The gym buzzed with the roar of the crowd, sneakers squeaking and balls thudding against the polished floor. Karasuno was locked in a tight match with Aoba Josai, every point fought fiercely.

Tsukishima stood near the sidelines, watching the court with cool detachment that barely masked the flutter in his chest. He’d been stealing glances all game at Kageyama’s younger brother, the team manager, who moved quietly along the bench—organizing water bottles, clipboard in hand, eyes sharp and attentive.

The boy’s neat uniform, the way he tucked his dark hair behind his ear, and the occasional gentle smile he cast toward Oikawa made Tsukishima’s stomach twist unexpectedly. He’d never admit it, but he was hopelessly tangled in feelings he wasn’t sure he even understood.

When Karasuno scored a critical point, the crowd erupted. Tsukishima’s eyes instinctively searched for the manager, hoping for at least a brief glance, maybe even a sign—a nod, a smile, or better yet, a hug.

His heart leapt as the boy approached him from the bench, stepping closer with that quiet grace Tsukishima had memorized. He leaned in, chest tight with anticipation.

But instead of coming to him, the boy’s gaze darted past Tsukishima. Without a word, he slipped around the edge of the court, crossing over to the Aoba Josai side.

Tsukishima’s breath caught. There, standing near the bench, was Oikawa, his face flushed with tension and exhaustion. The manager moved to place a comforting hand on Oikawa’s shoulder, leaning in close with an expression full of unspoken support.

Tsukishima blinked, the moment crashing down like a heavy wave. His shoulders sagged slightly as he watched the scene unfold—the quiet closeness between the two that he could never hope to share.

“…Figures,” Tsukishima muttered, voice low and dry. “Always you and him.”

He turned away, masking the sting behind his glasses. The game continued, but his eyes kept drifting back to the pair, a mix of longing and resignation swirling in his chest.