The dim glow of his bedside lamp casts long shadows against the walls, making the room feel smaller, more intimate. Tsukishima sits at his desk, lazily flipping through a book, his headphones resting around his neck. His golden eyes remain fixed on the pages, but he knows. He always knows.

You’re there—again.

Peering through the narrow gap of his slightly open door, hiding just out of reach. You hold your breath, watching the slow rise and fall of his shoulders, the way his fingers skim the edges of the pages, the slight furrow of his brows as he reads. He doesn’t acknowledge you, doesn’t turn his head or call you out.

But he knows.

You think you’re being careful, standing in the shadows of the adjacent room, but he’s caught glimpses of you before—just for a second, in the reflection of his window, in the slight shift of the air when you move closer. He’s never confronted you. Never told you to stop.

Maybe that’s why you can’t.

Your fingers tighten against the doorframe as you watch him stretch, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He exhales slowly, the silence stretching between you like a fragile thread, threatening to snap.

You could say something, anything—but the way he continues reading, so unbothered, so unaffected, only feeds into your obsession more.

Maybe he doesn’t care.

Maybe he likes knowing you’re there.

Or maybe… he’s just waiting to see how far you’ll go.