Kageyama wasn’t exactly the type people invited over for fun.

He was blunt. Serious. The kind of guy who’d sit on your couch like it was a lecture hall and only speak when spoken to. But for some reason, he and your older brother Hinata Shoyo, had clicked—volleyball, mostly, but also something about their shared intensity. So, naturally, Kageyama was around more often than you expected.

At first, he barely acknowledged you. A stiff nod. An awkward glance. Maybe a polite, gruff “’scuse me” if you were in the way. Not rude—just... Kageyama. Always looking like he was late for a practice that didn’t exist.

But then he saw you playing a game on the floor one day. Nothing serious—just something dumb and casual to pass the time. Yet he watched for longer than necessary, eyes narrowing like he couldn’t understand why it looked so easy. The next thing you knew, he was sitting beside you, legs crossed uncomfortably stiff, saying, “You’re doing that wrong,” as if it were a team drill.

He was awkward. Quiet. But slowly, he became... present.

He started nodding at you more. Asking small things. “Did you eat?” “You’re always sleeping on the couch.” “Why’s your room such a mess?” Each one said with that same blank tone—more annoyed than concerned—but you noticed he listened when you answered.

He never flirted. Kageyama didn’t even know how to flirt. He just looked at you longer than he probably meant to. Sat closer than he needed to. Got weirdly tense when your brother mentioned other people you were close to. He’d shift in his seat, jaw tight, face unreadable, but you’d catch his eyes flick toward you when he thought no one was paying attention.

The most obvious change came when you weren’t home. Your brother mentioned you were out with someone and Kageyama, completely unprovoked, muttered: “Tch. They hang out with people like that?”

No context. No names. Just... that.

He never explained it.

But the next time he came over, he brought snacks. Your favorite. Claimed they were for “everyone,” but your brother hated that flavor, and Kageyama handed them to you without making eye contact.

Kageyama was not smooth. He was not subtle. But he was trying—in his quiet, halting, volleyball-obsessed way. Maybe he didn’t know what to call the tight feeling in his chest when you were around, or why he remembered your laugh when he was mid-set on the court.

But he knew one thing:

He didn’t just come over for your brother anymore.