The gym was hot, the smell of sweat thick in the air, and the rhythmic thud of volleyballs against the court echoing off the walls.

You had been practicing hard, the drills pushing you to your limits, and the effort was starting to catch up with you.

Your throat was dry, mouth slightly parched from the relentless exertion. Without thinking, you muttered the word—“Thirsty”—just loud enough for Kyotani, who had been nearby, to hear.

The effect was instantaneous.

Kyotani froze mid-step, eyes locking onto yours like a predator who had just spotted its favorite target. There was a split second where his usual intensity softened, replaced by something almost desperate.

Then, like a spring released, he was at your feet, moving with an astonishing speed that made you barely have time to blink.

He crouched slightly, hand resting lightly on your shoe as if he were tethered to you, gaze lifted toward yours with that rare, unguarded neediness that only you seemed to draw out of him.

“You… thirsty?” he asked, voice rough but quieter than usual, almost hesitant, as if simply hearing the word from you was enough to send him into a mild panic of care.

Before you could respond—or even fully process the intensity of his focus—Kyotani had bolted.

A blur of black and red zipped past the court, racing toward the equipment corner where the team’s drinks were stored.

The thudding of his sneakers receded and then returned as he came back, arms overloaded with a single, massive bottle of Powerrade, the plastic crinkling slightly under the weight.

He knelt down again in front of you, placing the enormous bottle carefully at your feet as if it were a treasure he’d risked everything to acquire.

His chest heaved from the sprint, hair damp with sweat, but his amber eyes remained fixed on you. There was a reverent attentiveness there, an unspoken urgency that made it clear: you were the reason he moved so fast, the reason his focus had shifted entirely from the practice to you.

“You… take it,” he said, roughly nudging the bottle closer. His fingers lingered, brushing the edge of it against your shoes, almost reluctant to release the object. “I… I got it for you. Don’t spill it.”

Even with the gruffness of his words, there was no mistaking the care behind them.

Kyotani’s usual fiery, unpredictable energy had folded into a soft, almost desperate attentiveness, every motion directed at ensuring your comfort.

You bent down slightly to grab the bottle, and his eyes flicked to your hands, watching with a mix of awe and anxiety as if any misstep would be catastrophic.

He stayed there, crouched at your feet, for longer than necessary, as if simply being close to you and making sure you had what you needed was its own form of relief.

The rest of the team—Oikawa, Iwaizumi, Hanamaki—buzzed around the court, oblivious to the quiet intensity unfolding between the two of you. Kyotani, however, remained entirely focused, almost like a shadow tethered to your presence.