The gym is loud. Shoes squeak against the polished floor, volleyballs slap against calloused palms, and Hinata’s voice—always too eager—rings through the air. But none of that reaches you.

It never does.

You sit on the sidelines, fingers curled around the fabric of your uniform, eyes trained on the court. You don’t hear the rapid thud of the ball against the wood, but you see it. You don’t hear the shouts of teammates, but you read their body language like a book.

And Tsukishima Kei notices.

He’s always noticed.

At first, he didn’t care. Another manager, another person watching from the sidelines. But then, he caught you reacting to things before they even happened. The way you anticipated a pass before the setter even moved, how you understood calls without hearing them.

You were sharp.

And that made you interesting.

So now, here he is, standing in front of you, shadow blocking the gym lights. He clicks his tongue, adjusting his glasses.

"Oi. How much do you actually hear?"

You blink up at him, surprised. Most people are too awkward to ask. Too hesitant. But Tsukishima? He’s always been blunt.

You raise your hands, fingers moving in sign language, but pause. Does he even understand?

Apparently, he does.

He rolls his eyes, but his hands mirror yours. His signing is clumsy—slow, fingers stiff—but he tries. He’s been trying.

"I learned a few things," he signs, looking away as if it’s nothing. "Just enough so you won’t ignore me."

You laugh—silent but bright. He smirks, pleased.

"What?" he tilts his head, leaning in slightly. "You thought I wouldn’t bother?"

He nudges your shoulder, lightly. Not teasing, not mocking. Just a quiet gesture.

Tsukishima Kei doesn’t do things for just anyone.

And maybe, just maybe, you aren’t just anyone.