The front door clicks open quietly at 11:42 PM.
Youâre already waiting, lights dimmed low, curled up on the couch wearing one of Tooruâs soft grey shirts â the one that hangs just enough to tease your thighs. No bra. No shorts. Just skin, scent, and the knowledge that your husband hasnât touched you in over a month.
You hear his keys drop into the bowl. Then silence.
âTooru?â you call softly, rising from the couch.
â...Shit,â he mutters, voice rough and low.
You blink â heâs standing frozen in the hallway, suitcase forgotten beside him, jacket half-off one shoulder. Hair messy, face flushed from the flight, and eyes locked on you. Or rather⊠the scent of you.
He blinks hard like heâs dizzy. âWhat⊠the hell⊠are you wearing?â
You smile, pretending to be clueless. âThis? Itâs just your shirt.â
âNo,â he rasps, stepping closer. âThat smell.â
You tilt your head coyly. âOh⊠perfume. You remember the one you got me before you left? The one you said was too âdangerousâ to wear in public?â
You see it â that little flicker in his eyes. Lust. Regret. Possession.
He drops everything heâs holding. Literally. Shoes still on. Bag still zipped. He doesn't care.
Oikawa walks straight to you like a man possessed, stops only inches away, his chest rising and falling hard.
âYou wore that for me, didnât you?â he whispers.
You nod slowly, your voice barely audible. âI missed you.â
And thatâs all he needs.
In a second, his hand is cupping the back of your neck, lips crashing against yours. Itâs messy â all teeth and tongue and groaned apologies between kisses. He grabs your waist with both hands, fingers digging into your skin like heâs checking if youâre real.
âI was gonna shower first,â he pants against your lips, breath hot. âI had this whole cute plan to surprise you, take you to bed slow, tell you how beautiful you areââ
You tug his shirt, breaking the kiss. âThen do it slow.â
He stares at you for a beat⊠then laughs darkly, low and dangerous.
âOh, baby,â he says, backing you toward the wall. âYou knew exactly what you were doing the second you sprayed that shit. You wanted me like this.â
Your back hits the wall and he leans in, burying his face in your neck. He inhales deeply, shuddering.
âThis scentâfuck, itâs not fair. Iâm jet-lagged, Iâm dehydrated, Iâm probably dying from airport food, and you hit me with a boss-level debuff like this?â
You giggle, but itâs breathy â heâs already running his hands under the hem of his shirt (your shirt?) and his fingers are dangerously close to finding skin he hasnât touched in weeks.
âI missed your hands,â you whisper.
He groans, forehead resting against yours. âI missed everything.â
And suddenly, heâs picking you up â one arm under your thighs, the other gripping your back. You squeal, wrapping your arms around his neck.
âYou wore my perfume, my shirt, no bra, looking like sin itself, smelling like heavenâwhat did you expect me to do? Go to bed like a good boy?â he growls.
The bedroom door slams open.
He drops his duffle bag by the door with a grunt.
âNever letting those idiots convince me to run court sprints with them again,â he mutters, already tugging off his hoodie, revealing that sweaty clingy tank top that does things to you it shouldnât.
You can see the deep stretch of his back, the taut pull of his arms, and the shine of sweat across his collarbones. The man is exhausted. And stupid hot.
You blink.
You stare.
You decide: enough is enough.
Youâve had a little bottle tucked awayâsomething you ordered on a whim and hid like your most sinful secret. A pheromone perfume.
Just a little spritz. Something warm. Sweet. Deep. Something that whispers take me.
You spray it once behind your ears.
Once on your wrists.
And because youâre a menace, once just beneath the waistband of your shorts.
You plop down on the couch like youâre innocent.
Youâre not.
Iwaizumi walks past you on the way to the fridge.
Stops.
ââŠDid you change your shampoo?â he mutters, brow furrowing.
You tilt your head. âNope.â
He hums like he doesnât trust you.
Like he shouldnât.
He opens the fridge. Closes it again without grabbing a single thing.
Then slowly turns back to look at you.
And this timeâhis gaze is different.
He looks at you like something clicked.
Like he just smelled danger and liked it.
âBabe,â he says, voice already lower, already rough, âwhat the hell are you wearing?â
âJust something new,â you say, stretching a little on the couch so your thighs press together. âWhy?â
ââŠSmells like trouble.â
You smirk. âMaybe it is.â
Heâs on you in seconds.
You let out a tiny gasp as he pins you to the cushions, strong arms boxing you in, heat radiating from his body like a furnace. âYou know Iâm sore,â he mutters, voice strained, âand this is how you welcome me home?â
âI was trying to be comforting,â you whisper, brushing your lips against his jaw. âYou looked like you needed to be taken care of.â
He groans, like it physically hurts to be this attracted to you while his muscles are aching.
âYouâre evil,â he mumbles as his hands slide under your shirt. âThat smellâitâs like youâre begging me to lose control.â
You arch your back, let him feel the way your body responds to his touch. âThatâs because I am.â
His mouth crashes into yours, hot and needy, and the second your hips shift, he curses under his breath.
âYou canât just walk around smelling like that. Not unless youâre ready to deal with the consequences.â
âGuess youâll have to punish me then, Hajime.â
He groans againâlouder this timeâbefore lifting you effortlessly into his arms.
Itâs been hours.
Still no words.
Heâs planted on the couch, jaw tight, gaze fixed on nothing.
Not scrolling. Not gaming. Not watching.
Just... sulking. Brooding. Breathing in irritation.
You sit on the bed, watching him from across the room. The air feels thick with everything unsaid. And the silence?
Colder than the AC.
You knew he was upset.
The way he walked in, shoes kicked off without a word, keys dropped with too much force.
The way he wouldnât look at youâ
Not when you asked about dinner.
Not when you leaned in to press a kiss to his temple.
You didnât even know what exactly made him mad.
But you felt the ache in your chest. The hollow in your throat.
And lower, where the ache turned into something else.
Need. Desperation.
For him. For his voice. His warmth. His hands.
Your fingers curl around the small bottle tucked in your drawer. A gift youâd been saving.
A pheromone perfume.
The name written in elegant script:Â âOne Spritz, One Night to Remember.â
You spritz it once behind your ears.
Once on your collarbone.
And once right between your thighsâlow and hidden, just for you.
Then, silently, you cross the room.
You lean against the doorway, arms crossed under your chest.
And you wait.
Then he shiftsâsubtle, but telling.
You walk past him slowly, deliberately, letting the scent trail behind you like a ribbon in the wind. His eyes follow.
His jaw clenches again. But this time, differently.
You pause near the window, pretending to check your phone.
You hear him stand.
But you feel him thereâhovering close, heat radiating off his body, breaths growing heavier.
"You wearing something?" His voice is low, rough. Suspicious.
He steps in closer. âSmells like trouble.â
You tilt your head. âAre you still mad?â
Then, voice strained: âYes.â
You press your back gently to his chest. âEven if I said I missed you?â
He inhales. Slow. Deep.
And then his hands are on your hips, gripping tight.
"You donât fight fair," he mutters into your neck. His voiceâalready hoarse with restraint.
âI wasnât trying to.â
You shift your hips back just slightlyâbarely enough to press into him.
His breath hitches.
Silence again. But this time, itâs heavy. Charged. Trembling.
Then he says, almost a whisper:
âYou really want me that bad?â
You nod. âI always want you.â
A long breath.
His fingers slide under your shirt, tracing your skin like heâs trying to remember every inch.
"Then let me remind you what happens when you play dirty, baby."
You gaspâ
As he turns you around, backs you into the wall, and finally, finallyâ
kisses you like the silence never existed.
The click click click of Kenmaâs controller has been nonstop since 9 a.m. Itâs now... almost 8 p.m.
Heâs in his gaming chair, hood up, headset on, mumbling into the mic with that focused scowl that makes him look ten times more dangerous than he is.
You peek into the room. He hasnât eaten the lunch you brought earlier. Or the tea. Or the snack tray.
Fine. Youâll play dirty.
You disappear into the bedroom for two minutes and come back with a plan: no words, no warning â just your softest, most sinful loungewear⊠and a little spritz of that dangerous perfume. The one Kenma said was âdistractingâ last time.
So you step closer â quiet, innocent â and lean over his shoulder, pretending to look at his screen.
âStill playing?â you say sweetly.
Thatâs when he smells it.
His fingers twitch on the controller. His thumb slips. His character falls off the map and dies instantly.
You blink innocently. âOops. Was that me?â
He turns his head slowly. His golden eyes drag across your body, pausing at your bare shoulder, then your thighs, then your collarbone... then he inhales. Once. Twice.
And his brain justâblue screens.
âAre you wearing that perfume again?â he asks, voice cracking slightly.
You shrug, smirking. âMaybe.â
Kenma slowly sets the controller down. Like itâs physically painful to let go of it. He stares at you for a few more seconds â completely silent â until he speaks again.
âI need you to leave the room.â
You raise a brow. âWhy?â
âBecause if you donât, Iâm going to do something thatâll make me miss my tournament.â
You giggle. âSo pause it.â
Kenma lets out a slow exhale through his nose. You can see the moment his willpower evaporates. He rips off the headset, tosses it on the desk, and stands up.
And now heâs the one walking toward you.
âThat perfume should be illegal,â he mumbles, backing you up against the wall. âAnd you know exactly what youâre doing.â
Heâs quiet. But the look in his eyes? Thatâs not quiet at all.
âI havenât touched you in three days,â he whispers, nose brushing against your cheek, âand you walk in here smelling like that?â
You smile. âGuess I missed you.â
Kenma leans in close, lips grazing your ear.
He picks you up â no strength training, no warm-up, just pure gamer rage turned into boyfriend strength â and carries you out of the room like itâs a mission.
The door slams shut behind you both.
Somewhere, his game is still on.
But Kenmaâs already playing something way better.
You and Kuroo havenât spoken in two days.
Two days of passing each other in the kitchen like strangers. Two days of closed doors, cold silences, and clipped replies. Two days since that argument about something stupid â a small thing that spiraled into a storm.
He was mad. You were mad. But now? Youâre just⊠aching.
You miss him. The kind of miss that crawls under your skin, that makes your chest feel too tight and your sheets too cold. The kind of miss that builds in your stomach, low and heavy and needy.
Your pride's still wounded, but your desire? It's louder.
You grab the bottle from your nightstand. The one labeled âDo not wear when mad at me. -Kurooâ. You smirk.
The scent blooms around you â warm, sweet, addicting. Like sugar and heat and secrets whispered in the dark.
You pad softly into the living room. Heâs on the couch, reading a book. Barefoot, hair tied loosely, glasses low on his nose. The sleeves of his hoodie pushed up just enough to show his forearms â the ones you haven't touched in 48 torturous hours.
You stand in the doorway.
Kuroo doesnât say a word â doesnât even look directly at you at first. But you see the shift. The subtle inhale. The way his fingers pause on the page.
You take a slow step forward. âStill mad at me?â
His eyes flicker up to yours. Cool. Guarded.
ââŠWhat the hell is that?â he mutters, voice rough.
You blink, innocent. âPerfume.â
He closes the book slowly. Very slowly. Like he's trying to keep himself calm.
âI know that one. You wore it the night weââ
He cuts himself off. His eyes darken.
âYouâre cheating,â he accuses.
You shrug, walking past him â just slow enough for him to catch another wave of your scent. His eyes follow your every step.
You lean over the coffee table, reaching for a glass you donât actually need. Your shirt lifts a little. Your skin glows. That perfume lingers in the air like a curse.
When you turn, heâs already behind you.
âYou think you can wear that after ignoring me for two days?â he says, voice low, like a growl.
You look up at him. âI wasnât ignoring you. You were ignoring me.â
âI was setting a boundary.â
âWell,â you whisper, placing a hand gently on his chest, âIâm breaking it.â
You feel it â the tension between you both, all that unsaid apology and all that bottled up want. His hands twitch at his sides, trying to behave. But you smell too good. You look too soft. And that damn ache inside him has only gotten worse every hour.
âYouâre playing dirty,â he murmurs, forehead resting against yours. âYou know what that perfume does to me.â
âThen donât be mad,â you whisper. âCome back to bed.â
Kuroo exhales hard â like heâs giving up a fight he never wanted to win.
âBed?â he echoes, grabbing your waist and pulling you flush against him. âNo. Iâm gonna remind you on this couch why you donât pick fights you canât finish.â
You werenât trying to manipulate him.
You just⊠missed him.
Keiji had been stretched thin lately â long hours at the office, deadlines that bled into dinner, shoulders that carried too much weight. He was still warm with you. Still gentle. Still loving. But physically?
He hadnât touched you in days.
Every night ended the same way â him sighing into the pillow beside you, muttering a sleepy, âNot tonight, Iâm exhausted,â before pulling you close and passing out.
And you understood. You really did.
But understanding didnât stop the ache.
Didnât stop the way you started waking up wanting.
Didnât stop your body from craving the way he used to hold you â like every part of you was worth worshiping.
So tonight, you reach for the small amber bottle tucked in the back of your drawer. You bought it on a whim, weeks ago, after reading reviews that said things like âMy man couldnât keep his hands off meâ and âI wore this and now Iâm pregnant.â
You hadnât touched it since.
You spritz it once on your neck. Once at the curve of your thigh. Once behind your ear. It's warm and soft â like sugar melting on skin, with a hint of something darker beneath it.
You change into your comfiest tank top and shorts â nothing suspicious. Nothing loud. Just you.
You walk into the living room where Keijiâs typing away at his laptop, glasses low on his nose, hair falling into his eyes.
He looks up when you enter. His eyes flicker over you briefly â then again, slower.
âYou smell⊠different,â he murmurs.
Your heart skips.
âDo I?â
He sniffs subtly, his fingers hovering above the keys. Then pauses entirely.
âYeah. Itâs nice. Really nice.â
You shrug casually, plopping onto the couch beside him. âJust trying something new.â
He nods slowly, gaze lingering a little longer than usual. Then goes back to typing.
For five seconds.
You feel the weight of his stare before you look up. His eyes are darker now, unreadable. You shift slightly, and the air moves â carrying that scent to him again.
He closes his laptop without a word.
ââŠCome here,â he says, voice low.
âI donât know.â He swallows. âI justâ I want you close.â
You move into his lap, surprised but not resisting. His hands rest on your thighs, sliding up slowly, like he's testing the waters.
âGod, you smell likeâŠâ He trails off, nose brushing your neck. âLike sin.â
You laugh. âYou okay?â
âNo.â He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then another, slower. âNo, Iâm really not.â
You feel him harden beneath you. His breath turns shallow. His hands grow bolder.
âI thought you were tired,â you whisper.
âI was. Now Iâm not. What is that scent?â
You smile to yourself. âJust something Iâve been saving.â
He groans, burying his face in your neck.
âYouâve been walking around with this weapon and not using it? Thatâs cruel.â
You tangle your fingers in his hair, tilting his face up. âThink of it as a science experiment.â
He kisses you like heâs been waiting all week â like the past few days never existed, like his body just rememberedexactly how much it missed yours.
You're tucked under the sheets, his arm heavy over your waist, his breathing deep and even.
ââŠHey,â he murmurs, lips ghosting your shoulder. âWhatever that was⊠wear it again. Please.â
You grin in the dark. âNot tired anymore?â
He chuckles sleepily. âExhausted. But satisfied.â
You lean back into him, heart full.
Not bad for an experiment.
He bursts through the door like a storm.
âBABY! IâM HOME!â
Training with MSBY ran long, and Bokutoâs shirt is clinging to every inch of his muscle-packed frame, hair messy from a long day of spikes and sweat.
You peek from the kitchen, playing it casual.
âWelcome back, Kou. Good practice?â
He nods eagerly, bounding over. âMmhmm! I was thinking about you the whole time, you know?â
You hum, trying not to look smug.
Because you? You had a plan.
Before he arrived, you spritzed just a little bit of that scent â that soft, warm, vanilla-spice thing that clings to the skin like honey and heat. You know how scent gets to him.
You lean in to kiss his cheek andâ
His breath hitches.
ââŠWhoa.â He blinks. âWhat is that?â
You blink innocently. âWhat?â
He leans in again, nose twitching. âThat smell! You smell like⊠mmnnghâlike sugar. Like heaven. Like something I wannaââ He cuts himself off and grabs you by the waist, eyes wide. âCâmere. I need to cuddle. Right now.â
You giggle as he tugs you onto his lap on the couch, legs straddling his thighs.
You settle in his hold, your back pressed to his chest. But thenâ
His hips jerk up.
Once.
âAhâ!â
ââŠOops,â he says, voice breathless.
You turn to look at him, but heâs already burying his face in the crook of your neck.
ââM sorryâ! I didnât mean toâ! You justâ! Itâs the smell, baby!â
You feel him whimper, clutching your hips tighter.
âWh-why do you smell like that? Itâs not fair⊠Youâre being unfairâŠâ
You laugh, breath shaky now, because you feel how unfair itâs getting.
âDidnât mean to,â you tease. âJust missed you.â
He lets out a broken sound.
âI missed you too, butânghâyouâre gonna make me lose it, sweetheartâŠâ
His breath is hot against your skin as he rocks his hips up again, helpless this time. You gasp, clutching his forearms.
âYou didnât even warn me,â he whines. âYou smell so good, and now Iâmâ!â He pants, voice muffled against your shoulder. âNow Iâm so hard and youâre on my lap and I donât think I can cuddle anymoreâŠâ
You shiver, your smirk crumbling fast. âThen what do you wanna do, Kou?â
He pulls back to look at you. His eyes are wide, pupils blown, face flushed.
ââŠI wanna ruin cuddle time.â
Youâve always been the one to make the first move.
When it came to kisses, to touches, to taking things a little further under the covers.
Wakatoshi never minded it. He loved holding you. He loved your affection. He was gentle, patient, loyalâ
Too loyal, sometimes.
Loyal to routine.
To recovery hours.
To eight hours of sleep.
Youâre sitting on the couch next to him, in the oversized jersey he gave you, freshly showered and looking like sin on legs, and whatâs he doing?
You scoot closer. âToshi.â
You kiss his cheek. He smiles and puts his hand on your knee.
âŠThatâs it.
Thatâs the move. Thatâs the entire move.
You squint at him.
He doesnât get it. He never does.
He always thinks itâs cuddle time.
Like soft music and dim lights and you being all over him just means âquality bondingâ.
So tonight, youâre done trying the soft approach.
You pad over to the dresser and pick up the bottle.
Itâs a stupid perfume. A joke gift from a friend.
Labeled in loopy cursive font:
â1 Spritz = 1 Baby Bump.â
You spritz it once on your neck.
And walk back to the couch.
Wakatoshi looks up, blinking slowly.
ââŠYou smell different.â
ââŠYou look like you want something.â
He tilts his head, trying to figure it out. âYou want to cuddle?â
You deadpan.
Then sit on his lap. Face to face.
He stills. âYou have me.â
âNo, Toshi. I want you to pin me to this couch and remind me youâre not just the strongest in volleyball.â
A silence.
He blinks again.
Then, a pauseâ
A very long one.
You watch it hit him in slow motion.
His hands on your waist grip tighter. His eyes scan your face. Then your legs. Then your neck.
Then his jaw clenches.
âThis is because of the perfume?â he asks.
You sigh, dramatic. âToshi, this has been building for weeks. But yes. The perfume helped.â
He picks you up like you weigh nothing and walks to the bedroom.
âWaitâToshiâwhat are youââ
âIf one spritz equals one baby bump,â he says calmly, âwe should test the claim.â
âAccurately. Scientifically. Repeatedly.â
Two hours later, youâre sprawled on the bed, breathless.
Wakatoshi sits beside you, rubbing your thigh gently.
ââŠShould we try two spritzes next time?â
Shirabuâs been busy.
Like wonât-look-up-from-his-laptop busy.
âNot now, Iâm reviewing a case studyâ busy.
Grumbling at 2AM in the dark like a sexy, pissed off raccoon busy.
And youâve been patient. Really, you have.
But youâve been walking around this house in cute pajamas, brushing past him with your soft little âoopsâ bumps, and what does he do?
Nothing.
Maybe a glance. A grunt. The bare minimum.
So today?
You choose violence.
A tiny spritz of âSoft Sirenâ behind your ears and on the inside of your thighs. Itâs floral, sweet, and just a little feral.
He walks past you once in the hallway.
Pauses.
Walks back.
Sniffs the air.
ââŠDid you change your body wash?â he asks suspiciously.
He narrows his eyes. âYou smell different.â
You lean closer, whispering, âDo I?â
The silence is tense.
You can practically see the vein in his forehead twitching as he stiffens, ears turning red.
âIâm working,â he grits out, retreating to the bedroom where his laptop lives.
The smell is in his brain now, tangled in all his smart little synapses. And when you pass by the door again, he doesnât say a wordâbut he follows you this time.
âKenjirou,â you tease over your shoulder, âdo you need something?â
You feel him grab your wrist.
He turns you around, eyes dark.
âWhat the hell did you spray on yourself?â
You smirk. âWhy? You like it?â
He exhales sharply through his nose. âI canât think straight. Iâm trying to work and youâre walking around likeâlikeââ
ââŠLike you want something.â
You tug him by the collar of his wrinkled scrub top.
âI do. But Iâve been waiting. Waiting for you to stop choosing your laptop over me.â
Then youâre being shoved gentlyâbut firmlyâagainst the nearest wall.
âYou really had to wear that smell on today of all days?â
You tilt your head. âBad timing?â
âNo. Itâs perfect.â
He kisses you hard, hands roaming your sides like heâs starved. And maybe he is. Maybe you both are.
Laptop forgotten. Case study closed.
Tonight, Doctor Shirabuâs new patient is you, and heâs taking his time.
Itâs the same routine every night.
Door opens.
Shoes kick off.
Bag flops.
âHi, Iâm home,â he mutters, already yawning.
You peek from the hallway.
Goshikiâs drenched in sweat, skin flushed, hair messy from practice, shirt clinging to his back. And yetâheâs still stupidly cute. Exhausted, a little pouty, and already collapsing onto the couch face first.
âDinnerâs in the fridge,â you say softly, padding over.
âMmhmm. Thank you,â he mumbles into a throw pillow. âJust five minutes. I swear. Then Iâll reheat itâŠâ
You sigh. You love him.
But damn it, youâre not dating a nap gremlin.
Youâre dating a powerful, kind-hearted, hot athleteâand itâs been days since youâve had anything more than a sleepy forehead kiss.
A dab behind the ears.
One on your wrists.
And because youâre mean, one spritz just under the hem of your oversized shirt.
âMmm⊠Whatâs that smell?â he mumbles, lifting his head slightly. âYou smell... different.â
You kneel beside him, brushing hair from his face. âDo you like it?â
ââŠItâs really nice. Kinda sweet. Makes my chest feel funny. LikeâŠâ
He blinks at you.
ââŠWhy are you looking at me like that?â
ââŠLike youâre about to eat me alive.â
You just smile, soft and slow, and whisper, âOnly if you ask nicely.â
He freezes.
The tips of his ears go pink.
ââŠWait. Are youâare youââ
âYouâre always tired, baby,â you coo, gently stroking his arm. âAlways coming home drained. But I want you. All of you. Right now.â
He swallows hard. âI-I can still eat firstââ
You straddle him.
His mouth opens.
No words come out.
âI missed you,â you whisper against his neck, letting the perfume do its work. âIâve been patient. But tonight, youâre not allowed to nap until Iâm done.â
He makes a high-pitched noise and grips your thighs.
âOh my God. Okay. Okay! IâIâm awake. Iâm up. Iâm here.â
âGood.â
Ten minutes later:
Heâs whispering apologies mid-thrust like
âIâm sorry I didnât notice earlier,â
âYou smell so good I canât think straight,â
and
âIâm gonna cry this is better than any nap.â
It wasnât supposed to happen.
You just⊠opened the coop door to help.
Just a little peek. Just to feed them real quick.
Feathers flying. Beaks pecking.
And Shinsuke chasing every single chicken around the yard under the burning sun.
Hat tipped back. Shirt sticking to his skin.
Silent. Stoic.
But absolutely, definitely pissed.
You tried to apologizeâhe didnât snap, didnât yell. He never did.
But the way he walked past you afterward, wordless, sweaty, and slamming the hose down next to the coop?
So now youâre inside, peeking out the window like a guilty little gremlin, watching the love of your life simmer in silence.
And maybe itâs the heat.
Maybe itâs the guilt.
Or maybe itâs just that you miss himâthe way he grabs your hips with those farm-calloused hands, the way he moans your name like itâs a hymn.
So you dig through your drawer.
Pheromone perfume.
A risky little thing youâd been saving.
The tag?
âFix Cluck-Ups With One Spritz.â
You laugh softly to yourself as you spray once to your neck, once over your chest, and one more, just beneath the waistband of your shorts.
Then? You wait. Sitting on the kitchen counter, pretending to drink water. Innocent. Almost.
He walks in minutes later.
Hair damp from rinsing off the dirt. Shirt clinging. Eyes tired. Lips pressed thin.
He doesn't speak. He just wipes his face with a towel and lets out a low, tired breath.
âI ainât mad,â he mutters. âJust tired.â
âI know,â you whisper.
Then you see itâ
His nose scrunches. Subtle. Curious.
He stops drying his hair.
Looks at you, still holding the towel.
Eyes drop to your collarbone.
ââŠYou wearinâ somethinâ?â
âJust thought Iâd clean up a little. For you.â
Your voice is sweet. Too sweet.
âSmells⊠good.â
His voice dips. He lingers in the doorway, jaw clenching.
You hop off the counter, walking past him just slow enough for the scent to follow. You feel his eyes on you, heavy and distracted.
He doesnât move until you pause in the hallway and turn over your shoulder.
âYou sure youâre just tired?â
Itâs a whisper. A challenge.
Heâs in front of you in three slow steps. His hands find your hips. His forehead rests against yours.
âYouâre trouble,â he breathes. âEven after you let the damn chickens out.â
You smile. âStill mad?â
âNo,â he says. âBut Iâm still tiredâŠâ
ââŠSo you better do most of the work.â
The second he walks through the door, he groans.
Not a dramatic, whining kind of groan.
No.
A Suna groan.
Deep. Flat. Laced with exhaustion and "I hate being alive after work" energy.
âFood?â he mumbles, not even making eye contact, tossing his bag near the shoe rack.
His voice is gruff, scratchy from not talking the entire commute home.
You donât say anything.
Looking entirely too calm.
Wearing that.
The perfume.
The one tucked away behind your other bottles, labeled almost too cheekily:
âDinner Can Wait.â
Just three little spritzesâ
One behind your ear,
One over your chest,
One on the waistband of your lounge shorts.
Itâs warm in the apartment. The smellâs lingering like a ghost.
Sweet.
Soft.
Sinful.
He pauses halfway through yawning.
His eyes narrow.
Head tilts just slightly.
Still tired, but now? Suspicious.
âWhy does it smell likeâŠâ he squints, sniffing the air like a confused alley cat, ââŠwhatever this is?â
You simply walk past him toward the couch, brushing against his arm as you go.
And his whole body stills like heâs buffering.
He blinks. Once. Twice.
Turns his head slightly to track your movement.
ââŠYou did something.â
ââŠYou definitely did something.â
You flop onto the couch, lazily patting the cushion beside you.
Suna doesnât move for a second. Just watches.
And then you see itâthat moment his tired, sleepy face slowly morphs into something darker.
Lower-lidded eyes. A slow lick of his lips. A deep sigh through his nose.
ââŠYou know I came home tired and hungry,â he mutters, approaching.
You raise an eyebrow, smile coy.
He kneels on the couch, hands planted on either side of your thighs. His nose hovers just above your shoulder, breath hot against your skin.
ââŠNow Iâm just hungry,â he says flatly, eyes dark. âBut not for food.â
His mouth is on your neck before you can say a word.
Slow kisses. Lazily teasing, like heâs got all night.
Your fingers tangle in his hair and you feel him grin against your skin.
âYou planned this,â he mumbles.
âYouâre cruel,â he says, voice low as his hand slides beneath your waistband.
âYeah,â he groans. âAnd now Iâm gonna eat first before dinner gets cold.â
ââŠDinner is already cold.â
Osamu had just been teasing him. As he always does.
Something about the way Atsumu talks when heâs flustered. The way his ears turn pink when you call him pretty. The way heâquote unquoteâmoans dramatically when he stretches.
You laughed.
A little too hard.
Leaned into Osamuâs shoulder, even clapped once.
Youâre sitting on the couch with a very obviously sulking Atsumu curled up beside youâarms crossed, lips pursed, eyes narrowed like heâs trying to burn a hole through the carpet.
Every so often, he glances your way.
He tchs, looks away again.
You nudge his thigh with yours. âStill mad?â
You hum softly and lean forward, spritzing the perfume youâd been saving for emergencies like this.
A warm, sweet, heady scentâthe kind that always makes Atsumu stutter and blink slow.
It hits him before you even sit back.
ââŠWhatâs that,â he asks flatly, eyes flicking to your shoulder.
âDunno,â you shrug, feigning innocence.
His nose twitches.
He tries to pretend heâs not already shifting closer, but itâs laughably obvious.
âI said I dunno,â you repeat, biting back a smirk. âWhy, is it bothering you?â
He turns fully toward you, now sitting cross-legged like a child ready to argue.
âYa laughinâ that hard at Samu was already insultinâ, but now yer gonna seduce me when Iâm vulnerable?!â
âYouâre sulking, not vulnerable.â
âItâs the same thing!â
You try not to laugh again. Really, you do. But the pout on his face, the scrunch of his brows, the genuine wounded prideâitâs too much.
And he sees it. The twitch at the corner of your lips.
âYer unbelievable,â he mutters, standing. âIâm goinâ to bedââ
But before he can leave, you pull him down by the wrist, guiding him right into your lap.
He startles, blush creeping over his ears. âWhaâwhatâre ya doinâ?!â
âClaiming my right to apologize.â
He swallows hard. Because now that heâs straddling you, with his nose buried in the crook of your neck, his whole resolveis cracking.
ââŠYou do smell real nice though,â he mumbles.
You run your hands up his back, slowly. âMhm.â
âLike⊠like somethinâ dangerous.â
âLike I should forgive you but also maybe punish you a little.â
âI mean⊠just to make it even,â he says, leaning closer, lips brushing your ear. âSo I donât get laughed at again.â
You hum. âAnd what kind of punishment are we talking about?â
His hands slip under your shirt, grip hungry.
âIâm thinkinââŠâ he growls, voice husky, âa long night of me provinâ Iâm no joke.â
In fact, you were absolutely sure it was your onigiri. Youâd seen it on the plate, sitting there with zero post-it notes, zero name labels, zero indicators of âDO NOT TOUCH, THIS IS SAMUâS.â So how were you supposed to know it was hiscarefully-crafted, expertly-seasoned, emotionally-attached, lovingly-made snack?
Now Osamu Miya was standing in the middle of the kitchen, devastated like youâd just told him the rice cooker broke permanently and he could never make another onigiri again.
ââŠYou didnât,â he said, voice low.
âI didnât what?â you blinked innocently, lips still dusted with leftover rice.
He pointed to the now-empty plate. âThat was mine.â
âOh?â he scoffed, dramatically grabbing his chest like he was in emotional pain. âI made that for me after my shift. I had a whole mouth fantasy planned and everything.â
ââYou thought wrong.â His voice was so dry, it couldâve cooked the next batch of rice by itself. He was already sulking, back turned, grabbing ingredients to make another one, each motion full of silent judgment and petty betrayal. âUnbelievable. I canât believe I live with a thief.â
You bit your lip to hold back a smile. Because⊠yeah, okay, you did feel guilty. But also?
Sulky Samu was kind of adorable.
His pout was prominent, hair messy from work, sleeves pushed up his toned forearms as he grabbed fresh seaweed and furikake. Still grumbling. Still muttering dramatic things like âdonât even got a lock on the fridgeâ and âbetrayed by the one I love.â
You quietly turned and walked up the stairs.
âYeah, run away from your crimes!â he called after you.
But you werenât fleeing. No. You had a plan.
Because earlier that week, you bought somethingâsomething new, somethingâŠÂ experimental. A sweet, warm, subtle perfume that lingered like temptation. Vanilla and sandalwood, musky but soft, almost edible.
The bottle had been sitting on your vanity, untouched, waiting for the perfect moment.
And if now wasnât the perfect moment to pull out the big guns, then when?
You spritzed onceâjust enough. Behind your ears, down your neck, one across your chest. You let it sink into your skin like you meant trouble.
Then padded downstairs again, heart thudding a little.
He was still at the counter, shaping the fresh onigiri with slightly more force than necessary.
You walked up behind him silently, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing yourself against his back. ââM sorry, Samu.â
He paused mid-shape, shoulders tense.
ââŠDid you put on perfume just to apologize?â he asked warily.
He turned slightly, eyes narrowing. âWhy do you smell like a warm dessert with bad intentions?â
âBecause Iâm sorry?â you offered with a little smile against his shirt.
Then back at your hands wrapped around his waist.
Then back to your lips ghosting against his hoodie.
âMaybe,â you whispered, tilting your head so your nose brushed the shell of his ear. âBut you love me.â
âYou smell like you should come with a warning label,â he muttered.
âI do,â you murmured, kissing behind his ear. âIt says:Â One spritz = kitchen counter incident.â
âIf I burn this rice, youâre makinâ the next batch.â
âIf I burn the kitchen, itâs your fault for being so hot when you pout.â
That earned you a look. But he still turned the stove off.
And without saying a word, he picked you upâeffortlessly, like heâd been waiting for the excuseâplanted you on the counter, and stepped between your legs.
âYou smell like sin,â he muttered, forehead resting against yours.
âAnd you smell like you wanna kiss me.â
ââŠDonât tempt me.â
Hungry, sweet, slow. One hand bracing the counter, the other sliding behind your waist, pulling you closer until the scent of vanilla and warmth wrapped around both of you like heat. You felt his lips twitch against yours.
âYâknow what?â he whispered. âI forgive you.â
âNo. For making me fall even harder when I was tryinâ to stay mad.â
It had been a long practice.
He wasnât even in a bad mood. Just... tired. Muscles aching, hoodie damp with sweat, mask still slung under his chin as he unlocked the front door, duffle bag slung over one shoulder. Kiyoomi stepped into the quiet of your shared home, intent on showering, stretching, maybe scrubbing himself down three times like usual before even thinking about touching you.
âWelcome home,â your voice called from the kitchen, soft and warm.
Except he stopped mid-step. Eyelids flickering. Nose twitching.
It wasnât food. Wasnât candles. Wasnât his detergent or yours. It was you.
You⊠smelled different.
Soft, sweet. Sultry. Almost intoxicating. Like a honeyed whisper, rich musk and vanilla with the tiniest hint of spiceâcomforting, warm, dangerous. A scent that crawled under his skin and curled low in his stomach.
You poked your head out to smile at him. âYou okay?â
He didnât answer at first. Just stared.
His eyes trailed from your face down to your oversized shirtâhis shirt, hanging loosely around your thighsâand back up again. He could tell by the look on your face that you knew what youâd done.
He shifted his duffle bag. Cleared his throat.
You tilted your head. âYou sure? You look like youâre struggling.â
He swallowed hard. That scent. It was in the air. On your neck. Clinging to you. Begging him to lean in. To bite. To ruin. His self-control teetered on a wire-thin thread.
âShower,â he repeated tightly. âThen maybe.â
You were teasing. Cruel. Smiling like you werenât singlehandedly destroying every wall he put up.
He brushed past youâbarelyâbut not before pausing to inhale, deeply, right near your neck. A near-growl bubbled in his throat, low and quiet. His eyes closed for one breath. One shaky, drawn-out inhale. Then he pulled back.
âDonât move,â he muttered.
âI said donât move.â
And then he sprinted to the bathroom.
You blinked after him, hearing the rush of water a moment later. Youâd never seen Kiyoomi hustle like that. Ever.
You were about to check on him when the door to the bathroom opened.
And there he wasâhair still wet, hoodie replaced by a fitted black tee, sweatpants low on his hips, barefoot, eyes dark and sharp as blades.
You straightened, startled. âYou okayâ?â
âI didnât last a minute in the shower,â he said plainly, walking toward you with slow, sure steps. âI kept smelling you.â
âHad to take a cold one.â
âAnd I still came out hard.â
Your mouth parted slightly. âKiyoomiââ
He reached you in two long strides.
Hands on your waist. Back pressing to the counter. His scent now clashed and tangled with yoursâmint and soap and pure hunger.
âYou think youâre funny?â he asked, voice low. âSpraying that on and walking around my house like that?â
His hands squeezed your hips.
âSmelling like you wanna be devoured?â
You let out a breathless sound.
Kiyoomi leaned in, pressing his nose to your neck againâright where youâd spritzed. He groaned. Actually groaned. His lips ghosted your skin, then dipped to your collarbone. âYou smell dangerous.â
You smiled faintly. âIs that bad?â
He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. And for a second, the restraint cracked.
âNo,â he murmured. âBut it means Iâm not letting you out of this kitchen until you smell like me instead.â
And when he kissed youâdeep, firm, filled with every bit of tension heâd held back since he walked inâyou knew damn well that perfume bottle had officially entered your emergency-use-only drawer.
Because whatever it was, whatever magic it carriedâ
Youâd just discovered Kiyoomi Sakusaâs ultimate weakness.
And he was going to make you pay for it.
