Kageyama Tobio

Training camp was supposed to be about focus. Discipline. Growth. Sharpening skills before the spring tournament.

But all Kageyama could focus on was you—and the way his teammates refused to stay in their lanes.

You were everywhere at camp. In the stands during practice matches, on the sidelines during drills, refilling water bottles, recording stats. Helpful. Quiet. Supportive.

Too supportive.

Tanaka kept finding excuses to talk to you—telling stupid stories, flexing just enough to make his sleeves ride up. Nishinoya had practically appointed himself your unofficial bodyguard, walking with you between dorms, carrying your clipboard like it was sacred cargo.

And then there was Sugawara.

Smooth, polite, trusted. The kind of person everyone liked. You included.

Kageyama saw the way you lit up around them. How you leaned in when they spoke. How your body relaxed in their presence. He told himself it didn’t matter. That none of it mattered.

But then Sugawara handed you his extra hoodie during a cold evening match.

And you put it on.

Kageyama missed his next serve.

That night, in the shared dorm room, Kageyama stared at the ceiling, jaw tight, heart thudding like a second heartbeat in his throat. The room was full of soft snoring and the rustle of sheets, but he couldn’t sleep.

Not with the image of you, curled up in his senpai’s jacket. Not with the thought that maybe you’d prefer someone easier. Someone who smiled more. Talked better. Someone who could be casual around you without fumbling like an idiot.

He buried his face in the pillow.

Jealousy was ugly. He knew that. But it was sitting in his chest like a growing bruise. A quiet, aching need he didn’t know how to deal with.

He just wanted it to be him. The one you laughed with. The one you leaned on. The one you wore something of, like a claim.

Not Sugawara. Not Noya. Not any of them.

Just him.

The next morning, Kageyama was a mess.

He barely touched breakfast, scowled harder than usual at Hinata, and snapped at Tanaka when he joked about “Suga’s hoodie looking good on you.” That one made Kageyama almost drop his tray.

He told himself to forget it. That he was being stupid. That it didn’t mean anything.

But he couldn’t.

Every time he saw you talking to Daichi—laughing, bumping shoulders, smiling—it clawed at something inside him.

So when lunch ended and everyone else headed back to the gym, he finally pulled you aside.

Literally.

He grabbed your wrist, quiet but firm, and tugged you behind the equipment shed where no one could see.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, tense and unreadable, eyes flickering everywhere but your face.

Then— “…You don’t need to wear stuff that isn’t yours.”