She was wearing his jersey.

Not just any jersey—his. The one with "Kageyama" printed bold across the back. The number 9 sitting smugly in the center like it owned the damn room. The sleeves, just a bit too long on her, hung loosely around her wrists, and the hem barely skimmed mid-thigh.

For a split second, he felt his brain short-circuit. She wasn’t just staying over. She was playing dirty.

But Kageyama wasn’t going to crack. No way. He was above this.

His jaw tightened, and he forced his eyes to lock onto hers, determined not to let them wander. "That’s what you picked?" he asked, tone sharp, though there was an edge of strain creeping in. He turned back to the counter, gripping the mug like it was a lifeline.