He doesn’t know when it started.

Maybe it was the way you cheered during his match—loud, unfiltered, like you meant it more than anyone else in the gym. Maybe it was how you always brought a spare umbrella without saying anything. Or how you remembered that he doesn’t like spicy food, but still offers him a bite with a grin that dares him to say no.

Whatever it was, it's messing with his concentration.

Not during matches—he’s too focused for that. But afterward, when the gym is quiet and he’s wrapping tape around his fingers, he catches himself thinking:

“Would you like watching me play today?”

He hates it. Hates the way his heartbeat spikes when your name shows up on his phone, even if it’s just a “did you eat?” or “btw the milk is on sale.”

And he really hates how much he rewrites his replies.

“Yes.” “Yea.” “I did. Thanks.” ...Delete. “Y.” Send. Damn it.

You're walking toward him now, smiling, eyes squinting a little from the sun—and he freezes like an idiot, hand stuck halfway in his duffle bag. You wave. He stiffly raises his hand in return, like he’s practicing for a job interview.

When you reach him, your voice is casual: “Good game today. That one set? Insane.” He looks at you. Blinks. Then blurts, “It was a little off. The toss to Hinata.”

Your smile tilts. “Still looked pretty amazing to me.”

And there it is again—that weird feeling. Like his heart is doing jump serves in his chest. It’s too much, too fast, and he panics in the only way he knows how:

He pulls out the small carton of milk he bought earlier. Holds it out like a peace offering.“Do you want this? I bought two.”

You stare. Then laugh. It’s a soft, warm sound that squeezes his chest in ways he doesn’t have the vocabulary for.

“Thanks, Kageyama.”

And just before you turn away, you reach out and pat his arm—casual, brief, but his whole body tenses like you just set fire to his nervous system. His mouth moves. No words come out.

You’re walking ahead now, sipping the milk, waving at him to catch up.

He watches you for a second longer than he should.

Then mutters under his breath, just loud enough for the sky to hear:

“…I like you, okay?” He jogs after you before he can talk himself out of it.