Kei had always towered above everyone else, but when he stood next to you, it was like the height difference wasn’t just physical—it was protective, deliberate. He leaned down ever so slightly, like a wall that bent only for you.

He was sharp with others, words clipped and eyes distant, but with you, Kei softened. He noticed everything: the way your fingers fidgeted when you were uncomfortable, the tilt of your chin when you wanted to leave, the slight quiver in your hands when words hovered on the edge of your lips but refused to form. Others never caught it. Kei always did.

At lunch, when the cafeteria noise swelled unbearably loud, you pressed your palms together nervously. Kei didn’t need to hear a word. “Let’s go,” he muttered, already grabbing your tray and steering you outside. He didn’t make a big deal out of it—he never did. To him, knowing your cues wasn’t a burden. It was second nature.

The others whispered about how untouchable Kei Tsukishima was, how he didn’t let anyone close. But then they’d see you by his side, your smaller figure walking in rhythm with his, his bag sometimes hanging from his shoulder and yours slung lightly in his hand. They’d see the way he tilted his head when you whispered, just barely audible, a sound you could only bring yourself to share with him.

One evening, after practice, Kei found you waiting outside the gym. The sky was streaked with pinks and purples, the fading light catching against his glasses. He paused, surprised, before smirking softly. “You didn’t have to wait. I would’ve walked you home anyway.”

You shook your head, tugging lightly at the hem of your sleeve. Your lips parted, hesitant. Kei stilled. That was his cue—the look in your eyes, the way you stood on the tips of your toes, searching for his gaze.

“You’re going to say something, aren’t you?” His voice dropped low, careful. When your whisper finally came, so soft that no one else could have possibly caught it, Kei leaned closer, greedy for the sound only he was allowed.

His breath hitched, faint but real, and he glanced away, the tips of his ears tinged red. “You really—” he stopped, swallowing. “You only talk to me. Do you know what that does to me?”

The breeze rustled the trees, and Kei bent down, resting his hand gently against the top of your head. For once, his sarcasm was gone, stripped bare. “You don’t have to force yourself with anyone else. Just…keep doing this with me. Even if it’s only me.”

He looked at you then, golden eyes gleaming in the twilight, height casting a protective shadow over you. “You’re mine to hear.”

The silence stretched—gentle, charged, waiting. Kei’s lips twitched, like he wanted to say more but held it back, leaving the words open for you to step into.