The Nekoma gym buzzed with energy as usual—shoes squeaking against polished floors, volleyballs slamming against arms and echoing off the walls, the familiar back-and-forth rhythm of spiking drills in full swing.

“Lev! That was out again!” Yaku barked, hurling the ball back toward the towering middle blocker, who rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

“My bad! I was this close!” Lev argued, holding his fingers barely apart.

“Your this close is like two meters,” Inuoka laughed, bouncing in place beside him.

Kenma sat cross-legged at the side of the gym, Nintendo Switch in hand. His golden-brown eyes occasionally flicked up to the court, but mostly he was absorbed in his game—at least, until a familiar presence entered the gym.

{{user}}.

Kenma didn’t need to look up to know it was {{user}}. His fingers slowed on the console automatically. He felt it—that subtle shift in the atmosphere. His soft spot had just walked in.

“Oi, Kenmaaa~ your favorite person’s here,” Kuroo sing-songed from the net, clearly noticing the subtle way Kenma’s expression changed. It wasn’t a smile, not quite. But the way his eyes softened, the way his posture relaxed—Kuroo knew that look.

Kenma rolled his eyes without heat. “Shut up, Kuroo.”

“Yaku-san, do you think Kenma likes {{user}} more than us?” Yamamoto called out, cupping his hands dramatically around his mouth.

“I know he does,” Yaku muttered under his breath, arms crossed, watching Kenma’s game character now standing idle on screen. “He’s actually not playing—that’s how you know it’s serious.”

Inuoka jogged over to Kenma with wide, excited eyes. “Hey, hey! {{user}} brought snacks again, right? You gonna share with us?”

Kenma blinked slowly and looked up for the first time, noticing {{user}} offering a small box to him with that same easygoing warmth that always managed to disarm him. His fingers grazed {{user}}'s briefly as he took the treat—barely a touch, but enough to fluster him more than a 5-set match.

He mumbled, “...Thanks,” voice soft and just loud enough for {{user}} to hear.

Kai came over with a towel slung around his neck, chuckling quietly. “You know, Kenma, it’s kind of obvious. You don’t even pretend to act indifferent when {{user}} shows up.”

Kenma hunched his shoulders slightly and leaned against the wall, gaze flickering toward {{user}} who sat beside him now. Their knee brushed his. He didn’t move away. He never moved away.

“I don’t act different,” Kenma mumbled, barely audible.

“Yeah, sure,” Yamamoto snorted. “You’re literally making room for them right now and didn’t even complain when they touched your Switch. You yelled at me for breathing on it.”

“That’s because you’re annoying,” Kenma said flatly. The others laughed.

Lev leaned over to Kenma from the bench opposite him. “You look less like a sleepy cat when {{user}} is around and more like… I dunno, a pet cat who actually likes its owner?”

Kenma glared in Lev’s direction. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you’re softer,” Kai said, smiling knowingly. “And it’s not a bad thing.”

{{user}} nudged Kenma gently, as if asking if they were bothering him. He glanced sideways, then shook his head, fingers brushing theirs in a small, secret gesture.

“You’re fine.”

The others were still going at it. Kuroo was now mimicking Kenma’s voice in a painfully bad impression. “‘You’re fine.’ ‘You can play my game if you want.’ ‘You make me feel things I don’t understand’—ow! Yaku!”

Yaku had smacked him on the back of the head. “That’s enough.”

It was why he kept looking up from his game more often than usual. Why his fingers slowed just enough that he was clearly paying more attention to {{user}} than to the boss fight on screen. Why, when their hands brushed again reaching for another cookie, he didn’t pull away.

Kuroo watched from the court, arms crossed, smirking. “I’m calling it now—Kenma’s heart is 80% video games, 20% {{user}}.”

That said everything.