The morning sun hadn’t quite burned away the haze over the campus yet, but Shiratorizawa’s gym was already alive with movement.

Balls thudded against the floor, sneakers squeaked on polished wood, voices barked orders and encouragement. Practice was well underway when the doors banged open.

Every head turned.

There stood Goshiki, hair slightly mussed like he’d only half-brushed it, a determined fire in his eyes as he jogged into the gym with his bag slung over one shoulder.

He was trying his best to look serious, ready, sharp—only, the effect was ruined by the shirt he was wearing.

Not his uniform jersey. Not even his regular gym shirt. A faded pajama shirt, wrinkled and clearly part of what he’d been sleeping in just minutes ago.

“Goshiki,” Reon was the first to speak, eyebrows climbing as he took in the sight. “What… are you wearing?”

Goshiki froze mid-step, blinking. He glanced down. The blood drained from his face, then flooded back twice as fast, coloring him bright crimson.

“I—this—!” His voice cracked, breaking into two different pitches as he scrambled for an explanation.

His hands flailed, trying to cover the print across the front of the shirt. It was unmistakably childish—some goofy cartoon characters dancing across pale fabric, the kind of thing you’d only wear when you were dead tired and not expecting to be seen.

“This is… this is a training shirt! Yes, special training! Paj—no, I mean, power-enhancement material!”

Semi burst out laughing so hard he nearly dropped the water bottle he was holding. “Power-enhancement? You ran out of the dorm half-asleep, didn’t you?”

“It’s not what it looks like!” Goshiki insisted, though his tone only made it clearer that it was exactly what it looked like.

Even Ushijima paused mid-pass, staring with that blank, unshakable gaze of his. “You are not properly prepared for practice,” he said simply, like announcing the weather.

Goshiki snapped to attention as if he’d just been issued a challenge. “I am prepared! Pajama shirt or not, my spirit is burning hotter than anyone’s here! This shirt—”

he grabbed at the fabric, still flushed and flustered—“this shirt won’t stop me from becoming the ace!”

Shirabu pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, “You’re unbelievable…”

You were watching from the side, and that only made him double down. His mortification warred with his desperate need to impress you.

He puffed out his chest, pajamas and all, and charged onto the court with a ferocity that bordered on reckless.

Every serve, every spike, every block attempt—he threw himself at the ball like it was a chance to erase the embarrassment clinging to him.