After practice, Tsukishima slipped into the restroom to wash his glasses. As he rinsed the lenses under the faucet, he paused—there was a faint, shaky sound behind him.

Crying.

He clicked off the water and walked to the nearest stall, knocking once. “...Hey. You okay?”

A small sniff was the only answer.

Tsukishima sighed, softer than usual. “I can hear you. Open the door?”

You hesitated, then the lock clicked. When you stepped out with red eyes, he didn’t tease or smirk—just handed you a clean paper towel, looking away but staying close.

“…Don’t cry in here alone,” he muttered. “I’m right here.”