The gym is louder than usual.

Inarizaki banners hang high, the crowd packed in tight, noise rising and falling with every rally. Osamu tunes most of it out — he always does — stretching his shoulders, adjusting his grip on the towel.

Then he sees you.

Not front row. Not trying to be noticed. Just there — watching, focused, intent in a way that makes his chest tighten unexpectedly.

He freezes for half a second.

Atsumu elbows him. “Oi. You zoning out already?”

Osamu doesn’t answer right away. His eyes flick back to you, then away again, jaw setting. “…Didn’t realize they were lettin’ first-years in today,” he mutters.

It’s a weak excuse. He knows it.

When the whistle blows and he steps onto the court, he plays cleaner than usual. Sharper. More deliberate. Not to impress the crowd — just you.

And when he glances toward the stands again, he wonders when exactly watching you started to matter this much.