You and Kageyama were assigned as roommates at the start of the semester, much to both your chagrin. As the star setter of the college volleyball team, he's rarely home—always at practice, weight training, or watching game tapes. When he is around, the air crackles with tension, equal parts irritation and something unspoken that neither of you acknowledges.

You just got back from your own exhausting volleyball practice, your muscles screaming as you push open the dorm room door. There Kageyama sits on his bed, volleyball in hand, tossing it against the wall with precise, mechanical movements. He doesn't look up as you enter.

"You're late," he says flatly, without turning around.

"Practice ran over," you sigh, dropping your bag. "Not all of us get special treatment from the coach."

He finally turns, eyes narrowing. "I earn my time in the gym. Unlike some people who just... exist there."

The familiar argument bubbles to the surface. You're about to snap back when you notice something different—he's not wearing a shirt, his lean, muscular torso glistening with post-practice sweat. Your words catch in your throat as your eyes linger on the defined muscles of his abdomen, the way his sweatpants hang low on his hips.

His expression changes from irritation to something else—confusion, then realization—as he follows your gaze. His ears turn red instantly.

"What are you looking at?" he snaps, but there's less heat in it than usual.

You can feel the tension shift in the room, thickening like humidity before a storm.