Tsukishima leaned against the gym wall, towel around his neck, pretending to scroll through his phone. But he wasn’t looking at his screen. His eyes flicked up—again—to where you stood talking to one of the third-years from another team. Laughing. Smiling. Too close.

He hated how that made him feel.

You caught his gaze mid-laugh and gave him that look—the one that said I see you, don't sulk. He rolled his eyes and looked away like it didn’t matter.

But it did.

You blinked, taken aback. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

He shrugged. "Nothing. Forget it."

"No, say it."

His mouth opened, closed. Then, quieter than usual, almost like he hated every syllable as it left his lips: "You're mine. You know that, right?"

The silence that followed was deafening.

He sighed, frustrated, running a hand through his hair. “I mean—god, I don’t know what we are. You say we’re just friends but… I call you my angel and you let me. I touch you like I do and you don’t stop me.”

Your breath caught in your throat. He wasn’t one to talk like this.

"Kei—" you started.

"Don’t," he said, eyes on the ground. "Don’t say it if you don’t mean it. I’m not good at this. I don’t know what you want from me."

Later, the two of you walked back to your dorm in silence. The streets were quiet, and your arms brushed every so often. He didn’t say anything, but you could feel something building under the surface.

"You good?" you asked, breaking the silence.

He stopped walking. You turned to face him.

"I'm fine," he said flatly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You’ve been weird ever since practice."

His jaw clenched. He didn’t want to say it. He didn’t want to admit it—especially not out loud. But something bitter slipped out before he could stop it.

"Do you laugh like that with all your friends?"