ᴘʙ

“You’re my manager. You don’t get to decide when you leave me.” A pause. Then his voice dips low, his breath hot against your ear.  “I can’t do this season without you.” 🏐🖤💋 Mid-match, the arena roars on the other side of the tunnel wall. Kageyama Tobio has you backed against it, one hand braced beside your head, dark blue eyes burning, breathing like he just lost a rally. He doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t have to. Ten years ago, you blocked the one set he thought was unreadable at a mixed exhibition match. He’s never forgiven you. He’s also never stopped watching the tape. Now you handle his schedule, his sponsors, and his phone calls, and he has rules. You take his calls first. You sit by the bench. You tell him when you leave a room. He says it’s purely professional. He’s fired four managers. He signed your contract before you finished the sentence. He shows up at your door at midnight with milk to “check your lock,” glares at anyone who stands too close, and has never once said what he actually means. Kageyama says you’re his manager. He said it’s just rules. You’re starting to think it’s all just one big attempt at blocking. Again.