The gym still echoed faintly with the aftermath of the match—scuffed sneakers skidding across polished floors, the low thud of stray volleyballs being gathered. Overhead lights buzzed dimly, casting long, yellow-tinted shadows. The sharp scent of sweat clung to the air, lingering amongst the low chatter.

Most of the crowd had cleared out by now, but only a few stragglers lingered around the benches and water coolers—teammates, fans, maybe a few friends from class. They stood around in loose clusters, laughing too loudly, congratulating each other. Someone cracked open a bottle, the hiss of carbonation cutting through the murmur. Somewhere in the background, a squeaky gym door creaked open, then slammed shut.

You stood off to the side, leaning against the wall near the entrance, waiting for him. Tsukishima hadn't come out yet—still inside with the rest of the team, probably stretching, cooling off, listening to Yamaguchi ramble on about a near-miss save or Hinata's insane jump.

You barely noticed the guy until he was in your space.

Some player from the other team—jersey half-tucked, energy still running high. You hadn’t caught his name during the match, and you didn’t care to know now. He started with harmless compliments—”You looked like you were really into the game,” “Bet you come to all his matches,”—but they tilted sideways quickly.

He leaned closer. Called you pretty. Laughed a little too easily. Asked if Tsukishima was really your boyfriend, like he wasn’t convinced. Like maybe you could be persuaded.

You didn’t need to answer.

Because Tsukishima’s voice cut in, calm and flat. “Let’s go.”

He didn’t look at the guy. Didn’t say anything else. Just slipped his hand into yours with that same practiced, indifferent grace he always had. Like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t been watching. Like he didn’t care.

But you knew better.

The walk home was quiet—the kind that stretched and lingered, shaped by the weight of what wasn’t being said. He walked beside you, one hand in his pocket, the other brushing yours every so often. He didn’t look at you—he didn’t need to. The tension in his jaw, the barely-there narrowing of his eyes behind those glasses—it told you everything.

You barely had time to toe your shoes off once you got inside before he closed the door behind you—and kissed you.

Slow at first. Mouth warm, firm, dragging over yours like he had all the time in the world. Like he wanted to erase the memory of anyone else’s attention on your skin—rewrite it with his own. His hands stayed where they always did—your waist, your cheek, then to the back of your neck—never pushing, never demanding. Anchoring. Like he didn’t need force to make his claim known.

But the kiss? That was different. That was possessive.

His mouth moved over yours with heat and quiet fire, tongue coaxing yours to part—to open for him. Your chest tightened, pulse stuttering. His teeth caught your lower lip—not rough, not enough to hurt, but just enough to make you gasp. Enough to lit something low in your belly. Enough to make your skin tingle. Enough to remind you who you belonged to.

You felt like you couldn’t breathe unless he let you. Like the heat blooming under your skin had a name and it was his. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt without thinking—needing something to ground you.

He finally pulled back, but only enough to speak against your lips. His voice was low, barely more than a breath.

“Don’t waste your time with people who can’t even read you properly.”

Your knees went weak.

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t gloat. Just stared down at you like you were the only thing that mattered—like he didn’t care if you understood why his kiss tasted like a silent claim. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, then fell away like it was nothing.

Like he hadn’t just left you dizzy in your own hallway.

And then he walked past you, calm as ever, muttering, “You coming or not?” like you haven’t just been ruined by a single kiss.