The morning sun filtered weakly through the car windshield as you pulled up in front of Karasuno’s school gates.

The streets had been quiet, but the way Kageyama had sat rigidly in the passenger seat the whole ride told you everything: if you hadn’t agreed to drive him, he absolutely would’ve been late again.

He’d rushed out of the house with his bag half-zipped, toast in his mouth, and that panicked look he always got when he realized the clock was against him.

It was practically routine at this point—you rescuing him from his own poor time management.

Now, sitting beside you, he stared straight ahead, clutching his volleyball bag in his lap as though bracing for impact.

His brows were furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, the image of concentrated determination—but you knew him too well. That was his “embarrassed but pretending I’m not” face.

“You didn’t have to,” he muttered finally, his voice low and clipped, like admitting gratitude physically hurt.

His ears betrayed him though—bright pink at the tips.

He adjusted his grip on the strap of his bag, knuckles whitening as if he could channel all his awkwardness into it.

The silence stretched a beat too long before he blurted out, “I…would’ve made it anyway.” A transparent lie.

He would’ve been sprinting down the sidewalk with that wild, frantic energy of his, praying the gates weren’t shut yet.

You slowed at the drop-off point, students already gathering in groups with their chatter and laughter.

Kageyama stiffened again, clearly aware of how it looked to be dropped off like this, by his older sibling no less.

He shifted in his seat, half-scowling, half-glancing at you like he couldn’t decide if he was annoyed or grateful.

When you finally parked, he hesitated with his hand on the door handle. “…Thanks,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, as if the word burned his throat.

Then, true to Kageyama form, he immediately covered it up with a grumble. "Don’t make a big deal about it.”