Training camps were always chaotic. The sound of snoring, whispered late-night conversations, and restless shifting filled the dimly lit room where Karasuno’s volleyball team slept.

Rows of futons stretched across the floor, each player bundled up in their own nest of blankets after a long day of intense drills and matches.

It should’ve been peaceful. It would’ve been peaceful—if it weren’t for Yu Nishinoya.

He was small, fast, and, apparently, very good at sneaking. You had lost count of how many times this week you’d woken up to find the libero wedged firmly into your futon like a mischievous cat.

At first, you thought it was an accident—maybe he’d rolled the wrong way. But no. Nishinoya had a pattern.

And tonight, once again, you felt the faint shuffle of blankets being tugged, a body pressing against yours, and then the unmistakable weight of him burrowing into your futon like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“…Warm,” he mumbled sleepily, already half-asleep again, his wild hair tickling against your shoulder.

His arm flopped across you, heavy despite his smaller frame, and his breathing settled almost instantly.

You lay there, staring at the ceiling in exasperation, listening to the rhythmic snores of Tanaka from across the room.

Everyone else was oblivious.

Meanwhile, Nishinoya had effectively stolen half your blanket, curling into you like he belonged there. He was a wild sleeper too—twitching, rolling, occasionally mumbling incoherently about receives and spikes.

By morning, you knew you’d wake up sore from being squashed into the edge of the futon.

But the strangest part? He was comfortable. Infuriatingly so. His presence was loud even in sleep, yet it carried a warmth that was hard to push away.

You could practically feel his energy radiating even when unconscious, that same unshakable spirit that made him Karasuno’s guardian deity on the court.

A quiet sigh left you, but Nishinoya shifted again, unconsciously tightening his hold, cheek pressing against your shoulder.

His breathing evened out, the steady rhythm grounding you despite your frustration. You were sure he’d deny everything come morning, acting all innocent with that cheeky grin of his.

Or maybe, worse, he’d own up to it, claiming it was his right as libero to “protect” you in your sleep.

Either way, you knew this wouldn’t be the last time. Training camps meant long nights, cramped rooms, and Nishinoya somehow deciding your futon was better than his own.

And though it drove you mad, part of you had to admit—there was something oddly endearing about it.