22. losing my mind — mayday parade
Word Count: 2,413
Pairing: Timeskip!Atsumu Miya x Fem!OC
Hitomi had never expected that this would be what her life looked like a month after coming back to Japan.
She’d thought it would take longer—maybe forever—to feel like she belonged anywhere again. She’d spent years on racetracks and in garages, surrounded by men who never looked her in the eye unless they needed something and then she’d traded that world for volleyball players with big personalities and bigger hearts.
And somehow, without meaning to, she’d started to grow roots.
Most mornings, she woke up with her phone already vibrating on the nightstand; Atsumu’s name lighting up the screen with some half-awake text.
U up?
Coffee run?
Drive 2 work 2day?
Sometimes they took the Corvette, the engine rumbling through the underground garage while she quietly fought off the urge to moan over the sound. Other days, they piled into her Honda Civic, which, after a trip to the tuner shop, had developed an exhaust note that made even Atsumu whistle appreciatively.
He called her car “Hitomi’s loud little beast,” and she pretended not to glow when he said it.
They fell into their own rhythm without even trying.
Every Sunday, unless Atsumu was entertaining one of his “bed bunnies,” he’d text her to see whose kitchen they were invading.
Yours or mine?
You got groceries?
They’d spend the afternoon chopping vegetables, bickering about seasoning, arguing over whether they should eat at the kitchen table or the couch. Then they’d pour themselves iced coffee, sit cross-legged wherever they landed and took turns sharing the best and worst parts of the week.
She learned that Atsumu got genuinely upset if his coffee was too bitter, that he never folded his laundry and that he secretly hated being alone.
And Atsumu learned she hummed when she edited photos, that she lost track of time when she was hyper-focused and that sometimes she needed someone to remind her she was good at her job.
It was easy.
Effortless, even.
It made her feel safe in a way she hadn’t felt in years.
The rest of the Jackals had found their way into her life, too.
Bokuto texted her every Friday with an absurd plan for the weekend.
Hey hey hey! You busy tonight?
I found an indoor trampoline park with an attached bar. Come bounce.
She’d started saying yes more often than no, her camera roll filling up with blurry photos of her and Bokuto laughing over arcade games, Hinata clinging to her arm as they tried to win a giant stuffed bear.
She liked that the MSBY fans noticed. Liked that people called her “Bo’s little Party-Project.”
It felt like something she could belong to.
Even Keiko had become a constant in her new world.
On her days off, Hitomi would find herself wandering the city with Keiko, drifting in and out of shops, listening to stories about her hopes of becoming a mother.
Sometimes they’d sit on a bench with matcha lattes, their knees bumping, and Keiko would squeeze her hand and say, “You’ve made this place brighter, you know.”
And Hitomi would smile, trying not to let it show how much that meant.
But not everything was simple.
Meian…
She liked Meian. She really did. He was kind, self-assured, good at making people feel safe. He never raised his voice. Never demanded anything she wasn’t ready to give.
But he was also relentless in a way that left her both flattered and overwhelmed.
Every morning, she’d find flowers waiting on her desk.
Little notes tucked into the petals: “Hope today is kind to you.”
At first, it had felt sweet. Special.
But now…
Now she wasn’t sure if it was fair to keep accepting his kindness when she knew her feelings weren’t going to change.
It was a Thursday evening when it all finally spilled over.
She and Atsumu were downtown, wandering aimlessly between glowing restaurant signs, the sticky summer air clinging to her skin.
She’d been quiet most of the walk, her eyes fixed on the pavement and Atsumu had let her be.
But when they passed a little Korean BBQ place with dark windows and a “Private Booths Available” sign, she stopped so abruptly he nearly walked into her.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice gentle.
Hitomi swallowed.
“Do you mind if we eat here? I… I need to talk.”
The booth was small and warm, the low table already set with metal chopsticks and a grill that hissed quietly.
Atsumu slid into the seat across from her and rested his forearms on the table, watching her with that patient look he reserved just for her.
She exhaled, pressing her palms together.
“It’s Meian,” she said finally.
Atsumu didn’t flinch. He didn’t look smug, didn’t roll his eyes—he just nodded, letting her keep going.
“He’s… He’s so nice. And I know he means well. But it’s… it’s too much.”
She looked up, her voice cracking.
“Today he came into my office while I was editing and asked if it was okay if he sent flowers to my apartment. And when I told him I’d prefer if he didn’t, he looked so—”
“Hurt?” Atsumu supplied.
She nodded miserably.
“It makes me feel like the bad guy.”
Atsumu sighed and tipped his head back against the booth, closing his eyes.
“Baby, you have to dump him.”
She gaped at him.
“Don’t call it that.”
“That’s what it is,” he said, opening one eye to look at her. “You need to be clear. You’re too soft and he’s too into you. He won’t get it if you keep trying to be polite.”
She chewed her lip.
“I don’t know how to say it without sounding cruel.”
Atsumu straightened and leaned over the grill, his gaze steady.
“Practice on me.”
“What?”
“Pretend I’m Meian,” he said, dead serious. “Dump me.”
She sucked in a shaky breath, feeling her cheeks heat.
“Um… Atsumu—I mean, Meian—”
Atsumu lifted a brow, unimpressed. “Too nice. Try again.”
She scowled. “Okay. Meian, I really appreciate how kind you are to me, but…I just… I don’t feel the same way—”
“Still too soft,” he interrupted, shaking his head.
She threw her hands up. “I’m trying!”
He leaned back, smirking. “Watch and learn.”
He cleared his throat and fixed her with the most serious look she’d ever seen on his handsome face.
“Listen,” he began, his voice firm but gentle, “I really appreciate the kindness, the sweetness, the caring and all the flowers you send me. But I don’t see you the same way. I don’t like you like that and it’s been bothering me for a while. So could you please stop?”
She stared at him, speechless.
“That,” he said, leaning back and picking up a menu, “is how you do it.”
For a moment, she just blinked at him.
Then she burst out laughing, her shoulders shaking.
“Yeah,” she managed between giggles, “you’re definitely the professional here—with all the bed bunnies you’ve dumped.”
He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth curved up.
“Gotta be good at something,” he muttered and she kept laughing.
And in that tiny booth, under the warm glow of the lanterns, she felt the knot in her chest loosen—just enough to breathe again.
The morning sunlight poured across the dashboard of Hitomi’s Honda Civic Type R, glinting off the crisp edges of her freshly detailed console. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, her stomach a tight knot of dread. Her brain replayed the words she’d rehearsed in front of the bathroom mirror all night—I really appreciate your kindness, but I don’t see you like that…—until she almost heard them in her dreams.
Atsumu appeared in her peripheral vision, hauling his backpack and gym bag. He popped open the trunk, dropping everything inside and when he slid into the passenger seat, he immediately twisted to look at her. His hair was damp from the shower, the tips still curling at the ends and he had that easy grin that always made her feel steadier than she wanted to admit.
“I’m not ready,” she blurted before he could say anything. She looked at him helplessly, bottom lip caught between her teeth. “I really, really don’t think I can do it.”
Atsumu let out a low, raspy chuckle and tugged his seatbelt across his chest. “You’ve been practicing all week. You have to, Hiichan. Otherwise he’s gonna keep bringing you flowers and looking at you like you hung the moon.”
“But what if he gets upset?” she whispered, her throat closing. “What if it ruins the vibe between us?”
“You’re too nice,” he sighed, voice teasing but warm. “You don’t owe anybody your attention just because they think you’re cute. Which—by the way—you are.”
She scowled, rolling her eyes, but she couldn’t stop the shy heat that pooled under her cheeks. “Don’t distract me with compliments.”
“I’m not distracting you,” he lied, his grin softening as he watched her adjust the mirrors. “I’m building your confidence. And speaking of confidence…” He reached over and flicked the screen on her sound system. “How’s the subwoofer? Gonna rattle my brain out of my skull?”
Hitomi snorted, glad for the change of subject. She cued up a Bring Me the Horizon playlist and turned the volume up just enough to feel the bass thrum in her chest. As she pulled out of the parking garage, the engine’s purr layered perfectly with the music’s thundering aggression.
Atsumu threw his head back against the seat, one hand braced on the dash as the first drop hit. “Fucking hell,” he yelled over the bass, “you’ve turned this thing into a war machine.”
A reluctant laugh broke from her lips and she pressed a little harder on the accelerator, feeling her nerves loosen just an inch. “Better than thinking about…you know.”
He glanced over at her, eyes kind even in the half-dark of the car. “You’ll be okay. You’ve got this.”
And for a moment, she almost believed it.
They pulled into the MSBY parking lot half an hour later, the car still vibrating faintly from the subwoofer’s last notes. Atsumu hopped out first, stretching his arms overhead and wincing when his shoulders cracked audibly. He gave her a two-finger salute.
“Good luck, Hiichan,” he called, backing away toward the side entrance that led to the locker rooms. “If you need me to punch him for being sad, text me.”
She let out a half-laugh, half-groan and shut the driver’s door with more force than necessary. Watching him go, she felt a little steadier. That was the thing about Atsumu: even when he was an arrogant pain in the ass, he was the kind of friend who never let her feel alone.
When she finally reached her office, she half-expected to find another ridiculous bouquet waiting on her desk—something extravagant and impossible to ignore, like the white lilies he’d sent last week. But her desk was blissfully empty, save for her camera bag and the neat stacks of photo proofs she’d left to sort.
She exhaled in relief, then sat down and booted her laptop. Maybe she’d get through this without crying. Maybe she’d finally, finally, set the boundary she’d been too nervous to set.
Her calendar was blissfully clear except for a note about the Valkyries match edits. She pulled her headphones on, pressed play on her editing playlist and lost herself in the gentle, repetitive work of retouching photos.
The hours passed in a hush of concentration. Every so often she’d pause, tilting her head at a frame; Sakusa mid-spike, Bokuto beaming under the gym lights, Atsumu’s face caught in a rare moment of soft focus, his smile so genuine it made something in her chest squeeze.
She tried not to linger on that one.
It was almost noon when movement in the doorway caught her eye. She pulled the headphones down and turned, heart stuttering.
Meian stood there in his track pants and a clean shirt, hair still damp from the morning drills. He smiled and it was the same warm, broad smile that made him look ten years younger.
“Morning,” he said, his voice always so calm it made her feel smaller by comparison. “Can I come in?”
Hitomi swallowed. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.” She stood, her palms slick with nervous sweat. “Um. Meian—”
He chuckled, sinking into the chair across from her without waiting for an invitation. “You don’t have to look like I’m about to scold you.”
Her brows drew together, confused. “I—sorry. I just… There’s something I need to say.”
He held up a hand, a laugh rumbling in his chest. “Let me guess. You’re not into me.”
Hitomi blinked. “What?”
Meian’s grin turned a little sheepish and he rubbed the back of his neck. “Come on, Hiichan. You’ve been politely dodging me for weeks. I thought I’d spare you the speech.”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
“It’s okay,” he continued, and she could hear the honesty in it. “I figured pretty early on that you weren’t interested. But you’re sweet and I wanted to try my luck. You’re…good to be around, you know?”
She let out a choked little laugh, her relief almost dizzying. “Oh my god. You’re not mad?”
“No.” His eyes softened. “I’m relieved you finally look like you can breathe again.”
A stunned, watery smile spread across her face. “I… I was going to practice dumping you all day.”
He laughed and leaned back in the chair, his big hands draped over his knees. “I know. You looked ready to pass out every time I came near you.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t want to be weird.”
“You’re not weird. You’re considerate. Just…maybe too much for your own good.” He got up and reached across her desk to ruffle her hair, a gesture so casual it broke the last of her tension. “We good?”
“Yeah,” she breathed, smiling for real.
“Perfect,” he said. “Then come down later, yeah? We’re doing our pre-summer-break ritual.”
She narrowed her eyes, suspicious. “Is this more bird mating dances?”
He grinned wide and wicked. “Worse. We’re acting like jackals.”
She groaned and dropped her face into her hands as he walked out of her office laughing.
Maybe her heart was still fluttering in her ribs, but it was no longer from dread. She felt lighter. Ready for the break and maybe, when she was really honest, ready to see what the summer might bring with a certain golden-haired setter who, lately, felt like the safest place she knew.
───────────────────────────────
🍃 fun facts:
Meian knew Hitomi was going to dump him, yet he wanted to try out his luck and court her. He's super glad she dumped him though, because he now he can move on. (My poor big strong captain man.)
21. do you remember? (the other half of 23) — the maine
Word Count: 1,266
Pairing: Timeskip!Atsumu Miya x Fem!OC
The moment Hitomi heard the latch click behind her, she moved like she was on a timer.
She scooped empty ramen cups off the coffee table and jogged them to the kitchen trash, wiped down the counters with a wet cloth, then scanned the living room for stray socks or anything else she’d be mortified for Atsumu to see.
When everything looked moderately acceptable, she darted to the bathroom.
She tugged the little mesh basket of period supplies off the top of the toilet tank and stuffed it under the sink, then checked her reflection in the mirror.
Her cheeks were pink. Her hair was a little mussed.
She looked…like herself.
And somehow that made her feel braver.
Back in the living room, she set out everything they’d need: the big glass bottle of her nice vodka, three white Red Bulls lined up like little soldiers, two heavy shot glasses she only ever used when she needed to forget a week, a fresh bowl of buttery popcorn and the neon bag of jelly worms.
She stood back, taking it in and nodded once.
It was friendly. Not desperate. Just…normal.
Exactly what she needed.
She grabbed the remote, flicked the TV on and queued up Netflix.
Then she sprinted into her bedroom.
The moment she saw her reflection, she second-guessed everything.
Her shorts were short. Really short, soft cotton in pale baby blue that hugged her hips. The matching drawstring bobbed against her thigh when she moved.
And the T-shirt... God.
She’d forgotten which one she’d grabbed until she caught the mirror catching the black script printed across the chest: Mentally Undressing You.
She slapped a hand over her face.
Maybe she could change. Something neutral, something plain—
Before she could decide, she heard his voice, warm and teasing as it carried down the hall:
“Coming in!”
Panic bloomed in her chest. She glanced around her bedroom like it might cough up a solution, but there was no time.
She snatched her coconut body spray off the vanity, spritzed herself liberally and ran both hands through her hair, ruffling it up.
Her heart was beating so hard she thought it might bruise her ribs.
She stepped out into the hallway, voice bright and too loud to hide her nerves.
“Make yourself comfortable on the couch—I just—”
Then she saw him.
He was standing by the coffee table, one hand braced on the back of the couch, the other tucked in the pocket of a pair of black basketball shorts.
He looked almost rumpled in an unguarded way she’d never seen.
An oversized T-shirt hung off his broad shoulders, the neckline sliding wide enough to show the strong line of his collarbones. His hair stuck up in tufts, like he’d run his hands through it too many times.
One of his socks was slouched low on his ankle. The other stretched properly above it.
Something about it—the undone edges, the contrast to the way he usually looked so polished—made her heart squeeze in her chest.
He was…just a guy.
And she was just a girl, standing in her apartment, wishing she could stop her face from turning red.
Atsumu’s eyes flicked up and for a beat, he didn’t say anything. His gaze traced her bare legs, the hem of her shorts, and finally the writing on her shirt.
His mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile.
“Mentally undressing me?” he asked, voice low and amused.
She groaned, pressing her palms to her hot cheeks.
“It’s just a stupid shirt,” she mumbled.
He laughed, shaking his head as he sank onto the couch.
“Looks comfortable.”
She lowered her hands, watching him settle in like he’d always belonged there.
“It is,” she admitted softly.
They found their rhythm again in little ways.
She padded over to the couch and took the seat closest to the armrest. He shifted to sit beside her, close but not quite touching.
While she navigated Netflix’s endless carousel, Atsumu cracked the vodka and poured them each a shot, the clear liquid catching the light.
“Fast & Furious?” she offered, angling the remote so he could see.
He made a face like he was too tired to argue.
“Perfect,” he said.
She clicked play and set the remote aside.
Atsumu picked up one of the glasses and held it out to her, a small smile softening his features.
“To a comfortable Saturday night between friends,” he said.
Something in her chest fluttered—something warm and hopeful and so fragile it almost hurt.
She wrapped her fingers around the glass, her palm brushing the back of his hand.
“Friends,” she echoed.
They knocked the glasses together and drank, the vodka burning all the way down.
The movie started and for the first ten minutes, they pretended not to notice how they kept inching closer.
By the time Brian was racing Dom through the streets of Los Angeles, their shoulders were touching.
By the second movie, Atsumu’s knee rested lightly against hers, the heat of it grounding and a little intoxicating.
By the third, she was curled against the side of the couch, her cheek resting on her folded arm.
He smelled like clean cotton and something deeper she didn’t have a name for.
Every time she laughed, he looked over at her. Like he couldn’t help it.
And every time she caught him watching, her chest squeezed tight.
When the credits finally rolled, the apartment felt heavy with the late hour and something unspoken.
Atsumu stretched his arms over his head, his shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of his stomach.
“Thanks for tonight,” he said, his voice husky with exhaustion.
She smiled, her cheek still pressed against her folded arm.
“Thank you for coming over,” she murmured.
For a second, neither of them moved.
Then he pushed to his feet and slipped into his sneakers.
She followed him to the door, her heart doing that stupid, hopeful thud in her ribs.
He looked at her like he was waiting for her to say something.
So she did.
She lifted her hand, curling her fingers into the hem of his oversized shirt.
His brows drew together.
“Can we…” She swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. “Can we be friends again? For real?”
Something in his face melted.
He reached up, covering her hand with his.
“Yeah,” he said, quiet and sure. “We can.”
She exhaled, feeling something unwind inside her.
“And you have to update me on your bed bunnies,” she added, her tone lighter. “So I don’t embarrass myself and call them the wrong names.”
He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth curved up.
“And you,” he countered, “have to keep me updated about you and Meian.”
She groaned, shoving at his chest with her free hand.
“There is no me and Meian,” she protested, her cheeks pink.
“Sure,” he teased. “Keep telling yourself that.”
Before she could argue, he stepped closer, arms open.
For a heartbeat, she hesitated.
Then she stepped into his embrace.
His arms came around her back, warm and strong.
He smelled like her laundry detergent—like her.
She pressed her face into his shoulder and let herself feel how good it was to stand there, wrapped up in something that wasn’t complicated or jealous or strange.
Just…easy.
When he pulled back, he rested his palm against her cheek for a second, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw.
“Night, Hitomi.”
“Night, Atsumu.”
He slipped out into the hall, the door shutting softly behind him.
And for the first time in days, she felt like maybe everything was going to be okay.
───────────────────────────────
🍃 fun facts:
Atsumu rushed over to his apartment, and the second he closed the door behind him, he had to take a deep breath because holding Hitomi's soft body in his just now made him feel all sort of feelings.
20. can you feel my heart — bring me the horizon
Word Count: 2,329
Pairing: Timeskip!Atsumu Miya x Fem!OC
When Hitomi finally clawed her way back to consciousness, it felt like something had crawled into her skull and was determined to burrow out through her temples.
She groaned, rolling onto her back. The ceiling spun a little, shimmering in the afternoon light streaming through the curtains. Her mouth was dry enough to rival the Sahara and her skin felt tight and too warm.
She closed her eyes again, trying to will herself back into oblivion, but the ache in her head pulsed insistently, refusing to be ignored.
With a resigned little whimper, she cracked one eye open and forced herself to look around.
Her gaze landed on the nightstand.
A bottle of water stood next to a packet of painkillers. A neatly folded note sat on top, the handwriting sharp and familiar.
Take them when you wake up you drunkard.
— A
She frowned, her stomach doing an uneasy somersault.
Atsumu.
Memories from the night before rose up in a nauseating wave: Meian’s steady hands on her shoulders, the elevator ride, the way she’d clung to his neck and declared her love like a lovesick teenager.
But worse—so much worse—was the image of Atsumu’s face as she’d accused him of wanting to sneak off and fuck Cherry-Lady.
Heat flooded her cheeks, her skin prickling with embarrassment.
“God,” she muttered, dragging a palm over her face.
She swallowed the mortification down long enough to fumble open the water bottle and rip into the painkillers. She tossed them back, gulping half the water in frantic, greedy swallows.
When she set the empty bottle down, she was still in nothing but her black Calvin Klein bra and matching panties, her hair a wreck across the pillow.
The memory of Atsumu’s hands, gentle and careful, untangling her from her dress sent a fresh rush of mortification crawling down her spine.
She hissed under her breath, scrunching her eyes shut.
“Why am I like this?” she whispered into the silent room.
It took fifteen minutes before she could muster the strength to climb out of bed.
She rummaged in her dresser for a baggy T-shirt and soft jersey shorts, yanking them on with clumsy, still-sore limbs.
Her phone buzzed from somewhere under the duvet and she fished it out to check her notifications.
A message from Bokuto was sitting at the top, complete with a blurry thumbnail image of her and Hinata half-submerged in a neon ball pit, both of them grinning like idiots.
hey hey hey! is it ok if i post this in my party night dump??? you look so cute lol
Despite everything, she smiled—small and tired but real.
She sent him a thumbs-up emoji and a little heart.
Then she noticed Meian’s name just below.
Text me when you’re alive. Thanks for the chaos.
Warmth pooled in her chest, softer than the shame and confusion still tangled there.
Alive. Barely. Thank you for saving me, she typed back, her thumbs hesitating for a second before she added: And for not letting me flash the entire place trying to climb the wall.
She tossed the phone onto the couch and padded into the kitchen, her bare feet whispering over the floorboards.
Lunch was an uninspired affair: instant noodles and a microwaved steamed bun she picked apart without tasting much of it.
Her head was clearing, but her body felt hollow, her skin too sensitive.
Every time she closed her eyes, she remembered Raina’s hands on Atsumu’s shoulders. Her cherry-red lips. The way she’d pressed herself against him like she belonged there.
Hitomi tried to shake it off. It wasn’t any of her business who Atsumu brought home. She was just his coworker. His neighbor.
Nothing more.
Nothing that should make her chest feel like it was caving in whenever she thought about it.
She needed fresh air.
She slid the balcony door open, stepping out into the golden wash of afternoon sunlight.
A breeze lifted the strands of her hair, cooling her flushed skin.
She tipped her head back and breathed in, willing her heartbeat to slow.
For a minute, it worked.
And then she caught a flicker of motion out of the corner of her eye.
Hitomi turned and there she was.
Cherry.
Dressed in a blush-pink Juicy Couture tracksuit, her hair tumbling over one shoulder in perfect, beachy waves. She was barefoot on the balcony of 1301, hands pressed together in prayer over her head as she bent into a graceful arching stretch.
Hitomi froze, her fingers tightening on the railing.
She didn’t feel jealous—she was too tired for that. But she felt something else: small. Inconvenient. Replaceable.
Cherry must have sensed her staring because she straightened and turned with a bright, dazzling smile.
“Oh! I didn’t get to introduce myself properly last night.”
Her voice was smooth, lilting—tinged with an accent Hitomi couldn’t quite place. Somewhere Southeast Asian, maybe.
“I’m Raina,” she said, pressing a hand to her chest. “Raina Nguyen. One of Atsumu’s…” She gave a little laugh, her eyes twinkling. “…bed bunnies, I guess you could say.”
Hitomi’s stomach dropped.
Raina didn’t seem embarrassed about it at all. She almost sounded…pleased. Like it was an inside joke she and Atsumu shared.
“Hi,” Hitomi said, her voice thin. “I’m…Hitomi.”
“Oh, I know,” Raina said brightly. She lowered her arms, resting them lightly on the railing as she leaned forward conspiratorially. “He’s told me all about you.”
Hitomi blinked, too stunned to form a response.
“All good things,” Raina assured her. “He said you were funny. And talented. And that you’re the best photographer the team’s ever had.”
Something like nausea twisted low in her gut.
“That’s…nice,” she managed.
“He really seems to like you,” Raina continued, her voice soft with something that almost sounded wistful. “He talks about you all the time. I think he’s a little bit obsessed.”
Hitomi’s mouth worked silently, but no words came. Raina didn’t notice, she just smiled again, turning her face into the sun.
“He’s at the gym now, by the way,” she added casually. “But later he said he’d take me to Club Aquatica. You know it?”
“Um. No?”
“It’s gorgeous,” Raina sighed, pressing her palms together. “We’re going to dance all night.”
Hitomi nodded numbly, her throat too tight to risk speaking.
“Well,” Raina chirped, folding herself smoothly back into a standing split. “It was so lovely to finally meet you.”
“You too,” Hitomi whispered, already backing toward the door.
She fled inside, sliding the glass shut behind her with trembling hands.
Her heart thudded dully against her ribs.
She hated this feeling, like she was twelve years old again, watching her crush wrap his arm around someone prettier, older, more put-together.
She scrubbed her palms over her face and sank onto the couch, tucking her knees to her chest.
It doesn’t matter, she told herself fiercely.
You’re not his anything.
But the ache in her chest wouldn’t quite go away.
The day crawled by in a hush of soft light and quiet distractions.
Hitomi spent most of it tucked into the corner of her couch, her legs folded beneath her as she texted back and forth with Bokuto.
That was so much fun last night, she wrote, her thumbs tapping out the words slowly. Promise you’ll drag me along next time you plan something like that again. Even if I end up hungover for three days.
The reply came back seconds later, Bokuto’s enthusiasm practically vibrating through the screen.
hey hey hey!! ofc i will. but no clubs, ok?? boring af.
She smiled, pressing the heel of her hand lightly against her sternum, where her heart felt a little less heavy than it had in the morning.
Deal, she texted. No clubs. Just playgrounds and slides and questionable amounts of sugar.
and ninja parkour and bouncy castles!!!
Her giggle startled her into the silence of her living room, making her cheeks warm.
She set her phone aside and padded into the kitchen.
Dinner was simple—penne tossed in bright green pesto, a little grated cheese on top. She ate cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV, watching the new J-Drama she’d started.
By the time the credits rolled on the last episode, the apartment was dim, shadows spilling into the corners.
She’d meant to clean or edit photos or maybe even try to nap off the last of the hangover, but she ended up just sitting there, her fingers picking absently at the hem of her shorts.
She didn’t want to admit it, but the hollow ache in her chest hadn’t completely gone.
Not after seeing Raina in all her effortless perfection.
Not after remembering the look on Atsumu’s face—careful, unreadable—as he carried her inside.
Around midnight, restlessness finally won out over everything else.
She was out of Red Bull. That alone felt like a crisis.
And if she was going to sit here overthinking herself into a spiral, she might as well have something sweet to dull the edges.
So she threw on a big, oversized zip-up over her T-shirt, slipped her feet into her battered white Nikes, and headed out into the quiet corridor.
The elevator ride down was uneventful, the building hushed at this hour.
By now, the 7-Eleven felt almost like an extension of her apartment—a familiar, fluorescent little refuge. She strolled the aisles, her mind pleasantly blank for the first time all day as she plucked three cans of white Red Bull off the shelf and added a bag of neon jelly worms for good measure.
When she stepped outside, the night air felt cooler, the wind lifting her hair away from her neck as she crossed back to her building.
The foyer was empty when she walked in, her sneakers squeaking softly against the polished floor. She pressed the elevator button, yawning into her fist as she waited.
The doors slid open with a cheerful little chime.
And there he was—Atsumu.
He looked like he’d stepped out of an ad in a fashion magazine.
Dark, tailored pants hugging the long lines of his legs, a pale satin button-down left carelessly unbuttoned at the collar. His hair was an artful mess, and his face—tired, a little distant—lit up when he registered it was her standing there.
Hitomi blinked, startled.
He offered her a small, cautious smile.
“Hey.”
She hesitated just a beat, then smiled back, soft and tired.
“Hi.”
Without speaking further, she stepped inside and leaned against the mirrored wall opposite him. The doors slid shut, sealing them in.
For a moment, neither of them said anything.
The elevator hummed quietly as it began to climb.
It felt like there was an entire conversation hanging in the space between them, unsaid and impossible to start.
Hitomi swallowed, gripping the handles of her plastic bag a little tighter.
Then, because silence was worse than any possible awkwardness, she turned her head and looked at him, her voice gentle. “How was clubbing?”
Atsumu’s brows rose and he turned his head slowly, clearly surprised she’d brought it up.
“Raina told me you were taking her out to that nice club,” she explained, lifting one shoulder in a careful shrug.
He blinked, something shifting behind his eyes.
“When did you talk to Raina?”
“She was on the balcony earlier,” Hitomi admitted. “Doing yoga. She…introduced herself.”
He let out a soft groan, pressing his palm to his face. “Yeah. She loves that place. Club Aquatica. It’s full of celebrities, famous DJs…”
He trailed off, looking distinctly unenthused.
Hitomi studied his profile, the sharp line of his jaw, the faint smudge of tiredness beneath his eyes.
“You don’t sound like you enjoyed it.”
“I hate club music,” he muttered, almost sulking.
She laughed under her breath, the sound small but real.
“It has no vibe,” he added, still scowling at the closed doors.
“No vibe?” she teased, nudging her elbow lightly against his arm.
His gaze finally cut back to her and for the first time since she’d drunkenly clung to Meian, he really looked at her. Like he’d remembered who she was. Like maybe, in this small moment, they were still friends.
She lifted her chin a little, gathering her courage. “Compared to what you normally listen to, it’s definitely a change.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
She hesitated, biting her lip, then confessed in a rush:
“I can hear your music sometimes. When you leave your balcony door open.”
His ears went pink.
“Oh.”
“I don’t mind,” she hurried to add. “You have…good taste.”
Silence again. But it felt a little less tense.
When the elevator finally reached the thirteenth floor, they stepped out side by side.
For a moment, she thought they’d just say goodnight and drift back behind their separate doors.
But she was tired of the weight in her chest. Tired of feeling like she was tiptoeing around something they didn’t have the courage to say out loud.
So she turned to face him fully, her heart hammering.
“Do you…” She swallowed. “Do you want to come over?”
His brows rose, startled.
“I have snacks,” she blurted, lifting the bag as proof. “And…we could watch a movie. Or something.”
Atsumu just stared at her, stunned into silence.
Her face burned. She scrambled to fill the quiet.
“I mean—it doesn’t have to be weird. I just thought—”
He cut her off with a small, crooked smile. “Like Fast & Furious?”
She blinked, startled by how gently he said it.
“Yeah,” she breathed, her throat thick. “And…Vodka. If you want.”
His smile grew a little wider.
“Sure,” he said softly. “I’ll change into something comfortable and come over in ten.”
Relief poured through her so fast she nearly swayed. “Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll…I’ll leave the door open.”
His eyes lingered on her for a moment longer—something warm and tentative flickering there—and then he turned to his door.
Hitomi watched him go, her heart thudding unsteadily.
When she slipped into her apartment, she didn’t feel like she was running away anymore.
She felt—just for tonight—like maybe they could still be something good to each other.
───────────────────────────────
🍃 fun facts:
Raina did dance the whole night, with a colourful cocktail in her hand and glitter on her cheeks and her arms around Atsumu. She sensed that Atsumu wasn't enjoying their time quite as much and when they decided to part ways, Raina told him she'd stay at her hotel tonight and would get an Uber. Atsumu nodded, slipped into his Corvette and drove home. He didn't smile the whole drive home and only felt lighter when the elevator doors opened to a still hungover Hitomi.
19. lost boy — 5 seconds of summer
Word Count: 1,250
Pairing: Timeskip!Atsumu Miya x Fem!OC
Hitomi was a giggling mess.
She’d been more or less walking under her own power when Meian pulled up in front of her building, but by the time he was guiding her out of the truck and into the elevator, she had fully transformed into a wobbly, screeching little creature who could barely keep herself upright.
“Careful,” he murmured as she stumbled over the threshold, his enormous hand steadying her by the elbow.
“I’m fine,” she declared in a slurred, singsong voice, even as she leaned heavily into his side. She looped her arm through the crook of his and clung like he was her only anchor to solid ground. Her cheek brushed the inside of his bicep as she lifted her gaze up, her eyes glossy and unfocused.
“You’re such a big strong sexy captain man,” she sighed dreamily, her voice echoing embarrassingly loud off the elevator walls.
Meian pinched the bridge of his nose, stifling a chuckle.
“Thank you, Hitomi,” he said, entirely too patient for someone shepherding three drunk volleyball players and a photographer through the night.
When the elevator dinged for the thirteenth floor, she didn’t move right away. She just looked at him like she was trying to memorize every line of his face.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
She blinked and then lurched forward out of the elevator, one hand dragging along the wall for balance.
Her Chanel bag bounced against her hip, her skirt riding up dangerously as she wobbled forward. She reached a door, 1301 and slapped her palm against it with a dramatic little thud.
“This is not my door,” she announced, staring at the number as though it had personally offended her.
“No,” Meian agreed mildly. “Your door’s next one over.”
He tried to steer her away, but she dug her soles in, leaning her cheek against the doorframe with a weary groan.
“C’mon,” he coaxed, prying her gently off the wood. “Almost there.”
She didn’t resist as he guided her to 1302, her steps unsteady, the top of her head knocking lightly into his bicep with each shuffle.
“All right, princess, where’s your keycard?”
She didn’t answer, just pouted up at him with the wide, pleading eyes of a child about to cry.
Meian sighed and started gently tugging at the straps of her bag.
“Gonna need this, okay?”
“Nooo,” she wailed, clutching it to her chest. “It’s miiine.”
“Yes, but I can’t get you inside if you don’t let me—” Before he could finish, the door to 1301 swung open and Atsumu stumbled into the hallway.
He looked rumpled, his hair flattened on one side as if he’d been napping on the couch. His gaze darted from Meian’s hands on Hitomi’s bag to the way she was plastered to Meian’s side, her fingers tangled absently in the captain’s dark hair as she pouted and clung.
“What the fuck is going on?” Atsumu’s voice was low, annoyed.
Meian turned to face him, unbothered.
“She’s drunk,” he said simply. “I was trying to get her inside before she decided to take a nap on the floor.”
Hitomi lifted her head and squinted blearily at Atsumu.
“Oh no,” she whispered, voice thick with panic. “It’s the big mean setter man.”
Atsumu ignored her, stepping forward and plucking the keycard right out of Meian’s hands. “I’ll take it from here,” he muttered, his voice clipped.
Meian lifted both palms in surrender, though his expression stayed calm.
“No problem,” he said mildly. “I’ve still got two drunk hyenas in my truck. Thanks, Atsumu.”
He took a step back, but Hitomi reached for him, her hand flailing at empty air until she caught the edge of his sleeve.
“I love you, big strong sexy captain man!” she yelled, her voice echoing down the hall.
Meian just chuckled, rubbing her knuckles lightly before stepping away.
“Sleep, Hitomi,” he called over his shoulder as he disappeared into the elevator.
Atsumu’s jaw ticked.
He turned to her, shaking his head, but before he could say a word she narrowed her eyes at him, her lower lip wobbling.
“I don’t want you to help me,” she sniffed, swaying as he tried to steady her. “You have to fuck your big boobed cherry lady.”
He closed his eyes and breathed in, willing patience into his veins.
“Let’s not do this in the hallway,” he said as evenly as he could.
“I don’t wanna,” she whined, her fingers bunching into the fabric of his T-shirt when he tried to shift her.
But she didn’t resist when he leaned down and swept an arm behind her knees, lifting her easily against his chest. She let out a tiny squeak, burying her face against his collarbone, the coconut-vanilla perfume of her hair soft and dizzying.
He shifted her higher, fumbling the keycard against the reader until the lock clicked open.
He kicked off his shoes and stepped inside, depositing her gently against the hallway wall so he could crouch and tug her sneakers free.
She blinked down at him, silent now, her eyes enormous and dark.
“Sit,” he ordered softly, nudging her shoulder when she didn’t move.
She shuffled obediently toward her bedroom, dropping onto the edge of the mattress with a graceless little plop.
He disappeared into the kitchen, rummaging in her cupboards until he found a bottle of water. When he returned, she was halfway through tugging her dress over her head, her arms tangled in the fabric.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he muttered, crossing the room in three strides.
She let out a breathless little squeak when his hands closed around the hem of her dress, carefully untangling it from her hair. For one suspended moment, her bare shoulders were framed in the moonlight slanting across the bed, her skin luminous against the dark sheets.
His eyes flicked up to hers and something soft and painful twisted in his chest.
“Better?” he asked quietly.
She sniffed, nodding. Tears gathered along her lashes and she looked so heartbreakingly small he didn’t even know where to put his hands.
He pressed the water bottle into her palms, curling her fingers around it.
“Drink,” he murmured.
She obeyed, gulping greedily until half the bottle was gone.
When she finally lowered it, her lip trembled.
“I need my earplugs,” she whispered.
He frowned. “Why?”
She swallowed, her voice cracking.
“I don’t want to hear you making Cherry moan.”
He recoiled like she’d slapped him, the words hitting somewhere too raw to ignore. But before he could answer, her lashes fluttered, her body slumping back against the pillows. Within moments, she was out cold, her breathing slow and even.
He stood there, the water bottle still in his hand, staring at her face and wondering how the hell this had gotten so complicated so fast.
With a quiet exhale, he reached down to brush a stray lock of hair from her cheek.
Then he padded back into her living room, gathering her purse and tidying the small mess she’d left in her wake.
Her phone vibrated in his hand, the screen lighting up with Meian’s name.
Text me when you see this. Thanks for tonight. ‘About A Girl’ is now on my playlist. ;) — Meian
Atsumu stared at the message, his jaw clenching.
He set the phone carefully on the coffee table, his chest tight.
He didn’t know what was happening between them, or why it felt like it mattered so much.
But he knew one thing for sure.
He was definitely not letting Meian be the one she texted back.
───────────────────────────────
🍃 fun facts:
Hitomi may or may not ruffled Hinata's hair on the way home. And Bokuto may or may not decided to sing Rihanna's entire discography with Hinata and Hitomi sounding like dying whales in the backseat. Poor Meian.
Atsumu woke up when he heard Hitomi bang her hand against the door of his apartment. He rushed over and when he heard her talking to Meian, something weird ignited in him. Maybe just the annoyance that she was making such a ruckus outside.
18. about a girl — the academy is
Word Count: 2,364
Pairing: Timeskip!Atsumu Miya x Fem!OC
A/N: I had SO much fun writing this chapter. I love Meian—if you haven't noticed by now, you will definitley notice in this chapter, oops.
The ride to the adult indoor playground felt like some kind of fever dream.
Bokuto was in the driver’s seat, drumming on the steering wheel to the beat of whatever pop anthem he’d cranked up loud enough to rattle the windows.
Hinata kept turning around to shout half-finished plans into the backseat, each idea more unhinged than the last.
And Meian, stoic, steady Meian, just sat there in the backseat, grinning like he couldn’t quite believe he’d agreed to this.
By the time they pulled up in front of the sprawling building, its neon sign promising Games, Drinks, Chaos, Hitomi felt lighter than she had all week.
The second she stepped out onto the curb, she knew she’d made the right choice.
Tonight, she wasn’t going to think about Atsumu or the cherry-haired siren in her tiny denim shorts.
Tonight, she was going to remember she was twenty-three and free and more than someone’s convenient something-like-a-friend.
They paid the entry fee and were wristbanded by a tired-looking cashier, who eyed their enthusiasm with wariness.
First stop was the bar.
Bokuto insisted on a round of tequila to mark the start of their “night of unstoppable idiocy.”
Hitomi didn’t argue.
She took her shot glass in both hands, grinning as she clinked it against Hinata’s and Bokuto’s.
“To making terrible decisions,” she declared.
“To regret tomorrow!” Hinata yelled.
Meian lifted his own shot—water, she noticed with a fond little roll of her eyes—and saluted them like the designated dad he was.
The burn of the tequila was immediate and glorious, lighting up her veins in a way that felt almost cleansing.
Yes, she thought, licking salt from her hand. This is exactly what I needed.
The indoor playground sprawled across two cavernous floors, every inch alive with neon lights and bass-heavy pop songs.
There were enormous ball pits edged in clear panels so you could see the swirling chaos inside.
Giant slides that looped and curved like something from a cartoon.
A bouncy castle bigger than her old apartment.
And a looming Ninja Warrior-style obstacle course that was obviously going to end in disaster if they waited too long to attempt it.
Bokuto was vibrating with excitement, already pulling them toward a corner table where a chalkboard sign read Cocktail Bucket Specials.
“All right,” he announced, smacking a palm down on the table. “Here’s the plan.”
He outlined it with all the gravity of a military strategy: Ball pit first. Slides second. Bouncy castle third. Obstacle course last, when they're absolutely obliterated.
Hitomi dissolved into giggles halfway through, nearly dropping the bright blue cocktail the bartender handed her.
She nodded solemnly anyway, clinking her straw against Bokuto’s.
“Captain Bokuto, I am ready to serve,” she declared and he beamed like a proud dad.
For the next two hours, she let herself get swallowed by the kind of chaotic joy she hadn’t felt since her first month in the UK.
The ball pit was a swirling, shrieking disaster—Hinata tried to drag her under the surface, only to end up nearly drowning in plastic spheres while she laughed so hard she thought she’d pass out.
The slides were a mess of squealing and frantic tugging at the hem of her dress so she wouldn’t flash the entire crowd.
More cocktails appeared in her hand without her ever quite remembering where they came from.
She felt flushed and floaty and beautifully unselfconscious.
When Bokuto returned from the snack bar with a towering stick of pink candy floss, she accepted it with both hands, biting off a piece and then holding it out for Hinata to taste.
He made a show of swooning and she nearly choked on sugar, her laughter high and bright.
By the time they reached the bouncy castle, her legs felt like jelly.
She stared up at the inflated rainbow fortress and braced a hand on Meian’s arm for balance.
“This is either the best idea or the worst idea,” she announced.
Meian looked down at her, his mouth curved in that soft, exasperated way he had when she was being a menace.
“Be careful,” he said, steadying her as she wobbled. “You’re tipsier than last time.”
She blinked up at him, her eyes huge and solemn.
“It’s Bokuto’s fault,” she insisted, pointing toward where Bokuto and Hinata were already climbing the ladder. “He’s like a golden retriever. I just keep following him.”
Meian chuckled. “I noticed.”
She kicked off her sneakers, hoisted her dress higher on her thighs, and scrambled in after them.
The music was pounding overhead, some old Cher Lloyd song that she hadn’t heard in years, and she threw her head back, singing along at the top of her lungs.
Every bounce threatened to show way more of her than she intended.
She clutched the hem of her dress in one hand, her cocktail in the other, and tried not to die laughing.
When she risked a glance toward the edge of the inflatable, she found Meian standing with his arms crossed, watching her with the tolerant amusement of a man who knew he was going to be carrying someone home.
“Come in!” she called, waving both arms. “It’s more fun with backup!”
He hesitated for a single resigned moment, then sighed, kicked off his shoes, and climbed in after her.
She beamed, grabbing both his forearms as soon as he reached her.
“Sing with me,” she demanded, bouncing in place.
Meian shook his head, but when she started belting out the chorus, he joined in on a low, embarrassed harmony that made her shriek with laughter.
They bounced together, the song changing to something faster, her hair flying around her shoulders.
When they finally paused, breathless and grinning, she tilted her head back to look at him.
And because her tongue was loose with sugar and booze, she blurted it out: “Atsumu has this big-boobed, cherry-haired woman over,” she hissed, rolling her eyes. “Like—ugh. I already heard him have sex with some other girl last week and now this.”
Meian’s brows lifted and for a second he looked like he might say something thoughtful, something that would make her feel better.
But before he could, the music shifted again, The Academy Is... pounding through the speakers, and she clapped both hands over her mouth in delighted recognition.
“OH MY GOD,” she yelled, throwing her arms up. “About A Girl! This is my song!”
She started singing along, louder than before, every note pitched somewhere between defiance and relief.
Meian watched her for a long moment, his smile soft.
“You’re really cute, you know that?” he called over the music.
She snorted, bouncing a little higher.
“I’m drunk, big captain man.”
And for the first time all week, she meant it when she laughed.
It was sometime around midnight when Meian decided he’d officially had enough of being the only functional adult in a building full of overgrown toddlers.
Hitomi was draped dramatically over the edge of a neon-lit ball pit, her hair spilling onto the foam floor while she solemnly poked a blue plastic ball with one fingertip. Hinata was face down on a beanbag, whimpering something about needing fries immediately or perishing on the spot. Bokuto was sitting cross-legged by the bar, alternately texting someone and taking selfies with an enormous inflatable flamingo.
Meian surveyed the scene with the weary patience of a man who’d captained a professional team for too long to be surprised by anything anymore.
“All right,” he announced, his deep voice cutting through the bass-heavy music. “Enough. You three need food that isn’t cotton candy and whatever those monstrosities were.”
Hitomi lifted her head, blinking like a dazed owl.
“Hotdog?” she asked hopefully, her voice a little too bright.
Meian just sighed.
“Hotdog, burger, fries. And you’re all drinking water.”
Ten minutes later, he’d wrangled them into a booth in the quieter café section of the playground.
Bokuto was chugging a liter bottle of water like he’d crossed the desert, stopping only to gasp theatrically before returning to guzzling as if his life depended on it.
Hinata looked like he might start crying right into the hamburger cradled in both hands. Every time he tried to take a bite, he made a choked little sound and whispered that he was “just so happy right now.”
And Hitomi, well, Hitomi looked blissed out beyond belief as she held her hotdog reverently, the steam rising in fragrant little curls.
“Oh my god,” she moaned, sinking her teeth in and closing her eyes. “Oh my god, this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Meian, settled beside her on the vinyl bench, bit back a laugh.
“You sound like you haven’t eaten in a week,” he teased.
She cracked one eye open, beaming at him, her lips pink and glossy from the sauce.
“Thank you,” she declared, gesturing with the hotdog like it was a royal scepter. “Thank you for this blessing.”
He tried to look stern, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him.
“You’re welcome,” he said. Then, more gently, “Drink, okay? And slow down a little.”
He glanced over to where Hinata was wiping his eyes with a napkin.
“Hinata. Water. Now.”
Hinata meekly obeyed, and Hitomi made a solemn little salute before taking a gulp from her own bottle.
By the time the plates were empty and the water bottles drained, they were all a little more coherent.
Not sober—Hitomi still felt deliciously unsteady, her thoughts pleasantly fuzzy—but at least coherent enough to consider the next round of chaos.
Meian raised an eyebrow when Bokuto perked up again, eyes bright and mischievous.
“Obstacle course?” Bokuto suggested, his grin slow and wicked.
“Oh no,” Meian muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
Hitomi, however, clapped her hands in delight.
“Yes. Absolutely yes.”
The Ninja Warrior-style parkour course was illuminated in shifting neon, pulsing gently like some kind of alien mothership.
She tilted her head back to look up at the climbing wall.
“Piece of cake,” she announced, though her voice wobbled on the last word.
Meian followed them onto the soft mats, arms folded across his chest as he watched them line up at the wobbly bridge.
To his eternal surprise, Hitomi was the first to cross without incident.
She held her arms out for balance, her hair falling forward over her shoulders, her little black dress riding up dangerously high as she inched her way across.
When she stepped triumphantly onto the far platform, she turned, flushed and triumphant.
“Did you see that?” she yelled. “Did you see me?”
“I did,” Meian called back, his voice warm with approval. “Good job.”
Bokuto and Hinata both made it too, though Bokuto nearly toppled backward halfway across, saved only by Hinata’s shrieking grip on his elbow.
Then came the glass wall climb.
It went exactly as badly as Meian had expected.
Hinata gave it his all, but ended up sliding back down with a defeated little whimper.
Bokuto managed to get halfway up before he lost traction, arms and legs pinwheeling dramatically.
And then Hitomi stepped forward, hands on her hips.
“I’m doing it,” she declared.
Meian had just enough time to feel a twinge of dread before she reached down and started gathering her dress up over her thighs.
“Hitomi,” he said carefully, but she ignored him, her skirt now bunched around her waist.
“I need traction,” she explained seriously. “Too much fabric.”
“Put it down,” Meian tried again, moving quickly around the base of the wall to block the view from the other guests.
“But—”
“Put. It. Down,” he repeated, more firmly.
She sighed, her lower lip jutting out in a pout.
“But Meian,” she pleaded, swaying a little as she braced her hand on his arm. “Can’t you just—like—shove it up to my belly button? Please?”
He felt something suspiciously like laughter bubbling in his chest.
“I’m not helping you flash half of Osaka,” he said, gentler now. “Try again later.”
She huffed and let the skirt fall, smoothing it petulantly over her hips.
“Fine,” she grumbled, turning away. “I didn’t want to do it anyway.”
He managed to herd them back toward the bouncy castle, where they immediately collapsed into another hour of flailing, jumping, and caterwauling along to an endless playlist of early 2000s J-Pop and pop-punk masterpieces.
By the time the clock struck three a.m., Bokuto was a dead weight draped across a pile of beanbags.
Hinata was leaning heavily on Hitomi, the two of them locked in an off-key duet that sounded like the wailing of particularly enthusiastic cats.
Meian exhaled, resigned to his fate.
It took nearly ten minutes to get Bokuto onto his back and hoisted up.
Meian carried him out of the building piggyback style, pausing only to watch Hinata and Hitomi shuffle behind him, hand in hand, still trying to harmonize.
They reached the truck, and Meian deposited Bokuto into the passenger seat with the weariness of a father of triplets.
When he turned back to help the others, Hinata was valiantly attempting to buckle Hitomi into the backseat, though he was swaying too hard to manage it.
“Let me,” Meian said, his voice gentler than he meant it to be.
He leaned in, catching Hitomi’s chin when she giggled and tried to dodge him and carefully tugged the seatbelt across her chest.
Her eyes were glossy and bright as she watched him click it into place.
And then—before he could lean away—her hands shot up to frame his face.
“Drive carefully, big captain man,” she slurred, her lips stretching into the sweetest, most mischievous smile.
Then she leaned forward and planted a huge, sticky, lipgloss-smudged kiss right in the center of his forehead.
He froze and Hinata burst into helpless giggles beside her.
Meian exhaled, closed his eyes, and shook his head in quiet defeat.
“Noted,” he muttered, pulling away and scrubbing a hand over his face.
He climbed behind the wheel, the engine rumbling to life, and when he glanced in the rearview mirror, Hitomi was already snuggled against the door, her lashes fluttering shut, her mouth curved in the softest little smile.
He didn’t know what this was turning into.
But as he steered them back toward Osaka, he couldn’t help but smile too.
───────────────────────────────
🍃 fun facts:
Meian is going through it. He promised himself to stay professional towards Hitomi, but everytime she smiles, something flutters in his chest. And when she bounced with him on the bouncy castle, he couldn't help himself but allow his heart to bounce.
Bokuto took a bunch of photos and told Hitomi he's a better photographer than her, before he challenged her to chug her cocktail and do a handstand in the ball pit.
Hinata lost a sock somewhere.
Hitomi had heaps of fun and thinks Bokuto is a genius for inviting her to this indoor-playground. She also thinks Hinata is the cutest human being she had ever seen in her life.
17. &burn — billie eilish
Word Count: 2,118
Pairing: Timeskip!Atsumu Miya x Fem!OC
Hitomi knew she should look away.
Every inch of her was telling her to go; go inside, close the door, pretend she hadn’t seen any of it.
But she stood there anyway, frozen in the hallway in front of her own apartment, as the woman moved toward Atsumu in a slow, predatory glide.
Hitomi felt her stomach coil tight, her throat closing around something she didn’t want to name.
The woman’s voice was as sultry as her walk, pitched just low enough to feel like a performance.
“I missed you so much, hot stuff,” she purred, wrapping her arms around Atsumu’s neck. Her nails glinted pale pink where they curled into his hair.
Hitomi took a careful step back, her spine pressing against the wall.
The woman went on, oblivious to the way the air between them had turned thin.
“I arrived this morning,” she breathed, her mouth so close to his cheek that Hitomi thought she might actually lick him, “and I told myself to be patient before I headed here. But I’ve been waiting for hours… I’m back in town for a while, isn’t that great?”
Atsumu opened his mouth, maybe to respond, maybe to object, but he didn’t get the chance.
The cherry-haired woman pressed herself flush against him, her body fitting to his as though it had been sculpted for that purpose.
Her hands trailed down his neck to the line of his collar, tugging him closer.
And then she kissed him.
Hitomi’s lungs seized.
It was an instinct, bending down like she’d dropped something, just to be able to look away, just to give them that sliver of privacy.
But even crouched, she couldn’t block out the sound. The soft, wet hush of it. The low hum of something like approval in his throat.
Her fingers felt like ice as she fumbled for her keycard, her breath coming too shallow. She managed to stand again without swaying. Just barely.
When she looked up, Atsumu was easing the woman back a step. Not rejecting her, not really, just creating space enough to breathe.
And then his eyes lifted past the waves of dark cherry hair and met hers.
For one terrible heartbeat, she thought maybe he’d call her name. Maybe he’d say something that would make sense of this feeling twisting behind her ribs.
But he didn’t.
His gaze slipped back to the woman in his arms.
And that—more than the kiss, more than the impossible elegance of that woman’s body against his—was what did it.
Hitomi felt something fragile inside her go quiet.
She turned away, let herself into her apartment with shaking hands and closed the door as gently as she could.
She didn’t bother turning the lights on.
Just toed off her shoes by feel and let her backpack slide from her shoulder to the floor.
Her living room looked softer in the dusk, all dusky lavender and fading blue.
She dropped onto the couch with a graceless little exhale, her legs folding under her.
For a while, she didn’t do anything.
Just sat there with her hands limp in her lap, her breath whispering in and out like it belonged to someone else.
Then—because she couldn’t stand the quiet—she laughed. A single, small sound. Not bitter, exactly, but so embarrassed she wanted to cover her face.
“What did I even think?” she whispered to no one, her voice hoarse.
Her thumb traced the seam of a throw pillow, trying to ground herself.
“A man like Atsumu…” She swallowed. “…he has girls left and right. I’m just a neighbor-slash-coworker-slash-friend.”
Saying it out loud didn’t help.
The truth still felt too big, pressing against her lungs.
She blinked, willing herself to be steady. But the tears rose anyway, hot and stinging, slipping down her cheeks before she could stop them.
She pressed her fingertips to her mouth, hoping—stupidly—that if she didn’t make a sound, the ache would pass faster.
It didn’t.
She lost track of how long she sat there, letting the tears come and go in silence.
When she finally moved, it was because she needed something to do, some tiny practical action to keep from feeling entirely foolish.
She stood, swiping her cheeks with the backs of her hands, and padded to the drawer in the kitchen where she’d stashed the earplugs.
Because of course she’d need them.
Her throat closed again, but she didn’t cry this time.
She held onto that as something like progress.
When she came back to the living room, her phone was vibrating against the arm of the couch.
She set the box of earplugs aside and picked it up, wiping her nose with her wrist before she squinted at the screen.
A message from Bokuto lit up in bold letters.
HEY HEY HEY! The last time you could really hold your liquor, Hinata and I are going to an adult arcade in two hours or so, wanna join? I texted Tsumu-Tsumu and Omi-Omi but none of them texted me back soooo? You in Hiichan?
A sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob slipped out.
She read the message twice, her eyes blurry but her mouth curving. It was such a Bokuto thing—loud and kind, exactly when she needed it.
She could hear him saying it in her head, see the huge grin he’d wear when she said yes. She pressed her lips together, trying to remember she’d promised herself she wouldn’t make one person her entire life here.
Just because Atsumu lived next door didn’t mean he got to be everything.
She drew in a slow breath.
Typed back with unsteady thumbs:
I’m in, beef cakes! You picking me up?
The reply was immediate, all in caps.
HELL YES! Be there in two hours! Wear something cute! <3
She set the phone down on the coffee table, wiping her cheeks one last time.
Somehow, she felt lighter. Not good, exactly. Not yet.
But lighter.
Like maybe it was enough to have other people in her corner, people who didn’t make her feel like she was always the one trying too hard.
She glanced at the clock, feeling the first small spark of determination under her ribs.
Two hours.
That was enough time to pull herself together.
Enough time to remind herself that she was more than whatever unspoken thing she and Atsumu were.
If there was one thing Hitomi Chiba had learned in her years of racing circuit chaos, it was how to turn a shit day into a night worth remembering.
Even before the door clicked shut behind her, she had a plan forming in her head—a quiet, bright determination that no amount of jealousy or embarrassment was going to steal this weekend from her.
She tossed her phone onto the bed, padded across the apartment in her socks and stopped in front of the mirror.
Her reflection stared back, eyes still a little puffy, mouth set in a thin, unhappy line.
No.
She wasn’t letting herself end the week like this.
She pulled the hair tie free and shook her hair loose around her shoulders, her fingers combing through the soft, dark lengths until it fell in a glossy curtain down her back.
Dry shampoo was next, she flipped her hair forward, worked the powder in with practiced motions until it smelled like fresh coconut and looked like she’d never spent half the day hiding in an editing cave.
The eyeliner came off and went back on, darker and sharper this time—two neat fox-wing flicks that made her eyes look bigger, braver, unbothered.
A touch of peach gloss, dabbed on carefully so her lips looked plump and soft, like she hadn’t spent the last hour chewing on them.
When she was done, she looked less like the girl who’d cried on her couch and more like the woman who used to walk into the Red Bull paddock like she owned it.
She exhaled, the first little flicker of her old confidence catching light.
The outfit was next.
She pulled the tiny black dress from the back of her closet, sleek and simple, with the bright white straps that framed her shoulders and collarbones just right.
It was a little risky for a casual Friday night, but maybe she needed risky.
She slipped into it, smoothing the fabric over her hips, and stepped back to look.
Something loosened in her chest. Yes, she thought. This.
She added white socks and her cleanest sneakers, the outfit hitting exactly the balance between casual and fuck-you glamour that made her feel unbreakable.
A spritz—okay, a cloud—of her coconut-vanilla perfume, and she was almost ready.
Hitomi propped her phone on the bathroom counter, took a few quick mirror selfies in the warm overhead light.
One of them caught her exactly right: hair shining, eyes fierce, the black dress hugging her curves with zero apology.
She tapped her thumb against the share button, set it to her story, and picked a Nicki Minaj track to go with it; something loud and triumphant and impossible to ignore.
For good measure, she added a single party emoji.
It felt childish, petty and yet, perfect.
Two hours later, when her phone buzzed with Bokuto’s name, she was ready.
She gathered her little black Chanel purse, slipped her phone and lip gloss inside and tucked her keycard into the hidden pocket.
When she pulled the door open, her pulse had finally slowed to something normal.
I’m fine, she reminded herself, pressing the elevator button.
But when the doors slid open, her stomach did a slow, humiliating turn.
Atsumu was standing there.
His golden hair was a mess, his MSBY uniform wrinkled, like he’d been laying on a couch for hours.
And his mouth, her eyes went there before she could stop herself, was still a little pink and swollen.
He blinked when he saw her, his gaze dropping in a slow, almost startled sweep over her bare legs, the tiny black dress, the delicate strap of her purse.
He didn’t say anything at first.
Just stood there, holding the elevator door open, looking like he wasn’t sure what to do with the sight of her.
Hitomi’s chin lifted a fraction.
She slipped past him into the elevator, her hair swaying over her shoulders, her perfume sweet and defiant in the small space.
“Where are you going?” he asked, his voice rougher than usual.
She turned just enough to meet his eyes.
“Bo invited me out,” she said simply and she didn’t let herself look away.
For a second—just long enough to sting—he looked like he wanted to say more. But she raised her hand in a tiny wave as the doors closed between them.
She didn’t let herself think about what his face looked like in that moment. Didn’t let herself think about Cherry or her perfect body or the way Atsumu’s hands had settled so naturally around her waist.
By the time the elevator reached the ground floor, she had her smile back in place.
Outside, Bokuto’s big white Ford pick-up was waiting at the curb, its headlights sweeping across the pavement.
She jogged over, her hair bouncing and pulled the back door open with a grin.
“Hey, hey, hey!” Bokuto yelled, all broad shoulders and excitement. “Look at you!”
She climbed in, only to freeze when she spotted Meian in the seat beside her.
He was dressed casually, dark jeans and a grey henley that did absolutely nothing to disguise the breadth of his chest and when he turned, his smile was warm enough to banish every last trace of the awkward elevator.
“Hi,” she breathed, relief flooding her limbs. “You’re coming too?”
Meian lifted a brow. “Bokuto asked me to be the responsible adult.”
From the front seat, Hinata twisted around and gave her a cheeky grin.
“Damn, Hiichan,” he whistled. “You look like a dream.”
Hitomi laughed, the tension melting from her shoulders.
Bokuto reached back to bump her arm, his grin wide enough to split his face.
“I’m proud of you,” he declared. “You actually listened and wore something cute!”
She rolled her eyes, but she felt the first real rush of joy she’d had all day.
“Where are we going?” she demanded as she buckled her seatbelt.
Bokuto shot her a look in the rearview that could only be described as manic.
“I found this 18+ indoor playground,” he announced. “Ball pits, slides, arcade games, a bar—everything. We’re gonna cause chaos.”
She felt herself grin, something bright and unstoppable.
“Perfect,” she said, lifting both hands in the air. “I need alcohol, a good slide and sugar.”
Bokuto whooped, hitting the gas as they peeled away from the curb, leaving the heavy quiet of her building behind.
And for the first time in too long, Hitomi felt like she was exactly where she belonged.
───────────────────────────────
🍃 fun facts:
Bokuto is so happy that Hitomi agreed to join his Friday night shenanigans. He already thinks he's her best friend.
Hinata whistled about how nice Hitomi looked before she slipped into the car; Meian looked at her twice.
Hitomi feels petty about feeling jealous about Cherry and Atsumu. She is barely Atsumu's friend and is getting jealous about his girlfriend. She feels really trashy for that.
16. funeral grey — waterparks
Word Count: 2,596
Pairing: Timeskip!Atsumu Miya x Fem!OC
The drive to the gym passed in a blur of sunlight and low, purring engine noise. By the time Atsumu pulled the Corvette into his reserved spot, Hitomi felt like her pulse had settled into something warm and even, a quiet contentment she couldn’t remember the last time she’d allowed herself to feel.
But as soon as she stepped out of the car, the spell broke, like the moment between them belonged only to that sleek, leather-lined space.
The second her sneakers hit the pavement, reality reasserted itself in all its professional, nerve-wracking clarity.
They were back at work.
Which meant she had to remember how to look at him without thinking of the way he’d looked half-smiling across the center console, his hair falling into his eyes while she moaned at his engine.
It also meant she had to remember she was here to work. Not to flirt. Not to feel the restless, hopeful spark every time he glanced in her direction.
They walked up the side ramp together, but parted ways as soon as they stepped into the main hallway; Atsumu heading for the locker room with his gym bag slung over one shoulder and Hitomi ducking into the small office she’d started thinking of as her own.
She closed the door behind her and pressed her back to it for just a second, grounding herself.
Then she drew in a deep breath, pushed her hair back and got to work.
For the next hour, she lost herself in the comfortable, familiar rhythm of editing.
Her laptop screen glowed softly as she sorted through the last batch of photos from the Thunder Hawks match. Frame by frame, she adjusted brightness, lifted shadows, sharpened motion blur.
It was almost meditative, the way the hours passed unnoticed when she was behind a lens, or in this case, piecing together the story she’d captured.
She was halfway through cropping an especially good shot of Hinata mid-air when a large shadow fell across her desk.
She looked up and nearly tipped her chair back.
Meian Shugo stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his massive chest, the corner of his mouth lifted in a smile that managed to be both gentle and faintly intimidating.
“Morning,” he said, his voice pitched low.
“Morning, Meian-san,” she stammered, her hands reflexively sliding off the keyboard.
“You get home all right last night?” he asked, tilting his head just slightly, like he was genuinely concerned.
She nodded quickly, her ponytail brushing her neck.
“Yes, I—uh—it was fine. Thank you.”
“Good.” His smile deepened, eyes creasing at the corners. “It was nice talking with you.”
Her throat went a little dry.
“Yeah,” she managed, her voice too soft. “It was.”
“For sure,” he continued, his tone warm, “we’ll have to do that again sometime.”
She nodded, trying not to look too much like a flustered schoolgirl in her own office.
“I’d like that,” she admitted.
He didn’t move away and for a second, she thought maybe he’d come just to say that. But then he gestured toward the gym with a tilt of his chin.
“Actually,” he said, “I was wondering if you’d bring your camera down. We’ve got a little tradition after weekday drinking—hangover practice.”
She blinked, not sure she’d heard him correctly.
“Hangover…practice?”
Meian grinned outright, his teeth white against the scruff on his jaw.
“Yeah. You’ll see. It’s worth documenting.”
He clicked his tongue, shaking his head with mock regret.
“Especially,” he said, his voice dropping conspiratorially, “when I make Atsumu pay for being a pain in my ass.”
She couldn’t help it—she cracked up, a bright laugh that startled even her.
Meian’s eyes warmed like he was pleased he’d gotten that reaction.
“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the door. “Grab your camera. You don’t want to miss this.”
She only hesitated long enough to sling her camera bag over her shoulder and leave her phone, headphones and jacket on the desk.
When she caught up with him in the hall, he waited for her pace to match his, which was slower than she’d expected; unhurried, almost companionable.
They chatted as they walked.
He asked her how she was settling in. She told him a little about her apartment, about the plants she’d lined up on the balcony, how Osaka already felt more like home than she’d dared hope.
Her laugh echoed off the cinderblock walls when he shared a story about Atsumu losing a bet and having to wear a feather boa for an entire practice.
By the time they reached the double doors of the gym, her cheeks were warm from smiling, not embarrassment.
The doors swung open and the familiar rush of cold air hit her all at once—along with the sight of almost every MSBY player stretching, rolling out sore muscles and looking generally worse for wear.
Atsumu was easy to spot.
Even from across the court, she could see how his shoulders stiffened when he looked up and saw Meian walking beside her, smiling.
He almost dropped the barbell he was hauling off Sakusa’s rack, which in turn nearly crushed Sakusa’s shin.
She bit her lip, fighting back a laugh as Sakusa turned to him with a look that promised retribution.
Meian just chuckled and patted her shoulder.
“Have fun,” he said, then turned to join the other players.
Hitomi walked over to the side benches where Samson Foster and a few staff members were gathered.
She greeted them quietly, still trying not to feel too conspicuous and started preparing her camera—adjusting her settings, checking the battery, flicking through the lens options.
“Confused?” Samson asked, his British accent warm as always.
She lifted her gaze, startled.
He patted the empty spot beside him.
“Come here,” he said. “You’re about to see something special.”
She slipped onto the bench beside him, one hand still on her camera.
Samson’s mouth curved.
“They’re going to embarrass themselves,” he said, matter-of-fact. “And I insist you witness it with your own eyes before you hide behind that lens.”
Hitomi blinked.
Before she could ask, a beat of bass boomed through the gym speakers so loud she felt it in her ribcage.
will.i.am’s voice followed an instant later, bright and irreverent: Hot Wings from the RIO soundtrack.
She turned wide eyes to Samson.
He just smiled serenely.
“Tradition,” he said. “Meian’s idea.”
She looked back to the court just in time to see Bokuto puff his chest out like a proud peacock, his arms lifted in a grand display.
Next to him, Hinata flapped his hands under his armpits, bobbing his head like a hyperactive pigeon.
Inunaki and Sakusa shuffled sideways in perfect unison, their arms held at odd angles—she realized, belatedly, that they were pretending to be seagulls.
Tomas and Oliver were tiptoeing in a circle, lifting their knees like flamingos trying to impress a mate.
And then her gaze landed on the far corner.
Atsumu.
His ears were pink to the tips. His cheeks were blazing. His golden eyes were suspiciously glossy as he stretched his arms out and bent his legs into a ridiculous crouch, imitating, if she wasn’t mistaken, a riflebird’s mating display.
For one impossible second, she forgot how to breathe.
He looked…so stupid. So self-conscious. So earnest about something she could tell he’d rather be anywhere else than doing.
Her heart did something she didn’t want to name.
And when she caught herself biting her lip, the soft smile threatening to spill over her face, she quickly looked away; fixing her gaze instead on Bokuto, who was bellowing along to the chorus and slapping Meian’s massive chest in time with the beat.
She lifted her camera, trying to pretend she was too busy documenting the spectacle to feel anything at all.
But as she framed Meian in the viewfinder, laughing, relaxed, she felt that same tiny, persistent warmth flickering in her chest.
Like maybe, just maybe, she was already becoming part of something here.
It took her a good fifteen minutes to regain any composure after watching the Black Jackals do bird mating dances.
Once she’d laughed herself halfway sick, Samson wheezing beside her, Meian wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, she finally lifted her camera, her fingers still a little shaky with hilarity.
But once she started shooting, the familiar calm settled over her like a soft blanket.
She circled the court quietly, catching them in their post-ritual stretches and drills, snapping candid frames of Hinata grinning up at Bokuto, Sakusa rubbing his temples in exhausted resignation, Tomas wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt.
And Atsumu.
She caught him mid-laugh, one hand braced on his knee, his hair dark with sweat and his eyes bright in a way that made her stomach tighten unexpectedly.
She didn’t linger on the thought.
Just framed the shot, pressed the shutter and moved on.
Once she’d filled her memory card with enough photos to keep the social media team busy for days, she gave Meian a wave as she passed the sidelines. He caught her eye, lifted a hand and gave her that warm, easy smile that made everyone feel like they belonged.
She turned to Samson, who nodded toward the doors.
“Go on,” he said, amused. “You’ve done your duty.”
“Thank you,” she mouthed, grinning.
She slipped out into the cool hallway, hugging her camera bag against her chest.
Her steps were light as she walked back to her office, a smile playing at her lips as she scrolled through the shots on her display.
When she reached the one of Atsumu—head thrown back, smiling at Hinata like the world was simpler than she knew—she hesitated.
Her thumb hovered over the delete button.
Then she swallowed, exhaled and saved it to her favorites folder instead.
The rest of the day unfolded in a pleasant blur of work.
Hitomi slipped into her desk chair, pulled her headphones over her ears and let herself sink fully into the rhythm of editing.
The hours passed unnoticed as she adjusted color profiles and contrast, labeled folders and composed emails to the MSBY social media manager.
When she received a reply asking if she’d be willing to set up a series of close-up profile shots for a new promo campaign, she typed out an immediate yes.
By the time the clock on her laptop struck six-thirty, she was cross-eyed with focus, her hair slipping loose from her ponytail.
She was so lost in adjusting a detail on Bokuto’s candid portrait that she didn’t hear the door open.
Or the soft footfalls approaching.
It wasn’t until her stylus was lifted clean out of her hand that she startled so hard she almost bit her tongue.
She whipped around, her headphones sliding down her neck.
Atsumu stood behind her, one brow lifted, a smug little smirk curving his mouth.
“Day’s over,” he announced, voice far too satisfied with himself. “C’mon, Hitomi. Grab your stuff—we’re going home.”
She groaned and reached for the stylus, snatching it back with a glare.
“Don’t sneak up on me,” she muttered, sliding her headphones onto her desk.
He only grinned wider, clearly delighted he’d made her jump.
“You ready or not?” he teased, folding his arms across his broad chest.
Hitomi sighed, but she couldn’t help the small smile tugging at her lips.
“Fine,” she conceded. “Just…give me a second.”
She logged out of her computer, unplugged her hard drive, and carefully stowed her laptop in the padded section of her backpack.
When she finally slung the bag over one shoulder and pulled on her golden MSBY jacket, she looked up to find Atsumu watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite read.
She tilted her chin defiantly.
“All set.”
They walked down the hall in easy silence.
Outside, the evening air had cooled just enough to feel like a relief, brushing over her skin as they crossed the parking lot to his car.
“So,” he said, glancing sideways at her as they walked, “gonna tell me what you thought of the hangover ritual?”
She tried to keep her face composed. She really did.
But the memory of him, blushing to the tips of his ears, arms outstretched like some awkward little bird, was too much.
She pressed her lips together, but the giggle escaped anyway.
“You,” she said, her voice breathless with amusement, “looked so cute.”
He groaned, tilting his head back in theatrical despair.
“Don’t say that,” he begged. “Just—don’t.”
She didn’t relent.
“You were bright red,” she continued mercilessly. “Like a tomato. Or an embarrassed crab.”
He scrubbed both palms over his face as they reached the Corvette, muttering something she pretended not to hear.
She was still giggling when she slipped into the passenger seat, hugging her bag to her chest.
They drove out of the lot into the low, golden glow of Osaka at dusk.
The first red light they hit, Atsumu shifted in his seat and turned to look at her, something measured in the way he watched her face.
“What were you talking to Meian about this morning?”
It took her a second to remember.
“Oh,” she said finally, her voice absent. “Nothing much. Just that he had fun the other night and…we should repeat that sometime.”
He didn’t say anything.
Just nodded once, too casual, and turned back to the windshield.
The quiet stretched until she shifted her weight, suddenly unsure if she’d said something wrong.
But before she could ask, the light changed and he rolled them forward again.
By the time they turned into the underground garage, the atmosphere had softened again, like neither of them knew quite what to do with that moment of careful quiet, so they’d both let it slip away.
Atsumu sighed as he eased the car into his spot.
“Thank fuck tomorrow’s the weekend,” he mumbled, scrubbing a hand over his jaw.
“Yeah,” she agreed, voice a little hoarse. “My first week was…a lot.”
He flashed her a crooked grin as they climbed out.
“You survived,” he pointed out, slamming his door shut with a satisfying thunk.
“Barely,” she teased, shouldering her backpack as they crossed to the elevator.
They stood side by side as the car hummed up the thirteen floors, talking quietly about weekend plans.
She told him she’d probably spend it running errands and catching up on sleep.
He nodded, his hair falling over his forehead.
“Same,” he said. “Just…sleep. And maybe a little gym.”
The elevator dinged, the doors sliding open.
They stepped out still talking, still smiling—until a female voice cut across the hallway like a blade.
“Tsum-Tsum.”
Hitomi felt it before she even looked. The way his body stiffened, just slightly. The way the air seemed to thicken.
She turned her head, her heart thumping too fast and saw the woman waiting just outside his door.
She was tall, at least seven centimeters taller than Hitomi, with a figure so classically hourglass it looked unreal. Long dark cherry hair fell in loose, sultry waves down her back, glossy and perfect. Her lashes were thick and curled, framing siren eyes that flicked over Hitomi once before dismissing her entirely.
She wore a flimsy, lacy top that clung to her curves, its neckline dipping low over tanned skin and tiny denim shorts that left most of her long legs bare. YSL heels gleamed on her feet. A tiny designer purse dangled from one manicured hand.
Hitomi’s breath caught.
She took an automatic step back, away from Atsumu, away from the threshold between them and felt something cold slip down her spine.
The woman smiled, slow and knowing, and turned her gaze back to Atsumu.
───────────────────────────────
🍃 fun facts:
Meian stood in front of Hitomi's office for ten minutes before he dared to enter. His mood instantly lifting the moment her eyes locked onto his.
Atsumu couldn't stop staring at Meian and Hitomi when they entered the court. Especially the height difference between them.
Hitomi is slowly becoming more confident in talking to men. Atsumu, is for some odd reason, easy to talk to. Meian still frightens her a little bit.
The second Hitomi saw that gorgeous, curvy and sensual-sexy woman in front of Atsumu's apartment, she felt self-conscious and insecure about her own body.
09. every breath you take — the police
Word Count: 2,760
Pairing: Timeskip!Atsumu Miya x Fem!OC
“Faster,” Hitomi breathed, her voice pitched somewhere between exhilaration and shameless pleading. “Come on, Atsumu—faster.”
Beside her, one big hand loose on the wheel, Atsumu let out a strangled groan that sounded equal parts mortified and exasperated.
“You make it sound,” he ground out, his jaw flexing as he flicked her a sideways glare, “like we’re fucking and I’m not hitting you good enough.”
She laughed, bright and wicked, her head tipping back against the leather seat as the Corvette hummed beneath them like a living thing. The early sun was streaming across her bare legs, the hem of her MSBY shorts riding up her thighs every time she shifted. The speedometer hovered just over the legal limit and she thought, only half ironically, that she hadn’t felt this alive in months.
They were barreling down the freeway toward his brother’s restaurant and she was so high on speed and the low, vibrating growl of the engine that it didn’t even occur to her to pretend composure. Her heart was in her throat, her blood fizzing with the pure, stupid thrill of velocity and proximity.
Atsumu cursed under his breath, one long finger drumming a nervous beat against the gearshift.
“I don’t wanna get another ticket,” he muttered, as though he was trying to convince himself more than her. “Last time I had to do a fuckin’ apology video for the sponsors, like I’m a teenage YouTuber—”
But when he looked over at her, something in his chest seemed to catch.
Hitomi was smiling in a way she didn’t even realize she could still smile, wide, unguarded, radiant. Her dark eyes were bright with mischief and a kind of soft, unvarnished happiness he wasn’t sure he’d ever been on the receiving end of.
She was pouting now, her glossy mouth pulling into a teasing little curve.
“Please,” she sighed, blinking at him like he was the only thing standing between her and heaven itself.
Atsumu felt something in his ribcage give, just a little.
“Fine, woman,” he groaned, shifting gears and pressing the accelerator in one smooth motion. “But don’t moan again. That’s…that’s weird.”
Which, in hindsight, was the worst thing he could have said.
Because she didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t even pretend to think about it.
Instead, she slipped her hand between her spread knees and gripped the leather seat tight, her other palm flattening over his bicep and let out a series of tiny, theatrical whines that made every hair on his arms stand on end.
He swore, the sound rough in his throat and shot her a look that was both scandalized and reluctantly delighted.
“Why,” he demanded, voice tight as he kept his eyes fixed on the road, “are you so goddamn bold today?”
Hitomi only shrugged, her thumb brushing a casual circle against the muscle of his upper arm.
“I’m usually bolder,” she admitted, her voice low and almost shy beneath the teasing, “when I’m around people I like.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Atsumu felt the air go thinner around them, like the cabin of the car had shrunk by half.
She turned her head, her ponytail sliding over her shoulder and looked at him—really looked at him.
“Must mean,” she said softly, “that I somehow ended up liking you.”
His throat bobbed, a single swallow audible over the hum of the engine.
She looked back out the windshield before he could answer, as if she’d said too much, her voice turning breezy again.
“Even if you glared at me the first time we met in the 7-Eleven,” she continued lightly, “and I heard you having sex through the wall.”
The Corvette swerved half a foot across the lane before Atsumu jerked it back in line, his knuckles bleaching white around the wheel.
“You…heard that?” he choked, scandalized.
She nodded, her expression unimpressed.
“You must have made that poor woman see God—or at least a few minor deities—the way she screamed.”
He groaned, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, “kill me now.”
“Hmm,” she hummed, her mouth curving as she settled back in her seat. “Maybe later.”
They drove the rest of the way trading barbed commentary.
Hitomi accused him of using cheap pick-up lines.
Atsumu swore she was a menace in disguise.
She told him he was too cocky for someone whose car insurance probably cost more than her rent.
He told her she was going to give him a complex about his driving if she kept moaning like that.
By the time he turned off the main road and down a narrow street lined with tidy storefronts and painted shutters, Hitomi felt almost dizzy with the sheer, stupid pleasure of it, of being seen and teased and maybe, just maybe, liked back.
When the Corvette rolled to a stop in front of a small white building with hand-painted signage, she unbuckled her seatbelt with trembling fingers. The sign over the door read Onigiri Miya in cheerful brushstrokes.
She climbed out carefully, her legs feeling warm and unsteady, and closed the door with both hands.
Then, without thinking, she ran her palm over the smooth line of carbon fiber, her touch slow and reverent.
Behind her, Atsumu barked a disbelieving laugh.
“Stop seducing my car!” he called, exasperation laced with something suspiciously close to affection.
She turned to grin at him, brushing her hair over her shoulder.
“It’s not my fault she’s prettier than you,” she said sweetly.
He scowled, though his mouth twitched at the corners.
They stepped inside together, the little brass bell over the door jangling bright in the quiet.
A warm, savory smell drifted from behind the bar, rich with rice and freshly grilled fish.
Before they could take another step, a voice floated out—deep, dry, and unmistakably Kansai-accented.
“We’re not open yet,” it called.
“Oi, Samu!” Atsumu shouted back, cupping a hand around his mouth like the world’s most obnoxious megaphone. “I owe someone breakfast, please?”
Hitomi was too busy taking in the space, neat wooden counters, carefully arranged displays, the soft gleam of sunlight on polished tile, to process what he’d said until she looked past him to the man behind the counter.
Her jaw nearly unhinged.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” she whispered, leaning closer to Atsumu’s shoulder.
He gave her a side-eye, unimpressed.
“What?”
“That,” she hissed, gesturing with both hands, “is you.”
“It’s not me,” he groaned, scrubbing a palm over his face. “It’s my brother.”
The man, broad, tall, hair dark under a black baseball cap, lifted a brow and stepped out from behind the counter.
And it was uncanny.
Same sharp jaw. Same impossible cheekbones. Same annoyingly symmetrical face.
Only the hair, darker and neater and the wider, calmer set of the shoulders distinguished him from the golden-haired menace beside her.
She blinked once, then twice.
Then, because she couldn’t help herself, she rose onto her tiptoes and murmured into Atsumu’s ear, “Your brother is a snack.”
He jerked away like she’d burned him.
“Shut up,” he hissed, though the tips of his ears turned bright pink.
She only giggled, stepping around him to wave politely.
“Hi,” she called, her voice bright. “I’m Chiba Hitomi. I’m the new photographer for MSBY.”
Osamu Miya nodded once, his mouth quirking in a subtle, more dignified version of his twin’s grin.
“Osamu,” he said. “Owner of this dump. Unfortunately also this idiot’s brother.”
She laughed outright, warmth bubbling in her chest.
Atsumu rolled his eyes skyward, muttering something under his breath about betrayal and bad karma.
“Come on,” he groused, taking her elbow and steering her toward a corner booth. “Before you start making heart eyes at him.”
She let him guide her, but as soon as he let go, she fixed him with a sweet, guileless smile.
“Why?” she asked innocently, propping her chin on her hand. “You jealous?”
His mouth opened. Closed.
Then he threw himself onto the opposite bench with a groan, scrubbing both hands over his face like he regretted every choice that had led him to this moment.
From behind the counter, Osamu’s dry voice floated over.
“What are you two having?”
Atsumu didn’t look up.
“Just bring us a good variety,” he called, voice muffled behind his palms. “The princess is hungry.”
Hitomi leaned back against the booth, feeling more alive than she had in years.
She wasn’t sure what this was, this strange new gravity that tugged her closer to Atsumu every time she tried to drift away.
But for now, she decided, she didn’t need to name it.
She could just…let herself enjoy it.
Osamu didn’t bother waiting long.
He returned from the back kitchen within minutes, carrying a large lacquered tray balanced effortlessly across one broad palm. The steam rising from the fresh onigiri was fragrant and familiar, and Hitomi felt her stomach tighten with a sudden, hopeful hunger.
She watched him set the tray down between them, a neat, beautiful arrangement of rice balls wrapped in crisp nori, little dishes of pickles, and two tall glasses of barley tea.
Atsumu mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like about time, but when Osamu ignored him and slipped onto the bench beside their table, he didn’t repeat it.
Instead, he started rummaging through the condiments, like he was determined not to look his twin in the eye.
Hitomi blinked, feeling suddenly aware of her own hands, her hair, the way her T-shirt clung to her collarbones. It was strange, being watched by someone who looked almost exactly like Atsumu—same cheekbones, same mouth—only calmer. Older in a way that had nothing to do with time.
Osamu didn’t say anything right away. He just picked up one of the onigiri—plum, if she was guessing by the faint pink filling—and bit into it, chewing thoughtfully as he studied them.
And then, as if he were commenting on the weather, he swallowed and said, “You look different than the women he usually brings in here.”
Hitomi nearly choked on her barley tea.
Atsumu did choke, spectacularly, a piece of rice catching in his throat as he hacked and coughed, clutching his glass like it was a lifeline.
Osamu didn’t even flinch. He just flicked his eyes over, expression bland.
“Chew properly,” he advised dryly, not moving to help him in the slightest.
Hitomi set her glass down, her fingers fluttering in panic. She reached across the table, her palm landing between Atsumu’s shoulder blades as she patted him—firmly, maybe a little too firmly—until the coughing subsided into a ragged wheeze.
Atsumu sucked in a breath, his cheeks flushed pink and glared at his brother with the betrayal of a wounded animal.
Osamu didn’t bother to look contrite.
He turned his focus back to Hitomi instead, tilting his head in an assessing way that made her feel like she was being catalogued.
“He usually brings models,” he went on calmly, as if his brother wasn’t still half-dying. “Or influencers. TV personalities. Women with fake tits, big lips, big asses. And personalities you could throw in a dumpster fire.”
Hitomi bit the inside of her cheek, fighting not to laugh.
“That’s…nice,” she managed after a moment, her voice faint.
She saw Atsumu out of the corner of her eye, slumping forward like he wished the table would swallow him whole.
She took pity on him, just a little, and turned her attention fully to Osamu.
“I’m only here,” she explained gently, “because your brother wanted to thank me for helping him get home last night. But…” She paused, picking up one of the onigiri and feeling its warmth seep into her palms. “I’ll definitely come back again. Your food’s amazing.”
For the first time, Osamu’s mouth curved into something real—an almost shy smile that softened the sharp lines of his face.
“Appreciate that,” he said quietly.
Atsumu groaned, dragging both hands down his face like he’d just aged five years in ten minutes.
Osamu ignored him.
“How old are you?” he asked, calm as anything.
“Twenty-three,” Hitomi said. “I turned twenty-three in February.”
Then Osamu leaned back, one arm draped across the back of the booth and gave her a look that felt oddly surgical.
“You sure,” he said slowly, “you’re only his coworker?”
Atsumu let out another strangled noise, somewhere between a sigh and a growl.
“For fuck’s sake,” he complained, staring at the ceiling. “We’re neighbors, coworkers and something like friends. That’s it.”
Hitomi lifted one brow.
“Something like friends?” she echoed, her voice too soft to be teasing.
He didn’t look at her.
Instead, he muttered, “Plus, she’s into Meian.”
She blinked.
It took her brain a second to catch up.
“I’m—what?” she spluttered, gaping at him.
Atsumu shifted in his seat, looking vaguely guilty.
“You were,” he protested weakly, “getting along really well. He did that hot-guy-slow-nod at you with his glass and you touched his arm.”
Hitomi opened her mouth. Closed it.
“You’re out of your mind,” she said finally, flattening her palm over her forehead. “I barely know him.”
“Still,” Atsumu insisted, turning his wounded eyes on Osamu as if seeking backup, “she did that thing, she giggled. You know the giggle.”
Osamu lifted one brow in silent question.
“The giggle,” Atsumu said again, gesturing helplessly. “The one women do when they’re thinking about—”
“Oh my god,” Hitomi groaned, dropping her face into her hands.
“—about how big his dick probably is,” Atsumu finished, triumphant.
A beat of horrified silence.
Then Osamu looked at her gravely, as though they were discussing serious business strategy.
“That’s going to be a problem,” he declared. “You’re tiny.”
Hitomi lifted her head just enough to glare at both of them, her cheeks flaming.
“I hate you,” she informed them flatly.
Osamu only nodded once, his expression thoughtful.
“Fair,” he said.
Atsumu tried and failed to hide a grin, but she saw it anyway and flipped them both off without remorse.
She took a deep breath, then clapped her hands together and gave them both her brightest, most dangerous smile.
“Listen,” she declared, her voice steady even though her heart was still doing laps around her ribcage, “I’m not into anybody. No one has caught my eye and it’s going to stay that way.”
Atsumu was quiet.
Too quiet.
She didn’t look directly at him, didn’t want to know what expression he was wearing.
But even so, she felt something small and prickly at the base of her neck, as if she’d just told the most transparent lie of her life.
They ate in a strange, companionable quiet after that.
Osamu asked about her work, what it was like to photograph race cars, whether she missed traveling.
She told him about the endless airports, the smell of gasoline and rubber, the way her camera had felt like an extension of her own hands.
Atsumu didn’t say much. He mostly watched her, his expression unreadable.
When they finally finished, Osamu rose to clear the plates. Atsumu pulled out his phone and tapped something into the screen, probably paying the bill through whatever app rich athletes used.
“C’mon, doll,” he drawled when he stood, slinging his gym bag over one shoulder. “Time for work. You gotta take hot pics of me and the guys so the fans don’t forget how pretty we are.”
She stood too, brushing crumbs from her shorts and ignored the way her chest fluttered at the ease of his grin.
“Goodbye,” she called to Osamu, who lifted one hand in a casual wave.
“Come back anytime,” he said, and his eyes flicked to his brother, just for a moment. “Preferably alone.”
Hitomi giggled as Atsumu steered her out the door, muttering curses under his breath.
The Corvette was waiting, sleek and immaculate in the morning sun.
Atsumu turned to look at her before unlocking it, one brow lifted.
“No more moaning,” he warned, though his voice was already rough with laughter.
She didn’t answer.
She just smiled and laid both palms flat against the passenger door. Then she let out a low, drawn-out moan that would have made any bystander think she was halfway to ecstasy.
Atsumu hissed between his teeth, his jaw going tense.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he said, voice hoarse.
She only lifted her chin, smiling wider.
“Good,” she whispered.
And then she slid into the seat, feeling like, for once, she had the upper hand.
───────────────────────────────
🍃 fun facts:
Osamu still thinks that his brother and Hitomi were on a date. He texts Atsumu later and tells him that he picked a nice one this time.
Atsumu thinks Hitomi is faking about not being into Meian. The thought of her and Meian is burned so deep into his head it's unsettling.
Hitomi realized, that when she called Osamu "a snack" she probably called Atsumu one too... since they have the same face. But she forces herself to not think about this. She only likes Atsumu for his sexy car.
14. dirty little secret — the all-american rejects
Word Count: 3,213
Pairing: Timeskip!Atsumu Miya x Fem!OC
Hitomi woke before her alarm, the pale glow of dawn pressing gently against her eyelids.
For a moment, she simply lay still, suspended between sleep and waking, her mind soft and unformed.
Then the memory of the night before rose up all at once, like someone had flicked on a spotlight in her skull and she groaned into her pillow.
Atsumu Miya.
His long limbs sprawled across the bed she’d all but shoved him into. His warm hands at her waist, the low, slurred voice murmuring "you smell so nice". The sight of him half-dressed, half-asleep and far too pretty for her own peace of mind.
Her pulse kicked at the memory.
She pressed the heel of her hand over her eyes, willing it away.
It’s too early for this, she thought, her voice in her own head pitched somewhere between exasperation and something she wasn’t ready to name.
Eventually, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, feeling her joints protest after so little sleep.
Her apartment was quiet, the hush of early morning wrapping around her like a blanket.
She padded barefoot across the bedroom and paused in the hallway.
For a beat, she simply stared at the blank expanse of the wall she shared with unit 1301.
It was ridiculous, she knew that, but she lifted a hand anyway and pressed her palm flat to the cool plaster.
Nothing.
She swallowed.
Then, almost without thinking, she tilted her head until her ear was pressed against the wall, listening.
No footsteps. No muffled groaning or shuffling.
No evidence that he was awake—or alive, for that matter.
She closed her eyes, exhaling a slow, measured breath.
He’s fine, she told herself. He’s an adult. He’s probably still passed out.
But her heart didn’t seem to believe it.
Trying to shake the heaviness from her chest, she crossed to the living room and pushed open the sliding glass doors. The early morning air washed over her skin in a cool, almost startling rush.
She stepped onto the balcony, her bare feet brushing the smooth tiles.
It was beautiful, that moment between night and day; Osaka slowly waking beneath the pink-and-gold glow of sunrise, the hush of the city making everything feel possible.
She lifted her arms above her head in a long, slow stretch.
The motion tugged her loose T-shirt up her ribs, revealing a slim line of skin, the dip of her waist. The breeze lifted the hem higher, brushing over her lower back.
For just a second, she let herself enjoy the quiet. The softness, the illusion that her heart wasn’t tripping over itself every time she thought about the man across the hall.
“Morning.”
The voice shattered the peace like a thrown rock through glass.
Hitomi yelped, her whole body jolting in shock as her hands flew to tug the hem of her shirt back down.
She spun toward the sound, her heart hammering in her throat.
And there he was.
Atsumu stood on the balcony opposite hers, nothing but a low row of potted plants between them.
He looked maddeningly awake, damp hair pushed back from his forehead, golden skin still pink from a shower, a plain white mug of coffee cupped in one hand.
And he was smiling.
Like he’d been expecting her.
“Fucking idiot,” she gasped, pressing a hand over her chest. “You scared the shit out of me!”
His grin widened, slow and amused.
“Sorry,” he said, though there was not a hint of apology in his voice.
Heat flooded her cheeks as she realized she was still clutching the front of her shirt, her hands still holding onto her boobs.
She glared at him.
“Don’t look at me,” she snapped.
He lifted his brows, gaze drifting over her bare thighs and up to her face. “Not looking,” he lied easily, though his eyes didn’t move.
She made a strangled sound, half embarrassment, half exasperation.
“Appreciate your coffee,” she muttered, turning sideways so he couldn’t see the outline of her chest.
Atsumu’s laugh was low and rough, the sound of someone still warm from sleep. “You’re cute when you’re mad,” he said, like he was simply stating a fact.
Her pulse skittered. “Shut up,” she snapped, though her voice lacked any real heat.
He tilted his head, studying her over the rim of his mug.
“I wanted to say thanks,” he said, softer this time.
She hesitated.
“For what?”
“For…last night.”
Her throat felt suddenly tight. She shifted her weight, her bare toes curling against the tile.
“You don’t have to thank me,” she said after a moment, her voice quieter. “You were drunk. Someone had to make sure you didn’t die in your sleep.”
His mouth curved, that slow, crooked smile that always seemed to undo her just a little.
“Still,” he said, his tone thoughtful, “I was a mess.”
“You don’t say,” she deadpanned.
“I hope you don’t think weirdly of me,” he continued, ignoring her sarcasm. “I was…fucking hammered, Hitomi. I probably said a lot of weird shit.”
She huffed, a tiny, involuntary smile tugging at her lips.
“You definitely did,” she agreed.
He set his mug on the railing, bracing his forearms against the wood.
“Like what?” he asked, feigning innocence.
She narrowed her eyes.
“Don’t pretend you don’t remember.”
He grinned, bright and unapologetic.
“Maybe I do,” he said, voice dropping low. “Maybe I remember everything.”
Her stomach flipped.
God, he was infuriating.
And impossibly, disastrously charming.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
She was painfully aware of every detail—the sleepy roughness in his voice, the damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead, the way his sweatpants hung low on his hips.
It felt too intimate, standing here in the pale dawn light, half-hidden by plants that suddenly seemed far too short.
Atsumu cleared his throat, straightening.
“Listen,” he said, suddenly earnest. “I wanna do something to say thanks.”
She eyed him warily.
“Like what?”
“Breakfast,” he said simply.
She blinked.
“Breakfast?”
“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking almost shy for once. “My brother owns a restaurant. Let me take you.”
The tightness in her chest softened, just a little.
“That’s…not necessary,” she murmured, though she couldn’t quite bring herself to say no outright.
“I know,” he said, his gaze steady. “But I want to.”
Her heart beat faster, tripping over itself.
It’s not a date, she told herself. It’s breakfast. That’s all.
Still, she found herself nodding.
“…Okay,” she said, so quietly she wasn’t sure he’d heard.
But his grin was immediate and bright, like sunlight breaking through the last haze of morning.
“Great,” he said, voice warm.
He tilted his head, studying her like he was committing her expression to memory.
“How about I knock on your door in an hour?”
She swallowed.
“Okay,” she repeated, her voice steadier this time.
His gaze dropped, lingering at the sliver of skin still exposed above the waistband of her shorts.
When his eyes lifted back to hers, something wicked sparked behind the gold.
“I’ll drive you to work after,” he added, voice low. “If you want.”
The thought of sliding into that sleek Corvette—of sitting beside him in the quiet hush of the cabin—sent a shiver of anticipation skittering up her spine.
She tried to hide it, but he saw.
Of course he saw.
His grin turned downright feral.
“Knew you’d like that,” he teased.
She rolled her eyes, though her mouth was betraying her with the tiniest curve.
“Shut up,” she muttered, already backing toward the door.
“See you in an hour, princess,” he called as she slipped inside, his laughter soft and bright behind her.
She closed the balcony door with shaking hands and leaned her forehead against the glass.
Her heart felt too big for her chest.
Bastard, she thought, not sure if it was a curse or something closer to an admission.
The first thing Hitomi did after closing the balcony door was lean back against it, palm pressed over her fluttering heart, as if she could physically steady it. Atsumu Miya was going to be the death of her. She was sure of it; if not by teasing her into an early grave, then by smiling at her with that unguarded softness she didn’t know how to look away from.
She stood there for a long moment, willing her pulse to even out. Then she gave herself a shake—like a cat trying to throw off water—and pushed away from the door. If he was coming back in an hour, she’d need every minute to pull herself together.
The bathroom was warm with steam by the time she stepped inside, her bare feet curling against the tiles. She twisted the knobs on the shower and waited for the spray to heat, pressing a palm to the glass as if she could absorb the calm through her skin.
Focus, she told herself. Just…focus.
She peeled off her T-shirt and shorts, dropping them into the laundry basket, and stepped under the water. For a moment she simply stood there, letting the hot stream rush over her shoulders, her hair falling in a dark curtain down her back.
With slow, methodical care, she reached for her coconut body wash, squeezing a generous dollop into her palm. The scent rose up immediately and she worked it into her skin in slow circles. She knew she didn’t need to scrub herself within an inch of her life, but it made her feel better, somehow, more prepared. Less like the version of herself who’d stood half-naked on the balcony, heart stuttering because of one lazy smile.
Her hair was next, her fingers sinking into the long, damp strands as she worked in the coconut-vanilla shampoo, the lather thick and fragrant. She rinsed, conditioned, and closed her eyes, breathing in the steam.
It’s just breakfast, she reminded herself, though her chest felt light and unfamiliar. Not a date. Not anything.
When she stepped out and wrapped herself in a towel, she felt steadier. Almost.
She dried her hair carefully, first with a towel and then with her old hair dryer, lifting sections to coax out the last traces of dampness. Once it was dry and silky, she spritzed her coconut-scented hair perfume through the lengths, watching the fine mist drift and catch the light.
The familiar ritual calmed her in a way nothing else could.
She gathered her hair into her hands, smoothed it high on her head, and secured it in a ponytail. The glossy fall of it brushed her shoulders and left her neck exposed to the cool air.
When she looked in the mirror, she almost didn’t recognize herself.
Her reflection was confident. Composed. The smallest trace of something bright flickering behind her dark eyes.
She wasn’t sure if she liked it or if it scared her half to death.
She moved to the bedroom and tugged open a dresser drawer, fingers brushing over soft cotton and folded fabric. She hesitated for a breath, then pulled out the MSBY jersey shorts she’d been issued last week. They were soft, familiar, easy, until she tugged them up her thighs and realized, with a slow burn of embarrassment, that they hugged her hips and backside in a way that felt decidedly not professional.
It’s fine, she told herself, ignoring the flush creeping up her neck. It’s just breakfast. And he’s seen you in worse.
But she still hesitated a moment longer before pulling out a simple black Calvin Klein bra and slipping it on. It made her feel less…vulnerable. A little more like herself.
She finished the look with the black MSBY T-shirt, the cotton soft and loose over her chest but short enough to show just a whisper of skin when she lifted her arms. She swiped on a subtle wing of eyeliner, a slick of peachy lip gloss, and stepped back to look herself over in the mirror.
Her heart gave a small, traitorous thump.
Girl mode, she thought wryly, pressing her lips together to keep from smiling.
In the living room, she lifted her camera backpack—already packed with her lenses, extra batteries, and the slim laptop she used for onsite edits and set it by the door. Her golden MSBY track jacket hung from the coat hook, waiting to be shrugged on before she left.
Satisfied, she crossed to the kitchen and cracked open a can of Red Bull, the hiss of carbonation loud in the quiet. She tipped it to her lips and drank deeply, the familiar tang waking up her senses.
She was halfway through the can when she heard the knock at her door. Her pulse gave a little jump, like it had been lying in wait for just this moment.
Calm, she told herself firmly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
She set the half-empty can on the counter and called, “It’s open—come in!”
She heard the soft creak of the door, then the muffled thump of sneakers being kicked off.
A beat later, she felt rather than saw him, Atsumu’s presence always announced itself before he even spoke, a low thrum that made her skin prickle.
When she finally turned, he was standing in the threshold to the living room, one hand braced on the wall as he looked around.
His eyes were fixed not on her but on the large canvas photo hung over her couch: a shot of the Red Bull F1 chassis in the pit lane, gleaming under stadium lights.
He looked…almost impressed.
Hitomi’s throat went dry.
She set the can down carefully and stepped toward him, her voice soft.
“I took that,” she said.
His head turned so fast a stray lock of blond hair fell over his brow.
She was struck, all over again, by how different he looked when he wasn’t smirking or rolling his eyes, how something in his face eased when he was surprised.
“Holy shit,” he said, and his voice was low and rough enough that it sent a little shiver down her spine. “You…you took that?”
She nodded, folding her arms over her stomach in self-defense.
His eyes moved back to the photo, then back to her.
And then he inhaled, the breath catching audibly.
“Fuck,” he rasped and his gaze pinned her so fast her skin went hot. “You smell…you smell delicious.”
Heat flooded her cheeks, prickling down her throat.
“Oh my god,” she muttered, mortified and lifted a hand to slap his arm.
He let her, the smile blooming slow across his mouth.
She could feel it, how the air between them seemed to hum, thick and alive.
“I’m going to brush my teeth,” she blurted, because it was the only thing she could think to say that didn’t start with thank you or don’t look at me like that.
“Sure,” he murmured, sounding amused.
She fled down the hallway, closing the bathroom door behind her with a soft click.
Inside, she braced her hands on the sink and met her reflection’s wide-eyed stare.
“Get a grip,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
She rinsed her mouth, reapplied her lip gloss, and smoothed her hair back from her face.
When she emerged again, Atsumu was standing by the TV stand, one hand idly flipping through the small framed photos she’d arranged there.
Family snapshots—her brothers pulling faces, her sister holding her baby, her parents in front of the bakery.
He looked up when she approached, his gaze warm.
“You have a big fam?” he asked, and the question was casual but not unkind.
She nodded, sliding her arms across her middle.
“One older sister and two older brothers,” she said, surprised by how easy it was to tell him. “My parents and my sister still live in Okinawa. Natsume’s in Tokyo, and Koshi moved to Dublin after college.”
He listened quietly, then shrugged a shoulder.
“I only got Ma and Samu,” he said. “Dad’s not in the picture—better this way.” There was a flicker of something sharp behind his eyes, something that made her heart squeeze before she could stop it.
He didn’t give her a chance to ask before he was rolling his eyes, like he was shaking off the moment. When he looked at her again, his mouth twitched.
“What?” she demanded warily.
He lifted one brow.
“You look…kinda cute.”
Her stomach did a humiliating little flip.
She flipped him off before she could think better of it.
He laughed, bright and unbothered.
“You hungry?” he teased.
She narrowed her eyes.
“Starving.”
“Then let’s go,” he said, sweeping one arm toward the door in an exaggerated bow. “After you, doll.”
She shouldered her backpack, shrugged on her golden jacket and followed him to the threshold. She paused to slip on her sneakers, watching him hoist his own gym bag over his shoulder.
In the elevator, he leaned back against the mirrored wall and gave her a slow, knowing grin.
“Sorry if I traumatized you last night,” he said conversationally. “You know with the size of the Captain’s dick.”
She turned to stare at him, exasperation battling the laugh she refused to let escape.
“Why are you starting with that again?” she demanded.
He shrugged, straight-faced.
“Because the two of you got along really nicely.”
She scoffed, rolling her eyes so hard it almost hurt.
The elevator doors opened onto the underground garage, and the second she stepped into the cool air, her pulse ratcheted up again.
The Corvette sat gleaming under the fluorescents, sleek and dark and beautiful.
Atsumu hit the unlock button, the headlights flaring like an invitation.
He glanced back just in time to catch the look on her face—a mix of awe and something dangerously close to desire—and his grin turned lazy.
“Get in,” he said softly.
She swallowed, lifting her chin as if that might make her less transparent.
She waited as he popped the trunk, helped her stow her bag, and then watched her slide into the passenger seat.
The cool leather kissed her bare thighs and before she could stop herself, a small, embarrassingly breathless sound slipped past her lips.
Atsumu froze mid-motion, his hand still braced on the roof and she watched the flush crawl up the back of his neck. He cleared his throat, closing her door carefully before circling to the driver’s side.
“Seatbelt,” he reminded her, voice lower than before.
She clicked it into place just as he settled behind the wheel.
When he turned the key, the engine roared to life; low, throaty, vibrating through her chest.
And Hitomi let out a full, unrestrained moan, her palms flattening against the dash as if she could absorb the sound straight into her skin.
He turned to stare at her, something stunned and delighted flickering across his face.
She looked back, her heart racing.
“Come on,” she whispered, her smile spreading slow and irreverent. “Don’t let this beauty wait. Take her like a man.”
For a moment, Atsumu just stared, blinking as though he’d never seen her before. Then his mouth curved, soft and wicked.
“Whatever Princess Hitomi says,” he murmured and eased the car out of the parking space, the engines purr rising around them like a secret.
She couldn’t help it, she giggled, a bright, helpless sound that filled the car as they rolled out into the morning.
───────────────────────────────
🍃 fun facts:
Hitomi would never admit it, but she was afraid Atsumu would choke on his tongue or his puke through the night.
Atsumu did snatch a look at her boobs, when they were on the balcony—but he'd never tell Hitomi. It's his dirty little secret. Seeing the outline of her boobs definitely made his morning. Especially through that thin sleep shirt.
Hitomi can't help herself but moan in satisfaction when seeing a gorgeous car, or hearing one. But Atsumu was definitely caught off guard when he heard that sound.
Atsumu is starting to enjoy calling Hitomi "doll" and "princess".
13. her — chase atlantic
Word Count: 2,547
Pairing: Timeskip!Atsumu Miya x Fem!OC
A/N: This is one of my most favourite chapters so far... I love the tension, the energy between them and they're just... EVERYTHING to me.
The Uber pulled up to the curb in a wash of headlights and engine noise.
Hitomi sighed, already bracing herself.
“Come on,” she muttered, grabbing Atsumu’s elbow as he tried to open the door himself and nearly fell backward into the street.
He was heavier than he looked, solid and warm and so floppy she almost wished she could leave him right there.
But she couldn’t.
So she hooked her arm around his waist and half-guided, half-shoved him into the back seat. He landed with a muffled grunt, sprawled across the leather with his knees splayed wide and his hair flopping into his eyes.
“You are,” she informed him as she climbed in after, “completely useless.”
He looked up at her with a crooked grin.
“Not useless,” he slurred. “Just…relaxed.”
“Sure.”
She pulled the door shut, then leaned over the middle seat to grab his seatbelt. Her hand brushed his chest, hot even through the thin fabric of his shirt.
He made a pleased little noise in the back of his throat and she nearly whacked him with the buckle on purpose.
Before she could pull back, his hands lifted, big palms skimming up her bare arms, the touch both warm and unexpectedly careful.
“You’re soft,” he mumbled, sounding more like he was talking to himself.
“Stop it,” she hissed, batting his hands away.
He only laughed, the sound low and loose.
She clicked the seatbelt shut, ignoring how close her face was to his collarbone and settled back into her own seat, pulling her belt across her lap.
The driver shot them a look in the rearview mirror, somewhere between amusement and pity, before easing the car back into traffic.
Osaka rolled past in a blur of neon and shadows.
Hitomi let her head tip back against the seat, closing her eyes for a moment to steady her pulse.
She could still feel the ghost of his hands on her skin, the way his breath had brushed her temple when she’d leaned over him.
It doesn’t mean anything, she told herself. He’s drunk. He’d probably say the same to any girl.
But when she cracked one eye open, he was already looking at her. His gaze was soft and a little unfocused, but somehow more earnest for it.
“Hitomi,” he said, voice rough with exhaustion and liquor.
“What now?” she sighed.
“Not to alarm you,” he began, in the solemn tone of a man about to deliver grave news, “but Meian…is packed.”
She blinked.
“…Packed?”
“Like, not just tall,” Atsumu continued, gesturing vaguely with one heavy hand. “His wiener is—” He made a wide, spreading motion that made her face flame. “It always looks at me in the showers. Like it’s judging me.”
“Oh my god,” she muttered, pressing her palm over her eyes.
He ignored her distress completely.
“And you,” he went on, blinking slowly as his gaze raked over her from head to toe, “you’re so…petite. He’d…he’d hurt you.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” she hissed, her voice an octave higher than usual.
Atsumu gasped, scandalized and lurched sideways as the car stopped at a red light.
She instinctively reached out, pressing her palm to his chest to steady him before he face-planted into her lap.
He blinked down at her hand like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.
“He’d literally break your back,” Atsumu insisted, his words slurring together. “While fucking you.”
Her mouth fell open. A startled laugh bubbled up, shocked and incredulous.
“Why would I fuck your captain?”
“He’s sexy,” Atsumu said, completely serious.
She let out a snort so loud the driver glanced at them again.
“You’re drunk,” she said, shaking her head.
He nodded, his hair flopping into his eyes.
“Yeah,” he agreed cheerfully.
But he didn’t look away.
His gaze was fixed on her face, on the pink flush she could feel creeping over her cheeks.
After a moment, he smiled—soft and just a little mischievous. “I’m gonna stalk your Instagram tonight,” he announced, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“You what?”
“Gonna scroll alllll the way back,” he went on, drawing out the words. “Find your embarrassing high school pictures. Make fun of your cute face.”
Her jaw dropped.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I will,” he promised, solemn as a priest.
She groaned, tipping her head back against the seat and closing her eyes.
“God, I hate you,” she muttered, not sure if it was even a lie.
But he only laughed, sounding so pleased with himself she almost smiled despite everything.
When the car finally rolled to a stop outside their building, she was already planning her escape.
She thanked the driver in a flustered rush, then clambered out first, bracing herself as Atsumu unfolded himself from the back seat like some oversized golden retriever who’d had too many beers.
He swayed, nearly tipping sideways until she caught him around the waist.
“Come on,” she muttered, guiding him through the quiet lobby and into the waiting elevator.
He leaned heavily against the wall, his eyes half-lidded and his hair falling into his face.
“I’m serious,” he mumbled as she pressed the button for the thirteenth floor. “Meian would break you. Just…snap you in half.”
“I’m ignoring you,” she informed him.
He didn’t seem to mind.
The elevator doors closed with a soft sigh, the motion rising smoothly beneath their feet.
She could feel him watching her, his gaze lazy and bright even in the dim light.
And when she finally dared to look up, he was smiling.
Not his usual smirk. Not the arrogant grin that made her want to smack him.
Just…smiling.
Something warm and a little too soft.
Her heart did an unsteady little flip.
The elevator chimed, doors sliding open onto the thirteenth floor. She stepped out first, then turned, fully expecting him to follow.
But Atsumu didn’t move.
He was slouched against the elevator wall, eyelids heavy, like it had finally all caught up to him.
Hitomi blinked.
He wasn’t going to make it to his apartment on his own.
Her eyes lifted to his face. He looked boyish like this, careless and sleepy, his mouth soft around the edges. Something in her chest twisted, unfamiliar and unwelcome.
She took a slow breath, trying to steady herself.
Well, she thought, resigned, this is going to be a problem.
Hitomi stood in front of him for a long moment, her back pressed to the cool elevator wall, her pulse fluttering just under her skin.
Atsumu hadn’t moved.
He slouched against the opposite side of the lift, heavy-lidded and loose-limbed, like he’d simply decided he was done trying to remain upright.
She let out a slow, quiet sigh.
You can’t just leave him here, she told herself, though a petulant part of her very much wanted to.
With a resigned groan, she shifted the strap of her Chanel bag over her head, wearing it crosswise to free her hands. She took one last steadying breath, stepped back into the elevator and touched his arm.
“Atsumu,” she murmured, voice as patient as she could make it. “Come on. You need to get to bed.”
He cracked one eye open, dazed and unbothered, and gave her a lopsided grin. “You smell good,” he informed her solemnly.
“Oh my god,” she muttered under her breath.
But she coaxed him gently, fingers light at the crook of his elbow, tugging until he straightened just enough to shuffle out into the corridor.
They staggered the short distance to his door—her bracing most of his weight, her cheek nearly pressed to the warm, linen-covered curve of his shoulder.
“Your keycard?” she asked, trying to keep her voice firm and calm.
He didn’t respond.
Instead, he continued rambling in that same low, slurring drawl.
“—and Meian’s gonna break you,” he was saying, his tone conspiratorial. “Break you in half with that monster—”
“Okay,” she cut in quickly, before he could finish the sentence, “keycard, Miya-san. Please.”
Nothing. Just another tipsy smile and the slow drift of his gaze over her face.
She pressed her lips together, counted to three, and—very carefully—slid her hand into the front pocket of his jeans.
“Yo!” he laughed, voice bright with delight.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she hissed, her cheeks so hot she could feel the pulse beating there.
She found the card tucked against his phone and yanked it out, holding it aloft like a trophy.
He was still chuckling, entirely too pleased with himself, when she swiped it over the reader.
The lock clicked open.
She kicked her shoes off inside the threshold, then leaned down to untie his sneakers, working them off his feet one at a time.
His socked toes curled against the floor, and he let out a small sigh, like simply removing his shoes had undone him completely.
“Where’s your bedroom?” she asked.
He didn’t answer.
But the apartment layout was identical to hers, she recognized the hallway, the turn into the living room.
And then she looked up and went completely still.
Above the sleek leather couch, mounted on the dark wall like a shrine, was a massive black-and-white canvas.
Atsumu.
Half-naked, his jaw sharp and shadowed, his hand curled at the waistband of a pair of Calvin Klein boxer briefs.
Heat roared across her face.
Oh my god, she thought, swallowing. He has a Calvin Klein ad.
She tore her gaze away and practically dragged him toward the bedroom.
Do not think about it, she ordered herself. Do not Google it. Do not—
Inside, the walls were painted a dark, moody grey, the bed a sprawling expanse of charcoal linen and oversized pillows.
The whole room smelled faintly of clean laundry and something warm and expensive that she recognized as his cologne.
Atsumu giggled next to her, unhelpful as ever.
“Another pretty girl in my bedroom,” he mumbled, his head tipping toward her shoulder.
She gagged, ignoring the way her skin prickled where his breath brushed her neck.
“Gross,” she said flatly. But her voice didn’t have much conviction.
She guided him to the edge of the mattress and gave a gentle shove. He fell back onto the bed with a soft oof, blinking up at her with half-lidded eyes.
“Stay,” she instructed, as if he were a particularly large, unruly dog.
But then he groaned, rolling his head from side to side.
“I feel gross,” he complained, his voice plaintive.
Hitomi closed her eyes.
“Are you shitting me?”
“I sleep naked,” he announced, like it was some great tragedy.
She stared down at him, appalled.
“You are not serious.”
He looked up at her, his eyes big and guileless, his hair falling over his forehead.
“I’m serious,” he insisted.
She lifted both hands, pressing her palms over her face.
“God, fuck me.”
“No energy for that, doll,” he said cheerfully.
Her hands dropped just in time to see his grin.
She flipped him off, her heart beating so fast it felt like her ribs might crack.
He laughed, low and hoarse. “Cute,” he murmured.
She ignored the way the word made her stomach flip.
With a muttered curse, she stepped closer.
“Fine,” she growled. “But if you tell anyone I helped you, I swear to god—”
He just blinked at her, still smiling.
Her hands shook a little as she reached for the buttons of his shirt. She undid them slowly, careful not to brush more of him than she had to. But the moment her fingertips skimmed the warm, taut skin of his chest, her breath hitched.
He was all smooth, golden muscle, heat radiating through her hands like an electric current. She felt unmoored, caught between irritation and something so sharp she didn’t dare name it.
She kept going, button by button, until the linen parted and she could slip it off his shoulders.
He didn’t help.
He just watched her, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, the corners of his mouth curling every time her fingers brushed too close to his skin.
She steadied him with one hand on his chest, slowly, steady, while she tugged the fabric free.
But just as she was pulling the shirt from behind his back, his arms came up without warning, strong hands circling her waist.
Her breath stuttered.
He drew her forward until her stomach was flush against his cheek. His eyes fluttered closed, his nose brushing the soft cotton of her crop top.
“You smell so nice,” he murmured. “Like summer and…warmth.”
She tried to breathe.
“Tsumu,” she warned, her voice small.
He ignored her, nuzzling lower until his nose pressed lightly to the skin just above her waistband.
“Wait a minute,” he slurred, lifting his head to squint up at her.
“What,” she demanded, mortified.
His grin went lopsided, bright with discovery.
“Do you have a belly button piercing?”
Her heart skipped.
Slowly, she lifted the hem of her top, just enough to reveal the delicate Vivienne Westwood charm glinting against her skin.
His eyes widened, delighted.
“Cute,” he whispered, before flopping back against the pillows.
She exhaled shakily, her hands trembling as she reached for his belt.
Her fingers fumbled the buckle, trying not to touch more than she had to. The leather slipped free with a quiet snick, the button popped open, and she could feel her pulse in her ears. She tugged his jeans down his legs, trying not to look at the stretch of golden skin and strong thighs she was exposing inch by inch.
But curiosity betrayed her, and her gaze lingered for a heartbeat too long.
He didn’t notice. He was staring at the ceiling, humming under his breath.
When she finally got the jeans off and dropped them beside the bed, she risked a glance at his face.
His lashes were long against his cheekbones, his mouth soft in sleep or something close to it.
She braced her hands on either side of his ribs and shoved—gently but firmly—until he slid higher on the bed, his head coming to rest against the pillows.
Then she pulled the blanket up over his bare chest.
“There,” she said, voice hushed. “Sleep. Otherwise you’ll look like shit tomorrow and you don’t want to disappoint your fangirls.”
He cracked one eye open, smiling that infuriating, boyish smile.
“Do you have more piercings?” he asked sheepishly. Hitomi shook her head.
“Tattoos?”
“...Yes?”
“Where are your tattoos?” he mumbled.
She flipped him off again, her heart a chaos she didn’t have the strength to sort out.
“You’ll never know,” she whispered.
And before he could say anything else, she turned, stepped out of the dark room and shut the door softly behind her.
She didn’t let herself look at the Calvin Klein canvas again as she walked through the living room.
But she felt it there—like a brand on her skin she couldn’t scrub off.
She slipped her shoes back on, pushed the door open, and stepped into the quiet hallway.
Her heart was still beating too fast.
When she closed her own front door behind her, she braced a hand against it, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.
“Bastard,” she whispered into the silence.
But there was no denying the flush warming her cheeks.
Or the way her stomach flipped when she closed her eyes and remembered the softness in his voice when he said her name.
───────────────────────────────
🍃 fun facts:
Even though Tsumu is shit-faced drunk, he's wondering where Hitomi's tattoos are. Because her arms and her stomach are bare, he can't really imagine where a good girl like Chiba Hitomi has a tattoo.
Hitomi didn't see it, but when she was taking his pants off, he was biting his lip and nervously blinking at the ceiling. He's just a silly boy, he's nervous around pretty girls. (At least he thinks so.)
Hitomi secretly remembered the Calvin Klein ad. And she will definitely google it—for scientific reasons of course!
12. ignorance — paramore
Word Count: 2,448
Pairing: Timeskip!Atsumu Miya x Fem!OC
If someone had told Hitomi two weeks ago that she’d be sitting in the backseat of an Uber next to Atsumu Miya—Osaka’s most irritatingly smug setter—she would have laughed.
Now, she mostly wished she could vanish straight through the car door.
The city blurred past outside the window, neon lights flickering across the tinted glass. They were stuck in traffic, horns blaring in lazy bursts that did nothing to hurry the long line of cars.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him sprawled in the seat beside her, looking so impossibly comfortable she wanted to shove him just to see if he’d flinch.
He had one leg stretched out beneath the passenger seat, the other bent so his knee pointed toward her. His hips slouched low, his head tipped back on the headrest and his arms folded in front of his broad chest.
He was staring out at the slow-moving traffic with a lazy sort of detachment, like the gridlock was something he’d simply decided didn’t apply to him.
Hitomi huffed, shifting her weight a little closer to the door, as far from him as she could reasonably get.
He didn’t notice, or if he did, he didn’t care.
Her fingers itched for a distraction. She tugged her phone out of her bag, turning the brightness down to the lowest setting so he wouldn’t see.
A quiet, guilty thrill zipped through her as she tapped the search bar and typed his name.
Atsumu Miya.
Google was all too eager to help.
His Wikipedia page was the first link, followed by dozens of photos: some from official games, others from glossy magazines and fan-taken candids. She couldn’t help scanning the images.
He looked almost exactly the same in every one. Confident. Intense. As if he knew everyone was watching him and didn’t mind in the least.
Of course he doesn’t, she thought, rolling her eyes.
Still, she kept reading.
When she skimmed over his stats—height, awards, record serves—some reluctant, quiet part of her admitted he was impressive.
And then she saw the year of birth. He was... younger than her. Only eight months, but still younger than her. And for some odd reason she expected him to be older than her.
She gasped out loud before she could stop herself, the sound loud in the hush of the car.
Atsumu’s head turned at once.
His gaze pinned her in place, sharp with curiosity.
“What?”
Panic flared. She pressed her phone flat against her chest as if she could hide the evidence.
“Nothing,” she blurted. “Just—Instagram. Something funny.”
His brows lifted, skeptical.
“Your boyfriend text you?”
She snapped her eyes up to glare at him.
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she said, maybe too forcefully.
He watched her for a beat, then relaxed back into the seat with a smirk that made her want to smack it off his face.
“Let’s exchange Instagrams, then,” he said, as if it were the most obvious solution.
“No,” she said flatly.
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
He pouted, actually pouted and for a second, he looked so unreasonably boyish she forgot he was also the same man whose Corvette made her heart do stupid things.
“C’mon,” he coaxed, leaning closer. “Then you can send me whatever you just snorted at.”
“No.”
Undeterred, he pulled out his own phone, tapping the screen with a few practiced swipes.
“Fine,” he said, ignoring her as he opened his Instagram app. “Here.”
He held the phone out toward her.
On the screen, his profile glowed in the dim light. His display picture was his back in his jersey—the number 13 printed in bold white across his broad shoulders.
His bio was short:
#13 for MSBY Black Jackals
That was it. No flourish. No emojis. Nothing.
Her fingers hesitated, but curiosity won. She scooted just a little closer—just enough to drag her fingertip across the screen to scroll.
She regretted it immediately when she realized how close that brought her to him.
Her perfume, warm vanilla and coconut, must have hit him all at once, because his chest lifted in a slow inhale, like he couldn’t help breathing her in.
She pretended not to notice.
“You know,” she said, her voice almost steady, “your profile is a mess.”
His mouth dropped open.
“A mess?”
She lifted her brows, tapping through his photos.
“You’ve got professional shots from the club, and then these…” She paused to point at a grid of black-and-white pictures that looked suspiciously moody. “Whatever this is. And—”
She scrolled farther, her finger hovering over a collection of shirtless mirror selfies, some in a gym, others in a hotel bathroom.
“These,” she finished dryly, “are just thirst traps.”
He gasped, scandalized.
“Thirst traps?”
She nodded solemnly.
“There’s no theme. No energy.”
His eyes narrowed, incredulous.
“Oh, and I suppose your profile is better?”
She lifted her chin in challenge, her lips twitching into a grin she didn’t know she still had in her.
“Infinitely.”
Before she could chicken out, she pulled her phone back up, tapping quickly to her profile.
Her fingers hovered, then turned the screen toward him.
Her grid was a curated gallery: travel photos tinted in soft, vintage filters, sun-washed self-portraits, candid snapshots of city streets and quiet corners.
Even she had to admit it was…pretty.
Atsumu didn’t say anything for a moment, just studying it.
She was almost ready to gloat when his eyes flicked up, amused.
“Your profile picture is your tits,” he said blandly.
Her face went nuclear.
She snatched the phone back and turned it around, seeing the offending image in miniature—a photo she’d almost forgotten, where she was wearing a little ruched lime green top and a shell necklace.
Her collarbones glowed golden, her lips soft, her cleavage a little more visible than she remembered.
“Oh,” she said, voice mortified. “I forgot I had that up.”
He grinned, looking far too pleased with himself.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “By the way, I saw your handle.”
Before she could protest, his thumbs were moving fast over his screen. A beat later, her phone buzzed with a notification.
Her mouth dropped open. “You followed me?”
He didn’t even pretend to look sorry.
“Yeah,” he said simply.
Her cheeks flamed as he read her bio out loud, teasing.
“Aquarius girl who likes fast cars, cameras, and now…v.balls.”
His eyes flicked to hers, bright with mischief. “Cute,” he said, voice low.
She clutched her phone like it was the only thing anchoring her to earth.
A slow smile curled over his mouth, as if he could read every thought racing through her head. And somehow, that was the most dangerous part of all.
They pulled up to the pub in a hush of idling engine and warm summer air.
Atsumu was already sliding out of the car before Hitomi could unclip her seatbelt. He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned toward the door like he had somewhere better to be, that same cocky ease radiating from every inch of him.
But when she stepped onto the sidewalk behind him, she didn’t follow.
Instead, she paused, digging in her Chanel bag with a concentration that was only partly real.
Atsumu stopped mid-stride, throwing her a curious look over his shoulder.
She didn’t glance up.
He shifted his weight, clearly waiting for her to fall into step, but she kept rummaging, her hair slipping forward to shield her face.
“You coming?” he asked finally, voice pitched just loud enough for her alone.
“I’ll be there in a second,” she said, lifting her head and blinking at him like he was the one being unreasonable. “You can go in.”
One corner of his mouth quirked.
“You don’t want us to walk in together?” he teased, his tone sliding toward something warm and infuriating. “Afraid the others’ll say something?”
Her brow twitched. She didn’t dignify it with an answer, just fished out her lip gloss, flipped the cap open, and tilted her chin in a defiant little gesture.
She watched him watching her.
And then she started applying the apricot gloss in slow, deliberate strokes, her dark eyes never leaving his.
It was petty. And petty felt good.
He stared openly, his gaze dropping to her mouth as the sheen settled over her lips.
She gave a little scoff.
“Never seen a girl put on lip gloss?” she demanded, her voice edged and bright.
“Not like that,” he said, so low she almost missed it.
The way he was looking at her made something in her chest tighten. She snapped the tube shut and shoved it back into her purse.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered.
But he only grinned wider, stepping past her to hold the pub door open.
“Ladies first,” he said sweetly.
She rolled her eyes so hard it nearly hurt and swept inside, refusing to look at him again.
The air was warm and smelled of spilled beer and fried snacks. Low, pulsing music blended with the soft roar of laughter and voices.
Their group had already claimed a long table tucked into a corner—half hidden by tall plants and low-hanging pendant lights.
She caught the glint of Watanabe’s glasses, the bright flash of Bokuto’s hair, the warm curve of Keiko’s smile.
Atsumu lifted a hand, pointing a thumb over his shoulder as if he were introducing her like some stray pet.
“Look who I found loitering outside,” he called, voice pitched to carry.
A ripple of greetings rolled down the table.
“Hitomi-chan!” Bokuto cheered, waving both hands.
Meian lifted his glass in a silent salute.
Keiko caught her gaze and patted the empty chair beside her, beckoning her over with a smile that was impossible to resist.
She hesitated, feeling Atsumu’s eyes on her for a fraction of a second before he turned away, calling Hinata’s name with a theatrical sigh.
Her heart gave a strange little tug.
Irritating, she told herself firmly. He’s just irritating.
She slipped into the chair beside Keiko, feeling the tension in her shoulders loosen as she settled into the familiar safety of the woman’s gentle energy.
“Hitomi,” Keiko beamed, already reaching to squeeze her arm. “You made it.”
“I said I’d come,” she reminded her, unable to stop her own small smile.
“Good,” Keiko said. “Oh—this is my husband, Moritz.”
Hitomi turned to the man beside her, who looked up from a pint of golden beer and smiled, warm and curious.
“I think I’ve read one of your articles,” she said without thinking, her voice brightening. “Back in 2016—about the driver lineup mess.”
Moritz’s brows shot up, clearly delighted.
“You follow motorsport?”
“I used to work in it,” she admitted.
"Alpha Romeo?"
"Red Bull."
“Ah, Red Bull” he said, nodding knowingly.
Keiko leaned in, eyes dancing. “She’s the new team photographer,” she whispered like it was a precious secret.
Moritz grinned. “Then you’ve probably seen more of the world than any of us.”
She laughed softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
A waitress appeared, her notepad poised. Hitomi ordered a beer and—on a last-minute impulse—a bottle of soju to share.
It felt like a celebration and she wanted to feel the warm hum of it in her blood.
She didn’t expect how easy it would be to slide into the conversation.
Meian leaned over from across the table, asking her about her camera equipment. Bokuto jumped in to brag that he’d seen her editing photos all morning.
The drinks came, cold and bright. The soju was smoother than she remembered, sliding down with a heat that made her cheeks warm.
For once, she let herself relax.
It turned out Meian had a Camaro, midnight blue, that he was inordinately proud of.
“Oh god,” Hitomi giggled, her head spinning pleasantly as she reached across the table to slap his bicep. “I love Camaros.”
His grin was slow, pleased.
“Any time you want to see it, you let me know,” he teased.
She leaned back, her hair brushing over her bare arms.
“Don’t tempt me,” she warned, her voice too loud and a little slurred.
The table erupted in laughter.
Somewhere around midnight, Bokuto dared her to down a row of shots. She did. Without flinching.
Meian whistled low. “You’re full of surprises, Chiba-san.”
“Hitomi,” she corrected automatically, too drunk to be shy.
“Hitomi,” he echoed, smiling.
She felt warm and bright and almost reckless.
She was halfway through another glass when she heard her name called from the far end of the table.
“Chiba,” Atsumu slurred, his voice unmistakable even over the din.
She turned slowly, the world tilting a little as she squinted at him.
He was leaning across the table toward her, one elbow propped among empty glasses. His hair was a golden, tousled mess, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to show a damp triangle of skin at the base of his throat.
“We should head home,” he announced, as though she were the one who’d been stumbling over her words.
She blinked, then nodded, her pulse thumping unevenly.
“All right.”
He tried to push himself up and nearly toppled into Hinata’s lap.
“Whoa—careful,” she muttered, already moving around the table.
She hooked an arm around his back, her palm sliding over warm, solid muscle as she steadied him.
No one said anything. No one had to.
She could feel the curious looks as she guided him toward the door, his weight leaning into her like he’d forgotten how to walk straight.
The summer air hit her face in a cool rush, sobering her in one long exhale. She tipped her head back and let out a soft, relieved moan.
Beside her, Atsumu made a quiet sound that might have been a laugh.
“You and Meian got along well,” he slurred, his voice rough with alcohol and something else she didn’t want to name.
She rolled her eyes, pulling out her phone to call the Uber.
“It’s called having a conversation,” she muttered.
He swayed closer, his golden eyes catching the glow of the streetlamp.
“Two minutes,” she said, ignoring the way he was watching her mouth. “Just hold on, Miya-san.”
His brows knit.
“Tsumu,” he corrected, his grin crooked. “Call me Tsumu.”
“I can’t do that,” she shot back automatically.
He groaned, dropping his head forward until his forehead nearly rested against hers.
“You’re impossible,” he mumbled.
She swallowed.
“I can do…‘Atsumu,’” she offered quietly, surprising herself.
His head lifted just enough to look at her and something softened in his gaze.
“That’s okay,” he said, voice low. “And I’ll do…Hitomi.”
Her breath caught.
He was so close she could see every fleck of darker gold in his eyes, every fine line at the corners from smiling too much.
Her heart was beating too fast.
“Bastard,” she whispered, her voice unsteady.
He grinned, drunk and triumphant.
And somehow, she knew this was just the beginning of something neither of them was ready for.
───────────────────────────────
🍃 fun facts:
Atsumu was watching Hitomi the whole evening. He was looking at her throughout the Uber ride to the pub. He watched her while she was chatting to Keiko and Moritz. His eyes never left her, when she and Meian started talking—especially when she subconsciously touched him or when he leaned closer to her. Why, you might ask? Don't ask Tsumu, he's not sure himself. But it's definitely not because Hitomi is pretty or something!
Meian did make pretty-eyes toward Hitomi. But our girlie just didn't realise it.
Hitomi can hold her alcohol really good. She doesn't get drunk easily and Bo definitely caught that little perk about his new best friend. (Hitomi doesn't know she's Bo's bestie yet.)
11. sad clown — panic! at the disco
Word Count: 2,399
Pairing: Timeskip!Atsumu Miya x Fem!OC
Before Hitomi could slip away into the quiet refuge of the hallway, Bokuto’s voice boomed across the gym.
“Oi, Chiba-san!”
She flinched, startled and nearly fumbled the camera in her hands. Bokuto was waving her over, his hair spiked in a thousand different directions from the match.
She tried not to look too much like she was bracing for impact as he jogged up, still radiating the exuberant energy of someone who had just played their heart out and hadn’t come down yet.
“Where are you going?” he demanded, a little too loud for the volume of her heartbeat.
“I—I was just—” she gestured vaguely toward the exit. “I thought I’d…start sorting the photos.”
He blinked at her, then broke into a huge grin.
“No way,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially. “We’re celebrating.”
She stared at him, uncertain she’d heard right.
“Celebrating?”
“Yeah!” Bokuto thumped her lightly on the arm, which considering the size of him, almost sent her staggering backward. He reached out reflexively to steady her, one big hand closing around her elbow. “Sorry, sorry, force of habit.”
“It’s—fine,” she managed, her voice going breathless in her throat.
He grinned, undeterred. “Anyway,” he went on, “a bunch of us are going for drinks tonight. Me, Hinata, Meian, Atsumu—”
Her heart did a little startled flip at that name.
“—Keiko and her husband, Watanabe, and that cute chef from the cafeteria whose name I can never remember.”
Hitomi tried not to look like a cornered animal.
“Oh,” she said, her voice thin. “That’s…nice.”
“You should come too,” Bokuto pressed, nudging her shoulder again, more gently this time. “It was your first training match, yeah? Bet you took some banger photos.”
She ducked her head, teeth catching her lower lip. Usually, she’d have found a polite way to decline; she was good at that, at keeping her distance. But Bokuto felt less like an intimidating pro athlete and more like a hyperactive, oversized barn owl.
And somehow, that made it harder to say no.
“Okay,” she heard herself say, surprising even her own ears. “I’ll join.”
“Yeah?” His grin somehow grew wider. “Sweet. We always go to this little pub near Namba. I’ll text you the name.”
She nodded, already feeling her pulse thrumming too fast.
“Okay,” she repeated.
Bokuto patted her shoulder—carefully, this time—before bounding back toward Hinata, who was waving him over.
Hitomi stood there a moment longer, feeling as though the conversation had passed over her like a warm gust of air she hadn’t been ready for.
You said yes, she thought, almost incredulous. You really said yes.
She forced herself to move, slipping out of the gym and back into the quieter hallways.
Her head was buzzing, still half-full of the game; of the bright, unstoppable energy the Jackals had carried through every point. If this was what a training match looked like, she couldn’t imagine what an official one would feel like.
She pressed a hand lightly to her chest, feeling her heart kick against her palm.
You’ll survive, she told herself firmly.
Back in her little office, she sank into her chair and exhaled.
The quiet pressed in around her, grounding after the noisy intensity of the court. She pulled her external drive from her bag and set to work moving the images over, trying to lose herself in the familiar, methodical rhythm.
One folder at a time. One perfect, frozen moment after another.
By the time the files finished transferring, the tension in her shoulders had finally started to ease.
She powered down her computer, packed her gear carefully into her bag and slipped her car keys into her pocket.
You said yes, she reminded herself again as she walked toward the car park.
The thought felt strangely light, almost buoyant.
Outside, the air was soft and warm, carrying the lingering hum of cicadas. She crossed the lot at a slow pace, her mind still replaying the match in little vivid flashes—the clean arc of Atsumu’s serve, the way Hinata had launched himself into the air like it was nothing.
She reached her Civic, unlocked it with a soft beep and exhaled.
That was when she heard it.
“Chiba.”
The voice, low, familiar, a little rougher around the edges than she’d prepared for, made her flinch so hard she nearly dropped her equipment bag onto the asphalt.
She turned so quickly she almost overbalanced, one hand clutching the edge of her car’s open boot.
Atsumu Miya was standing a few feet away, one hand braced on the roof of his Corvette.
His hair was still damp from a shower, sticking up in unruly spikes that somehow made him look younger and more dangerous all at once. His jacket hung open over his black MSBY shirt, which stretched across shoulders that looked too broad for the rest of him.
He looked—
Stop it, she ordered herself, heat blooming across her cheeks.
He pushed away from the car and crossed the few steps between them, moving with the same easy confidence she’d watched all afternoon.
“Bo said you’re coming tonight,” he said.
Hitomi nodded awkwardly, her fingers still clenched around the edge of the boot.
“Yes.”
His mouth curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile.
“Should we share an Uber?”
She blinked, thrown by how normal he sounded.
“Why?”
Atsumu huffed out a quiet snort.
“Because we’re going to drink,” he said, as if it should have been obvious. “I don’t drive when I drink. And you shouldn’t either. So?”
Her mouth opened and closed, no ready excuse rising to the surface.
You live in the same building, she reminded herself, resigned. You really don’t have an argument here.
“…All right,” she said finally.
“Good.”
He nodded once, decisive.
“Then we’ll meet at 7:15 in front of the building,” he said, already turning back toward the Corvette. “I’ll pay the ride there. You pay the one back.”
Before she could stammer out a reply, he was sliding into the low seat, one hand lifting in a careless wave.
A second later, the engine roared to life—smooth and deep enough to make something in her chest flutter.
God, she thought helplessly, that sound.
The car pulled out of the lot, tail lights winking red in the dusk.
She stood there for a long moment, the last notes of the engine still humming in her bones.
Finally, she sighed, her voice soft and incredulous.
“Bastard,” she muttered, slamming the boot shut a little harder than necessary.
She pressed her hand to her warm cheek, heart doing a slow, unsteady stutter.
“…And now I have to share an Uber with him.”
By the time Hitomi got home, her mind was still a haze of adrenaline and something she refused to name.
She set her camera bag gently by the shoe rack, her palms still tingling from the weight of it and leaned back against the door as it clicked shut behind her.
Her heart was hammering too hard.
It’s just drinks, she told herself. Just a few hours. You can do this.
She didn’t move for a minute, letting the quiet of her apartment soak into her skin. It was always like this after an intense day—her body still buzzing, her thoughts unwilling to settle.
Finally, she pushed away from the door, padded into the bathroom, and turned on the shower.
The water roared to life, filling the space with a warm humidity that felt like permission to let go.
She stripped out of her uniform and stepped under the spray, bracing her palms on the cool tile as the heat sank into her muscles.
Her shower lasted longer than necessary.
She washed her hair twice, using the special shampoo she saved for days when she wanted to feel a little more like a woman and a little less like someone who spent all her time in track pants and sneakers.
Vanilla. Coconut. A faint, sweet note of frangipane.
The scent curled up with the steam, warm and almost sensual in a way that made her cheeks heat even though she was alone.
Why are you doing this? she wondered, her lips twisting.
But she didn’t stop.
She scrubbed her skin until it glowed, shaved everywhere—though she told herself it was just habit—and when she stepped out, she patted herself dry and reached for her favorite lotion.
A soft vanilla perfume went behind her ears, at her wrists, at the hollow of her throat.
She wasn’t going out to flirt. She wasn’t even sure she’d manage to have a conversation without stuttering.
Still.
She wanted to feel…good. Like herself. Like the person she sometimes forgot she could be when she wasn’t hidden behind a camera.
In the bedroom, she pulled open her closet and stood there, towel wrapped around her, studying her options. She wanted casual. But not too casual.
Something that said she’d tried. But not that she’d tried too hard.
Her fingers settled on a pair of light denim jeans, perfectly straight-legged, snug in all the right places. She still remembered the first time she’d worn them at the paddock in Silverstone. Some actor she couldn’t even name anymore had stopped her to ask for her number, looking at her like he’d never seen a woman in jeans before.
And then she reached for a white T-shirt, soft and slightly cropped, the cotton worn to perfect comfort. Over the heart, in tidy black stitching, it read:
I’m the reason for your elevated heart rate.
Heat prickled across her cheekbones.
It’s just a shirt, she scolded herself, tugging it on.
Her hair had dried glossy and smooth, falling in a dark, straight curtain over her shoulders. She decided to leave it loose, framing her face.
In the mirror, she traced a thin line of eyeliner that made her eyes look longer, more foxlike. A dusting of blush bloomed over her cheeks, and she swiped on an apricot lip gloss that made her mouth look soft and a little too inviting.
She refused to think about kissing.
It was just a night out. Just colleagues.
She spritzed perfume one last time, slipped her phone, wallet, and keys into her old black Chanel bag, a relic from her first Red Bull Christmas bonus, and stepped into her white-periwinkle Nike Airs.
When she glanced at her reflection one last time, she almost didn’t recognize herself.
She looked…braver than she felt.
The elevator ride down was quiet, her pulse thumping in her ears.
She stepped out into the warm summer dusk, the wind carrying the sweet trace of her perfume around her like a secret.
Balancing her weight from one foot to the other, she tucked her hair behind her ear, her stomach flipping every time a car passed.
When she heard footsteps behind her, she turned automatically—already halfway to some polite greeting.
But the words got stuck.
Atsumu was standing a few paces away, one hand shoved into the pocket of dark jeans that looked so perfectly tailored it almost annoyed her.
He’d traded his uniform for a white linen button-down, open at the collar, the sleeves rolled to expose strong forearms.
His blonde hair was messy, as though he’d just rolled out of bed, and he smelled—she realized with a little jolt—really, really good.
Something clean and expensive that made her heart flutter in spite of herself.
For one suspended second, neither of them spoke.
Atsumu’s gaze moved over her, slow, deliberate, like he couldn’t decide where to look first.
Her hair.
Her mouth.
The way the shirt rode up just enough to reveal a slim line of her stomach.
His jaw flexed.
And then he blinked, stumbling half a step back like he’d caught himself thinking something he shouldn’t.
Hitomi’s heart was a rabbit in her chest.
He cleared his throat, his voice rougher than usual when he finally spoke. “Uber’ll be here in five.”
She nodded, fighting the urge to fidget with her shirt hem. “Okay.”
He looked her over again—more quickly this time—and something shifted in his expression. Almost as if he’d expected her to look a certain way and now couldn’t quite reconcile that she didn’t.
“You…uh.” His tongue darted out to wet his lips. “You look…”
He trailed off, then seemed to find his footing again, the momentary softness replaced with a cocky half-smile.
“Trying to impress someone, Chiba?”
She rolled her eyes, grateful for the small spark of irritation to cover her embarrassment.
“You wish.”
His grin widened.
“You’re not denying it.”
She looked down at her sneakers, determined not to let him see how flustered she was.
“You look nice too,” she muttered, because it felt rude not to say something back.
There was a beat of silence. Then, unexpectedly, his voice softened.
“Yeah?”
The word made her look up.
He wasn’t smirking this time. Just watching her with that same steady, unreadable gaze she was starting to think might undo her completely.
Her throat went dry.
“Yeah,” she said, barely audible.
The corner of his mouth quirked.
His eyes flicked down and then he laughed, a low, warm sound that curled around her ribs.
Her heart sank as she realized he was staring at the stitching on her shirt.
Perfect.
She clutched the strap of her bag, already regretting every decision she’d made that day.
He’s laughing at you, she thought helplessly. Of course he is.
A car rolled up to the curb, a little too loud in the quiet street. The driver leaned out the window, scanning them.
“Uber for Chiba?”
Atsumu lifted a hand, still smiling.
“Yeah.”
He turned to her, nodding at the car.
“Come on,” he said, and his voice had gentled again, though she wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.
She followed, her cheeks hot and slid into the backseat.
When Atsumu pulled the door shut, he leaned in close enough that she caught the clean, warm note of his cologne all over again.
He didn’t look at her as he fastened his seatbelt.
“Used your name,” he murmured, voice low. “So people don’t get weird if they recognize me.”
Hitomi nodded, grateful he wasn’t watching her face, because her pulse was a wild, giddy mess.
She knew she should say something, but her throat had closed around the words.
So she just looked out the window as the car pulled away, pretending she didn’t feel the heat of him beside her or the thrill she refused to name curling low in her belly.
───────────────────────────────
🍃 fun facts:
Hitomi isn't sure herself, why she put so much effort in such a casual look, but she's proud of herself.
Hitomi hates the fact that Atsumu looks great with messy hair. And she hates his cologne even more. She just hates the fact that he's annoyingly good-looking.
Atsumu saw Hitomi standing in front of the building before coming out and swore so loud, the security guard in the foyer flinched and dropped his Onigiri. Atsumu apologized quickly before putting on his pretty-boy-face before walking up to Hitomi.
He did feel like a stalker, when he ordered the Uber with Hitomi's name, but then shrugged and said, "She won't mind!"
10. a little less sixteen candles, a little more "touch me" — fall out boy
Word Count: 2,303
Pairing: Timeskip!Atsumu Miya x Fem!OC
A/N: Thank you so so much for all the interest, reads and likes so far. I'm glad you are enjoying "bruise theory" as much as i do. <3
When Hitomi stepped back onto the court, the atmosphere was already buzzing.
Employees drifted along the sidelines in loose clusters, chatting in low voices as they sipped coffee and checked their phones. Up in the stands, rows of MSBY staff filled the seats, their anticipation a soft, collective hum.
This wasn’t a real match, but it felt like an event anyway, like a small preview of the season everyone was waiting for.
She slipped through the press of bodies, keeping her camera hugged close to her chest and paused at the edge of the court.
Samson Foster looked up from where he was conferring with Meian. His brows lifted in acknowledgment and she dipped her head in a polite bow.
Some of the players noticed her then, Bokuto, who flashed her a bright grin and a thumbs-up; Hinata, who waved so enthusiastically she nearly laughed; and Sakusa, who offered the smallest of nods before turning his attention back to the net.
They’re just people, she reminded herself. You don’t have to be afraid of them.
But even thinking it, her heart stuttered in that uncertain, too-quick rhythm.
Watanabe stood near the benches, clipboard tucked under one arm as he spoke to an older man in a charcoal suit. When she reached them, she waited for a pause in their conversation before clearing her throat softly.
“Watanabe-san?”
He turned at once, his expression brightening.
“Chiba-san! Everything all right?”
“I—” She shifted her weight, her camera strap digging into her shoulder. “I just wanted to let you know I sent the first batch of photos to the social media team. The ones from yesterday and this morning.”
Watanabe’s mouth twitched.
“You know,” he said, a note of laughter threading through his voice, “you don’t have to report every move you make to me.”
Her cheeks warmed.
“I just thought—”
“You’re the head photographer,” he said gently. “You have all the freedom you want. If you think something’s worth capturing, do it. If you think something’s worth sending, send it. That’s why we hired you.”
She blinked, caught off-guard by how simple he made it sound.
“All right,” she managed. “Thank you.”
His smile softened, and he inclined his head before turning back to his conversation.
She drifted to the far side of the court, letting her gaze wander over the players warming up. The sound of sneakers squeaking against polished wood mingled with the low thud of volleyballs hitting the floor. It should have felt overwhelming.
But something about the rhythm—predictable, human, almost gentle compared to the chaos of a race paddock—was starting to feel almost familiar.
She shifted her camera in her hands, adjusting the focus ring and scanned the sideline for a good angle to test her settings.
And that was when she noticed the woman watching her.
Short hair tucked neatly behind her ears, an MSBY track jacket rolled up at the sleeves, a med-kit balanced on her hip. She was standing beside a cluster of staff near the benches, her eyes fixed on Hitomi with open curiosity and something like amusement.
Hitomi glanced over her shoulder, half-sure there must be someone more interesting behind her.
No one.
When she turned back, the woman was already chuckling, a bright, easy sound that felt like a warm breeze cutting through all the stiff formality of the morning.
She shifted her med-kit higher and strode over.
“Hi,” she called, her voice cheerful. “I believe we haven’t met.”
Hitomi straightened instinctively, every old instinct to be small and polite clicking into place.
“I—hello,” she said, dipping her head.
The woman’s smile broadened.
“I’m Keiko Müller,” she said, extending a hand. “Team physiotherapist. And you must be our new photographer.”
Hitomi swallowed her surprise and reached out, her palm brushing warm against Keiko’s.
“Chiba Hitomi,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Keiko said brightly, releasing her hand. “I’m so glad you’re here. These boys...” She rolled her eyes affectionately toward the court. “They love the camera more than they’ll ever admit.”
That startled a small laugh out of her, the sound bubbling up before she could stop it. Keiko’s grin only widened.
“Practice matches are basically a fun side quest for them,” she confided. “You’ll see. It’s all teasing and showing off.”
Hitomi couldn’t help smiling.
“I’ll try to keep up,” she said.
“You’d better,” Keiko teased. She tipped her chin toward the net, where Sakusa was adjusting the tape on his fingers. “And make sure you take lots of pretty pictures of Sakusa’s handsome face.”
Her brows lifted, surprised.
“Is he your boyfriend?” she asked before she could think better of it.
Keiko threw her head back and laughed. A bright, unrestrained sound that made a few of the nearby staff glance over.
“Oh, no,” she said, still chuckling. She held up her left hand, where a thin gold band gleamed on her ring finger. “I’m married. Sakusa is just my favorite. My husband knows—he says it’s harmless hero worship.”
Hitomi’s curiosity softened into something like relief.
“I see,” she said, her voice warming despite herself.
Keiko cocked her head. “You don’t have a favorite yet?”
She hesitated.
“I…I don’t think I’m supposed to,” she admitted. “At Red Bull, we weren’t allowed to be too familiar with the drivers. No personal conversations, no socializing. It was…professional distance.”
Keiko’s face softened with something like pity. “That sounds lonely.”
“It could be,” she confessed.
“Well,” Keiko said decisively, “you’re not at Red Bull anymore.”
Hitomi blinked.
“You can absolutely be friends with the players,” Keiko said firmly. “They’re great company. And it’s fun going for a drink on Fridays after a good game. Or a bad game. Or any game, really.”
For a moment, Hitomi couldn’t quite find her voice.
It was such a simple kindness—to be told she was allowed to belong.
“I’ll…keep that in mind,” she said softly.
Keiko gave her a little wink.
“Good,” she said. “And if you ever need to talk or want help learning their names, come find me.”
The steady thump of volleyballs continued in the background as Keiko adjusted the strap of her med-kit.
“Well,” she said, her grin returning, “I should go pretend I’m busy.”
Hitomi laughed, the sound lighter this time.
“Thank you,” she said again, meaning it more than she knew how to say.
Keiko dipped her head and turned to rejoin her colleagues, her ponytail swishing behind her.
For a few minutes, Hitomi just stood where she was, breathing in the bright noise of the gym.
Maybe, she thought, this could feel like something good.
A ripple of movement near the far entrance pulled her attention.
The Osaka Thunder Hawks were filing in: tall, broad-shouldered men in navy and silver warmups, their expressions focused and intent.
She swallowed, squaring her shoulders.
It was time.
She raised her camera, adjusted the strap, and nodded politely to Keiko as she passed.
With steady steps, she moved to the front of the court to start her test shots, her heart beating calm and certain in her chest.
The moment the referee blew the whistle, the mood in the gym shifted.
All the idle chatter from the stands and the sidelines faded into a charged hush. Players straightened their shoulders, eyes sharpening with the same focused determination she’d seen a hundred times at the racetrack—but here, it felt more intimate.
More human.
Hitomi took a slow breath and lifted her camera.
She was kneeling near the corner of the MSBY side of the court, tucked into the edge of the painted lines where she’d have a clear view of the net. From here, she could feel the vibration of every footfall through the polished floor.
Stay calm, she told herself. See everything.
The first serve rocketed over the net, a blur of motion she caught just in time. The Thunder Hawks received cleanly, but Meian was already calling instructions in a voice as deep as a drumbeat.
She adjusted her shutter speed, tracking the ball with practiced ease.
Sakusa rose for the first spike, a clean, decisive hit that slapped the floor on the other side before anyone could react. The Jackals cheered, and her finger twitched on the shutter.
Click.
The frame froze in perfect detail—Sakusa suspended midair, eyes locked on the ball, every muscle engaged.
Something loosened in her chest, the familiar thrill of knowing she’d caught the exact moment she’d wanted.
This, she thought, her pulse quickening, this is why I love this.
She moved carefully along the sideline as the rally continued.
A quick attack between Atsumu and Hinata caught her eye; the blonde setter flicking the ball up with effortless precision, Hinata launching after it with all the bright, reckless power that seemed to live in his body.
She framed them both in the shot: Atsumu’s intent focus, Hinata’s exhilarated grin as he made contact.
Click.
Another rally, this one longer. The Thunder Hawks defended well, their libero diving again and again to keep the ball alive.
Inunaki responded with his own saves, sliding low across the floor with astonishing control. When Meian received a tight spike and turned it into a perfect pass, she felt herself gasp softly.
So fast, she marveled, adjusting her focus ring. So precise.
She took another series of photos, her heart warming a little more with each one.
Every time she caught a clean moment—a good spike, a hard-won save, a sudden flash of teamwork—she felt a sense of quiet satisfaction bloom in her chest.
Not for the first time, she wondered if the fans who followed these players knew just how much effort pulsed behind each highlight reel.
They will, she promised silently, if I do this right.
The first set played out in a blur of motion and noise.
She worked in the shadows at the edge of the court, knees and elbows aching from crouching so long. But she hardly noticed. Her camera felt almost weightless in her hands, as though her whole body had tuned itself to the rhythm of the match.
The Jackals clinched the set 25–19, their bench erupting in a loud cheer. She used the short break to check her shots. Her thumb sliding over the dial as she flipped through each frozen instant.
Sakusa’s spike, Bokuto’s grin after a clean kill, Meian’s steady eyes as he called a play.
In the corner of the screen, she caught sight of Hinata in mid-jump, his whole face alight with determination.
She smiled without meaning to.
The second set began, the pace somehow faster, tighter.
Atsumu’s serves grew more aggressive—sharp, low arcs that skimmed just over the tape. The Thunder Hawks struggled to keep up, their formation faltering every few plays.
She shifted to the opposite end of the court, bracing one knee against the ground to steady her angle.
The next serve came so fast she almost missed it.
Almost.
Click.
She tracked the ball’s trajectory as it struck the floor untouched—a perfect ace.
Her breath caught, a soft, startled sound escaping her throat.
Atsumu turned, one hand lifted in a loose, confident gesture. For a fraction of a second, his expression broke into something unguarded; pure, unmistakable satisfaction.
She didn’t think.
She raised her camera again and clicked.
Through her viewfinder, she caught the curve of his mouth, the spark in his eyes.
Her own pulse stuttered.
The rally reset. Players shifted back into position, the court buzzing with their focused energy.
But she couldn’t look away from her screen, where his smile was still frozen in perfect clarity.
Damn it, she thought, her face warming, get a grip.
The final points came quickly.
Sakusa delivered two punishing serves. Bokuto slammed a spike into the far corner so hard the Thunder Hawks libero flinched before he dove.
When the last point landed and the referee signaled the end, the Jackals erupted, clapping each other’s backs, trading bright, triumphant shouts.
Two sets. Clean win.
Hitomi felt as breathless as if she’d played every point herself. She lowered her camera and rested her hands against her thighs, the ache in her knees suddenly very real.
Worth it, she thought, smiling a little.
The teams lined up to bow and shake hands. From her place near the sideline, she watched the small, ritual courtesy unfold—the respectful nods, the quiet murmurs of good game.
She took a few last photos, then let her camera hang against her chest.
The players drifted apart again, reaching for towels and water bottles. Samson Foster was already talking, his voice pitched to carry: praise for their energy, reminders to stay consistent, a few dry observations about their serves.
She stayed in her place, flipping through her images as if she needed to check every one.
But really, she was listening.
Listening to the quiet satisfaction in Foster’s voice. Listening to the small, tired laughter from the players as they traded impressions of the match.
This is why people love sports, she thought. This feeling. This proof that all the effort meant something.
She caught herself smiling before she realized she was doing it. When she lifted her head, her eyes met Atsumu’s across the court.
He wasn’t smiling now.
Just watching her, his gaze steady and unreadable.
Her heart tripped over itself, a small, embarrassed flutter she tried to will away.
Before she could look down again, he tilted his head a fraction, as if he were trying to puzzle something out about her.
Her fingers tightened on the camera strap.
Quickly, she ducked her head and fixed her eyes back on the screen.
Don’t read into it, she scolded herself. He’s just curious. Nothing more.
But even as she pretended to scroll through her photos, her pulse refused to calm.
And in the back of her mind, she knew she’d remember the way he’d looked at her—like she was something unexpected—long after the match ended.
───────────────────────────────
🍃 fun facts:
Hitomi is secretly obsessed with the energy of the MSBY team; even though she would never admit to it out loud.
She would also never admit out loud, that Atsumu's smile and eyes are very handsome. She'd rather shove her face into a blender than to admit that Atsumu Miya is handsome.
09. jump — against the current
Word Count: 1,017
Pairing: Timeskip!Atsumu Miya x Fem!OC
The silence around the cafeteria table was thick enough to choke on.
Three pairs of eyes fixed on Hitomi—wide, expectant, a little disbelieving.
She resisted the impulse to tug her hair forward like a curtain.
Bokuto was the first to break. He leaned forward so abruptly that his tray rattled against the table. “You seriously worked for the Red Bull Formula 1 team?”
She nodded, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks.
“For how long?” Hinata asked, voice high with amazement.
“Three years,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Atsumu didn’t speak right away. He watched her steadily over the rim of his tray, something thoughtful in his gaze that made her stomach do an uneasy little twist.
Bokuto looked like he might actually vibrate out of his seat.
“What did you do?”
“I was…” She swallowed. “I was their main photographer.”
“No way,” Hinata breathed. “Like…all those pictures on their Instagram? That was you?”
“Some of them,” she admitted. “Not all.”
Bokuto gave a low whistle, shaking his head.
“That’s so cool.”
She didn’t know what to say to that—how to explain that it hadn’t always felt cool. That sometimes it had been exhausting and lonely and so high-stakes she’d lain awake for hours afterward, wondering if she’d made a mistake anyone would notice.
Instead, she kept her gaze fixed on the condensation sliding down her Red Bull can.
Atsumu shifted, his knee brushing the table leg.
“That’s why you know so much about cars,” he said, his tone more even than she’d expected.
Her eyes flicked up to find him watching her, brows drawn slightly together.
“I heard you,” he added, “when you were talking to those school kids. About the Civic.”
Heat crawled up her throat.
“You…heard that?”
“Hard not to.”
Hinata looked from one of them to the other, his expression puzzled.
“Wait... did you guys know each other before?”
“No,” Hitomi said quickly.
Atsumu didn’t look away.
“She’s my next-door neighbor,” he said.
Her stomach dropped. Of course he’d say it. Of course he’d just…put it out there for everyone to hear.
She shut her eyes for a moment, willing herself not to let the mortification show.
“Unfortunately,” she muttered under her breath.
She thought she’d said it softly enough to pass unnoticed. She should have known better.
“UNFORTUNATELY?!” Bokuto boomed, his voice echoing across the cafeteria. “You live in that fancy building?!”
She flinched, lifting a hand like she could ward off the attention.
“It’s not…fancy,” she said weakly.
“Uh, yeah, it is!” Hinata chimed in, grinning. “I’ve seen pictures. It’s like a celebrity building.”
She shrugged, her face burning.
“It’s just…a perk. Of saving money. And working for a top team.”
Atsumu didn’t say anything, but when she dared a glance in his direction, he was still watching her, like he was trying to read something in her expression.
She couldn’t stand it.
Her heart was beating too fast, her hands clammy where they curled around her empty mousse cup. Without thinking, she tipped her chair back and stood.
“I—I have to get back to work,” she blurted, her voice thinner than she’d meant it to be.
“Oh—” Hinata started, but she was already gathering her things.
“Thank you for…sitting with me,” she managed, bowing her head in a quick, polite gesture.
Before any of them could say more, she turned and fled.
She didn’t slow down until she was halfway down the hall, the hush of the corridor wrapping around her like a balm.
Her chest ached with something she couldn’t quite name. Embarrassment, yes. But also something more complicated, a raw awareness she hadn’t expected to feel around them.
They’re just athletes, she told herself. They’re just coworkers.
But no one at Red Bull had ever looked at her like that, open, curious, like she was something to figure out instead of an obstacle in the way.
And that, somehow, was even more unnerving.
In her office, she set her tray on the edge of her desk and pressed her palms flat to the surface, taking slow, steadying breaths. When she felt calm enough to move again, she sank into her chair and woke her computer from sleep.
Her half-edited photos waited in neat rows, a comfortingly familiar sight. She put her headphones back on, music flowing into her ears like a shield and picked up her stylus.
For the next hour, she let herself fall into the work.
Adjusting the lighting on a shot of Sakusa serving. Cropping a photo of Bokuto mid-laugh. Cleaning a smudge of dust from the edge of the lens flare in one of Hinata’s spikes.
With every small correction, she felt her shoulders loosen. This, at least, she understood.
When she finished the last image, she uploaded them to the server and copied the link into an email to the social media manager.
Subject: Edited Photos – 07 July
Hi,
Here are the edited selects from yesterday’s practice. Let me know if you’d like any adjustments.
Best,
Hitomi
She hit send, then exhaled.
One thing done.
She glanced at the clock. The practice match was in less than an hour.
Rising, she methodically cleaned her lenses, checked her batteries, and tested the focus on her camera.
The motion was practiced, muscle memory from years of standing trackside. But the anticipation that curled low in her stomach felt new.
At Red Bull, she’d always known her place: to observe, to document, but never to intrude. The drivers had been cordial but distant, the entire operation so polished that she’d often felt invisible.
But here…
She thought of Bokuto’s wide grin, Hinata’s bright eyes, even Atsumu’s steady, assessing gaze.
They weren’t distant. They weren’t even trying to be.
They wanted her there.
Her lens in their faces, capturing every triumph and misstep.
It was going to take getting used to.
She tucked her headphones back into her bag, pressing her palms once more to the desk.
You can do this, she told herself.
When she finally stepped back into the hall, her heart felt steadier.
And for the first time, she thought that maybe—just maybe—she could belong here after all.
───────────────────────────────
🍃 fun facts:
Hitomi is super shy towards the players, but she secretly thinks Bokuto is amazing.
Bokuto is amazed by Hitomi and wants to be her friend. He's adorable.
08. basket case —green day
Word Count: 1,372
Pairing: Timeskip!Atsumu Miya x Fem!OC
The Corvette was gone when she stepped into the underground garage.
Hitomi told herself she didn’t care.
She told herself again, even as her gaze lingered for half a breath on the empty space, that it didn’t matter.
He’s just an athlete, she thought, squaring her shoulders as she slid into her Civic. That’s all.
The engine came to life under her hand, smooth and reassuring. She adjusted her mirrors, checked her bag on the passenger seat and pulled out into the soft glow of morning traffic.
The drive felt easier today.
The nerves that had gripped her chest yesterday had loosened their hold. She knew where to park, where to sign in, where her workstation waited. It was a small thing, but it felt like progress.
When she reached the gym, the security guard at the front entrance gave her a nod of recognition.
“Good morning, Chiba-san,” he said, his voice warm.
She smiled, the simple courtesy easing the last of her tension.
“Good morning.”
Her office was as she’d left it: the neat corner desk, her camera bag perched on the chair, the big monitor waiting for her. She set her things down, feeling a little bubble of quiet anticipation.
This part, she understood. Sorting, editing, polishing—it was like breathing.
She’d just unzipped her bag when she heard footsteps in the hall. Watanabe appeared in the doorway, his grin wide. “Chiba-san! Settling in?”
“Yes,” she said, matching his smile. “Thank you.”
“Can I see what you captured yesterday?”
“Of course.”
He stepped closer, leaning a hand on the back of her chair as she powered up her laptop. The familiarity of the motion, someone watching over her shoulder, would have felt intrusive from anyone else, but there was an easy, paternal kindness in the way he stood that made her chest loosen.
She opened the first batch of images and began to flip through them.
The photos came alive in quick succession: Hinata midair, Bokuto shouting triumphantly, Sakusa’s eyes narrowed in concentration.
“These are fantastic,” Watanabe said. “Very dynamic.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, though she felt a flush creep up her neck. “It’s still…different. Shooting people. I’m used to motorsport—machines don’t blink or flinch or move unpredictably.”
He laughed, straightening. “Well, you wouldn’t know it from these. You’ll have no trouble fitting in.”
She bit her lip, studying the thumbnails.
“I’m glad,” she said softly.
“Oh—and after lunch, we have a practice game against a Division 1 team. I’d like you to get coverage. Think you can?”
“Yes,” she said, a flicker of excitement pushing past the nerves. “I’d like to spend the morning editing and delivering some images to your social media team, if that’s all right.”
“Perfect.” Watanabe clapped her shoulder lightly. “Take your time.”
Once he was gone, she let herself exhale in earnest.
She powered up the big workstation and set her laptop to transfer all the files. The familiar rhythm settled over her: renaming files, tagging them by player, marking the ones that needed culling.
NOT SUITABLE, she labeled the folder for the outtakes—half-blinks, mistimed shots, Hinata’s hand cutting across the lens when he waved too enthusiastically.
The rest she began to sort by mood: serious action, lighthearted candid, moments of celebration. She paused over one image of Hinata high-fiving Bokuto, both of them grinning so wide she couldn’t help but grin back.
This, she thought, tapping her stylus against her lip. This is why people love sports.
By late morning, she was deep in Photoshop, headphones snug over her ears.
Music pulsed steadily—Nick Jonas crooning about jealousy as she adjusted lighting curves and cleaned up stray hairs. She lost herself in the work, time sliding by unnoticed as her eyes scanned each detail.
A tiny frown formed between her brows as she smoothed a wrinkle in a jersey. The meticulousness of it felt satisfying, like she was restoring something to what it was meant to be.
Two hours passed before she leaned back, rubbing her eyes.
Twenty-five photos, edited and saved in their final form.
Good enough, she thought. For today.
She slid her phone into her jacket pocket, the headphones still firmly in place. Her playlist shuffled to a bright pop song as she walked down the hall toward the cafeteria.
The smell of coffee and something fried drifted toward her, her stomach answering with a hopeful grumble.
I deserve something sweet, she told herself firmly. And caffeine.
The memory of Red Bull coolers dotting the Red Bull Racing paddock made her sigh wistfully. Here, the selection was…less exciting.
She scanned the drink fridge, her face falling when she saw only the original silver and blue cans.
“No white,” she muttered under her breath, lips pulling into a pout.
With a resigned sigh, she took an original Red Bull and added a little pot of mousse au chocolat. The treat felt like a necessary reward for her first successful edits.
She turned, searching for an empty table. A spot by the window called to her, the morning sun slanting across the linoleum.
She settled her things, tugged off her headphones, and took her first sip of the too-sweet Red Bull. The taste was almost right. Almost comforting.
She’d just set the can down when two shadows fell across the table. Her head jerked up.
Bokuto Kotaro grinned down at her, a tray balanced in each big hand.
“Yo!”
Next to him, Hinata Shouyou waved, his smile bright and hopeful.
“Can we sit here?” Bokuto asked, though he was already setting his tray down. Hitomi blinked. “There are…other tables,” she managed.
“Yeah,” Bokuto agreed cheerfully. “But we wanted to get to know you better.” Hinata nodded, sliding into the seat across from her. “We’re gonna be around each other a lot,” he added. “Better not to be strangers.”
Her throat went dry. She glanced from one expectant face to the other, then down at her mousse. “I—I can move,” she said, already pushing back her chair. “If you need this table—”
“No way,” Bokuto boomed, his voice echoing across the cafeteria. “Sit down!”
Heat flared in her cheeks. She sat again, hands curling around her can. Hinata leaned forward, elbows braced on the table.
“Where were you this morning?” he asked. “We looked for you.”
“I…” She swallowed. Talking to men she didn’t know well always made her feel like her tongue had been tied in a knot. “I was…editing.”
Bokuto made an exaggerated pout.
“Editing?”
She nodded, blinking.
“Photos,” she explained, her voice small. “From yesterday.”
“I was hoping you’d be in the gym,” Bokuto huffed. “I did some extra cool spikes.”
She ducked her head, her hair falling to shield her face.
“I’m sorry,” she said, even though she knew she didn’t owe them an apology. “I still have to practice. Shooting people again.”
“Why?” Hinata asked, eyes round. “You’ve done this before, right?”
Her chest tightened.
Oh god.
She opened her mouth, searching for a way to explain without sounding completely incompetent.
“There’s a difference,” she said carefully. “Between photographing a man serving a ball and a man driving a race car through a finish line at three hundred kilometers per hour.”
For a heartbeat, both men stared at her, visibly processing.
Before either could reply, another voice slid into the space between them—low and familiar and edged with something she refused to name.
“And you know that…how exactly?”
Hitomi’s heart stuttered. She didn’t have to look to know who had spoken. But she looked anyway.
Atsumu Miya stood beside the table, his tray balanced in one hand. His golden eyes were steady on hers, expression unreadable.
She felt her mouth go dry.
“I…” She swallowed, her voice thin. “I worked in motorsport.”
Hinata’s eyebrows shot up.
“Motorsport? Like…cars?”
She nodded, wishing the table would swallow her whole.
“For whom?” Bokuto pressed, leaning forward.
Her voice was almost too soft to hear. “Red Bull,” she said.
The silence that followed stretched impossibly long.
“You’re kidding,” Atsumu said finally, his tone flat.
She shook her head, unable to meet his eyes.
“No.”
Hinata made a choked noise.
“Like…the Red Bull Racing Team? Formula 1?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Three pairs of eyes fixed on her—astonished, incredulous.
And she wished, with her whole heart, that she could vanish.
07. my friends over you — new found glory
Word Count: 1,234
Pairing: Timeskip!Atsumu Miya x Fem!OC
The first thing Hitomi noticed when she lifted her camera was that nothing felt familiar.
She’d spent three years behind the lens on pit walls, capturing machines that roared past her at three hundred kilometers per hour. Even standing trackside, with engines screaming and exhaust heat rippling the air, she’d known exactly what she was doing. How to adjust her shutter speed, how to catch the split-second blur of victory or heartbreak.
But this... This was different.
The gym smelled faintly of pine resin and sweat. The overhead lights were bright but not glaring. And the men moving across the court, all controlled power and easy athleticism, were too unpredictable to feel like any machine she’d ever photographed.
She lifted the viewfinder to her eye, her pulse thrumming.
You can do this, she reminded herself, even as her hands hovered uncertainly over the settings.
She adjusted the shutter speed, dropped the ISO, fiddled with the aperture; searching for that perfect combination she could feel but not yet see.
“Chiba-san?”
She lowered the camera. Watanabe was watching her with polite curiosity.
“I’d like to do some test shots,” she said. “Just to get the lighting right.”
“Of course,” he said. “Take all the time you need.”
She moved to the far corner of the gym, her sneakers whispering across the polished floor. From here, she could see everything: the net, the coaches standing watchful at the sidelines, the players warming up in loose clusters.
Her gaze flicked to the far side of the court. Atsumu Miya was crouched low, passing a ball to Sakusa with a smooth flick of his wrists. Even from here, she could see how fluid he was, how every motion seemed almost studied in its precision.
Her stomach gave a small, disloyal flip.
Focus, she scolded herself.
She lifted her camera again.
The first shot came out too dark, the players blurred into a smear of motion. She cursed under her breath and adjusted her settings, fingers moving faster now, more confidently.
Second shot—better. The lines of the court were crisp, the blue-yellow of the ball sharp against the black of their uniforms. But the focus lagged half a second behind the action.
Come on, she thought, biting her lip.
She forced herself to breathe, steadying her pulse.
This isn’t a race car. This is human. Faster than most, but still human.
She watched them for a moment, tracking the rhythm of the drill. Pass. Set. Spike. The ball moved like a living thing, as if it had its own agenda.
She tried again.
Click.
This time, the frame was nearly perfect: Hinata’s feet leaving the floor, his body twisting in midair, every line taut with purpose.
A small, fierce thrill sparked in her chest.
That’s it.
“Oi,” someone called, startling her.
She looked up just in time to see Bokuto jogging toward her, his grin bright and unguarded.
“Chiba-san, right?” he said, stopping just short of her. “Can you send me that last one later? I bet it looked awesome.”
She smiled despite herself.
“I’m sure I can,” she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“Great!” He bounced on the balls of his feet, already turning back toward the court. “I love photos. Makes me look cool.”
“You do a good enough job of that without me,” she called after him, surprising herself.
He laughed, the sound booming through the gym.
The drill resumed, more intense now. She caught Inunaki diving for a save, Sakusa rolling his eyes, Hinata laughing as he smacked Bokuto’s shoulder in celebration.
She kept shooting, adjusting her settings every few frames, finding the sweet spot between motion blur and crisp clarity.
It wasn’t the same as racing, but in some ways it was harder. The raw emotion was closer. The human detail impossible to ignore.
I could get used to this, she thought, lowering the camera for a moment.
Then she made the mistake of glancing back toward the net.
Atsumu was standing with one hip cocked, sweat-dark hair falling into his eyes. He’d pushed his sleeves up, revealing forearms crisscrossed with bruises she hadn’t noticed before.
He wasn’t looking at her—but he wasn’t not looking, either.
Their gazes collided, sharp as a struck chord.
For a second, everything else receded, the bounce of the ball, the calls from the coaches, the scuff of sneakers.
Her breath caught.
He raised one brow, slow and deliberate.
She looked away first, heat climbing up her neck.
Absolutely not, she told herself firmly.
She spent the next hour working to ignore him, focusing on everything else.
She framed shots of Tomas blocking a spike, of Meian calling out a play, of Hinata leaping higher than seemed humanly possible.
Little by little, she began to find her rhythm. The camera felt lighter in her hands. Her eye adjusted to the unpredictable movement, the subtler drama of human competition.
But no matter how focused she tried to be, she was aware of Atsumu in her peripheral vision—the sharp edges of him, the way he moved with a practiced ease that bordered on arrogance.
Eventually, Foster blew his whistle, and the players drifted toward the benches for water.
She took the opportunity to check her shots, scrolling through the display screen.
Most were clean. A few needed adjustments.
I can do this, she thought again, relief washing through her. I belong here.
“You looked serious,” a voice drawled from behind her.
She jumped, nearly dropping the camera.
Atsumu was standing just behind her, towel slung around his neck, hair damp and tousled.
“I—” She cleared her throat, setting the camera strap more securely on her shoulder. “I was working.”
“You always look like that when you work?” he asked, voice low and amused.
She forced herself to meet his gaze. His eyes were darker up close, sharp in a way that made her feel like he could see more than she wanted.
“Yes,” she said coolly. “I do.”
He didn’t look away.
Something flickered across his expression, something that wasn’t quite mockery, though she wished it were.
“Not bad,” he said finally, nodding toward her camera. “You get any good ones?”
She wanted to tell him it was none of his business. That she didn’t care what he thought. But instead, she found herself saying, “A few.”
His mouth curved into the faintest smirk.
“Good.”
Then he turned and walked away, leaving her heart doing an unsteady stutter in her chest.
The rest of practice passed in a haze of concentration and irritation she couldn’t quite shake.
By the time Foster called it a day, her shoulders ached from holding the camera so long. She packed up her equipment carefully, trying not to replay that look Atsumu had given her.
It didn’t matter.
He didn’t matter.
He’s just your neighbor. And your coworker. That’s all.
She left the gym through the side door, stepping into the warm, late afternoon sun. For a moment, she paused beside her car, one hand pressed to the roof.
Tomorrow, she knew, it would be a little easier.
And the day after that, easier still.
She just had to keep showing up.
When she finally climbed into the driver’s seat, she allowed herself a small smile.
Today, she’d proven something—to herself, if no one else.
She could do this.
She was doing it.
And no matter what Atsumu Miya thought of her, she was exactly where she belonged.
───────────────────────────────
🍃 fun facts:
Hitomi is actually a great photographer, who earned a hell lot of money with banging pictures of the Red Bull chassis in the past. She's just not used to immortalizing human emotions in one single photo. But she'll get there!
Bokuto actually needs someone else to take his pictures and remind him to post them on social media because he always forgets and his fans are thirsting for them.
Atsumu maybe, probably realized that Hitomi ain't that bad when he was watching her working.
romaincrisis
andulkaphoto
titsay
kaledo-art
areudirty
origamiaround
yousharknotpass
janainaart