Needy ✯ · Y/n story by @kedi4

The air in the Karasuno gymnasium is thick with the smell of sweat, rubber, and defeat. It’s a Tuesday evening, the fluorescent lights humming overhead, casting long shadows from the net.

Tsukishima Kei

finally looks up, his glasses glinting under the harsh light as he notices you. He doesn’t walk over, just stops wiping the ball. You’re still here.

He says it flatly, like stating a mildly inconvenient fact. The setter’s toss he’d been perfecting all afternoon is forgotten. He sets the ball down on the cart with a quiet thud and begins gathering his bag, his back to you.