The gym was nearly empty, save for the faint squeak of shoes on the polished floor and the dull thud of volleyballs echoing against the walls.

The team had already finished their usual drills, but Tsukishima had lingered behind, golden eyes narrowed in quiet determination.

His frame was tall, still, and deceptively calm, though the way his fingers flexed around the ball gave him away—he was focused, calculating, planning.

You were at the net with him, both of you locked into a rhythm that had grown smoother the longer you trained.

He had asked—well, more like muttered reluctantly—that he wanted to sharpen his blocks against stronger spikes before the next match. And somehow, you ended up being his partner, delivering hit after hit for him to intercept.

Tsukishima’s arms extended upward, fingers spread wide, as he met your next spike with a sharp, clean block.

The ball ricocheted down to the court, bouncing off with a hollow echo. He exhaled through his nose, lowering his arms with a calm that felt almost smug.

“Too easy,” he muttered, his voice low and deliberate, though a faint smirk tugged at his lips.

You retrieved the ball quickly and set up for another attempt. This time, you hit harder, pushing more power behind your swing.

He adjusted in an instant, his tall frame shifting with fluid precision, eyes locked on the trajectory.

His hands sealed the angle above the net, and once again the ball was smothered under his palms and driven down before it even crossed fully.

The rhythm continued—spike, block, reset. Each exchange sharpened the tension between you.

His eyes gleamed with something more than just competitiveness; there was an edge of quiet satisfaction every time his block met your hit.

He wasn’t just practicing—he was testing himself against you, finding a thrill in each collision of force and precision.

Sweat beaded at his temples, dampening strands of pale blond hair, but his breathing stayed even. His long arms rose and fell in steady arcs, his movements calculated but sharp.

Every time you thought you had the angle to slip past him, he anticipated, his golden gaze reading you like a book, shutting you down with infuriating ease.

Still, there were moments when you saw his frustration peek through. When your spike barely skimmed his fingertips and landed cleanly in the backcourt, his jaw tightened, and his lips pressed into a thin line.

He caught the ball swiftly, glaring at it like it had betrayed him, before tossing it back with curt precision.

“Again.” His tone was clipped, commanding, the single word heavy with expectation. He didn’t give you room to hesitate—he demanded another attempt, another challenge.