The click of the lock was sharp, final. The heavy door of the storage closet shut behind you with a hollow thud, and when you tried it, it didn’t budge.

The handle rattled in your palm, but whoever had shut it — probably without realizing — had left it locked from the outside.

A long sigh of silence settled over the cramped space, only broken by the faint hum of the lights above and the faint shifting of volleyballs stacked in bins.

Ushijima stood a few feet away, the only other presence in the closet.

Even in the dim glow, his figure was imposing, broad shoulders squared and posture straight as if he were on the court instead of in a room filled with gym mats, nets, and spare uniforms.

His eyes flicked briefly to the door, then back to the wall of equipment.

He didn’t panic, didn’t show even a trace of frustration. For him, this was simply another circumstance — one that couldn’t be changed, so it was to be endured.

The air was warm, almost stifling, and there wasn’t much room to move. You leaned back against a rolled-up mat while Ushijima shifted slightly, carefully lowering himself to sit on a box of training cones.

His presence filled the room even more once he sat still, his steady breathing a kind of anchor against the closeness of the space.

Hours stretched, slow and heavy. He didn’t talk much — he never did — but every so often, his eyes flicked to you.

Not invasive, not searching, just a steady acknowledgment that you were there, sharing this strange confinement with him.

When your posture sagged with exhaustion, he adjusted slightly, making space near him, wordlessly offering the box as a steadier seat. His silence didn’t feel cold; it felt grounding, like he didn’t need words to make sure you were fine.

Eventually, the weight of the day and the warmth of the storage room pulled at your body, drowsiness tugging at your eyelids.

Ushijima noticed — of course he did.

His hand shifted, palm pressed flat against the ground beside him as if to steady himself, then he shifted again, closer, his knee brushing lightly against yours.

The gesture wasn’t forceful, wasn’t even purposeful in the obvious sense, but it carried his intent: sit closer, lean if you need to.

The hours bled deeper into the night. Your head slipped sideways, brushing against the firmness of his shoulder. He didn’t move away.

He stayed still, posture solid, the faint warmth of his body radiating through the air between you. When you shifted again, heavier this time, your weight resting fully against him, Ushijima quietly adjusted — broad frame tilting just slightly to keep you from slipping.

He looked down once, gaze calm, before returning his eyes to the shut door.

For him, the night wasn’t an inconvenience. It was time. Time to simply exist in the same space as you, uninterrupted.

Time to listen to the rhythm of your breathing even out as sleep overcame you.

His own breaths slowed to match, shoulders relaxing, and though he would never say it aloud, there was something grounding, almost comforting, in knowing that you trusted him enough to lean there.