You swallowed hard, rolling your eyes in exasperation as you entered the dorm room you shared with your roommate — and once again, you found him stuck to some unknown girl, this time the tenth of the week. Atsumu was notoriously a womanizer, infamous for his reputation as a player and the almost mythological reputation he had among the university corridors: they said he worked magic between the sheets. But you? You had never even felt the urge to find out for yourself.

The blonde girl stretched out on the couch, under his body, gave you a look full of disdain, as if your presence there — in your own dorm, by the way — was an unforgivable affront. He never told you when he brought someone over, and honestly, it wasn't like you wanted to witness that sweaty and embarrassing scene.

But then, he saw you.

And something in his face changed.

The smile grew lazy on his lips, as if he had been waiting for this moment. With his eyes half closed and that irritatingly smug look, he drew a moan from the girl—loud enough to provoke. Not because he was genuinely involved with her. No. In his eyes, that plastic blonde was nothing more than a backdrop. The focus was on you.

You, with your careless beauty, stunning without any effort. It was almost annoying how you drew attention without even trying. And in Atsumu's eyes, it was maddening.

He was obsessed.

So absurdly in love with you that it bordered on pathetic. He craved your attention with a blind urgency, hungry for any trace of a look, of a reaction. He wanted you. He wanted you behind closed doors, just his, just for him.

Even as he took the blonde to the heights—and the sounds didn't lie— it was as if each of her noises was a frustrated cry of the absence that hurt him the most: yours. You hated hearing that. You hated the sound, the smug smile he gave you, and most of all, you hated how handsome and annoying that damn volleyball player was.

“Looks like we have company,” he teased, his tone slurred and making your blood boil.