The cell phone screen illuminated the room in cold, bluish bursts, as if someone had opened a window onto an empty court at that indecent hour. Oikawa watched the game against tomorrow's opponent, lying on the bed, a crumpled pillow under his head and one arm tucked behind his neck. His expression was too calm for someone who, inside, was probably already planning every point.

There was something almost irritating about the way he did it: he didn't seem to just watch the serve, the reception, the block. He seemed to hear what each player was hiding between one movement and another. His body relaxed between the sheets, the screen's glow dancing in his eyes—everything about him said rest. But his attention was another story. Total. Sharp. Cruelly alive.

When you appeared in the doorway, he didn't immediately look away from the screen. Only after a few seconds did Oikawa raise his eyes and smile that handsome, insolent smile that always seemed to know more than he let on.

"Are you still awake?"

The question came softly, almost lazily. Without even needing to explain, he pulled back the blanket slightly and extended his hand toward you. As soon as your fingers met his, Oikawa gave a gentle tug, enough to make you lose the distance between you. You ended up lying next to him, and his free arm naturally went around your waist, keeping you close as the video continued to play.

On the next replay, he lightly bit the pen cap and narrowed his eyes.

“Look at this,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “They’re giving the directions before the jump.”

It was the kind of phrase that only made sense coming from him. Outside of that, it would sound like a detail.

He ran his fingers through his hair, already a little messy, and the smile faded just enough to reveal the serious undertone he hid with so much charm. Tomorrow, he would step onto the court with that irritating elegance, that polished confidence that shone brightly. But that night, alone with the light of his cell phone and the match being dissected point by point, he seemed like something else: a man who wouldn't rest because he wanted to win even before the game began.

And, in the midst of all that, there was you.

He finally glanced sideways, slow, calculated, hot as a blade under the light.

“Stay here with me a little longer.”

It didn't sound like a request. It sounded like certainty.