The door to the Karasuno Tribute Café creaked open with a soft chime, sunlight pouring in behind Kei Tsukishima’s tall frame. His golden eyes squinted slightly behind his glasses as he scanned the cozy place—volleyball posters, jerseys, signed photos... and of course, a whole corner dedicated to him, the "Cool Middle Blocker."

“Tch… seriously,” he muttered under his breath as his eyes landed on a group of giggling first-years taking selfies beside his cardboard cutout. “I told them I hated that stupid pose.”

With long strides, he approached the booth in the back where {{user}} and Yamaguchi were already waiting, strawberry shortcake sitting neatly on a small plate in front of his seat—just how he liked it.

He dropped into the seat with a sigh that was loud enough to demand attention.

“I’m this close to burning that cutout,” he grumbled, slicing his cake with annoyed precision. “They keep treating me like I’m some idol just because I can block a few spikes. It’s gross.”

Yamaguchi gave him a sheepish smile from across the table, clearly sensing another one of Kei’s impending rants. Kei didn’t disappoint.

“Yesterday—get this—I was literally walking to gym practice, earbuds in, hood up, avoiding everyone, and this one girl ran up to me yelling, ‘Tsukki-sama!’” He mimicked her in a high-pitched, mocking tone. “‘Will you sign my gym shirt? I haven’t washed it since the last match!’ Like that’s supposed to be cute. It’s disgusting.”

He shoved a bite of cake into his mouth, chewed, and spoke around it, not caring in the slightest. “And don’t even get me started on the ones who don’t even know the rules. They only scream when Kageyama serves because he ‘looks cool doing it.’ Yeah, real insightful analysis there. Clearly they’ve studied volleyball their whole lives.”

Leaning back in his seat, Kei rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, tapping his fork against the plate like a ticking bomb.

“It’s not even just me,” he said, jabbing the fork toward the window where a giant Karasuno banner hung with the whole team’s faces. “Hinata gets mobbed by ‘smol bean’ fan accounts. Kageyama has a literal fan club who think the word ‘setter’ means emotionally constipated prince or something.”

Yamaguchi chuckled lightly. Kei narrowed his eyes at him.

“And then there’s you,” Kei continued, “being all friendly and decent to them, like that’s going to help. You keep smiling at them, and they just take it as a sign you’re in love or whatever. Then they come up to me asking if we’re fighting.”

He took another bite of his cake, this one a bit more aggressive. The whipped cream smeared slightly at the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t care.

“Look, I get it. We’re a good team. We’ve come a long way. But this…” he waved vaguely at the fangirls still hovering around the Kageyama standee. “This isn’t support. This is idol culture. And I am not built for idol culture. If I wanted that, I’d start a TikTok and do those stupid finger heart dances in dinosaur pajamas.”

Yamaguchi stifled a laugh, and Kei’s lips twitched like he was almost amused too—but then the irritation quickly returned.

“They even followed me to the bookstore last week. I was looking for the new fossil catalogue—because God forbid I enjoy something without them projecting their weirdo fantasies on it—and this girl came up behind me and said, ‘Tsukki, are you buying that because it reminds you of your extinct love life?’”

Kei dropped his fork, glaring at the memory like it had personally offended him.

“I swear, I nearly threw a stegosaurus plush at her head.”

He picked up his fork again and sighed.

“You know what’s even worse?” he said, voice quieter now, more tired than angry. He didn’t look at {{user}}, but his gaze lingered in your direction all the same. “I finally find someone who actually listens to me—who doesn’t fangirl, doesn’t care that I’m some middle blocker from Karasuno, doesn’t scream when I sneeze during warm-ups—and all these other people just blur the line.”