a/n; my friends!! (＞ｍ＜) sorry this took so long ahhhh I've been working too much and school is back in session so I've been helping my niece hehe. this one is soooo long but I wanted to do a cute moment with each of the boys, I hope you like pls pls (o^ ^o)
a momager and her silly olympic team.
behind the lights. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.
team japan's photoshoot for the billboards is run by one person and one person only... you! (or alternatively, your boys can't get dressed, so you do it for them).
more olympic team shenanigans here!
The shoot is in two hours. And you’re already losing your mind.
The studio’s a pristine white cavern in the heart of Paris, massive LED panels glaring from every direction. Makeup artists are frantically dusting translucent powder over sharp cheekbones, stylists are running around with backup jerseys, and twenty photographers are arguing over lighting angles for the Olympic billboards.
And your boys? Team Japan’s golden boys?
“Sakusa, you are not allowed to use your lint roller as a weapon.”
“It’s disgusting here, and Atsumu touched me.”
You cut in before it can escalate.
“Nope. Not doing this today.” You hold out your hand, palm up. “Lint roller. Now.”
Sakusa stares at you, clutching the sleek black handle. “You don’t understand,” he says seriously, eyes locked on yours. “There was glitter on his sleeve. Glitter. I’m not taking risks.”
“Kiyo. I’m not taking it away.”
You step closer. “I’m gonna help you, silly. Like… on your jersey.”
His grip loosens just a little.
You step behind him and start gently rolling down the back of his jersey—slow, methodical swipes over fabric that’s already wrinkle-free but still somehow not clean enough for the Sakusa Standard. He’s stiff at first, arms locked at his sides until you playfully tug on his ear.
You smile to yourself, then smooth the roller along his shoulder seam one last time before stepping around to face him.
“Alright,” you say, glancing at his head. “Time for hair duty.”
“No one touches my hair.”
You point to the mirror behind him. “It’s puffed in the back. Can’t have your fans thinking you slept on a volleyball.”
He sighs. “Komori usually handles that.”
You nod. “I know. So… do you want me to get him?”
You’re already turning, expecting him to say yes—of course he’s going to say yes. It’s his cousin, the only one ever allowed to invade his perfectly measured personal space.
“I said you can do it,” he repeats, not looking at you. “If—if you washed your hands.”
You turn back slowly, eyebrows raised, mouth twitching.
“Would I ever come near you with unwashed hands?”
He eyes you suspiciously, then finally nods. “Okay. But be gentle.”
You stifle your grin, grabbing a small brush and stepping into his space again. He doesn’t flinch, not exactly, but his shoulders do rise a little as you ease your fingers into his curls, carefully fluffing and shaping the back of his head where it’s flattened.
His hair is soft. Surprisingly so. You work carefully, letting the brush glide lightly, your fingertips doing most of the work, mindful of how close you are now.
“…You’re good at this,” he murmurs, voice low.
He nods slightly. “Komori’s still better. But… this isn’t bad.”
Your heart does a stupid little flip, but you keep your tone dry. “I’ll take that as the highest compliment you’ve ever given me.”
You laugh softly and fix one last curl before stepping back.
“Done. You’re officially photo-proof.”
He glances at his reflection, nods once, and grabs his water bottle like none of this was significant, but his ears are a little pink.
And he doesn’t re-fluff anything himself.
Which is how you know it mattered.
The next time you find Atsumu, he’s exactly where you don’t want him to be—leaning against the edge of the snack table, flashing his most charming grin at a cluster of photography interns.
“D’ya’ll know I won Best Server in college four years straight?” he says, rolling a grape between his fingers. “And I’ve been voted best legs on the Olympic team three times. Sunarin made the poll, but still counts—”
“‘Tsumu,” you call, already moving toward him.
“Oh! By the way! Can ya change the gel they use on set for me, babe?”
“Awful. Too crunchy. You should feel it—”
He glances over his shoulder, sees your face and goes pale but tries to smile again.
“Ah. Manager-chan. Fancy seein’ you here,” he says, casually putting down the grape. “Did ya need me for somethin’? Or were ya just jealous I was flirtin’ with someone else—”
You grab him by the arm mid-sentence and start dragging.
You give the interns a polite smile with zero remorse because you’re about to tear Atsumu into shreds.
“Just for the record,” you say sweetly, “Atsumu didn’t actually go to college. He got recruited straight out of high school by MSBY.”
“And benchwarmed for a solid two years,” you add brightly.
“I STARTED BY CHOICE,” Atsumu huffs, heels dragging against the floor as you haul him away. “I was bein’ humble!”
“And best legs? Actually goes to Hinata. Just look at them later when you guys take his photos!”
“You’re welcome!” you call back, waving at the interns.
When you and Atsumu finally reach an open mirror, he slumps onto the stool in front of it, pouting in that kind of adorable and insufferable way. His reflection stares back—cheeks flushed, hair wild from ego, a few strands stubbornly curling out.
“Yer so mean t’me,” he whines.
You step up behind him with a sigh, hands settling on the top of the chair before they drop down to pinch both his cheeks firmly. “Yeah? Well someone’s gotta keep you in line.”
He lets out a muffled, “OW,” his words all smushed from your fingers pulling at his face.
“You think I like chasing you around the studio?” you mutter, gently squishing his cheeks together until his lips pucker. “Fixing your hair, dragging you away from interns, talking you out of trying to pose shirtless again—?”
“I wasn’t gonna pose shirtless this time,” he manages, voice all warped.
You release him with a soft clap to his cheeks, watching them jiggle slightly on the rebound. “You absolutely were.”
He pouts harder, rubbing his cheeks. “Baby! I wasn’t—!”
“Sure, sure,” you laugh, stepping around to grab the comb. “Stop talking now. I need to fix your hair.”
You lean down and gently nudge his chin forward, hand under it. “Mouth closed, Miya.”
He huffs loudly, dramatically; but he shuts up.
You part his hair with your fingers first, combing carefully through the strands. It's coarser than it used to be—years of bleach and heat and styling have taken their toll. He jokes about it sometimes, but now, under the harsh vanity lights, you can see the breakage near the ends, the patches that don’t lay flat no matter how you smooth them down.
Still, you try your best.
Your fingers are patient, gentle. The comb glides where it can, and where it snags, you ease through it with care, never tugging too hard. You spritz a little hydration mist near the nape of his neck, pat it in, and start brushing again.
Atsumu sighs under your touch, slumping forward slightly in the chair.
“Am I hurting you, ‘Tsum?”
He shakes his head. “Nah… just feels nice.”
You glance at him in the mirror. His lashes are lower now, eyes half-lidded, melting under the rhythm of your fingers.
“Don’t fall asleep on me,” you tease.
“Can’t help it. Yer hands’re so soft,” he murmurs. “Like I’m gettin’ hair therapy.”
“You need hair rescue, ‘Tsumu.”
“...And a kiss from you.”
Your hand stills in his hair. Without a word, you slide your fingers deeper into the strands near his crown, and gently tug his head back until he’s tilted up to look at you.
His eyes widen slightly, lips parting and chest rising. “Mmmph,” he groans, low and pleased, the stretch of his neck and the pull on his scalp hitting a nerve he wasn’t expecting.
You arch one brow at him. “Don’t try me.”
Atsumu stares up at you, flushed and entirely too smug now, even with his head still cradled in your hand. “…Kinda wanna.”
The intern hovering by Suna’s chair is really trying.
She’s sweet with fluttery energy, brushing imaginary lint from his shoulder and giggling at something he didn’t say. Her voice is high and bright as she compliments him.
Suna’s just sitting there, slouched in the makeup chair, scrolling through his phone with one hand, the other resting lazily on his thigh, giving absolutely nothing.
Every so often, he lets out a “hm” or a “right,” but you know that face. That’s the get me out of here face.
“Sorry to interrupt,” you smile, voice sweet as sugar as you gently slide between them, placing yourself in front of Suna. “This one just gets a little grumpy before shoots. Needs some extra coaxing or he’ll bite.”
“Oh! I was just—” the intern laughs awkwardly, flustered but polite. “I was just fixing his—”
“I know,” you say warmly, already reaching for the edge of Suna’s collar. “And he appreciates it. He’s just… not the best at showing it.”
She smiles, a little unsure, but you soften it with a quiet, sincere “Thanks for looking out for him,” and she relaxes, nodding before slipping away.
As soon as she’s out of earshot, you flick Suna’s cheek lightly and murmur, “Hey. Give her something.”
“I was giving her something.”
“You gave her nothing,” you whisper-scold, fixing his collar. “She was trying so hard, and you looked like a brick wall.”
“No, you grunted,” you deadpan, tugging the hem of his sleeve straight. “You grunted, Rin.”
He shrugs. “What else am I supposed to do? Lie?”
“You could pretend not to be emotionally constipated for five minutes,” you mutter, patting down the front of his jersey.
You lean in a little closer, eyes narrowing at his hand.
“…And you could stop scrolling on Insta, maybe, while I’m literally fixing you.”
He flicks his thumb to refresh his feed. “I’m multitasking.”
“You’re looking at fan edits.”
You roll your eyes and step closer, gently hooking two fingers under his chin and tilting his head up so he’s forced to look in the mirror instead of his screen. “Eyes up.”
His expression is flat but compliant, letting you adjust the angle of his face. His reflection stares back—sleepy eyes, sharp jaw, and just the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth. Your fingers brush lightly against his chest as you adjust his chain, dragging it out just enough so it sits perfectly at the dip of his collarbone. It catches the light, and you tilt your head, satisfied.
“There. Our resident bad boy.”
Suna doesn’t respond, but his gaze flickers from his reflection to yours, then down to your fingers as they move to take his hand gently. They’re warm, fingers long, rings cold against your skin.
You run your thumb across the metal—sleek silver, matte black, the faint etching on the band he wears on his index. A few are tilted just slightly from movement, others a touch loose. You turn them slowly, realigning each one with care, making sure they sit perfectly.
“Pose for me,” you murmur, not looking up.
He hums but lifts his hands anyway, fingers spreading into that familiar pose, curled loosely in front of his face.
You step back, squinting as you observe him through the mirror.
“Mm… no. This one’s crooked.” You take his hand again and gently nudge one ring down with your thumb. “This one needs to catch the light when you bring your hands up. Like… this.” You demonstrate, guiding his fingers into place.
“Fussy,” he mutters, voice low.
“Perfect,” you correct. “You’re giving the girls exactly what they want.”
“You included?” he says, too casually.
Komori’s standing in front of the mirror with one eye closed and a pair of tweezers clenched in his hand. His brow furrows, literally, and he plucks again, wincing slightly as he tries to tame the absolute chaos of his eyebrows.
You catch him mid-tug, eyes wide, skin a little red from overzealous pinching.
“‘Toya, stop,” you say gently, stepping behind him.
He jumps slightly. “What? Is it bad?”
You glance at the tweezers in his hand. “No, but if you keep going, you’re gonna end up with one brow and irreversible regret.”
He groans and tosses the tweezers onto the vanity. “They’re so bushy… like they don’t even have a proper shape right now.”
You eye him for a second, then smile softly. “I think they’re cute, actually.”
He flushes immediately, ducking his head a little. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I don’t,” you agree, stepping around him, “but I mean it.”
You nudge his shoulder and gently guide him down into the chair. He obeys with a pout, sinking into the seat in front of the glowing mirror. His hair is a little mussed, brows admittedly a bit wild, but he still looks good.
You lean over him for a moment, examining his face from different angles.
“You’re lucky,” you murmur, brushing your thumb lightly across his brow bone. “Your bone structure’s soft enough that the brows just… work. You just need a little clean-up. Not a full remodel.”
He huffs a shy laugh. “Don’t say remodel, it makes me sound like a construction site.”
You move to stand directly in front of him, blocking the mirror light with your body as you crouch slightly, eyes focused.
“I mean it in a cute way,” you giggle.
Komori blinks up at you, cheeks growing rosier by the second, and you fight the urge to coo at how helpless he looks in that moment.
You gently brush the hairs upward with a clean spoolie, inspecting the bean shape. He flinches just a little when you pluck a stray.
“It’s okay. I trust you.”
You shape them carefully, brushing and trimming where needed, plucking only the few that really throw the shape off.
Komori stays quiet the whole time, hands folded neatly in his lap, eyes closed.
You don’t say it out loud, but you notice: how soft he is under the lights, how his warmth is quieter than the others, but never dull, how when you tilt his face to catch the glow, you see someone who isn’t trying to look perfect but wants to look good for the camera, for the world, for you.
Silly boy. He’s already perfect to you.
“There,” you say after a few more finishing strokes. “Soft boy glow-up complete.”
Komori blinks a few times at his reflection, then smiles wide.
You grin. “Told you. A cutie...”
Aran’s standing by the mirror, frowning at his reflection. You spot him across the dressing room, one hand cupped over his jaw. Unfortunately, you already know what’s going on before you reach him.
“Don’t say it,” he mutters when you walk up.
“That I should’ve listened to you.”
“Oh, I’m saying it,” you grin cheekily, stopping beside him and crossing your arms. “Because I told you. I warned you. Too much karaage in one night and your skin would revolt.”
He groans, head tilting back as he sighs dramatically. “It was so good, though. I have no regrets… except this damn pimple.”
You step closer, and he slowly lowers his hand to reveal the culprit: a single, stubborn bump right at the corner of his jawline.
You narrow your eyes at it, then glance back up at him. “Okay, it’s not even that bad. Barely visible.”
“It’s not, you baby. You’re just dramatic.”
Still, you glance over toward the table where the makeup kits are laid out—a sea of shades too light, too pink, too off. None of them match Aran’s skin tone. Again.
You frown. “They don’t have your shade.”
“Well… good thing someone around here plans ahead.”
He raises a brow as you grab your purse and unzip the side pocket. “Don’t tell me—”
You pull out a slim, travel-sized bottle. The label is faded, but it’s unmistakably his exact shade.
Aran’s eyes widen. “Is that—?”
“Mhm! Your perfect shade. Custom matched. Been in my purse since the Argentina game.”
His voice softens. “You really kept that?”
You give him a look. “Of course I did. You’re my Superstar. I’m not letting one rogue pimple take you out before the cameras roll.”
He chuckles. “You’re unreal.”
“Flattery gets you touched up faster,” you say, already squeezing out the tiniest dot onto a clean sponge.
He leans down slightly so you can reach the spot, and you dab the foundation gently across the bump, blending it until it disappears.
“Isn’t it?” you laugh, capping the bottle and tucking it back into your purse. “Now, don’t let Atsumu rub his face on you again.”
Aran groans. “Tell that to Atsumu.”
Aran takes one look at Atsumu and immediately starts backing away. “Nope. Don’t even think about it.”
Atsumu’s eyes light up. “What’d I do?”
“Don’t touch me, bro. I’m flawless right now. She just fixed it.”
Atsumu smirks and lunges just a little—
And Aran’s gone… full sprint away.
Hinata’s rocking on the balls of his feet when you find him—already in uniform, already glowing, and already talking a mile a minute about his upcoming solo shot.
“They said they wanna do a spike shot,” he says breathlessly, “like mid-air, ball above my head, super dramatic, and they’re gonna light it all cool from underneath so it looks like I’m flying—”
“That sounds awesome, Sho!”
“I know, right?!” he beams.
Then, suddenly, he leans in close, about to tell you a life-altering secret.
He stares back, very seriously.
“And,” he continues dramatically, “this is my one shot, okay? One shot to have immortalized quads. I need them to look good. Like shiny-good. Poster-good.”
You press your lips together to keep from smiling. “Are you seriously asking me to moisturize your legs?”
You squint at him. “Really? Sho.”
He gives you the biggest eyes you’ve ever seen, hopeful and pouty and absolutely shameless.
“Sweetssssss,” he whines again, dragging out the name, hoping it’ll break you down if he says it cutely enough.
You cross your arms. “You’re a professional volleyball player, and you can’t put lotion on your own thighs?”
“I can, technically,” he defends. “But—okay—listen—”
And here come the excuses.
“I can’t reach the back of my thighs properly, okay?! And the team lotion smells like a pine-scented candle. I want the one from your bag. The good one. The sparkly one. The one tht smells like lavender.”
You narrow your eyes, and he quickly continues.
“And like—look—this is an important shot. They're lighting me from below. There’s gonna be emphasis on the quads. My legs need to be soft and hydrated and like… subtly gleaming. That takes finesse. I don’t have finesse.”
You raise a brow. “You want your thighs to glisten.”
“I want your hands on my thighs,” he says so fast you almost miss it.
“What?” he echoes, way too innocent.
He coughs. “I mean—like—not in a weird way—just—your hands are so soft, sweets. And you’re good at this stuff. You do that magic massage-y thing-y when you apply it and it makes my muscles feel all relaxed and—uh—photo-ready…”
He tilts his head, pouting. “Babyyyyy. Please.”
He stares back, bottom lip sticking out just slightly, eyes big and sparkly, curls flopping over his forehead. He knows he’s being ridiculous, but it’s absolutely going to work on you.
“I’ll owe you forever,” he says dramatically. “I’ll never ask for anything again… except maybe water later, and maybe you fixing my hair, and also helping me pick a filter for the behind-the-scenes pics—”
You groan, already reaching into your bag. “You are so lucky I love your stupid perfect legs.”
You shake your head and pat the seat next to you. “C’mon, drama king. Let’s make your thighs sparkle.”
“Yes!” He’s practically bouncing as he sits and sticks one leg out.
And as you start smoothing the warm lotion over his calf, working your way up slowly with steady hands, he sighs happily—shoulders relaxing, eyes fluttering shut, entering some kind of blissed-out spa state.
“Yup,” he says, voice dreamy. “That’s it. That’s the good stuff. If we win gold, it’s because of this exact moment.”
You laugh under your breath, thumb gliding up toward his thigh. “I’ll be sure to let the Olympic committee know it was the shimmer lotion that sealed the deal.”
“No, no,” he mumbles. “You. It was you, sweets. You’re my lucky charm. For real.”
Your hands slow just slightly, but you don’t say anything as you finish smoothing the last bit of lotion over his quad, blending until it catches the light perfectly.
“There,” you say, tapping the side of his thigh. “You’re good to go. Glistening. Gorgeous. Dangerously aerodynamic.”
Hinata springs to his feet with a hop, bouncing once in place. Then, without warning, he leans in, cups your cheeks with both hands, and plants a soft, smacking kiss to your cheek.
Okay, fine. You adore him too.
Kageyama is currently in front of the mirror, halfway through sucking the soul out of a yogurt packet.
You stop dead in your tracks.
He doesn’t even look at you, only nods in acknowledgment, still hunched over, slurping violently.
You’re appalled at the scene—yogurt lid discarded on the vanity, tiny droplets clinging to the corner of his mouth, and he’s wearing his jersey. Red jersey… white yogurt…
“Oh my god—NO—!” You lunge forward towards him.
He blinks at you, caught mid-sip. “What?”
“You’re eating yogurt like a feral child and it’s about to drip all over your jersey—”
“I don’t care if you’re starving, if even a speck gets on that uniform, you’re getting tackled.”
You’re already digging through your emergency pouch, pulling out three tissues at once and pressing them urgently, but gently, against his chin, his cheek, his yogurt-stained hands. “Hold still,” you mutter, dabbing around his mouth. “What are you, five? Can’t you eat like a human being?”
“I was eating fast,” he says defensively, slurping the last bit of yogurt with one final aggressive suck.
You look at him, exhausted. “Please tell me you didn’t just spit any of that onto your sleeve.”
You let out a sharp gasp.
He tenses. “I’ll fix it! I’ll fix it—!”
“Nope. You’re not touching anything.”
You take a makeup wipe and dab carefully at the edge of his collar, inspecting the damage. By some miracle, nothing’s stained… yet, but your nerves are already shot.
He stares at his reflection while you work, still chewing at the opening of the empty packet.
“Okay, now smile,” you say suddenly.
He stares at you, absolutely horrified. “I am smiling.”
He glares into the mirror. “This is my smile.”
You frown, stepping beside him and pointing at his stone-faced expression. “Tobio. That’s your serve face. Your I’m about to destroy you face.”
“No it’s not!” you groan. “Why can’t you smile like Miwa? She smiles like a human. It’s adorable.”
“She’s photogenic. You… on the other hand… you’re gonna look like a wax statue on the Olympic poster.”
He squints into the mirror. “How do I fix it.”
“Soften your face. Like, less ‘murder,’ more ‘friendly neighborhood champion.’ Think about something nice. Like… puppies. Or food. Or… Hinata tripping during warmups.”
Just barely, his lips twitch.
“THERE. THAT. Do that for the camera!”
“I didn’t even smile yet.”
“You almost did,” you beam. “That’s progress.”
He huffs, cheeks flushed now, and looks away. “I don’t know how to pose.”
“You’re tall and hot and terrifying. You don’t have to pose. Just look at the camera, silly.”
You pat his cheek gently—clean this time, thank god—and hand him a fresh tissue.
“Go away now. And no more yogurt.”
He trudges off grumbling under his breath, but you swear you catch the faintest upturn at the corners of his mouth.
Bokuto is still shirtless.
And the problem is not that he’s shirtless; the problem is that he’s shirtless and thriving.
There’s a small crowd of interns and stylists around him—some not even pretending to be professional as Bokuto flexes just slightly while laughing way too loudly, his abs gleaming from warmup sweat, hair already perfectly puffed, voice echoing through the studio.
“IS IT TOO MUCH IF I SPIKE IN SLOW MOTION?” he booms to no one in particular. “LIKE SUPERHERO LANDING STYLE? OHHH—CAN WE DO A POSE WHERE I’M HOLDING THE BALL LIKE I’M ABOUT TO BITE IT?!”
You spot him across the chaos and immediately make a beeline.
“Bokuto Kotaro—jersey. Now.”
He turns to you, bright-eyed and completely unbothered. “BABE! I WAS JUST—”
“Causing a hot disaster, yes, I can see that.” You grab his jersey from the clothing rack and shove it into his chest. “There are cameras, Bo. And impressionable interns.”
He pouts, lip jutted. “But I’m so hot right now!”
“That’s the problem!” you hiss, eyes darting toward the stunned interns. “Put your shirt on before you cause a workplace hazard.”
He groans dramatically but holds up the jersey awkwardly. “…Can you help me?”
“You can’t put it on yourself?”
“No, I can! I just…” He wiggles his fingers. “I wanna be pampered.”
You sigh. You really shouldn’t indulge him, but he gives you that look—big golden retriever eyes, bottom lip trembling slightly, chest puffed. You cave instantly.
“Fine,” you mutter, stepping in and helping guide his arm through the sleeve.
He grins wide, one of those smiles that radiate victory. You tug the jersey gently down over his chest, smoothing it into place. Your hand drifts slightly across the ridges of his abs, more out of habit than thought, patting it flat.
And the second your palm makes contact—
Your eyes go wide. “No. That wasn’t—”
“DID YOU JUST—PAT MY ABS?” he beams.
“It was muscle memory—! Like—like—how I always pat your shoulder!”
You groan and pull the bottom hem of his jersey into place. “You’re a menace.”
You barely finish the sentence before he grabs you—big hands around your waist, sudden and strong, and the world lifts under your feet.
He’s already pulling you into a hug, laughing as he sweeps you clean off the ground, spinning you in a wide, dramatic circle right in the middle of the room. The scent of him spins with you as your arms wrap around his neck in shock.
“Bo!” you shriek, half laughing, half scolding, clutching onto his shoulders.
“This is because you love me,” he declares proudly, holding you tightly as he twirls once more, the motion smooth and giddy, like he’s high on the fact that he got you flustered again.
You’re giggling though, hands curled into the fabric at his shoulders, legs lifting slightly from the force, and heart thumping from the sudden rush of it all. The air swirls around you, catching in your hair as he slows his turn, chest still pressed to yours, arms firm and safe around your back.
When he finally eases the spin and lets your feet touch the ground again, he doesn’t let go right away. He holds you there, close and swaying a little, breath warm on your temple as he rests his chin lightly on your head.
“Thanks for taking care of me,” he mumbles, voice quiet, almost shy.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “Always.”
He looks down at you with a cheeky grin. “...You’re gonna pat my abs again, right?”
“Affectionate menace,” he corrects, already bouncing away.
Ushijima is, of course, already dressed.
His Team Japan jersey is tucked with precision, socks aligned, shoelaces knotted identically. And yet—he’s standing completely still, arms at his sides with a small but growing cluster of interns frozen nearby, clutching clips and lint rollers they’re too afraid to use on him.
You see the problem instantly.
He’s too intimidating… and too hot.
One stylist half-whispers, “Can you fix the crease on his shoulder?”
Another intern hisses, “You do it! He’s staring straight ahead like a Final Boss!”
You sigh, already walking over.
“Wakatoshi,” you say gently.
He turns to look at you, expression neutral, posture strong as ever. “Yes?”
“They’re scared of you,” you say plainly, stepping in close and patting down the shoulder seam of his jersey.
“You look like you bench press buildings. And you haven’t blinked in five minutes.”
“I am trying to preserve energy,” he says, completely seriously.
You hide a smile and gently adjust the collar of his jersey, tugging the hem just slightly to get rid of a small wrinkle. “For a photoshoot?”
“No. For the drills after the photoshoot. Coach mentioned them in the schedule.”
You pause, fingers stilling against the fabric. “…Ah. Right. The drills.”
He nods, completely earnest. “It’s important to be prepared.”
Of course. Of course he’s thinking about volleyball. Always.
“Right,” you say, lips twitching. “Can’t have a wrinkled jersey interfering with your spike form.”
He doesn’t catch the teasing, only just nods again. “Exactly. The fabric could affect drag.”
You glance up at him, smiling softly. “Focused, intense, mildly terrifying… and a little bit adorable.”
He tilts his head. “Adorable?”
You reach up and brush a strand of lint off his shoulder. “Yes, Ushijima. Adorable. Don’t let it get around.”
The room is finally settling into a lull.
You’re standing near a mirror, brushing off your skirt with one hand, adjusting your collar with the other, trying to look halfway presentable before the shot with Iwaizumi and Coach. It’s a simple shot—the manager, the trainer, and the man calling all the shots.
Your blouse is slightly askew. A piece of lint is clinging to your sleeve. The hem of your skirt is a little wrinkled, and your hair is starting to frizz from all the running around. You’re just about to give up and accept that you’ll look stressed-out in front of a billboard—
When Iwaizumi appears behind you in the mirror.
“Hey,” he says, voice soft.
You turn. He’s already dressed for the photo—crisp black slacks, button-up shirt rolled at the sleeves, Team Japan lapel pin at his collar. Clean, pressed, composed. And looking at you with the most tender expression.
“You didn’t think to ask anyone to help you?” he murmurs, stepping closer.
You shrug. “I didn’t have time. The boys were—”
“Dumbasses,” he finishes for you. “Yeah. I saw.”
He stops in front of you, hands slipping gently to the sides of your skirt where the hem’s bunched slightly. You watch him crouch a little as he smooths it down carefully, knuckles brushing against the fabric, expression focused and quiet.
Your breath catches. “Wha—Hajime, I could’ve—”
“I know you could’ve.” He looks up. “But you didn’t. So I am.”
You swallow thickly, lips parting.
One of his hands drifts to your waist, fingers brushing a stray thread away before moving to your blouse, adjusting the angle of your collar so it lies just right.
“You’ve been running around for everyone else,” he says. “You don’t even stop to check yourself.”
“I didn’t notice,” you murmur.
He raises an eyebrow. “I did.”
He reaches up and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a second too long at your temple.
“There. Now you look like the manager that keeps this entire circus from burning down.”
“On my count,” the head photographer says. “Ready…!”
The lights flash brighter. You watch the boys take position—not just as teammates, but as something bigger.
A unit. A family. A storm in sync.
You hear Hinata whisper, “Wait, are we smiling or looking serious—?”
“Shut up,” Sakusa hisses.
“I’m doing both,” Bokuto beams.
Someone snorts. You think it’s Suna.
And right as the camera flashes—
You call out: “Smile like you already won gold!”
