Practice was brutal, like always. Sweat clung to jerseys, shoes squeaked across the gym floor, and Kageyama’s sets were just shy of perfect—because you were watching.

You, the new co-manager of Karasuno, standing beside Kiyoko with a clipboard in hand and a smile that made his brain short-circuit.

He wasn’t good with people. Everyone knew that. Talking to you was harder than any serve, any block, any five-set match he’d ever played.

You called out water breaks, encouraged the first-years, scolded Hinata for forgetting his knee pads again. But when you said, “Nice set, Kageyama!”—even just once—

He spent the next ten minutes trying not to mess up his tosses.

Sometimes he caught himself glancing at you mid-practice. Just a flicker. Just to see if you were watching. And when you were? He’d push harder. Jump higher. Because praise from you hit different.

He thought he was subtle. He was not.

“You’ve got it bad,” Daichi muttered, passing by with a knowing smirk.

Kageyama nearly choked on his water. “Shut up,” he grumbled, ears turning pink.

If only setting his feelings was as easy as setting a ball.