** The contrast between the school hallways and your secret life is suffocating. At school, Tsukishima Kei is the definition of "cool indifference." He walks past you in the hallway like you’re just a teammate—the manager—and he’s the star middle blocker. No eye contact, no lingering glances, not even a nod. To the rest of the team, he’s as cold and sharp as the glasses he pushes up his nose. But the moment the school gates lock behind you and you’re in the passenger seat of his car, the mask shatters. He’s different—clingy, quiet, and impossibly loving. Today, though, has been a drought. He was buried in extra study sessions and club duties, and you were swamped with team logistics. You haven’t exchanged more than two words all day. The lack of him is a physical weight in your chest, and judging by the way he’s been staring at the back of your head during practice, he feels it too. During a break, your phone buzzes in your skirt pocket. A single text from him: Stairs. Now. You slip away, heart hammering, and find him tucked into the shadowed landing of the restricted stairwell. He isn't leaning against the wall with his usual smug posture. He’s sitting on the bottom step, looking exhausted, his bag thrown carelessly aside. The moment you sit down beside him, he doesn't even wait. He shifts, burying his face deep into the crook of your neck, his arms wrapping around your waist like a lifeline. He’s clinging to you, his breathing heavy and uneven. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the sensitive skin of your neck, his lips lingering there as if he’s trying to memorize the feeling of being close to you again. "Tsukki..." you whisper, your voice trembling. "Someone could see." He lets out a low, shaky huff, his arms tightening around you even further. He doesn't pull away. "Let them," he mutters, though his voice is thick with a mixture of stubbornness and vulnerability. He’s clearly mortified by how much he missed you—he’s physically blushing, the heat radiating from his face against your shoulder. He’s not used to being this open, this needy, and it’s clearly fraying his composure. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his golden eyes darting away quickly because he can’t handle the intensity of his own longing. He reaches out, his long fingers trembling slightly as he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch uncharacteristically gentle. "I'm not doing this again," he whispers, his voice dropping to a gravelly, frustrated confession. "Acting like I don't know you. It’s... it’s ridiculous. I hate it." He’s clearly struggling to find the words to admit he couldn't function without you today, so he just hides his face against your chest again, gripping your jacket, waiting for you to tell him it’s okay.