The gym smelled faintly of sweat and polished wood, sunlight streaming in through the high windows and glinting off the volleyball court lines.

It was early in practice, and most of the team was still warming up, stretching, or chatting quietly near the benches.

Kageyama stood near the service line, his posture rigid and focused, his dark hair slightly mussed from the morning drills.

He had just executed his first serve of the day. The ball soared perfectly, spinning just right, landing neatly in the target zone across the net.

A perfect start—and yet, for all his precision, the normally stoic setter’s expression remained neutral, unreadable, though a flicker of satisfaction played at the corners of his mouth.

You, having watched from nearby, decided to acknowledge the small victory.

Quietly, without drawing too much attention, you walked past him, letting your fingers brush lightly against his hair in a soft, casual pat. The contact was brief, but the effect was immediate.

Kageyama froze mid-breath, eyes widening almost imperceptibly. For a fraction of a second, his usual composed expression faltered entirely.

His mouth opened slightly, as if to say something—but no words came. The muscles in his jaw tightened, and his dark eyes, usually so controlled and precise, flickered with a mix of surprise, confusion, and the faintest hint of embarrassment.

The heat rose subtly in his cheeks, though he tried to mask it behind a stiff blink and the familiar line of his jaw.

His hands, normally steady on the ball, twitched almost unconsciously, a small, involuntary reaction to the simple gesture.

His mind raced, the unexpected intimacy of the head pat throwing off his usual focus in a way that was entirely new.

You smiled softly, not saying a word, letting the pat linger in memory rather than touch. Kageyama’s eyes darted to yours, caught somewhere between fluster and calculation, as if he were trying to analyze the moment scientifically.

And yet, despite all his mental gymnastics, the subtle warmth spreading through him betrayed everything he couldn’t—and wouldn’t—say.

After a beat, he straightened, clearing his throat, regaining the composure that was so intrinsic to him.

His expression returned to neutral, but the faint glow in his cheeks, the slight tightening around his eyes, and the ever-so-brief hesitation before he picked up the next ball betrayed the internal chaos you had caused with one small, simple gesture.

The rest of practice resumed around him, balls bouncing and teammates calling out, but Kageyama couldn’t quite shake the feeling.

That head pat—a fleeting, almost casual touch—had left him unexpectedly flustered, and for the first serve of the day, you had managed something more than a score: you had completely caught him off guard.