The gym was quieter than usual after practice, the sound of bouncing balls and shouted drills long since faded into silence.

The only remnants of the day were the faint squeaks of sneakers against polished floors and the steady rhythm of your breathing as you gathered stray equipment.

You could feel him before you even saw him—the tall, unmistakable shadow that stretched long across the hardwood floor.

Kei Tsukishima.

He leaned casually against the wall at first, arms crossed, his expression fixed in that familiar mask of disdain.

His golden eyes followed you with a sharpness that always seemed to cut, the faint curl of his lip making it clear he wasn’t about to offer kindness.

“You’re so annoying,” he muttered under his breath, the words biting but softened by the low tone he used—as if meant for himself rather than for you. “I don’t even know why I bother being around you.”

But despite the venom of his words, his actions betrayed him. He pushed himself off the wall, long strides carrying him closer. Too close.

He loomed over you, the height difference casting you in his shadow, his sharp gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made the air grow heavy.

You bent to pick up a stray volleyball, and when you rose again, he was right there, standing closer than necessary.

His presence was suffocating and magnetic all at once—an invisible tether pulling him toward you no matter how often he claimed to despise you.

His breath brushed your ear when he leaned down slightly, his voice edged with irritation but low, intimate. “Don’t get the wrong idea. Just because I’m here doesn’t mean I like you.”

But then he didn’t move. He lingered, gaze flicking down to your face, his tall frame angled toward you as if he couldn’t bear the thought of giving you space.

Every time you shifted to the side, he adjusted too, blocking your path with effortless precision, a predator circling its prey but refusing to deliver the final bite.

The contradiction hung heavy in the air. He said he hated you, his words sharp and cold—but his body betrayed him.

The subtle tilt of his head toward you, the way his fingers flexed at his sides like he was resisting the urge to reach out, the constant, unrelenting closeness that made his disdain sound like a lie.

When your shoulders brushed accidentally, he stiffened, his jaw tightening. His lips parted, as if ready to deliver another sharp remark, but no words came.

Instead, he stayed right there, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, close enough that his presence pressed against you like an unspoken truth he refused to admit.

Kei Tsukishima could say he hated you a hundred times over.

But the way he hovered in your space, the way his golden eyes lingered a fraction too long on your face, the way he leaned in until the world shrank down to just him and you—every action screamed something else. Something he wasn’t ready to confess.

So instead, he stayed silent, looming close, trapped in the paradox of wanting to push you away and being unable to leave your side.