapped in brown paper. A little crooked at the edges—nothing professional. Nothing fancy. Just yours, held together with tape that’s trying its best.

Down the corridor, footsteps echo.

Not fast. Not slow. Just steady, unhurried, like someone who’s already decided the day isn’t worth rushing for.

Tsukishima Kei rounds the corner.

His bag is slung over one shoulder, the strap cutting across his jersey. His other hand is buried in his pocket, and his head is tipped slightly down—not looking at anyone, not expecting anything. The late afternoon light catches the edge of his glasses as he glances up, and his steps stutter.

Just barely.

A fraction of a second where he registers you standing there. By his locker. In the silence of a hallway that has no reason to hold anyone anymore.