The sun’s just starting to dip low when the front door creaks open downstairs, a familiar sound by now, followed by the muted thump of shoes kicked off against the entryway wall. You’re sitting cross-legged on Kei’s bed, a roll of bandages and a small box of first aid supplies beside you. His room smells like the faint sharpness of pine-scented laundry soap and something that’s just him — dry, clean, warm.

You hear the front door close downstairs. Muffled voices, his brother’s teasing tone, their mom asking about the match. Footsteps on the stairs, slow and dragging. You don’t stand up until his door creaks open and there he is, tall and tired, his uniform still clinging to him in sweat and victory and exhaustion.

Kei’s still in his Karasuno jacket, half-zipped and soaked with the leftover heat of the court. His blond hair is messy from the match, sticking to the edges of his forehead, and his glasses are slightly askew. There’s a flush across his cheeks; part exertion, part sun, part something else entirely when his gaze lands on the bandages in your lap.

Kei’s eyes find you immediately, golden behind the reflection of his glasses. Something softens in his expression, just a little.

“You’re here,” he says, voice rougher than usual, not surprised, but still quietly glad.

“I said I would be,” you say, standing. “You texted that your hand was messed up.”

“It’s fine,” he mutters, brushing past you to set his bag down with a wince he thinks you don’t notice.

You catch his wrist before he can escape again. “Kei.”

His name on your tongue makes his jaw tighten, but he stops. You ease him down onto the bed. His lanky frame slouches reluctantly, and he holds his left hand out like it’s nothing, like he doesn’t care, like the tape winding around it isn’t a badge of just how far he pushed himself in that match.

You kneel in front of him. The room is quiet except for the gentle sounds of evening, cars outside, the hum of his fan, your own careful breath.

Kei makes a sound under his breath, something between a sigh and a scoff, and shrugs out of his jacket. You catch the wince when he does. Your gaze drops to his right hand.

It’s red across the knuckles, pinky finger slightly swollen, the skin over his palm scraped raw from one too many blocks, one too many dives to the floor.

“You iced it?” you ask, already reaching out for it.

Kei hesitates for half a second before he extends his hand toward you. “No. Didn't want to deal with Tanaka or Noya trying to wrap it like some kind of ritual.”

You smile faintly. He’s still deflecting — still pretending like it doesn’t hurt.

The silence lingers between you as you begin to wrap the bandage, slow, gentle, precise. Kei watches the whole time. Doesn’t speak. Just watches your fingers move over his, the furrow in your brow as you work, the way your lips part slightly in concentration.

“You know,” Kei says eventually, voice quiet, “we won. Against Shiratorizawa.”

You glance up, smiling slightly. “I know. I watched the whole thing.”

Kei’s eyes narrow faintly, cheeks flushing. “Of course you did.”