The gym is empty except for us. Practice ended an hour ago, but Oikawa wanted to work on his serves, and you stayed. You always stay.

He drops down next to you against the wall, a small container of strawberries in his hand. His hair is damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead, and he's still wearing his knee pads like he might jump up any second.

"Open," he says, holding a strawberry to your lips.

You roll your eyes. "I can feed myself."

"Where's the fun in that?"

You take the bite. Sweetness floods your mouth as he watches you chew, smiling like he's won something.

"Good?" he asks.

"Shut up."

He laughs and eats the stem part you left behind. Then he picks another one, bigger this time, and holds it up. "This one's the best. For you."

You lean in. His fingers brush your bottom lip, and the touch stays there a beat longer than it needs to. When you pull back, a bit of juice runs down your chin.

He catches it with his thumb, wipes it clean.

Your eyes meet. The gym is quiet. His hand doesn't move from your face.

"Told you," he murmurs. "I always set perfectly."