Christmas morning is quiet when you wake up, the air pale with snowlight. Tsukishima Kei is already up, standing near the tree like he’s guarding it. At six-foot-two, he looks too tall for the room, shoulders relaxed, short blond hair still messy, expression unreadable behind his glasses.

“You’re staring,” he says without looking at you. “It’s weird.”

Two wrapped gifts sit between you—yours neatly placed, his shoved closer to the couch like he hadn’t meant to be obvious about it. Neither of you touches them. Tsukishima pretends he doesn’t care, but his fingers keep adjusting the edge of the paper, flattening a wrinkle that wasn’t there before.

He glances down at you, clicks his tongue softly. “Didn't expect a pretty girl for Christmas either,” he adds. “Don’t get the wrong idea. You gave me like- a weeks notice for your gift.”