hi! iβm kuroken divorce arc β welcome to my haikyuu writing blog β‘
CURRENTLY ON HIATUS
you can find my masterlist here!
i write for haikyuu!! only (for now), mostly during the time skip / adult era. i love exploring how the characters have grown up and how their personalities translate into everyday life β whether thatβs humor, slice-of-life, or something more emotional. iβll also write for the high school era, just nothing super suggestive for that time β§
my writing includes a mix of:
βΏ headcanons
βΏ oneshots / short fics
βΏ drabbles or blurbs
βΏ general fandom chaos
i write for a wide range of characters, organized by school (karasuno, nekoma, fukurodani, seijoh, inarizaki, etc.). my list is already big, but iβm always open to adding more β‘
π what i do write:
fluff, comfort, and slice-of-life
emotional or introspective moments
light angst with gentle endings
heavier angst with no comfort endings
friendship dynamics and domestic warmth
post-timeskip or adult-era characters, occasional high-school era
π« what i wonβt write:
smut or explicit content (no heavy makeouts, grinding, groping, etc.)
cheating or infidelity (at this time)
non-con or dub-con
incest, major age gaps, or power-imbalanced relationships
nsfw or suggestive content involving minors
iβm okay including implied intimacy β soft fade-to-black moments or emotional closeness β but i wonβt write any sexual acts directly.
i take requests whenever theyβre open β‘ if youβd like to send one, please include:
β§ which character(s) you want
β§ what type of scenario (angst / fluff / slice of life / crack / romance / etc.)
β§ a few details or prompts about what youβd like to see β short or detailed is fine!
please note that i might not write every request β it just depends on whether i can get a good feel for it, but i always read and appreciate every idea!
this blog is just for fun β i write when iβm inspired and when i have time β‘ i work full time and go to school full time, so updates might be a little irregular, but iβll post whenever i can!
feel free to reblog, comment, or send requests / suggestions if iβve got them open. thank you for stopping by and hanging out with me β‘
the radio has been on long enough that neither of you remembers turning it there, some upbeat old song filling the kitchen with a bright, steady rhythm that carries easily over the sound of chopping and the low hiss of something simmering on the stove. evening light slants through the window above the sink, warm and honeyed, catching on the edges of glass jars and the steel of the knife in kitaβs hand. the air smells like garlic and soy and the faint sweetness of whatever sauce youβd insisted on trying tonight, and the whole space feels lived-in in a way it hadnβt a few weeks ago.
you move through it without hesitation now.
the fridge opens with a soft suctioned pull, cool air spilling out as you lean in and scan the shelves before grabbing the bell pepper you need. the music swells into the chorus just as you nudge the door closed with your hip, and without really thinking about it, you pivot on your heel in a small, easy spin, the vegetable balanced loosely in your hand. itβs barely dancingβjust a flicker of movement, a playful turn in rhythm with the songβbut it feels good in your chest, loose and light.
the steady rhythm of chopping behind you stops.
kita doesnβt mean for it to.
one second the knife is moving in clean, measured strokes against the cutting board, and the next itβs hovering midair, his attention caught somewhere between the arc of your movement and the way the fading sunlight catches in your hair. he tells himself heβll look away in a moment. he doesnβt.
thereβs something almost disarming about how comfortable you are here now. the first few days in this kitchen, you had hovered, careful not to disrupt his routine, careful not to touch anything without asking. now you cross the space like it belongs to you, humming softly under your breath, spinning in the middle of the room because a song happens to catch you just right. you donβt look like a guest. you donβt look temporary.
you look like youβve always been here.
a quiet sound escapes him before he can stop it, something halfway between a breath and a laugh.
you glance over your shoulder at that, catching him mid-pause. heβs still holding the knife, vegetables half-chopped beneath it, but he isnβt looking at them. heβs looking at you, and the look on his face makes you falter for half a beat. it isnβt teasing, isnβt even amused in the way youβd expect from the small chuckle you heard. itβs softer than that. fuller.
βwhat?β you ask, stepping closer and holding out the bell pepper toward him. βwhyβd you stop?β
he blinks once, like heβs coming back from somewhere, and sets the knife down carefully before taking the vegetable from your hand. his fingers brush yours in the exchange, warm from the stove heat and steady as ever, but thereβs a faint tension there that wasnβt a second ago.
βyou were distracting,β he says, voice level.
you raise an eyebrow. βby grabbing a vegetable?β
βby spinning in my kitchen,β he corrects.
you huff out a quiet laugh at that. βyour kitchen?β
he meets your eyes fully then, something deliberate settling into his expression. βours,β he says, as if itβs the most obvious thing in the world.
it shouldnβt hit the way it does. itβs just a word. a correction. but thereβs no teasing in it, no hesitation. he says it like itβs already true, like itβs been true for a while. you feel the warmth of it low in your chest before you can stop yourself, and for a second you donβt trust your voice enough to respond.
kita picks the knife back up, resuming his steady rhythm against the board, but his focus isnβt entirely on the vegetables anymore. itβs on the way you donβt argue with him. the way you donβt joke it off or correct him back. you just nod faintly and move around him to the stove, close enough that your shoulder nearly brushes his.
heβs aware of it immediately. the proximity. the ease.
it still surprises him how naturally youβve folded into his routines, how seamlessly the two of you occupy the same space now. cooking together had once felt like a careful choreography, a series of polite adjustments and half-steps to avoid bumping into each other. now itβs instinctive. he knows when youβll reach for the soy sauce before you do. you know to slide the cutting board a few inches to give him room without him asking. thereβs no discussion. it just happens.
and every time it does, something in him tightens.
he hadnβt expected it to feel this effortless. hadnβt expected the quiet momentsβmusic on low, your voice drifting over the clatter of dishes, the way you move through his home like you trust itβto undo him more thoroughly than any grand declaration could.
he keeps his expression composed, as always. keeps his posture steady, knife moving in even strokes. but inside, the realization sits heavy and undeniable.
he is gone for you.
not in a fleeting way. not in a way that can be brushed off as convenience or proximity or circumstance.
gone.
you hum softly along with the radio as you stir the pan, glancing over once more just to make sure heβs still watching what heβs cutting. he catches you looking this time, and something small and knowing passes between you. you donβt comment on it. neither does he.
the music continues. the light shifts lower. dinner inches closer to being finished.
the steady rhythm of chopping continues for a few more seconds after your spin, the radio still bright and buoyant in the background, the kitchen warm with the smell of garlic and browning meat. you move around him easily, rinsing your hands, reaching for a bowl, settling back into the flow of things. it is only when you glance down again that something clicks into place and your stomach drops.
he is cutting with his injured hand.
it is subtle. his grip is steady, his posture calm, but you know that hand. you remember how it bled between his fingers. you remember the clinic lights and the stitches and the way he tried to downplay it. it has been over a week, yes. the bandage is gone. the skin is closed. but it is not fully healed, and you know that.
how did you forget?
guilt pricks at you immediately. you should have been paying attention. you should not have let him slip back into habit like this.
you step closer without hesitation. βwait,β you say, the word softer than you intend, threaded with concern. βyouβre cutting with that hand?β
he does not even pause. βitβs fine.β
it is not fine.
you move fully into his space now, close enough that the warmth from his body brushes against you. βyou shouldnβt be,β you insist gently, already reaching toward the knife. βitβs still healing.β
a small smile touches his mouth, almost amused, almost fond. βiβve got it.β
there is something in his tone that makes your pulse jump. he is not dismissing you. he is enjoying this. enjoying the way you hover. enjoying the way you step in without asking. the quiet back and forth between you lately has felt like thisβmeasured, restrained, a testing of closeness that stops just short of crossing any line.
you are not stopping this time.
βno,β you murmur, and your hand closes around his wrist.
the contact is warm and solid beneath your fingers. his skin is rough from work, familiar already in a way that feels dangerous. you slide your grip from his wrist to his hand, your fingers curling carefully over his own so you can loosen his hold without hurting him. your thumb presses lightly against his palm as you guide the knife free.
he lets you.
he could resist. he is stronger than you. steadier. but he opens his fingers obediently, and the knife comes away into your grasp.
his heart is pounding.
you are so close that he can see the faint crease between your brows as you examine his hand. you are so focused on him that you do not notice how near your bodies have aligned, how your chest nearly brushes his arm, how your breath mingles in the narrow space between you. your fingers are still wrapped around his, still cradling his palm as if you are checking for pain.
βyou need to be more careful,β you say softly, not scolding but earnest, your voice edged with affection you do not realize is so obvious. βyou donβt have to do everything. i can handle this.β
he does not answer.
he cannot.
he is staring at you.
the late light catches in your lashes when you finally look up, expecting some rebuttal, and instead you find him watching you with an expression so unguarded that it steals the air from your lungs. it is not teasing. not amused. it is something deeper, something steady and reverent and entirely too open.
your brain short-circuits.
oh.
you are still holding his hand.
you are very close.
close enough that you can see the faint rise and fall of his chest. close enough that you could lean forward without even stepping. close enough that if he movedβif you movedβ
your pulse slams against your ribs. heat floods your face all at once, a dizzying rush that makes your fingers tighten reflexively around his before you realize what you are doing.
you are in kissing distance.
what is happening.
you snatch the knife back like it is the only thing anchoring you to the floor. βiβll finish,β you say too quickly, stepping away in one smooth motion that feels anything but smooth inside your own skin. βyou shouldβ just stir that. please.β
your face is burning. you turn immediately toward the cutting board, hiding behind the task as if the vegetables have suddenly become urgent. you chop faster than necessary, far too aware of the way your hands are trembling just slightly.
behind you, he moves without protest.
he picks up the wooden spoon and begins stirring the meat in the pan with deliberate calm, his posture composed, his breathing steady.
inside, he is wrecked.
his palm still tingles where your fingers had wrapped around it. he can still feel the warmth of your thumb against his skin. he saw the exact moment it hit youβthe realization, the flare of heat in your cheeks, the way your eyes widened before you fled. he wants to reach for you again.
instead, he stirs the pan and lets the radio fill the silence, acutely aware of how the air between you has changed. it feels thinner now. tighter. charged.
you do not look at him. he does not look away.
the shift in the air lingers even as you both settle back into the rhythm of cooking, the kind of quiet tension that doesnβt break the moment but hums beneath it, threading through every movement and every glance you very carefully do not make. the radio continues on like nothing has changed, something upbeat and bright filling the space between the soft scrape of your knife against the cutting board and the low simmer of the pan heβs now focused on, but it all feels just slightly off-beat now, like youβve both stepped into something neither of you is acknowledging out loud.
you keep your attention on the vegetables in front of you, maybe a little too focused, chopping with more precision than necessary just to keep your hands busy, to ground yourself in something that isnβt the lingering warmth of his skin or the way your chest still hasnβt quite settled back into a normal rhythm. you can feel him behind you without looking, aware of the exact space he occupies, aware of the way heβs moving even when youβre not watching, and it makes your thoughts run in a direction youβre trying very hard not to follow.
he notices.
of course he does.
kita is not someone who misses things like this, especially not when it comes to you, and the shift in your energy is subtle but unmistakable. the way youβve gone just a little quieter, the way your movements have sharpened, the way youβre avoiding looking at him now when only minutes ago you had been stepping into his space without hesitation. it does something to him, something quiet and curious and a little too warm, and before he can stop himself, that small, knowing smile returns.
βi think you like taking care of me,β he says, voice even, almost casual, like heβs commenting on the weather instead of the way you just took his hand from him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
your knife pauses for half a second before you force it to keep moving. βi do not,β you reply immediately, a little too quick, a little too defensive to be convincing, and you hate that he can probably hear it.
because the truth isβ
you do.
you think about it before you can stop yourself, about the way he works from the moment he wakes up, the way he carries everything with that steady, quiet competence that never asks for help, never complains, never slows down unless he absolutely has to. you think about the way heβd still been trying to use that hand earlier like it didnβt matter, like he could just push through it, and something in your chest twists in a way that feels a little too soft, a little too fond.
it feels good to step in.
it feels good to take something off his plate, even if itβs small, even if itβs just chopping vegetables or reminding him to be careful, because he never does that for himself. and the thought of being able to ease even a fraction of that weight sits somewhere warm and steady in you.
which is exactly why you absolutely cannot admit it.
you clear your throat lightly, trying to sound more composed than you feel. βi just donβt want you reopening a wound and making it worse,β you add, like that explains everything, like that is the only reason.
he hums softly, not arguing, but not agreeing either, and you can practically feel his attention on you again, that quiet, observant focus that makes you acutely aware of everything youβre doing.
βright,β he says, and thereβs something in the way he says it that tells you he doesnβt believe you for a second.
heat creeps up your neck again. βitβs practical,β you insist, even though he didnβt challenge you.
βmhm.β
you glance over your shoulder at that, narrowing your eyes just slightly, and heβs looking at you with that same calm expression, stirring the pan like he hasnβt just called you out without actually saying anything. thereβs a faint curve to his mouth, subtle enough that anyone else might miss it, but you donβt.
βdonβt start,β you mutter, turning back to the cutting board.
βi didnβt say anything.β
βyou didnβt have to.β
that earns you the softest exhale of amusement, and you feel it more than you hear it, the warmth of it settling somewhere low in your chest despite yourself. you try to stay focused, but itβs harder now, the awareness between you stretching thinner, tighter, every small exchange adding another layer to it.
βyou hovered over me in the clinic too,β he adds after a moment, tone still light, still easy, but thereβs intention there now, a deliberate return to the same thread he started.
you almost miss your next cut. βyou were literally bleeding,β you shoot back, though thereβs no real bite to it.
βand now iβm not.β
βyou still could be if you keep acting like that.β
he lets that sit for a second, stirring slowly, before replying, βyou stepped in just as fast today.β
your grip tightens slightly around the knife. βbecause you werenβt being careful.β
βor,β he says, just a little softer now, βbecause you wanted to.β
you inhale sharply, the sound quiet but not quiet enough.
there it is againβthat feeling, that awareness, that sense that he is looking at you not just to tease, but to see what youβll do, what youβll say, how far youβll let this go before you push back. itβs not overwhelming. itβs not aggressive. itβs controlled, measured, and somehow that makes it worse.
you swallow, trying to regain your footing. βyouβre reading into it,β you say, but it comes out less certain than youβd like.
βam i?β
you donβt answer.
you canβt.
because the worst part is, you donβt think he is.
you focus on the cutting board again, finishing the last of the vegetables with careful precision, but your thoughts are nowhere near it anymore, caught instead on the way he said that, the quiet confidence in it, the way he didnβt push further even though he easily could have.
he doesnβt press you.
he just lets it linger, lets the moment breathe, lets you sit in it without forcing you to respond, and somehow that feels more intimate than if he had kept going.
the last of the vegetables are finished under your knife, and you gather them up with the side of the blade, sliding them neatly onto the cutting board before stepping back into his space again without thinking. he shifts just slightly to give you room at the stove, but not much, and the proximity is immediate, familiar now in a way that still manages to send a quiet spark through your chest. you tip the vegetables into the pan, the sharp hiss of contact rising as they hit the heat, and he adjusts his grip on the spoon to mix them in, steady and controlled, like everything else he does.
you stay there for a second longer than necessary, watching the way he stirs, the way his wrist moves, the way his attention stays on the pan even though you can feelβwithout lookingβthat heβs aware of you standing right beside him. itβs that same awareness from earlier, stretched thin between you, quiet but constant.
you step away first, turning toward the sink with the cutting board and knife in hand, rinsing them under warm water as you try to settle yourself back into something normal. the cool rhythm of it helps, the simple motion of washing, of focusing on something small and manageable, but it doesnβt take long before that feeling creeps back in again.
heβs looking at you.
you donβt need to turn around to know it.
you can feel it in the space between your shoulders, in the way the air seems to shift just slightly when his attention settles. itβs not heavy. itβs not uncomfortable. itβs justβ¦ there. constant. deliberate.
you glance over your shoulder, catching him exactly as expected, his gaze already on you.
and something in you decides you are not going to be the only one flustered in this kitchen.
you turn a little more fully, drying your hands slowly as you tilt your head just slightly. βyou stare a lot,β you say, aiming for light, teasing, something that will throw him off balance the way heβs been doing to you all evening.
he doesnβt even blink.
βyeah,β he says simply.
you pause. that is not the response you were expecting.
you narrow your eyes slightly, trying again, pushing just a little further. βlikeβ¦ a lot,β you add, letting a hint of a smile tug at your mouth, expecting him to deflect, to brush it off, to pretend he hadnβt been.
he doesnβt.
βi know.β
you stare at him.
he meets your gaze without hesitation, calm and steady, like this conversation is the most normal thing in the world. there is no embarrassment, no attempt to hide it, no teasing dodge to soften it.
you feel your composure start to slip.
βand?β you press, because now you have to, because you committed to this and you are not backing out. his expression softens just slightly, something warmer settling in his eyes as he looks at you.
βyouβre beautiful,β he says, as if itβs obvious. as if itβs fact. βi like watching you.β
your brain goes completely blank. there is no clever response waiting. no teasing comeback. no recovery.
just heat.
a full-body, immediate flush that rushes up your neck and across your face so fast it makes you dizzy. you turn back to the sink too quickly, gripping the edge of it for half a second like you need something solid to hold onto while your thoughts scatter in every direction.
what the fuck.
you had been trying to tease him. this is not how that was supposed to go. behind you, he just goes back to stirring the pan like he didnβt just say something that short-circuited your entire nervous system.
you swallow, forcing your voice to work again. βyou canβt just say things like that,β you mutter, scrubbing the cutting board a little harder than necessary.
βwhy not?β
βbecauseββ you stop, because you donβt actually have a good answer for that, because the real answer is just that it makes you feel like this, like your heart is trying to beat its way out of your chest. βbecause itβsβ¦ a lot.β
he hums quietly, like heβs considering that. βitβs true.β
you make a small, helpless sound under your breath, shaking your head as you rinse the last of the soap away. βyouβre impossible.β
βyou started it.β
that pulls a reluctant huff of laughter out of you, even as your face is still warm. βi regret everything.β
βi donβt.β
you risk a glance back at him at that, and heβs already looking at you again, that same steady, unbothered focus that somehow feels even more dangerous now that you know heβs not going to look away just because you call him out on it.
you turn back to the sink before you can spiral any further.
the rest of the cooking finishes in that same rhythm, light conversation slipping easily between you despite the undercurrent that hasnβt gone anywhere. he sets the table while you plate the food, moving around each other without needing to speak, and by the time everything is ready, it almost feels normal again.
almost.
you carry the dishes over to the table, setting them down carefully before reaching for your usual seat across from himβand pausing.
your plate is not in its usual spot across from his. itβs beside his.
you blink once, then glance over at him.
heβs already pulling out his chair like nothing is different, like this is how itβs always been, but thereβs the faintest hint of something in the set of his shoulders, something just slightly too deliberate.
you set the dish down slowly, turning toward him with a small, knowing smile. βwow,β you say, light but pointed. βcanβt get enough of me, huh?β
his ears go red almost immediately.
itβs subtle, but you see it, and itβs enough to send a quiet spark of satisfaction through you. he doesnβt look away, doesnβt deny it, but thereβs a flicker of something in his expression now that wasnβt there before, something a little more caught off guard.
βitβs easier,β he says, clearing his throat lightly as he gestures to the seat beside him. βto talk.β
βmhm,β you hum, entirely unconvinced as you take the chair anyway, settling beside him instead of across.
the space between you disappears the second you sit down. itβs different like this. closer.
your elbows brush when you reach for your chopsticks. your knees press lightly together under the table without either of you moving away. the warmth of him is constant at your side, not just something you pass through in the kitchen but something that stays.
you try to focus on your food. you really do.
but every small point of contact feels amplified, every accidental brush lingering just a second too long before either of you adjusts, and your heart has not settled at all.
neither has his.
he eats with the same steady composure as always, posture straight, movements controlled, but he is acutely aware of every inch of you beside him, of the way your leg rests against his without pulling back, of the way your shoulder shifts just slightly closer when you reach across the table.
neither of you comments on it. neither of you moves away.
and dinner passes like that, quiet conversation and shared space and something unspoken threading through it all, something neither of you is quite ready to name, but both of you feel all the same.
the kitchen has long since settled back into quiet, the last of the dishes dried and put away, the lingering warmth of dinner fading into something softer, more relaxed. the radio has been turned off, leaving the house filled instead with the low hum of evening and the distant sounds of the countryside outside. you grab two drinks from the fridge, the cool air brushing your skin as you close it with your hip, and head toward the living room where the faint glow of the tv is already lighting the space.
heβs sitting on the couch.
not off to one side like he used to.
right in the middle.
you slow just slightly as you take it in, something warm and pleased settling in your chest at the sight. itβs subtle, something anyone else might miss, but you donβt. you remember how careful the distance between you used to be, how deliberate it felt, like you were both measuring out space and trying not to cross into it too quickly. now he sits there like itβs natural to expect you beside him.
like he wants you there.
you press your lips together to hide the small smile that threatens to form, then continue forward like nothing has changed, stepping into the room and holding out one of the drinks to him. βhere,β you say lightly.
he looks up at you, attention shifting immediately, and takes it with a quiet, βthanks,β his fingers brushing yours for a brief second before he pulls back. you donβt move away. instead, you make your decision.
you sit down directly next to him.
not with a careful inch of space between you, not with that old hesitation, but closeβyour side pressed lightly into his, your shoulder brushing his arm as you settle in like itβs the most natural thing in the world. he turns to you immediately.
you can feel it before you even look, the shift in his posture, the way his attention sharpens in an instant. and before you can second-guess yourself, before you can overthink it, you push just a little further.
you swing your leg over his.
itβs casual in the way you do it, like youβre just getting comfortable, like this is normal, like you havenβt just closed every inch of distance between you in one smooth motion. you adjust slightly, shifting your weight so your legs rest across his, your foot settling against the couch on the other side of him as you make yourself at home.
you can feel his entire body go still for a split second.
his eyes widen just slightly, just enough that you catch it, and the faintest flush rises to the tips of his ears. his grip on his drink tightens almost imperceptibly before he relaxes again, but you can feel it, the way his heart has kicked into a faster rhythm beneath all that composure.
your own is not much better.
you feel bold. reckless, almost. but you donβt move.
you lean back into the couch, settling more comfortably against him, and reach for the remote to turn on your show like this isnβt the most deliberate thing youβve done all night. a quiet chuckle escapes him, low and warm.
βyouβre being forward,β he says, and thereβs something in his tone that makes your stomach flip, something amused but edged with something else you donβt quite name.
you glance at him, feigning innocence. βam i?β you reply lightly. βiβm just indulging you.β
his brows lift just slightly. βindulging me.β
βyeah,β you say, shifting just a little closer for emphasis, like you havenβt already made your point. βyou wanted me to sit next to you, didnβt you?β
thereβs the faintest pause. then that small, familiar grin.
he doesnβt deny it.
instead, he settles back into the couch, more relaxed now, like heβs accepted the shift as easily as you forced it. his free hand moves without hesitation, coming to rest lightly on your leg where itβs draped across him.
your breath catches.
his touch is warm. steady.
deliberate.
his thumb begins to move in slow, absent circles against your skin, the motion unhurried, almost thoughtful, like heβs testing the space just as much as you are.
you nearly choke on your drink.
it happens fast enough that you donβt even have time to stop it, a sharp cough catching in your throat as you turn your head away, trying to recover before you embarrass yourself completely.
heβs already looking at you.
thereβs a grin on his face now, wider than before, something almost unfairly pleased about the way you reacted.
βyou okay?β he asks, entirely too calm for someone who just did that on purpose.
you cough once more, waving a hand like you can brush it off. βyeah,β you manage, voice just a little thinner than youβd like. βall good.β
you are not good.
your skin feels too warm where his hand rests, your thoughts tripping over themselves as you try to focus on literally anything else, the tv, the show, the sound of your own breathingβanything but the slow, steady movement of his thumb against your leg.
he doesnβt move his hand.
doesnβt pull away.
and you donβt stop him.
you sit there like that, pressed into his side, your leg draped across his, both of you pretending to watch the show while something unspoken settles heavier between you, stretching tight and warm and impossible to ignore.
and neither of you does anything to break it.
the house has quieted by the time you both retreat to the bedroom for the night, the soft hum of the night settling in around the walls like a blanket, distant and calm. the energy from earlier hasnβt gone anywhere, though. it lingers, stretched thin and buzzing faintly under your skin, carried with you from the couch to the hallway to here. the room feels warmer than usual, or maybe thatβs just you, still too aware of everythingβof him, of yourself, of the way the air seems to hold onto every small movement a little longer than it should.
heβs already in bed by the time you finish in the bathroom, propped slightly against the headboard before eventually settling down onto his back, one arm tucked beneath his head. his gaze follows you the moment you step back into the room, sharp and steady in that way youβve come to recognize, not intrusive, not heavy, but present in a way that makes it impossible to ignore. you feel it immediately, even as you move around like normal, setting things down, unclasping your jewelry, slipping pieces off one by one and placing them carefully where they belong.
you talk as you do it, words spilling easily now, picking back up on the show youβd been watching earlier, your voice animated as you go over the twist that had you nearly yelling at the screen. you pace a little as you speak, half distracted, half still caught up in it, replaying the moment out loud while he listens without interrupting, his attention never leaving you even if he doesnβt comment much. itβs not that he doesnβt careβif anything, itβs the opposite. he watches you like every small detail matters, like the way your hands move when youβre talking or the way your expression shifts with each part of the story is worth memorizing.
he hadnβt cared about that show before.
he does now. because you do.
you finally climb into bed, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight as you settle in, turning onto your side without thinking. he shifts with you, mirroring the movement until youβre both facing each other, close enough that the space between you feels more like a suggestion than an actual distance. itβs quiet now, the earlier teasing softened into something slower, something steadier, and the conversation drifts into something lighter, easier. your voice lowers without you meaning to, the cadence softer, more intimate, like the world has narrowed down to just this small space between you.
your hearts are both still racing.
you can feel it in the way your chest rises, in the way your breath catches just slightly when he shifts closer, in the way your gaze keeps drifting back to his eyes even when you try to look anywhere else. thereβs no urgency in it, no pressure, just a quiet, steady awareness that hums between you, dense and warm and impossible to ignore.
he shifts again, just slightly, and a loose strand of hair falls across his forehead, brushing into his eyes.
you donβt think. you just move. your hand lifts, slow and careful, and you reach toward him, fingers brushing lightly against his temple as you tuck the strand back into place. the touch is gentle, deliberate, your fingertips barely grazing his skin as you smooth it away, and the moment stretches the second you make contact.
he goes still.
not stiff, not pulling back, justβ¦ still, like heβs letting it happen, like heβs choosing to stay right where he is instead of leaning away from you.
your hand lingers.
you hadnβt meant it to, but it does, resting lightly against the side of his face, your palm just barely cupping his cheek. thereβs a hesitance in it now, a quiet offering, like youβre giving him the space to move if he wants to, to pull away if this is too much.
he doesnβt.
his eyes donβt leave yours, something deep and steady settling into them as he exhales softly, the sound almost a sigh as he leans just slightly into your touch. itβs small, the movement barely there, but itβs enough. enough to send something sharp and warm through your chest, enough to make your breath catch in your throat as your fingers press just a fraction more firmly against his skin.
from his side, everything narrows down to that point of contact.
your hand against his face. your eyes on his. the quiet of the room pressing in around you while something in his chest settles into a certainty heβs been circling for days now without naming.
he loves you.
the thought lands clean. steady. not sudden, not overwhelming, just⦠right. like something that has been there for a while finally taking shape in words.
his hand lifts, slow and careful, and wraps gently around yours where it rests against his cheek. he doesnβt rush it, doesnβt break the moment, just shifts your hand slightly so he can bring it closer, his thumb brushing once over your knuckles before he presses a soft, deliberate kiss against them.
itβs not hurried. not tentative. just certain.
he keeps your hand in his after, fingers threading with yours, holding on instead of letting go as he settles back into the pillow, still facing you, still close.
βgoodnight,β he says quietly.
your voice feels smaller when you answer, softer, like something has shifted in you that you donβt quite have the words for yet. βgoodnight.β
you donβt pull your hand away. neither does he.
your fingers stay laced together between you as the room falls quiet again, the tension from earlier no longer sharp but still there, transformed into something warmer, something deeper, something that sits heavy and steady in your chest as you close your eyes.
and somewhere in that quiet, with his hand still holding yours and his warmth still close enough to feel, the realization settles in just as clearly as his had.
so upfront with y'all im still going to be on hiatus, i just wanted to post the next chapter of the kita series because im almost done with it and i don't want to leave the series unfinished. im working on the last part and that'll probably be the last thing i post for awhile.
no. i don't use ai. i never have and never will. i've gotten a couple messages asking me if i use ai (or accusing me), and i don't know what it is about my writing that gives off ai. maybe because i use lots of em dashes??? idk. i apologize for having taken several literature and creative writing courses in college. like i've said before, i've been writing fanfic for years, since i was in middle school, but only just recently started posting them (haikyuu only rn) online back in like... october??
since i've started posting, i've gotten to know quite a few people in the hq community. fellow creators, as well as really nice followers, who i can chat with about things. i've also gotten to see how fuckin nasty some of the fandom is. the amount of anon hate and accusations i've received in my inbox since i started writing literally five months ago is astounding to me. like i just like hq. i like writing. decided to finally share my works and writing.
still blows my mind how mean people can get. i don't usually answer most of those types of messages, i've already posted on here about ai and my writing and hate messages, yet im still getting people questioning it. its just beyond exhausting. i haven't had motivation to write in weeks, and then i finally do get insipration and open this blog up and i had to delete NINE messages talking shit to me, and then this, asking me if i use ai. again.
so sorry if im rambling, or if you saw a notification pop up for me and got your hopes up for a new update, but unfortunately i'm so very beyond tired and done and am very rapidly losing any desire to write for hq anymore. at this time, i don't feel like posting anymore, but i might get back on someetime in the future.
if you aren't a creator, please remember to be nice to creators. Like works, reblog things, leave nice comments (that aren't just asking for an update, those lowkey aren't it). message a creator about something you noticed or liked in particular about their work (i always loved that). and don't accuse someone of ai unless you are like... 100% positive, because as a writer that shit fucking sucks. remember creators do what they do for free. sorry for the long message and rambles.
the farm settles back into its rhythm the way it always does, quietly and without announcement. there is no clear dividing line between one stretch of days and the next, only the gradual easing of tension and the return of small, habitual movements that fill the space between morning and night. the desk now sits firmly in the room that has begun to feel like yours, sunlight sliding across its surface each day and catching in the subtle grain of the wood. papers gather near one corner, a pen left uncapped once and then remembered later. the chair moves in and out with a soft scrape that has already blended into the houseβs soundscape. nothing about it feels temporary anymore. it belongs there. you belong there.
outside, early light spreads slowly over the fields, first thin and cool, then deepening into something warmer as the sun climbs. dew clings to leaves and fence posts, trembling faintly before surrendering to heat. the garden beds need watering before the day turns fully bright, and the hose moves in steady arcs over dark soil, soaking in around each plantβs base. it is simple work, repetitive and grounding, the kind that allows the mind to drift without losing the rhythm of the task. step forward, adjust the pressure, sweep left, then right. the scent of damp earth rises steadily, mingling with something richer drifting through the open kitchen window.
coffee.
the smell reaches the yard in soft waves, warm and familiar, cutting gently through the cooler air. inside, the machine hums faintly before giving a soft mechanical click.
the water is shut off and the hose coiled carefully back into place. gravel shifts underfoot on the walk toward the house. the back door opens with its usual quiet resistance before giving way, letting cooler air slip inside.
the kitchen is warmer than the yard. sunlight spills across the counter in long pale bands, catching the steam curling upward from a mug resting near the sink. you are already there, standing with your back half-turned, sleeves pushed loosely above your wrists as you measure grounds into the filter with absent precision. your movements are unhurried and confident in a way they werenβt weeks ago. you no longer pause before crossing the room. you no longer adjust your path to account for shared space. you reach for the cabinet without checking over your shoulder first.
you assume he is there.
βmorning,β you say, lifting your mug before the last drip has fully finished.
he does not answer immediately. he remains near the doorway, watching the way you lean your hip lightly against the counter as you blow across the surface of the coffee and take a cautious sip, watching the faint wrinkle of your nose when it tastes stronger than you intended.
he had not meant to stop in the doorway. he had not meant to linger. but there is something in the ease of your posture, in the way you move through this kitchen as if it has always belonged to you, that holds him still longer than he expects.
the kitchen settles into its familiar quiet once he steps fully inside. the scent of coffee thickens as the steam curls upward from your mug. you move aside automatically to give him space at the counter, not looking at him when you pass close enough that your sleeve brushes lightly against his wrist.
it is an ordinary thing.
it should be an ordinary thing.
his body does not react as if it is ordinary.
βdoes it still hurt?β you ask, finally turning toward him.
he knows exactly what you are referring to before you glance down at his hand. you step closer without hesitation, reaching for his wrist with the same firmness you used in the clinic, as if the right to inspect him has already been granted and cannot be revoked. your fingers wrap around him, warm and steady, and you lift his hand toward the light streaming through the window.
the contact is brief. practical.
it is not brief enough.
βit pulls a little,β he answers, voice even, because if he allows any roughness into it you will hear it. βnothing that interferes.β
you lean closer, eyes narrowing slightly as you study the bandaged palm. your face is close enough that he can feel the warmth of your breath against his knuckles. he forces himself not to flex his fingers just to see if you will tighten your grip.
you would.
that is the problem.
βyouβre not supposed to overdo it,β you say, thumb pressing lightly along the edge of the gauze as if testing whether it has shifted. βyou donβt get to pretend youβre indestructible just because youβre used to it.β
he has been indestructible his entire life.
he has never wanted to be anything else.
βiβm not pretending,β he replies. βiβm being careful.β
you do not look convinced.
your hand remains wrapped around his a moment longer than necessary before you release him, stepping back just enough to reclaim space. he misses the weight of you instantly and hates that he does.
βi can help today,β you say, almost casually, lifting your mug again. βif you need it. outside.β
the thought of you in the yard carrying feed sacks or hauling crates of tools settles somewhere sharp beneath his ribs.
βno,β he answers immediately.
you blink at the firmness of it.
βi mean, i donβt mindββ
βi know you donβt,β he says, softer now. βbut you donβt need to.β
you study him for a second, suspicion flickering faintly across your face as if youβre trying to determine whether heβs dismissing you or protecting you. he holds your gaze steadily, unwilling to let even a hint of discomfort cross his features.
he will not have you straining your back over something he can manage alone.
he built you a desk so you would not have to work on a couch that twisted your spine. he will not turn around and hand you a crate heavier than your comfort simply because you offered.
if you wanted to stand beside him in the yard, he would let you.
if you insisted, he would not refuse.
but he will not ask it of you.
βitβs lighter work today,β he says finally. βiβll be fine.β
you hesitate, then nod once, accepting the answer even if you are not entirely satisfied with it.
you return to your coffee.
he pretends to do the same.
in truth, he is acutely aware of the space between you again. aware of how easily you stepped into his reach a moment ago. aware of how quickly you stepped back out of it.
he tells himself he should be grateful for the ease that exists now. you move through the house without hesitation. you check on him without awkwardness. you speak to him without measuring tone.
that should be enough.
it is not enough.
he wants your hands on him again.
the thought arrives before he can temper it.
not for injury. not for necessity. simply because you chose to.
he sets his mug down more firmly than intended and reaches for his phone on the counter to distract himself.
the inarizaki group chat has exploded overnight.
he scrolls.
atsumu: so we just not gonna address that ya got MARRIED
osamu: donβt play dumb
suna: this man really dropped βbtw iβm marriedβ and went silent
aran: when are we meeting her
atsumu: ya better not back out, shinsuke
osamu: if you show up alone iβm locking the door
suna: bring the wife
he pauses at that.
bring the wife.
the word settles differently now than it did weeks ago. he had typed it without thinking when he first told them, the announcement practical and brief. he had not elaborated. he had not clarified. he had not used the word arranged.
it had not felt relevant.
you are his wife.
that is the truth that matters.
a small smile touches his mouth before he can stop it. the sight of his friends demanding your presence stirs something unexpectedly proud inside him. they want to meet you. he wants them to.
he looks up from the screen.
you are rinsing your mug at the sink, shoulders relaxed, humming faintly under your breath in a way you probably do not realize.
he clears his throat.
βi need to go into the city today,β he says.
you glance over your shoulder. βfor supplies?β
βfor onigiri miya.β
you blink once, processing. βoh. to see your friends?β
he nods.
βi can drop you off,β you say easily. βiβve got a few errands i can run while youβre there.β
the suggestion lands like a stone in his stomach.
drop him off.
no.
βi want you to come,β he says before he can overthink it.
you freeze slightly at that, hand still resting on the edge of the sink. βme?β
βyes.β
you hesitate, uncertainty flickering across your face. βi donβt want to intrude on your friend group. itβs your thing.β
he almost laughs at that.
intrude.
if you wanted to intrude on every space he has ever occupied, he would step aside for you.
βyou wouldnβt be intruding,β he says evenly. βi told them about you. they want to meet you.β
your expression shifts from uncertainty to surprise. βyouβ¦ told them?β
βof course.β
you search his face as if trying to determine what exactly he told them, and for a brief, reckless second he wonders what you would do if you knew how often you occupy his thoughts.
what is wrong with him.
he reins it back immediately.
βonly if you want to,β he adds, because he will not corner you into something that makes you uncomfortable.
you chew on the inside of your cheek briefly, thinking.
βokay,β you say finally. βiβll go.β
relief is subtle but immediate. he nods once, controlled, as if this is merely logistical.
inside, something steadier takes root.
the drive into the city is long enough to stretch comfortably into silence. he had intended to insist on driving despite his hand, but when you slide naturally into the driverβs seat without hesitation, keys already in your hand, he realizes this arrangement offers him something better.
time.
you focus intently on the road, fingers steady on the wheel, shoulders slightly tighter than usual. he recognizes the look β the inward spiral you slip into when you are nervous but determined not to show it.
you think he does not notice.
he notices everything.
he leans back in his seat, angling his injured hand loosely against his thigh, and allows himself to watch you without pretense. the curve of your profile. the way your brow furrows faintly when traffic thickens. the way your thumb taps absently against the steering wheel when you are thinking too hard.
you do not look at him.
you are too occupied imagining what his friends will think of you.
he is too occupied thinking that if they do not see what he sees, they are blind.
he tells himself to stop staring.
he does not stop.
onigiri miya smells like toasted rice and sea salt the moment the door slides open.
the warmth inside is immediate, layered with the savory richness of fillings and the faint, sweet sharpness of vinegar in the rice. the counter gleams under the lights. wooden shelves line the wall, neatly arranged, everything intentional and orderly in a way that reminds him of home.
and thenβ
βYA ACTUALLY CAME!β
atsumu vaults from behind the counter before kita has fully stepped inside, wiping his hands on his apron in exaggerated disbelief. osamu follows at a more measured pace, though his eyes are already fixed on you.
suna is seated in the corner booth, phone in hand, not looking up immediately but absolutely aware of everything. aran stands near the drink fridge, arms folded loosely, watching the door with open curiosity.
kita steps slightly to the side, making space.
βthis is my wife,β he says evenly.
he does not elaborate.
you step forward on your own, offering a small polite smile that softens the edge of atsumuβs theatrics immediately.
βhi. itβs nice to finally meet you all.β
finally.
the word settles warmly in his chest.
osamu recovers first. he steps forward, extending a hand carefully. βosamu. ignore him,β he says, jerking his thumb toward atsumu. βhe hasnβt stopped talking about this since the text.β
atsumu scoffs. βi have not.β
βyou have,β suna says without looking up.
aran approaches last, offering a polite nod and handshake. βitβs good to meet you. we were starting to think he imagined you.β
you laugh softly at that, glancing sideways at kita.
he keeps his face neutral.
inside, he is incandescent.
you are not shrinking. you are not hesitant. you are not clinging to his sleeve or hiding behind him. you are standing beside him easily, shoulders relaxed, voice steady.
he is absurdly proud of you.
βsit,β osamu says, already moving behind the counter again. βiβve got a few things ready.β
atsumu leans across the counter, eyeing kitaβs bandaged hand immediately. βwhatβd ya do? fight a bear?β
βcut it in the shed,β kita replies.
you turn slightly at that, eyes flicking down toward his palm instinctively.
he feels it.
that attention.
that immediate concern.
βit was deeper than he thought,β you say before he can downplay it. βhe needed stitches.β
all four of them freeze.
βstitches?β atsumu echoes.
osamuβs eyes widen. βya idiot.β
suna finally looks up properly. βdominant hand too?β
kita nods once.
atsumu rounds the counter dramatically. βand ya didnβt tell us this part? just βbtw iβm marriedβ and silence?β
you blink at that.
βhe didnβt tell you about the injury?β
βthatβs not what i meant,β atsumu says, pointing accusingly at kita. βhe texted us he got married like he was announcing a weather update. didnβt explain anything. didnβt elaborate. just dropped the bomb and went back to farming.β
you glance at kita again, something unreadable flickering across your face.
he remains calm.
βit was straightforward information,β he says.
βstraightforward?β atsumu repeats.
suna snorts.
aran hides a smile.
osamu slides a plate onto the counter. βsit before he makes a scene.β
you move toward the booth naturally, sliding in beside kita without overthinking it. the space is narrow enough that your thigh brushes his when you settle. you donβt move away.
he does not either.
βstitches though,β aran says, leaning against the table. βthatβs not small.β
βhe was going to pretend it was,β you reply lightly.
kita feels heat creep faintly up his neck.
βshe dragged me to the clinic,β he admits.
atsumuβs eyes snap to you. βoh?β
you shrug. βhe was bleeding through his fingers.β
the twins exchange a look.
βshe dragged ya?β atsumu asks, grin widening.
βshe did,β kita says calmly.
βdamn,β suna murmurs, almost impressed.
osamu rests his elbows on the counter. βso sheβs the boss then.β
you flush faintly. βno, i justβ he doesnβt always think itβs a big deal.β
kita glances at you.
you are still slightly closer than necessary, one hand resting lightly near his injured one as if ready to intervene again if needed.
he has to look away first.
βwait,β atsumu says suddenly. βshe said shed.β
your eyes brighten. βoh. yes. heβs been building something.β
all four men turn to him in sync.
βwhatβd ya build?β osamu asks slowly.
kita hesitates for half a second.
you answer for him.
βhe built me a desk.β
silence.
βa whole desk?β aran says.
βfrom scratch,β you add, unable to hide the softness in your voice.
atsumu turns slowly toward kita like heβs just discovered a second head growing from his shoulder. βyou built her a desk?β
βit was practical,β kita says evenly.
suna leans back. βpractical.β
you laugh under your breath. βit was incredibly thoughtful.β
and there it is again.
that warmth in your tone.
kita feels it like a physical thing.
atsumu clutches his chest theatrically. βthis man built you furniture?β
osamu looks impressed despite himself. βmeasured and everything?β
you nod. βit fits perfectly.β
kitaβs ears burn.
he does not regret a single second of sanding that surface smooth.
osamu clears his throat and disappears briefly behind the counter, returning with a wooden tray balanced carefully in both hands. steam rises faintly from the rice, the nori still crisp and dark against the pale surface.
βtry this one first,β he says, placing it directly in front of you instead of kita. βi tweaked the filling this week.β
atsumu immediately recoils in offense. βoi. why does she get priority?β
βbecause sheβs a guest,β osamu replies flatly.
βsheβs his wife,β suna corrects, as if that changes jurisdiction.
osamu ignores him and looks back at you. βgo on.β
you hesitate politely before picking it up. βthank you.β
you take a careful bite, chewing thoughtfully rather than immediately reacting.
kita watches your expression shift β the slight widening of your eyes, the subtle nod before you swallow.
βoh,β you say softly. βthatβs really good.β
osamu straightens like someone just handed him an award.
βyeah?β he asks, trying not to sound too eager.
βitβs balanced,β you continue. βit doesnβt overpower the rice. and the textureβs nice.β
atsumu slams a hand against the table. βoh, itβs good? itβs good?β
you blink at him.
βwell, yes.β
he leans forward dramatically. βthatβs impressive and all, samu, but iβm a professional athlete. what do ya think about that?β
you stare at him.
ββ¦iβm sorry?β
aran groans. βhere we go.β
βi play pro volleyball,β atsumu says, puffing up. βmsby black jackals.β
you nod politely. βthatβs nice.β
suna chokes on his drink.
βnice?β atsumu repeats in disbelief.
βyou asked what i thought,β you reply calmly.
suna sets his cup down. βiβm also a pro.β
you turn toward him, blinking.
aran chuckles under his breath. βso am i.β
your eyes move between them slowly. βall of you?β
osamu shrugs. βexcept me. i cook.β
you glance at osamu again. βi think thatβs impressive too.β
atsumu points at himself again. βno, no, focus. iβm asking what you think about professional volleyball.β
you tilt your head slightly. βi donβt know enough to critique it.β
βcritique it anyway,β atsumu insists.
kita is fighting the urge to rub his temples.
you consider this with surprising seriousness. βit looks hard.β
suna exhales through his nose.
aran actually laughs.
atsumu squints at you. βthatβs it? it looks hard?β
βit does,β you reply honestly. βyou jump very high.β
osamu starts laughing.
suna leans back, amused. βsheβs not wrong.β
βyou jump very high,β atsumu repeats weakly.
βyou do,β you say earnestly. βi donβt think i could do that.β
atsumu processes this like it might be a compliment. βwell. yeah.β
suna tilts his head. βwhat about me? do i jump high?β
you glance at him. βyes?β
aran folds his arms loosely, easy grin on his face as he enables the conversation. βand me?β
βyou.... also jump high,β you confirm.
osamu is fully laughing now.
kita bites back a smile.
atsumu narrows his eyes suspiciously. βalright. new question. whoβs the most impressive?β
you freeze slightly, clearly recognizing this as a trap.
βiβve never seen you play in person,β you remind them.
βyouβve never watched a game?β suna asks.
you shake your head. βnot really. i mean, i know he used to play in high school, but iβve neverββ
all four of them swivel toward kita.
βyou never made her watch?β atsumu demands.
βit wasnβt necessary,β kita replies evenly.
βnecessary?β osamu echoes.
you look between them, faintly amused. βis this like a requirement?β
βyes,β atsumu and suna say at the same time.
aran nods once. βabsolutely.β
osamu gestures to the counter. βyou shouldβve led with that.β
atsumu points at kita dramatically. βwe gotta educate her.β
βon what?β you ask.
βon greatness,β atsumu declares.
suna deadpans, βon delusion.β
you laugh again, and the sound is easy now, not tight or polite. kita watches the way your shoulders relax further, the way you lean slightly forward into the table instead of shrinking back.
osamu sets another onigiri in front of you. βeat while they argue.β
you smile gratefully and take another bite.
kita reaches for one with his injured hand out of habit.
you immediately catch it.
βwait,β you say softly.
you take it from him without hesitation and unwrap it carefully, adjusting the nori so it doesnβt strain his grip when you return it to him. your fingers brush lightly over his knuckles as you pass it back.
the booth goes quiet again.
atsumu watches the exchange with narrowed eyes.
sunaβs mouth twitches.
aran looks almost smug.
kita keeps his face neutral, though his entire body has gone warm.
βhe has stitches,β you reply, not looking up from adjusting the wrapper.
βhe survived a saw,β atsumu counters.
βhe still needs to heal,β you answer.
your tone is firm but gentle.
kita has never felt more ridiculous and more powerful at the same time.
atsumu leans back, folding his arms. βalright. fine. if ya wonβt pick the best athlete, tell me this β whose job sounds cooler? pro volleyball player or onigiri shop owner?β
you glance at osamu first.
osamu glares at atsumu.
you consider it seriously. βtheyβre different.β
βpick one,β suna murmurs.
βyou canβt just make me choose like that,β you protest lightly.
atsumu leans forward again. βwhy not?β
βbecause,β you say slowly, βone feeds people and one throws balls at people.β
there is a beat of silence.
osamu bursts out laughing.
suna coughs into his fist.
aran shakes his head.
atsumu looks betrayed. βthatβs so disrespectful.β
βitβs technically correct,β you reply sweetly.
kita looks at you and thinks, with absolute clarity, that bringing you here was the best decision he has made in months. besides marrying you of course.
you fit.
effortlessly.
and they are already trying to impress you.
atsumu stares at you like youβve personally betrayed him.
βthat is such a narrow interpretation of my career,β he says, offended.
βyou asked,β you reply innocently.
osamu leans back in the booth with a slow, satisfied grin spreading across his face. βsheβs got ya figured out already.β
suna hums thoughtfully. βitβs accurate though. you do throw balls at people.β
βi set them,β atsumu snaps.
βand then someone else throws them,β you add, genuinely trying to be helpful.
osamu loses it entirely, laughing so hard he has to brace a hand against the table.
suna smirks openly now. βsheβs not even trying to roast you.β
atsumu crosses his arms and pouts like a sulking child. βi thought ya said she was impressive.β
βshe is,β osamu says smugly. βyouβre just loud.β
atsumu glares at him. βwhy are you grinning like that?β
βbecause she liked my food,β osamu replies, unbothered. βand called your career throwing balls.β
you immediately shake your head. βthatβs not what i meant.β
βit is what you said,β suna supplies helpfully.
kita watches the way you try to soften it, the way you instinctively reach for balance instead of escalation. youβre not mean. youβre not cutting. youβre simplyβ¦ honest.
and they are scrambling around it like boys.
aran finally speaks up, tone calm as always. βso what do you actually do?β
the shift is subtle but immediate. atsumuβs pout dissolves into curiosity. osamu straightens slightly. suna tilts his head.
you blink once, caught off guard by the directness.
βoh. i work remotely,β you begin, a little uncertain now that the focus is squarely on you. βmostly finance. auditing. systems review.β
the twins stare blankly.
suna blinks.
aran nods slowly. βyou have a degree in that?β
you nod. βyes.β
kita speaks before you downplay it.
βshe has a masterβs degree.β
all three of them swivel toward him.
βa masterβs?β atsumu repeats.
βin finance?β osamu adds.
you flush faintly. βitβs not that impressive.β
suna leans forward, suddenly very interested. βyou have a masterβs and youβre sitting here calling us ball-throwers.β
βi didnβt mean it like that,β you protest, laughing softly.
osamu whistles low under his breath. βshinsuke.β
kita remains composed. βyes.β
βyou bagged a genius,β osamu says bluntly.
your blush deepens. βiβm not a genius.β
βmasterβs is serious,β suna says evenly.
atsumu squints at you. βwait. so you likeβ¦ manage money?β
βnot exactly,β you explain carefully. βi audit processes. financial systems. business compliance.β
silence.
atsumu nods slowly. βsoβ¦ money.β
osamu snorts.
aran shakes his head faintly. βyou help companies not screw up.β
βyes,β you say gratefully. βexactly.β
osamu leans forward, grin returning. βcan you do my financing?β
you blink at him.
βi mean,β he adds casually, waving a hand, βfor the shop. taxes and stuff.β
you sit up a little straighter immediately, taking him seriously. βbusiness taxes are complicated. if you want help reviewing your structure, i can look at it.β
osamu pauses.
he had not expected that.
βwait,β he says slowly. βyouβd actually do that?β
βof course,β you reply without hesitation. βsmall businesses get buried under that stuff. itβs stressful.β
osamu preens instantly, puffing up like heβs just been personally chosen. βsee? she understands me.β
atsumu jerks upright. βwhat about my finances?β
you turn toward him.
βdo you have an accountant?β you ask.
he falters. βyeah.β
βthen thatβs different,β you explain patiently. βpersonal taxes and business auditing arenβt the same.β
atsumu deflates in real time.
suna covers his mouth to hide a smile.
osamu smirks. βshe just demoted you.β
aran chuckles quietly.
βi have complicated endorsements,β atsumu mutters defensively.
βyour accountant handles that,β you reply gently.
atsumu slumps against the booth, dramatically wounded. βso sheβll fix samuβs money but not mine.β
you immediately look concerned. βi didnβt say thatββ
kita cuts in calmly.
βsheβs not your personal finance accountant.β
the firmness in his tone is subtle but unmistakable.
atsumu pauses.
you glance at kita.
his expression remains neutral, but thereβs something steady beneath it β not possessive, not aggressive, simply clear.
your time is not a resource to be claimed.
you open your mouth to soften it anyway. βi donβt mind helping if itβs simpleββ
kita shakes his head once, just enough.
βitβs not your responsibility,β he says.
the twins go quiet.
aran watches the exchange carefully.
sunaβs gaze flicks between you and kita with quiet understanding.
atsumu grumbles but nods reluctantly. βfine.β
osamu nudges him. βsheβd tell ya to stop spending like an idiot anyway.β
βi do notββ
βyou absolutely do,β suna says.
you laugh again, tension dissolving.
aran shifts the conversation gently back to you. βwhat made you get into finance?β
the question is thoughtful, not teasing.
you pause, thinking about it genuinely. βstability,β you admit. βi like systems that make sense. i like fixing inefficiencies.β
suna raises a brow. βyou married a farmer.β
you blink, then smile faintly. βheβs very efficient.β
all eyes go to kita.
he feels the heat rise again but does not break composure.
atsumu tilts his head slowly. βso howβd ya meet then?β
βoh,β you say easily, like youβre clarifying something mundane. βit was arranged, actually.β
the word drops into the booth and just⦠sits there.
osamu stops mid-chew. atsumu blinks twice. suna lowers his drink slowly, like he needs a second to process it. even aranβs easy composure sharpens by a degree.
ββ¦arranged,β atsumu repeats carefully.
βyes,β you nod, still completely at ease. βour families knew each other. it made sense.β
osamu turns his head toward kita with deliberate slowness. βyou skipped that detail.β
βit wasnβt necessary,β kita replies evenly.
suna studies both of you now, his expression thoughtful rather than teasing. βso you didnβt date first.β
βno,β you answer simply.
atsumu gestures vaguely between you and kita. βthen why do ya look like that?β
you tilt your head. βlike what?β
βlike that,β he insists, waving a hand in frustration. βyouβre sitting glued to him. you just unwrapped his food. you offered to manage samuβs finances like youβre already part of this mess.β
osamu smirks at that.
you glance down as if noticing your position for the first time. your thigh is still firmly against kitaβs. your shoulder rests lightly against his arm. you had not corrected it. you had not pulled away.
βitβs a small booth,β you reply calmly.
suna leans back slightly, watching you more closely now. βthatβs not what he means.β
aran speaks this time, his tone measured. βyou donβt seem distant.β
you blink once, genuinely confused. βwe live together.β
βthatβs not the same thing,β osamu says.
atsumu leans forward again, elbows on the table. βarranged usually means awkward. you two arenβt awkward.β
kita remains steady beside you, but he is acutely aware of the way your fingers brush lightly against his when you shift. neither of you move away.
βitβs still a marriage,β he says calmly.
βyes,β you add, nodding as if that should resolve it. βit is.β
sunaβs eyes narrow slightly, amused. βthatβs not how most people say that.β
βhow are we supposed to say it?β you ask, genuinely curious rather than defensive.
osamu shakes his head slowly, studying you both. βlike youβre tolerating each other.β
you laugh softly. βweβre not.β
thereβs no hesitation in it. no caveat.
just truth.
atsumu looks back at kita like heβs trying to decode him. βyou didnβt tell us it was arranged becauseβ¦?β
βit didnβt change anything,β kita answers.
that shuts them up for a second.
because he means it.
aranβs gaze flicks between the two of you again. he sees the way kitaβs posture subtly angles toward you, how his hand rests close enough to yours that even the slightest shift would link your fingers. he sees the way you instinctively adjust his bandage earlier without thinking, the way you look at him before answering certain questions.
βyou sure youβre okay with it?β atsumu asks you again, softer this time.
βyes,β you answer without missing a beat.
there is no embarrassment in your voice. no regret. just calm certainty.
suna hums quietly. βyou donβt look like someone stuck in something.β
βiβm not,β you reply.
kita doesnβt look at you when you say it.
he doesnβt trust himself to.
atsumu exhales dramatically and points at kita. βyou better treat her right.β
βi do,β kita answers simply.
βi mean it,β atsumu presses.
βi know,β kita replies.
thereβs no ego in it. no bravado. just steadiness.
osamu nods once in approval. βgood.β
suna smirks faintly. βotherwise weβll come collect.β
aranβs smile is smaller, but warmer. βhe knows.β
you look between them, faintly amused but also faintly flustered now that the spotlight has shifted so intensely onto your marriage.
the energy loosens again after that, conversation sliding back into food and stories and overlapping banter, but something has changed in the air. they are no longer evaluating the arrangement. they are evaluating the way you look at each other.
and none of them are convinced itβs just practical.
time stretches without anyone noticing it.
what begins as light teasing over food turns into overlapping stories, then into louder laughter, then into the kind of comfortable chaos that only exists between people who have known each other for years. plates are cleared and replaced with refills. someone orders more tea. at some point osamu disappears into the back and returns with something βnot on the menu yetβ that he insists you try because βyouβve got good taste.β
you do.
you tell him so.
he grins like heβs just won an award.
atsumu immediately slams his palms on the table. βunbelievable. i break my back traininβ every day and he gets praise for rice.β
βitβs good rice,β you say seriously.
βrice!β atsumu throws his hands up. βiβm an olympic-level athlete!β
suna, deadpan, doesnβt even look up from his drink, handle vaguley gesturing to aran. βwe're also olympic-level athletes.β
βshut up.β
aran laughs under his breath and leans back, arms folding loosely. βyou want her to compliment your vertical or something?β
he launches into it another story before anyone can stop him.
βyou shouldβve seen this one match against schweidenββ heβs already half-standing, gesturing wildly with his chopsticks. βsetter on the other side thought he could read me. thought he had me figured out. so i fake left, send it right, triple block split like moses parting the seaββ
βtriple block didnβt split,β suna interrupts mildly. βyou hit off the hands.β
βit split in spirit.β
osamu snorts.
atsumu ignores him, fully committed now. βanyway, i score the point, crowd goes insane, commentators screaming my name, and afterward the other setter just looks at me like i ruined his life.β
youβre laughing now, hand half-covering your mouth, shoulders shaking lightly. the image of atsumu dramatically reenacting his own genius, complete with sound effects, is absurd and infectious.
kita watches you more than he watches atsumu.
he watches the way your eyes brighten when you laugh. the way you lean slightly forward when someone tells a story. the way you ask quiet, thoughtful follow-up questions that make even suna talk more than usual. he notes how easily you adjust when osamu hands you something new to taste, how naturally you thank him, how you nod along when aran explains a defensive rotation, even though youβve admitted this is the first time youβve ever really listened to volleyball talk beyond casual headlines.
you are trying.
you donβt have to.
you are.
and it makes something inside him ache in a way that is not painful but is far too full.
at some point the stories blur into one another. aran takes his turn recounting a match that went into five sets, his tone steadier but no less vivid. suna adds quiet commentary that undercuts the dramatics just enough to make everyone laugh again. even osamu joins in from behind the counter, shouting corrections over his shoulder when atsumu exaggerates.
hours pass.
no one tracks them.
the light outside the restaurant windows deepens from late afternoon gold to the softer, dusky blue of early evening. someone checks a phone and curses about the time. another orders one last round of tea.
you donβt notice how tired you are until you yawn.
it sneaks up on you, small at first, then wide enough that you have to blink your eyes clear afterward. you immediately straighten, embarrassed. βsorry.β
βyouβre fine,β aran says easily.
kita has already noticed.
he noticed before the yawn, actually. the way your laughter softened just a little. the way your posture shifted closer to him without thinking, your thigh pressed more firmly against his, your shoulder resting comfortably along his arm.
he feels it every time you shift.
he pretends he doesnβt.
atsumu squints at the window. βwait. what time is it?β
osamu checks the clock on the wall and whistles. βyou idiots have been here for hours.β
βthatβs your fault,β atsumu fires back. βyou kept bringing food.β
βyou kept eating it.β
you laugh again, but itβs softer this time.
kita looks at you fully now. your eyes are a little glassy with fatigue. thereβs a faint crease between your brows that appears when youβre trying to stay alert longer than you should.
he stands.
βwe should get going,β he says calmly. βitβs a long drive back.β
atsumu immediately groans. βalready?β
βyouβve had her hostage all evening,β kita replies evenly.
sunaβs mouth twitches. βyou sound whipped.β
atsumu perks up instantly. βoh, he is. look at him. watching her yawn like it personally offended him.β
kita gives them a flat look.
internally, he is insufferably pleased.
if caring about whether youβre tired makes him whipped, he does not see the issue.
osamu laughs. βheβs not denying it.β
you glance between them, cheeks warming faintly. βyouβre all terrible.β
βand you love us already,β atsumu shoots back.
you hesitate only a fraction of a second before smiling. βyouβre not wrong.β
that earns a collective cheer.
the goodbyes take longer than they should. atsumu insists you start watching their games properly now that youβve met them. suna tells you which team highlights are actually worth your time. aran quietly adds that heβll send you the schedule so you donβt have to rely on atsumuβs chaotic reminders.
you promise.
you mean it.
osamu leans across the counter and reminds you about his finances with a grin thatβs only half-joking. you nod seriously and tell him to email you everything so you can look it over properly. he preens like heβs just secured a personal contract.
atsumu tries to sneak his name back into the conversation and is immediately shut down by everyone at once.
it is loud.
it is warm.
it is comfortable.
when you and kita finally step toward the door, the twins call after him.
βoi, kita!β
you both turn.
at the same time.
thereβs no delay. no second thought. just instinct.
atsumu opens his mouth to say something elseβprobably another threat about treating you wellβbut aran isnβt looking at him. heβs looking at you.
really looking.
and you realize.
you responded to βkita.β
not as a title. not as a correction.
as yours.
heat rushes up your neck before you can stop it.
aranβs mouth curves slowly, knowingly.
he doesnβt say anything.
he doesnβt have to.
you look away first.
kita doesnβt miss it.
the drive home is quieter.
he insists on driving this time.
you donβt argue.
the road stretches long and dark in front of them, headlights carving pale tunnels through open farmland. the hum of the engine is steady. the night air slipping in through the cracked window is cool.
you last fifteen minutes.
maybe twenty.
he notices the moment your head tips slightly toward him. the way you blink slower between stretches of silence. the way your body shifts closer unconsciously.
when your temple brushes his shoulder, he stills.
when you donβt pull away, he lets himself breathe again.
carefully.
slowly.
your weight settles against him fully after that, head resting against his shoulder, one hand loosely curled in your lap. the warmth of you seeps through his shirt, through skin, through bone.
he keeps his injured hand steady on the wheel.
he does not move more than necessary.
he drives like the road itself might disappear if he disturbs this.
the night outside feels vast and endless.
inside the truck, it feels small.
intimate.
he glances down at you once when heβs sure youβre fully asleep.
your mouth is parted slightly. your lashes rest softly against your cheeks. thereβs no tension in your face.
you look safe.
you look like you belong here.
something in his chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with longing and everything to do with certainty.
he does not need the word arranged anymore.
he does not need explanation.
you responded to his name without thinking.
you leaned into him without hesitation.
you promised to watch his friendsβ games.
you fell asleep against his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.
he keeps driving.
steady.
careful.
maybe even a bit slower. so as not to disturb your sleep with the bumping ride on the road, not because he wants to prolong the drive back. at least that's what he tells himself.
and for the first time, the future does not feel like something abstract.
it feels like the weight of you resting quietly against him while the road carries you both home.
not the twins and suna immediately competing for your attention and compliments.... also, what ya think about the first glimpse of kita pov?? boy is down BAD and has a whole shrine in his head built for you
practice had run long, the kind of late afternoon where the sky outside the gym windows had already started melting into pink and gold, and the air inside still carried the heavy scent of sweat and floor polish. oikawa was halfway through complaining about something dramatic and self-inflicted while slinging his bag over his shoulder, and iwaizumi was only half-listening, rolling his eyes the way he always did as they pushed through the double doors and into the cooling evening air.
thatβs when they saw you.
you were standing just off the walkway, fingers curled tightly around a pink envelope that looked almost offensively delicate against the concrete and chain-link backdrop of the school grounds. you werenβt looking at either of them yet, just staring down at the paper like you were trying to gather enough courage from it to survive the next thirty seconds.
oikawa noticed first. of course he did.
his stride slowed, a familiar glint sliding into his eyes as he leaned closer to iwaizumi with a low hum. βah,β he murmured, smoothing his hair back instinctively, βiwa-chan, observe. i am about to be adored.β
iwaizumi snorted, already bracing for the inevitable. it wasnβt unusual. girls lingered. they waited. they giggled. and it was almost always for oikawa. iwaizumi had long since grown used to stepping aside, crossing his arms, staring at the sky while oikawa soaked up the attention.
so when you finally looked up and began walking toward them, clutching that pink envelope like it might burn through your hands, neither of them questioned who it was meant for.
oikawaβs smile turned syrupy sweet. he stepped slightly ahead, tilting his head with that practiced charm. βmy, my,β he cooed, tapping his cheek thoughtfully. βis that for me, cutie?β
you stopped in front of them.
looked at him.
and your face twisted in genuine, unfiltered disgust.
βew,β you said, without hesitation. βno.β
iwaizumi choked.
actually choked.
it burst out of him before he could stop it, a sharp, startled snort that he immediately tried to smother with his hand. oikawa froze mid-pose, his smile faltering just slightly as he blinked at you.
βeh?β he laughed weakly. βno?β
you shifted your weight, cheeks already warming, and turnedβ not to oikawaβ but to iwaizumi.
βitβs for iwaizumi,β you said, softer now, holding the envelope out toward him with both hands like it was something fragile. βiβve liked you for a while.β
everything went quiet.
even the distant sounds of the sports field seemed to dull at the edges.
iwaizumi didnβt move.
didnβt blink.
didnβt breathe.
his brain, which had been perfectly functional seconds ago, simply⦠shut down.
for him?
the question echoed so loudly in his head it drowned out everything else. pretty girls didnβt walk up with pink envelopes for him. they didnβt stand there looking nervous and hopeful and brave for him. he was the loud one. the blunt one. the one who scolded and shoved and rolled his eyes.
oikawa got the confessions.
he got the stares. he got chosen.
iwaizumi just stood there, staring at you like heβd forgotten how to operate his own body.
and he said nothing.
your grip faltered slightly at the silence. it stretched too long, thick and suffocating, and something in your expression shifted β just a little.
still nothing.
no reach for the envelope.
no nod.
no rejection.
just stunned, wide-eyed stillness.
you let out a soft, nervous laugh that didnβt quite reach your eyes as your arm slowly began to lower. βitβs okay, i know you donβt know me that well. i justβ¦ thought iβd try. no worries if youβre not interested.β
you took half a step back.
and iwaizumi still hadnβt moved.
oikawaβs eyes snapped between the two of you, horror dawning as he watched you misread the situation entirely. without warning, he lunged forward and snatched the envelope right out of your hand.
βheβs not rejecting you,β oikawa declared, exasperated, before whirling around and smacking the back of iwaizumiβs headβ hard.
the sound was loud enough to echo slightly.
βOWβ what the hell?!β iwaizumi barked, finally jolting back to life.
βuse your brain!β oikawa hissed, shoving the pink envelope into his hands. βshe chose you, idiot!β
iwaizumi stared down at the paper now resting against his palms like it might disintegrate if he squeezed too tightly. his ears were turning red. his cheeks were following fast behind.
βsheββ he swallowed. βshe choseβ¦ me?β
βyes,β you said, quieter now, but still steady. βi did. i've liked you for awhile.β
for a split second it looked like he might short-circuit again.
oikawa didnβt hesitate. he smacked him a second time.
βow!β
βsay something!β oikawa stage-whisperedβ loudly. very loudly. loud enough that you definitely heard. βiwa-chan, walk her home!β
iwaizumiβs face went completely crimson.
oikawa suddenly straightened, clapping his hands together with exaggerated cheer. βwell! i suppose i shall graciously excuse myself from this tender moment,β he announced dramatically, already stepping backward. βiwa-chan, donβt mess this up! bye!β
and just like that, he was gone.
leaving you standing there.
leaving iwaizumi holding the envelope like it was the most important thing heβd ever been handed.
the silence this time wasnβt suffocating.
it was just⦠fragile.
iwaizumi rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, eyes flicking anywhere but your face before finally landing there again. up close, he could see how tightly you were holding yourself together, how your fingers were twisting nervously into the strap of your bag.
βiβm notβ¦β he started, then stopped, shaking his head. βiβm not rejecting you.β
you blinked.
his grip tightened slightly around the envelope, but he still didnβt open it. didnβt need to. just the fact that youβd written it for him was enough to make his heart pound in a way he wasnβt used to.
βi just didnβt thinkβ¦β he trailed off, jaw flexing. βi didnβt think anyone wouldββ
he stopped again, frustrated with himself.
then he inhaled, steadying.
βcan i walk you home?β he asked finally, the words stumbling out rough and unpolished but completely sincere.
your eyes widened slightly before softening, a shy smile spreading across your face that made his stomach flip in a way that felt unfair.
βyeah,β you said. βiβd like that.β
iwaizumi nodded once, firmly this time, like heβd just made up his mind about something important. he adjusted the strap of his bag, still holding the pink envelope carefully in one hand as he stepped closer to your side.
for once, he wasnβt the one standing off to the side.
for once, someone had walked up and chosen him.
and as the two of you started down the path together, the sunset casting long shadows across the pavement, he felt something settle in his chestβ warm and steady and entirely new.
he didnβt even realize he was smiling until you glanced up at him and smiled back.
the apartment smells like stale alcohol and something faintly sour, like the air never properly reset after last night. the curtains are half-drawn, and thin bands of early morning sunlight stretch across the hardwood floors in pale gold strips that make everything look too exposed, too honest. the coffee table is cluttered with a tipped-over glass, a bottle cap near the edge, and the faint ring of condensation dried into the wood. one of sunaβs sneakers lies on its side near the couch, the other still by the door where he must have kicked it off before collapsing.
he is still there, sprawled across the couch in yesterdayβs clothes, one arm hanging off the edge and his head tilted back at an uncomfortable angle. his breathing is heavy, uneven, carrying the sharp scent of liquor even from across the room. his phone rests face-down on the floor near his hand, as if it slipped out mid-rant.
you stand in the bedroom doorway for a long moment before moving, taking in the apartment as if youβre already seeing it as somewhere you no longer belong.
the bedroom feels different this morning. quieter. the bed unmade, one pillow slightly indented where you lay awake long after he finally passed out on the couch. you had listened to the silence between his snores and replayed every word he said, not just at the backyard party but later, when his teammates half-carried him to your doorstep with embarrassed apologies and tight smiles. you can still hear the way he laughed when you helped him to the couch, the way he kept circling back to it, insisting it wasnβt that serious, that you were dramatic, that you were acting like heβd cheated when all he did was βtalk.β
you remember standing in the kitchen doorway while he slurred through it again, describing her bending over at practice like it was still funny, like you werenβt standing there listening to the way he remembered it in detail. you remember the way he waved his hand lazily when you told him to stop, the way he called you a bitch under his breath as if it were an afterthought. not shouted. not even angry. just careless.
that part had hurt worse.
you donβt cry this morning.
you open the dresser and begin folding your clothes, stacking them into the open suitcase on the bed with deliberate movements. your hands are steady, almost detached, and that steadiness unsettles you because it means this isnβt impulsive. this isnβt heat-of-the-moment anger. itβs something colder and more resolved.
the zipper of the suitcase scrapes softly as you drag it open wider. you fold your favorite sweater last, smoothing the fabric once before placing it inside. the sound of your movements is quiet but consistent, the soft thud of folded denim, the faint click of hangers sliding free from the closet rod. each empty space in the closet becomes more obvious as you work, the gaps where your jackets used to hang widening until they look intentional.
out in the living room, suna shifts and groans, the sound low and irritated. you pause for half a second but donβt stop. the bathroom light flickers on as he stumbles upright, muttering something under his breath about his head.
βyou still mad?β he calls, voice rough and thick with sleep.
you donβt answer.
he doesnβt push for it. he exhales sharply, as if your silence is just another inconvenience in a long list of mild annoyances. βguess so,β he mutters to himself, shuffling toward the bathroom. the door swings open and shuts behind him without being fully closed, and you hear the faucet run, the splash of water hitting the sink too hard.
you close another drawer.
you donβt rush. you donβt hesitate either.
the bathroom grows quieter after the initial splash of water, and then thereβs a small pause that stretches longer than it should. you can almost picture it: him leaning over the sink, blinking at his reflection, reaching automatically for the toothbrush holder without looking.
the silence deepens.
a cabinet creaks open.
another beat.
the drawer slides.
a sharper sound follows, something being set down harder than necessary.
you continue folding your clothes.
a few seconds later, his footsteps move down the hallway slower than before. he appears in the bedroom doorway, toothbrush still in his hand, eyes clearer now and scanning the room in a way they hadnβt earlier.
βwhereβs your stuff?β he asks, not yet accusatory, just confused.
you donβt look at him. you zip the suitcase halfway and reach for your duffel bag on the chair. βpacked.β
he steps into the room, glancing back toward the bathroom like heβs replaying what he saw. βwhy?β
you straighten up and finally meet his gaze. βiβm leaving.β
he stares at you for a moment, the words settling in layers rather than all at once. then he scoffs, the sound automatic. βover last night?β
you donβt flinch. βyes.β
βitβs not that deep,β he says, rubbing a hand over his face. βyouβre acting like i slept with her.β
βno,β you reply evenly, βiβm acting like you talked about wanting to.β
he rolls his eyes, leaning against the dresser like heβs settling into an argument he expects to win. βit was a stupid hall pass conversation. you literally did the same thing.β
you let out a short breath that isnβt quite a laugh. βi named a celebrity i will never meet. you described your team manager. someone you see every day. someone you clearly pay attention to.β
he shrugs. βso? itβs just talk.β
βyou remember the way she bent over,β you say quietly. βthatβs not just talk.β
his jaw tightens slightly. βyouβre twisting it.β
βam i?β you ask, your voice still calm but edged now. βbecause when you came home blackout drunk, you kept going. you kept defending it. you kept telling me i was overreacting. you called me a bitch for being upset.β
he looks away briefly, irritation flickering across his face. βi was drunk.β
βyou were honest,β you correct.
that makes him look back at you.
for a moment, something unsettled moves behind his eyes, but itβs quickly covered by that familiar lazy indifference. βyouβre blowing this up,β he says. βitβs not like iβm gonna actually do anything.β
you lift the suitcase off the bed and set it on the floor near the door. βthatβs not the point.β
βthen what is?β he asks, frustration creeping in.
βthe point,β you say, steady and unwavering, βis that you thought it was okay to talk about another woman like that while i was sitting right next to you. and you think i should just laugh.β
he exhales sharply. βit was a joke.β
βno,β you say again, firmer this time. βit wasnβt.β
your phone buzzes on the nightstand, and you glance at the screen. outside. you type back a quick reply and slide it into your pocket.
he notices the suitcase by the door now. really notices it. the duffel bag too. the space in the closet behind you. the absence in the bathroom finally clicking into place.
βyouβre not seriously leaving,β he says, but thereβs less confidence in it now.
you walk past him toward the entryway. βi am.β
βfor how long?β
you pause long enough to pull your keyring from your bag. βpermanently.β
he laughs once, but it sounds thin. βyouβll cool off.β
you slide the house key off the ring, feeling the small metal piece separate from the others, and toss it toward him. he catches it automatically, eyes dropping to the key resting in his palm.
thatβs when it shifts.
because keys arenβt symbolic unless you mean it.
and you mean it.
βdonβt be dramatic,β he says, but the words lack their earlier bite.
βiβm not,β you reply.
you lift the suitcase and open the door. he follows you into the hallway, barefoot and unsteady but fully awake now.
βcome on,β he says, lowering his voice as if reason will work better in a quieter tone. βwe can talk about this.β
βwe did talk,β you answer. βyou just didnβt listen.β
the elevator ride down is heavy with unsaid things. he stands beside you but doesnβt reach out, doesnβt touch you, as if some part of him senses that contact would be rejected.
outside, your friend steps out of her car immediately, helping you with the suitcase without hesitation. she doesnβt look at him.
he stands a few feet away, arms crossing again, slipping back into the posture that feels safest to him. βyouβre really doing this,β he says.
βyes.β
βover a joke.β
you look at him one last time. βit wasnβt the joke. it was that you meant it.β
his expression hardens. and because he doesnβt know how to sit in the discomfort of being wrong, because pride is easier than accountability, he reaches for something sharper.
βwhatever,β he says. βas if i wonβt find a replacement. youβre not that special.β
it lands, but it doesnβt change your direction.
you get into the passenger seat.
the door shuts firmly.
your friend pulls away without looking back.
through the window, you see him standing there in the parking lot, key still clutched in his hand, staring at the space where your car used to be.
you donβt cry.
your jaw is tight, your chest heavy, your hands clenched in your lap as the apartment complex disappears behind you.
you stare out the window at the passing buildings, the sunlight flashing across the glass, and let the anger settle into something steadier.
the interrogation room smells faintly of burnt coffee and something metallic, like old air that has cycled through too many fluorescent-lit hours. bokuto sits at the table with his hands folded loosely in front of him, wrists still faintly indented from where they had secured him earlier, not aggressively, not violently, just procedurally. the imprint of it remains anyway. a reminder. a boundary crossed.
the overhead light hums. it is the loudest thing in the room.
across from him, a lawyer speaks in measured tones, explaining phrases like βunlawful confinementβ and βmedical emergency resulting from negligenceβ and βintent versus impact.β the words move through the air and into bokutoβs ears and out the other side without ever settling anywhere useful. he nods when it feels appropriate. he answers when directly asked. he hears himself say things like, βit was a stupid decision,β and βi left the apartment,β and βi didnβt unlock it before i went,β and every time he hears it phrased that way, stripped of context, stripped of laughter, stripped of intention, it sounds exactly as bad as it was.
there is no defensiveness in him. there hasnβt been for hours.
time stopped being linear somewhere between the moment he saw you on the floor and the moment they guided him down the hallway. since then it has stretched, folded, blurred. he doesnβt know how long he has been sitting here. an hour. three. ten. the clock on the wall ticks with a sterile patience that feels almost cruel.
he can still see you on the stretcher.
he can still see the oxygen mask fogging faintly with each shallow breath. the way your hands trembled even when you were unconscious, as if your body hadnβt gotten the message that it was safe. the way you didnβt look at him.
that part wonβt leave him.
not the screaming.
not the words.
the absence.
he replays it anyway.
the moment you stepped into the closet. the hesitation that was so small he didnβt think to question it. the way the door felt solid under his hand when he shut it. the click of the lock engaging. he remembers the split second after, when he expected you to laugh or sigh or knock lightly and say, βvery funny,β in that dry tone you used when he teased you.
instead, there had been confusion. then tension. then that change in your voice.
he hadnβt known a voice could break like that without physically shattering something.
he squeezes his eyes shut briefly, but it doesnβt stop the sound from surfacing in his head.
βboβ pleaseβ donβt leave meββ
he had left.
he presses his palms harder into the table, grounding himself in the cool surface. the lawyer across from him pauses mid-sentence, perhaps mistaking the motion for agitation, but bokuto doesnβt speak. he doesnβt argue. he doesnβt defend.
he understands.
he understands now that he had known there was something there. some history. some weight in the way you avoided certain spaces, certain doors. he had heard you say once, casually, βi donβt like closets,β and he had accepted it the way people accept mild quirks. he had even told naoya, in that soft defensive tone, βitβs from childhood stuff. trauma, you know?β as if that word were a vague umbrella, as if it were something abstract and manageable.
he had never asked what it meant.
he had never asked what βtraumaβ looked like for you when you were small.
he had never pictured a door that didnβt open.
an officer shifts near the wall. the scrape of his shoe against the floor makes bokutoβs shoulders tense involuntarily.
βmr. bokuto,β the officer says evenly, βwalk us through the timeline again.β
he does.
he does not soften it. he does not frame it as a joke. he does not say naoya convinced him. he says, βi locked the door. i left. i knew she was inside.β
each sentence feels like carving something into his own skin.
eventually, after what feels like an eternity of sterile questions and paperwork sliding across the table, the door opens. a different officer steps inside, exchanges a quiet look with the first, and says, almost casually, βyouβre free to go.β
the words take a moment to register.
bokuto blinks, as if surfacing from underwater. βfree?β
the officer gives him a long look, one that carries no warmth. βyouβre one lucky son of a bitch. we had enough to move forward. the victim declined to press charges.β
victim.
the word lands heavily, familiar now.
for a fraction of a secondβone fragile, dangerous secondβsomething like hope flares in his chest. you declined to press charges. you chose not to destroy his career, not to let this follow him into headlines and courtrooms and contracts. maybe that means you understand. maybe that meansβ
βdonβt get ahead of yourself,β another officer says from the doorway. his tone is flat, almost bored. βshe dropped criminal charges. that keeps you out of jail and off a record. sheβs filing for a restraining order.β
the hope extinguishes so fast it feels physical.
restraining order.
the phrase doesnβt echo. it doesnβt need to. it settles immediately, heavy and final.
you did not protect him because you forgave him.
you protected him because you do not want him near you.
he nods once. there is nothing to argue. nothing to say.
they remove the temporary wrist restraints fully now, paperwork exchanged, signatures completed. an officer gestures toward the exit. βyouβll receive formal notice within the next forty-eight hours. you are not to approach her residence, workplace, or hospital room.β
hospital.
he swallows.
he steps out into the waiting area, the lighting somehow harsher out here. plastic chairs line the wall. a vending machine hums in the corner. for a moment he stands there, unsure what to do with himself, unsure what it means to walk out of here when you are still lying in a hospital bed.
and then he sees him.
kuroo is sitting near the far wall, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely together. he looks like he hasnβt moved in a while. when he lifts his head and sees bokuto, there is no shock, no visible anger, no immediate reaction at all. just a long, assessing look.
bokuto walks toward him.
they donβt speak.
they leave the station together, the automatic doors sliding open with a mechanical sigh. night air hits bokutoβs face, cool and sharp, carrying the faint scent of asphalt and distant exhaust. the world outside looks offensively normal. cars pass. a streetlight flickers. somewhere, someone laughs.
kuroo unlocks his car. the beep of it sounds too loud.
they get in.
the engine starts. the dashboard glows softly. neither of them moves to adjust the radio.
the silence is not tense. it is heavy.
kuroo pulls out of the parking lot and onto the road. the streetlights streak faintly across the windshield. bokuto stares straight ahead, hands resting uselessly on his thighs.
minutes pass.
finally, at a red light, kuroo speaks.
his voice is calm. not raised. not sharp.
βdo you understand what you did?β
bokuto doesnβt hesitate. βyes.β
the light turns green. kuroo drives.
another stretch of silence.
βyou didnβt scare her,β kuroo continues quietly. βyou proved she wasnβt safe with you.β
the sentence lands with surgical precision.
bokutoβs throat tightens, but he does not look away from the road.
βyou donβt lock someone in the dark when you know thereβs trauma there. you donβt walk out while theyβre begging.β
there is no accusation in his tone. thatβs what makes it worse.
βyou know why the restraining order hurts more than charges?β kuroo adds after a moment.
bokuto shakes his head once.
βbecause jail means she thinks youβre dangerous to society. a restraining order means she thinks youβre dangerous to her.β
the car feels suddenly too small.
bokutoβs hands curl slightly into his sweatpants. he nods, once, a barely perceptible movement.
he does not cry.
he does not defend himself.
he just sits there, finally fully aware that there is no version of this where he is misunderstood.
sunlight filters through the hospital window in a pale, almost artificial shade of blue. it stretches across the blanket draped over your shoulder, across the thin cotton of the gown, across the sterile white wall that smells faintly of antiseptic and something sweet underneath it.
you lie on your side, facing the window.
the heart monitor beside you emits a steady, rhythmic beep. predictable. controlled. safe.
your fingers rest lightly against the blanket, tracing the weave absentmindedly. the iv tape on the back of your hand pulls slightly when you move, a small, grounding discomfort.
the hospital room is quiet now. the officers are gone. the nurse has finished adjusting the drip. the lawyerβs calm, procedural voice explaining options has faded into memory. you have already signed what needed to be signed. you have already said what needed to be said.
you declined to press charges.
you heard the officer repeat it back to you, confirming. you saw the subtle surprise in his expression when you nodded.
you did not look at bokutoβs name on the paperwork longer than necessary.
dropping charges had not been forgiveness.
it had been mercy.
you know what the headlines would have done to him. you know what a court case would have done to his career. you know he did not lock you in that closet with the intention of recreating your childhood.
you also know intention does not matter to your nervous system.
the first time a nurse mentioned his name softly, asking if you would like him informed of your condition, your heart rate spiked so violently the monitor alarmed. you hadnβt meant to react. you hadnβt even consciously processed the sound of his name. but your body had.
the nurse had looked at you carefully after that.
you had whispered, βno.β
it had taken years to stop flinching at sudden darkness. years to sleep without the light on. years to walk past narrow doors without your throat tightening. years of therapy sessions where you learned to breathe in fours, to name five things you could see, to remind yourself that you were not small anymore and no one was coming to shove you somewhere you couldnβt escape.
you had built a life that did not revolve around survival.
and in one night, one locked door, one fading set of footsteps, your body had remembered everything.
not in images. not in clear memories. just in sensation.
the scrape of wood under your nails.
the way your lungs stopped cooperating.
the certainty, deep and absolute, that you had been left.
you close your eyes briefly, feeling the faint warmth of sunlight on your eyelids.
you love him.
that is the most painful truth in the room.
you love the way he laughs too loud at his own jokes. you love the way he checks if youβve eaten when he knows youβre stressed. you love the warmth he carries into a space simply by standing in it.
but when you imagine him near you now, your chest tightens involuntarily. your breath shortens. your muscles brace.
not because you think he will hurt you again.
because your body does not know the difference.
the restraining order had been explained to you carefully. a legal boundary. a measure of protection. temporary, renewable if needed.
you signed it with steady hands.
not out of anger.
out of fear.
fear that if he stood at the foot of this bed and said your name softly, the heart monitor would spike again. fear that if he reached for your hand, you would recoil without meaning to. fear that the sound of a door closing in the apartment, even gently, would send you spiraling back into that airless dark.
you cannot rebuild if you are constantly bracing.
outside the window, the sky is an impossible blue. clear. wide. unlocked.
you stare at it for a long time.
you remember sitting in a therapistβs office years ago, knees tucked under you, explaining in halting words that you hated closets, that you hated doors without light switches inside, that sometimes when someone closed a door too quickly your vision would narrow and your ears would ring.
you remember the therapist saying gently, βyour body learned that dark meant danger.β
you had worked so hard to teach it otherwise.
now, lying in a hospital bed with the steady beep of machinery beside you, you feel like you are eight again, small and folded into yourself, listening to footsteps fade.
you turn your face slightly into the pillow.
the sunlight still reaches you.
but it does not feel warm yet.
and for the first time in years, the thought creeps in, quiet and terrifying:
wooo yall remember when i posted regularly??? me too. me fucking too. i think part of the reason i struggled writing is because i've been changing the way i write a bit? i used to do like... lots of short sentences and excessive micro paragraphs??? but lately thats been driving me INSANE, like i feel it doesn't flow as much?? so i've been trying to write with like longer sentences and fuller paragraphs and boy its a lot harder. anyways what ya'll think of the newer part???
also, not to be a bitter hag on the dash, but what the fuck is THIS? βMenthol inspiredβ some bozo fed Menthol into an LLM to make a chat bot - are u fucking kidding me i donβt even support AI donβt use my shit like this
iβm not sure how one goes about getting a character ai bot removed but at the least please get the word out there that someone ripped @cyancherub and my fic for an ai chatbot without our consent (bc we would never consent to bullshit like this) AND IT MAKES ME REALLY DISAPPOINTED TO SEE OTHER WRITERS PROMOTING THIS KIND OF SHIT!!!
the clinic smells faintly like disinfectant and something powdery sweet, the kind of scent that settles into tile and clean countertops and never quite leaves. itβs quiet when you step inside, the bell above the door chiming softly to announce you, and for a moment you just stand there, taking in the warm light and the low hum of the air conditioner. mid-afternoon lull. no barking. no phones ringing. just stillness.
you spot him through the open doorway of one of the exam rooms, sleeves pushed up over his forearms, dark scrubs slightly wrinkled from a long morning. he looks up at the sound of your footsteps, and the way his expression softens when he sees you is immediate, instinctive, like it doesnβt require thought.
βhey,β he says, that quiet warmth already in his voice. βwhatβre you doing here?β
you lift the paper bag in your hand with a small, triumphant smile. βbirthday lunch delivery.β
his brows rise just slightly. βi thought we were doing dinner.β
βwe are. this is just a preview.β
he huffs a quiet laugh and steps closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead before taking the bag from you. βyou didnβt have to.β
βi know.β
you eat together in the small back office, knees brushing under the table, the two of you sharing sandwiches and a single cupcake you insist counts as reasonable. he listens while you talk about your morning, nodding thoughtfully, asking small questions, his hand resting loosely on your thigh the entire time as if he forgot it was there and yet never intended to move it.
youβre halfway through your food when you hear a car pull up too fast outside, gravel shifting sharply under tires. you glance toward the front of the clinic, confused.
βdoes someone have an appointment?β you ask.
hirugami frowns faintly. βnot at this hour.β
a knock sounds against the front door. not tentative. not casual. sharp and hurried.
you and he exchange a look.
βthatβs weird,β you murmur. βitβs open.β
he stands first, already moving with that quiet purpose he always has when something feels off, and you follow close behind him toward the entrance just in time to see a car speeding down the street.
he crouches without hesitation and lifts the lid slowly, carefully, like heβs bracing himself for what he might find. inside is a small, trembling puppy, tiny body curled tight into the corner of the box, round eyes wide and confused.
your chest tightens instantly. βare you serious?β
the puppy lets out a thin whimper.
anger blooms hot and fast in your ribs. βthey justβ dumped him?β
hirugamiβs shoulders fall in that familiar, tired way, the one that tells you this isnβt new. βit happens,β he says quietly. βmore than youβd think.β
βthatβs disgusting.β
βyeah,β he agrees, voice steady but heavy.
he lifts the puppy gently against his chest, one hand supporting its small body as it immediately burrows into the fabric of his scrubs, tiny paws gripping as if heβs already chosen safety. hirugamiβs voice drops into that soft, soothing register youβve heard him use with anxious animals before.
βitβs okay,β he murmurs. βyouβre alright.β
you follow him into an exam room, watching as he sets the puppy on the table and begins checking it over with careful, practiced hands. the puppy squirms and whines faintly when he lifts its ears to look inside, but its tail begins to wag hesitantly the longer he talks to it, the more his fingers move slowly and deliberately over its fur.
βheart sounds good,β he says under his breath. βlungs are clear.β
when he leans in closer to check its ears, the puppy suddenly stretches forward and licks his cheek.
you laugh.
hirugami pauses, startled for half a second before that small, involuntary smile breaks through. he tries to suppress it, clearing his throat as if professionalism demands it, but the warmth in his eyes gives him away.
βunsanitary,β he mutters softly.
the puppyβs tail thumps harder.
once he finishes, he nods lightly. βhealthy.β
you move back into the main area, and he pours a small bowl of food and water, crouching beside the puppy as it dives into the bowl like it hasnβt eaten properly in days. he rests one hand gently along its back while it eats, thumb moving in slow, absent strokes through its fur.
βthis is the part i hate,β he says after a moment, gaze fixed on the small body in front of him.
βthe dumping?β
he nods. βpeople think leaving them at a vet is better than a shelter. they tell themselves itβs kinder. but itβs still abandonment.β
the puppy finishes eating and immediately presses itself against his leg again, as if proximity to him is non-negotiable.
βwhat happens now?β you ask quietly.
hirugami exhales slowly. βwe call animal control. theyβll take him to intake.β
thereβs the faintest note of reluctance in his voice.
you watch the way his hand lingers in the puppyβs fur, the way his jaw tightens just slightly like heβs already trying not to get attached.
βkeep him,β you say.
hirugami looks up at you, surprised. βwhat?β
βkeep him,β you repeat, smiling softly. βheβs cute. heβs sweet. and heβs clearly decided youβre his.β
he hesitates, eyes flicking down to the puppy and then back to you. βa petβs a big responsibility,β he says gently. βitβs not something we decide just because itβs my birthday.β
βi know.β
βmy scheduleβs long. emergency calls. late nights.β
βi know.β
he studies your face carefully, the way he always does when something matters. βweβd have to plan. budget. time. make sure we can actually give him what he needs.β
you step closer and rest your hand over his where it lies against the puppyβs back. βitβs your birthday,β you say quietly. βand he showed up in a box at your door. that feelsβ¦ meant.β
as if on cue, the puppy rolls onto its back between you, tiny belly exposed, paws curled awkwardly in the air.
both of you look down at it.
then at each other.
hirugami laughs, and this time itβs fuller, brighter, the kind that lifts his entire expression.
ββ¦youβre serious,β he says.
βcompletely.β
thereβs a beat where he looks at you like heβs memorizing something.
then he stands and pulls you into a hug, arms wrapping around you firmly, chin resting at the top of your head.
βthank you,β he murmurs, voice low and sincere. βthatβsβ¦ really generous.β
you hold him back just as tightly. βhappy birthday.β
the puppy wedges itself insistently between your legs, wiggling until you both break apart to look down at it. it flops onto its back again, demanding attention with absolute confidence.
hirugami crouches immediately, giving in without resistance, scratching its belly with slow, gentle movements.
βguess weβre getting a dog,β he says quietly, glancing up at you with that soft, steady warmth thatβs always been yours.
you smile.
βguess we are.β
and suddenly the clinic doesnβt feel so quiet anymore.
the apartment smells faintly sweet, like cheap incense and takeout containers still sitting on the coffee table because neither of you feel like getting up yet.
itβs dim. just the standing lamp in the corner and the soft flicker of some stupid birthday candles you stuck into a grocery store brownie because he explicitly told you not to βdo anything dramatic.β
βi said lowkey,β he had muttered earlier, toe nudging your thigh while you sat cross-legged on the couch. βthis looks suspiciously like effort.β
you had leaned over and kissed the corner of his mouth. βitβs literally a brownie.β
βyeah, but itβs a birthday brownie,β heβd replied, eyes half-lidded and smug. βthatβs emotional manipulation.β
now heβs stretched out beside you, long legs sprawled across the couch, his head tipped back against the cushion. his hairβs messy from you running your hands through it too much, cheeks slightly pink from the slow build of the high settling into his system.
the music playing from your phone is low and warm, some lazy indie playlist you both default to when neither of you can pick something without arguing.
he takes another drag, holds it, exhales slow.
βyou know,β he says, voice softer than usual, βi kinda like this better than clubbing or whatever.β
βyou hate clubs.β
βexactly.β
you laugh, nudging his knee with yours. he catches your ankle absentmindedly, fingers warm as they curl around it. he keeps you there, thumb tracing slow circles over your skin like heβs not even thinking about it.
thereβs something about him when heβs high that makes him more tactile. less guarded. like his body forgets to pretend it doesnβt need closeness.
you lean over, press a lazy kiss to his jaw. he hums, tilts his head just enough to give you access to his neck.
βbirthday boy,β you murmur against his skin.
βdonβt call me that,β he says, but thereβs no bite to it.
you pull back just enough to see his smirk. βwhy? youβre aging.β
βrude.β
βyouβre twenty-three, makki.β
βancient.β
you laugh again, and this time he pulls you fully into him, one arm sliding around your waist, tugging you across his lap so youβre half draped over him. he smells like smoke and body wash and the fabric softener you both use.
he kisses you slow. not rushed. just lazy mouth against yours, lips warm and a little heavier than usual. his hand settles at your lower back, thumb pressing into the curve there like heβs grounding himself.
itβs soft at first. playful. a little giggly when you accidentally bump teeth.
but the high deepens. the room feels warmer. quieter.
his phone buzzes on the coffee table.
neither of you move at first.
it buzzes again.
you lean back just enough to glance at the screen.
βargentina?β you say lightly.
he lets out a soft huff through his nose. βyeah. time zones are fake.β
you reach over and grab it for him. oikawaβs name lights up the screen, followed by a dramatic string of emojis and something that looks like a selfie in a gym.
βhe looks obnoxiously happy,β you say.
βhe is obnoxiously happy,β hanamaki replies, but his voice is thinner now.
another buzz.
iwaizumi.
shorter message. probably something practical. probably already at some training facility, wearing something official with a logo stitched on the chest.
then matsukawa.
you donβt read that one out loud. you donβt need to.
hanamaki doesnβt reach for the phone. he just stares at the ceiling for a second longer than usual.
βthey couldnβt make it,β you say gently. βitβs just bad timing.β
βyeah,β he replies. βbig boy jobs and all that.β
the way he says it makes something in your chest tighten.
he shifts slightly under you, one hand sliding from your back to your thigh. not sexual. just there. heavy. present.
βoikawaβs literally pro in argentina,β he says after a moment, staring somewhere past the ceiling. βiwaβs with the national team. matsu just signed something with benefits and insurance and shit.β
he lets out a small laugh. it doesnβt reach his eyes.
βand iβmβ¦ what. employee of the month at βtemporary staffing solutionsβ?β
βmakkiββ
βno, i know, itβs whatever,β he says quickly, but his fingers tighten slightly against your thigh. βi just. i donβt know. itβs my birthday and iβm still in this stupid loop.β
his voice gets quieter.
βdeadend job. jobless. deadend job. repeat.β
you shift on his lap, sitting up a little straighter now, studying his face.
his eyes arenβt glassy from the high anymore. theyβre clearer. too clear.
βthey figured it out,β he continues, voice lower. βlike. fast. and iβm still refreshing job boards at two in the morning.β
he swallows.
βi donβt even know what iβm aiming for.β
you reach up, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone. his skin is warm under your touch.
βyouβre not behind,β you say.
βit feels like it,β he admits, and that admission is softer than anything else heβs said tonight.
he exhales slowly.
βand you have your shit together,β he adds, eyes flicking to yours for just a second. βyou have an actual job. you know what youβre doing. and i keep thinking one day youβre gonna look at me and realize iβm justβ¦ freeloading.β
your brows pull together. βwhat?β
βi donβt want to be that boyfriend,β he says quickly. βthe one who lives off you. the one you grow to resent. the one you eventually leave because youβre tired of carrying him.β
the words tumble out easier now, like the high has dissolved whatever wall he usually keeps up.
βi want a future with you,β he says, voice almost embarrassed. βlike. not just apartment and takeout and smoke sessions. i mean an actual future. married. kids. stupid minivan. white picket fence. the whole thing.β
your heart stutters.
he laughs softly at himself, rubbing the back of his neck. βand then i think, cool. canβt even keep a job for more than six months. great foundation for that.β
you cup his face with both hands this time, forcing him to look at you fully.
βhanamaki takahiro,β you say quietly.
his lips twitch despite himself.
βyou are not useless.β
he exhales through his nose.
βyou are not behind. you are not dead weight. and you are not some placeholder boyfriend until i βupgrade.ββ
his eyes soften.
βyouβre twenty-three,β you continue. βnot fifty. everyoneβs timeline is different. youβre figuring it out. thatβs not failure.β
he watches you carefully, like heβs trying to measure whether you really mean it.
βand if you need help?β you add. βweβll figure it out. together. job searches. certifications. maybe school. whatever makes sense. you donβt have to spiral alone.β
his shoulders drop just slightly.
βyouβd do that?β he asks, voice almost boyish.
βobviously.β
he studies your face for a long moment. then he leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours.
βyouβre too good to me,β he murmurs.
βdonβt get dramatic,β you whisper back.
he huffs a quiet laugh, one hand sliding back to your waist.
βiβm serious,β he says. βi just. i donβt want to lose you because i couldnβt get my shit together fast enough.β
you press a slow kiss to his mouth, cutting him off gently.
βyouβre not losing me,β you say against his lips.
the tension in his body shifts. not gone entirely, but softened. melted at the edges.
his hand drifts lower this time, resting more deliberately at your hip. his thumb presses there, slow and thoughtful.
βyou always know what to say,β he murmurs.
βi donβt,β you reply. βi just know you.β
he looks at you like that means more than it should.
the air between you thickens again. warmer. heavier.
you shift your weight fully, straddling him properly now, knees pressing into the couch on either side of his thighs. his hands slide automatically to your hips, fingers spreading wide.
βcareful,β he says softly, a hint of his usual smirk returning. βbirthday boyβs fragile.β
βyouβre not fragile.β
βemotionally? maybe.β
you lean down and kiss him again, slower this time. deeper. no giggling now. just the slow slide of your mouth against his, his fingers tightening at your hips.
his breath catches when you grind down just slightly, testing.
βdonβt start something youβre not prepared to finish,β he murmurs, voice rougher now.
you smile against his lips.
βitβs your birthday,β you whisper. βiβm being generous.β
he lets out a low laugh that turns into a soft sound when you kiss along his jaw, down to his neck.
his hands move more deliberately now, sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your ribs.
βif this is generosity,β he says quietly, eyes darker than before, βi should spiral more often.β
you pull back just enough to look at him.
βdonβt push it.β
he grins, that familiar lazy smirk settling back into place, but itβs softer now. steadier.
βcβmere,β he says, tugging you closer.
you lean in.
and the music keeps playing softly in the background, candles long blown out, the apartment warm and dim and full of the kind of quiet that doesnβt feel heavy anymore.
the house settles back into itself without ceremony.
there isnβt a clear marker for when the sharpness fades, no morning where you wake and think itβs over now, but gradually the air feels less brittle, the silence less loaded. the days resume their steady pattern, folding into one another with the same quiet predictability they had before everything tilted in the city and then righted itself again.
you donβt measure the time thatβs passed. you donβt need to. you can feel it in the way your body moves through the house without hesitation, in the way you no longer pause before speaking, in the way his presence no longer feels like something you have to consciously account for.
routine has reclaimed the space.
you wake most mornings to the cool imprint of kita's absence beside you, sheets rumpled and already long abandoned, and instead of the flicker of surprise you felt that first week, thereβs only recognition. sunrise means heβs been up for hours. sunrise means the shed door has opened and closed at least once. sunrise means the farm has already begun without you.
you lie there for a moment longer than you used to, listening to the house breathe. a distant thud from outside. the low scrape of something heavy being repositioned. once, the faint, steady whine of a tool you donβt recognize, rising and falling in controlled bursts before cutting off cleanly.
heβs been in the shed more than usual.
you notice it the way you notice most changes now: without alarm, without suspicion, simply cataloging the shift and storing it away. thereβs more sawdust clinging to him when he comes inside for coffee, fine and pale against the darker fabric of his shirt. sometimes it gathers at the crease of his rolled sleeves; once, you caught it lightly in his hair near his temple, a faint dusting that he brushed away without realizing it had been there.
the smell lingers too.
not sharp, not unpleasant β just the warm, clean scent of freshly cut wood that drifts into the hallway and settles there, subtle but persistent. it blends with coffee and soap and the faint earthiness that seems to follow him in from the fields no matter how thoroughly he washes his hands.
mornings move easily between you now.
you grind coffee beans while the kitchen is still cool, the low hum of the machine filling the space as light filters in through the window in soft, pale strips. the scent blooms quickly, curling into the open air and slipping down the hallway. sometimes you wonder if it reaches him before you do, carried on whatever breeze threads its way toward the shed.
often, a few minutes later, the screen door creaks.
boots thud lightly against the entryway tile. gravel gives way to wood.
βmorning,β he says, voice roughened slightly from the air, and you donβt even look up anymore when you slide a mug across the counter.
βmorning.β
he takes it every time.
youβve started noticing his forearms more, though you donβt let your gaze linger long enough to be obvious about it. the sleeves of his shirt are rolled almost constantly now, fabric pushed neatly past his elbows, and the skin beneath carries faint marks from work β small scratches, shallow nicks, nothing alarming. just evidence of a day spent using his hands.
when you mention, one afternoon, that heβs been in the shed a lot lately, itβs more observation than interrogation.
βbig project?β you ask while rinsing rice in the sink, watching the water cloud and clear between your fingers.
he washes his hands beside you, movements deliberate, efficient. thereβs a pause β not evasive, not defensive, just thoughtful.
βsomething like that,β he says.
you nod once.
thatβs enough.
your own days settle into their familiar shape as well, though not without small reminders of the discomfort youβve been quietly tolerating. the couch remains a compromise rather than a solution; you shift constantly while working, adjusting the angle of your laptop, tucking one leg beneath you and then stretching it out again when your knee begins to protest. your charger slips more than it should, skimming toward the edge of the coffee table when you arenβt paying attention, and you catch it at the last second often enough that itβs become reflex.
your neck tightens by midmorning most days. your lower back aches in a dull, persistent way that you press your palm into without thinking.
itβs manageable.
you tell yourself that frequently.
outside, thereβs that steady rhythm again β the low grind of something shaping wood, the occasional sharp bite of metal against grain, the solid, grounded thud of weight being set down carefully. you glance toward the window once, curiosity flickering briefly, but then an email demands your attention and the sound fades into background noise.
heβs busy.
thatβs the only thought that forms.
when he comes inside for lunch, thereβs more sawdust than usual along the line of his shoulders, and the scent of cut timber clings faintly to him as he leans over the sink. you wipe down the entryway without comment after he steps back out again, sweeping the fine dust into your palm and brushing it into the trash.
it doesnβt irritate you.
if anything, it feels like proof of movement. of something being made.
evenings return to their quiet choreography. you move around one another in the kitchen with an ease that would have startled you a month ago, shoulders brushing lightly as you reach for the same cabinet, hands passing bowls back and forth without conscious negotiation. the silence between you isnβt heavy; itβs functional. companionable.
at night, the bed feels less like a border and more like shared space.
you donβt sleep pressed against the edge anymore. you donβt measure the distance between you before closing your eyes. your body has relaxed into the mattress in ways you donβt examine too closely, and when you wake in the middle of the night and feel the faint warmth of him a little closer than before, you donβt shift away.
the days are not dramatic.
theyβre not charged.
they donβt feel like something building toward disruption.
they just move, steady and grounded, carrying both of you along in a rhythm that feels, if not permanent, at least settled.
and thatβs what makes the interruption so sharp when it finally comes.
midday settles heavy and slow across the house.
the light has shifted from soft morning gold to something brighter and flatter, pressing through the windows in wide pale bands that stretch across the living room floor and climb halfway up the wall. youβve been sitting on the couch for hours, laptop balanced awkwardly on your thighs, one leg folded beneath you and the other stretched out in a failed attempt to find an angle that doesnβt make your spine protest.
it isnβt working.
your lower back aches in that dull, persistent way that makes you shift every few minutes, searching for relief that never quite arrives. your shoulders have rounded forward; your neck cranes down toward the screen. the coffee table is too low. the cushion too soft. the charger has slipped off the edge twice already, dragging your laptop dangerously close to following it before you caught the cord in time.
you rub at the base of your spine and exhale, saving your document before pushing the laptop aside.
βfive minutes,β you mutter to yourself, flexing your fingers.
your water cup has been empty longer than you realized.
standing feels like unfolding from something cramped. your knee cracks faintly as you straighten, and you roll your shoulders back, trying to unknot the tension thatβs crept up your spine. the house is quiet in that familiar midday way β distant hum from outside, the occasional muted thud from the shed. nothing unusual.
you carry your glass into the kitchen, turning on the tap and letting cool water spill against the bottom, watching it climb steadily toward the rim.
the screen door creaks.
you donβt think anything of it at first. but then the footsteps are slower than usual. measured. almost careful.
you glance up.
kita steps into the kitchen and stops short when he sees you standing at the sink. thereβs the smallest flicker of surprise across his face β subtle, but unmistakable.
βi thought you were in the shed,β you say automatically.
βi was.β
his voice is even. too even.
thatβs when you notice the way kita is holding his right hand slightly away from his body, fingers curled inward, not fully closed but not relaxed either. his shoulders are set tighter than usual, jaw faintly clenched like heβs concentrating on something.
your gaze drops.
for a split second, your brain doesnβt register what youβre looking at.
then it does.
red.
dark and soaking through the pale dust still clinging to his skin. thick against his palm, slipping between his fingers in slow, deliberate lines before dripping once, twice, onto the tile below.
the sound it makes is quiet.
but it might as well be thunder.
βkita.β
his name leaves you sharp and immediate.
he shifts instinctively, as if to angle his body away, and that tiny movement β that attempt to minimize it β is what does it.
you step forward and smack his shoulder.
βare you kidding me?β the words come out before you can soften them. βyou were going to justβ what? not tell me?β
βitβs fine,β kita says, and thatβs when you see how much blood is actually there.
fine does not soak through skin like that.
you set the glass down so abruptly that water sloshes over the rim and splashes across the counter. you donβt care.
your hand shoots out, fingers wrapping firmly around his wrist before he can withdraw it.
kita doesnβt resist. doesnβt even try.
you drag him toward the sink with more force than you expected yourself to use, your pulse pounding loudly in your ears.
βdonβt βitβs fineβ me,β you snap, already reaching to turn the faucet fully on. cold water rushes out in a steady stream. βwhat happened?β
βit slipped,β kita answers simply.
βwhat slipped?β
βthe saw.β
you stare at him.
βof course the saw slipped.β
you pull his hand beneath the running water, ignoring the way he inhales quietly when the cold hits the open cut. pink blooms instantly against porcelain, swirling toward the drain in diluted ribbons that feel far too vivid against the sterile white of the sink.
the wound opens more clearly under the stream.
itβs deep.
jagged along one edge where the blade must have dragged before pulling free. not gory β but not small. the skin parts enough that you can see the darker line beneath.
your stomach drops.
βwhy are you not worried about this?β you demand, trying to peel his fingers apart to see the full length of it. βthis is not a paper cut.β
kita isnβt looking at his hand.
heβs looking at you.
you feel it before you register it β the weight of his gaze fixed entirely on your face.
βi didnβt want to interrupt you,β he says quietly.
you freeze for half a second.
then your head snaps up.
βinterruptβ?β
you swallow the rest because your voice is climbing.
βkita,β you say tightly, leaning closer so you can see the cut properly, βyou are bleeding through your fingers.β
water continues to rush over his palm, thinning the blood but not stopping it. it wells again, stubborn and steady.
you grit your teeth.
βthis needs stitches.β
kita doesnβt argue.
he just stands there, letting you hold his wrist in a grip thatβs far firmer than anything youβve allowed yourself before, letting you angle his hand, examine it, assess it.
itβs the first time youβve taken control of him like this.
and kita lets you.
completely.
you reach for a towel, pressing it firmly against the wound once the water has cleared most of the blood away.
βweβre going to the clinic,β you say, already moving.
βitβs not that bad.β
you shoot kita a look that could level a building.
βget your shoes.β
thereβs no hesitation in you now. no careful negotiation. no deference.
just action.
and kita obeys without comment.
the drive to the clinic feels longer than it actually is.
youβve made it a dozen times before for routine things in the past, back before you got married and movedβ seasonal flu shots, once for a sprained ankle when you tripped over uneven gravel last spring β but today the road stretches in a way that makes your foot press harder against the accelerator without meaning to. the fields on either side blur in muted greens and late-summer golds, and the sky above feels too wide, too indifferent for the tightness that has taken up residence in your chest.
kita sits beside you with his injured hand wrapped in the kitchen towel, elbow resting lightly against the door. the fabric has darkened unevenly where the blood soaked through, not dripping anymore but still damp enough that you keep glancing over to make sure it hasnβt started again.
you tell yourself to focus on the road.
your hands are gripping the steering wheel too tightly. you force your fingers to loosen one by one.
βyou donβt have to drive like itβs an emergency,β kita says after a moment, his tone calm, almost conversational. βit's really not that bad.β
you glance at him sharply.
βyouβre bleeding through a towel.β
βitβs slowed.β
βthatβs not the point.β
he studies you for a second β not with amusement, not with impatience, just with that steady attentiveness youβve grown used to β and then nods once, conceding without argument.
βokay,β he says quietly. βitβs not the point.β
that does nothing to ease you.
the clinic sits at the edge of town, small and unobtrusive, the paint slightly weathered and the sign out front faded from too many seasons of sun. gravel crunches loudly beneath your tires when you pull in, and you donβt wait for the engine to fully die before reaching for the door handle.
kita rounds the car more slowly.
you meet him halfway without thinking, your hand hovering near his elbow before you realize what youβre doing. he notices the aborted gesture but doesnβt comment on it, only adjusts his pace slightly so youβre walking in step.
inside, the air smells faintly of antiseptic layered over something older β paper, vinyl, a hint of stale coffee from somewhere down the hall. fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in a soft, washed-out brightness that makes the red on the towel look even more vivid.
the receptionist glances up from behind the desk, taking in the towel-wrapped hand and the way youβre standing half a step in front of him.
βwe need a doctor,β you say, voice steady but tight. βhe cut his hand with a saw. itβs deep.β
she nods, not alarmed but not dismissive either. βexam room three. heβll be right in.β
you donβt sit in the waiting room. you donβt need to.
the hallway is narrow, the linoleum floor faintly scuffed from years of use. you push open the exam room door and gesture for kita to sit on the narrow bed covered in crisp white paper.
the paper crinkles under his weight.
βlet me see it again,β you say, already stepping closer.
kita unwraps the towel without protest. the bleeding has slowed but hasnβt stopped completely; the cut is visible now in full, stretching across the meat of his dominant palm, slightly jagged along one edge where the blade must have dragged before freeing itself. it isnβt grotesque, but itβs deeper than youβre comfortable with, and the sight of it sends another pulse of heat through your chest.
βit doesnβt feel as bad as it looks,β he says, watching your face rather than his hand. βi promise.β
you shoot him a look. βthatβs not reassuring.β
a knock sounds at the door before you can say more.
the doctor enters β older, gray at the temples, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose as he takes in the scene with a glance that speaks of long experience and very few surprises.
βwhat happened?β he asks, setting a tray of instruments down with quiet efficiency.
βi was finishing up in the shed,β kita replies evenly. βi was putting tools away and the saw shifted when i set it down. i didnβt have a firm grip on it.β
the doctor nods as he steps closer, reaching for kitaβs wrist. βdominant hand?β
βyes.β
βany numbness? trouble moving your fingers?β
βno. it stings, but i can move everything.β
βgood.β
the doctor glances at you then. βand you are?β
ββ¦his wife,β you answer. the words donβt feel heavy. they donβt feel performative. they just feel accurate.
the doctor nods once and turns back to kitaβs hand, but in the split second before he does, you catch the smallest change in kitaβs posture β a subtle settling of his shoulders, a quiet intake of breath that smooths into something steadier.
the doctor gently pries his fingers apart.
the cut opens slightly under the pressure, and a fresh bead of blood wells along the seam.
you inhale sharply before you can stop yourself.
the room seems to narrow.
you step back automatically to give them space, but your body refuses to be still. you cross your arms over your chest, thumb rising unconsciously toward your mouth, and begin pacing the small strip of floor between the sink and the door.
your strides arenβt large. they canβt be. the room is too small.
two steps forward. turn. two steps back.
your eyes never leave kitaβs hand.
the doctor presses lightly around the wound, testing depth and resistance. βflex your fingers for me.β
kita does. the skin pulls, but his fingers move fully.
βno tendon involvement,β the doctor says after a moment, leaning back slightly. βitβs a deep laceration, but the structureβs intact. youβll need stitches. itβll leave a scar, but youβre not looking at permanent damage.β
the air leaves your lungs all at once. you hadnβt realized how tightly you were holding it.
βokay,β you exhale. βokay. thatβs good.β
only then do you look at kita.
heβs not watching the doctor.
heβs watching you.
your cheeks warm under his gaze. you clear your throat and look away, suddenly aware of how tightly your arms are wrapped around yourself.
βare you ready?β the doctor asks as he begins preparing the instruments.
kita blinks. ββ¦for what?β
βthe stitches,β the doctor says with mild amusement. βi can administer a local anesthetic, but it will make you rather sluggish and tired for a few hours.β
kita shakes his head. βthatβs alright. iβd rather not.β
you turn to him immediately. βare you sure? itβs going to hurt.β
he meets your eyes with that small, steady smile. βiβll be okay. itβs manageable.β
βyou donβt know that yet.β
he almost laughs, but itβs gentle. βiβve had worse.β
βthatβs not a competition.β
something flickers in his eyes before he looks back to the doctor and nods.
the doctor pours antiseptic over his palm, and the sharp scent rises immediately, clean and metallic. kitaβs fingers twitch almost imperceptibly at the first contact, the muscles in his forearm tightening before smoothing out again. you try not to look directly at the needle when the doctor picks it up, but you hear the faint resistance as metal passes through skin, the soft pull that is far quieter than you imagined it would be. the thread follows in steady, practiced motion, drawn through with calm efficiency that feels almost too methodical for what it is.
you tell yourself to sit down.
but your body refuses to settle.
you pace again, arms folded tightly, thumb grazing your lower lip. the room feels too small for your restlessness. each pass of the needle draws your eyes back despite yourself, and even though kitaβs expression remains composed, you see the small shifts that no one else would notice.
his jaw tightens slightly.
his shoulders lift a fraction before easing again.
his free hand curls more firmly into the fabric of his jeans, knuckles paling.
he doesnβt flinch. he doesnβt make a sound.
he simply endures it.
thatβs what stops you.
not the needle.
the quiet endurance.
you move before you think about it.
the chair beside him scrapes softly against the floor as you lower yourself into it. your hand reaches, fingers wrapping around his free hand with instinct that feels stronger than embarrassment.
kita stills under your touch.
the doctor continues stitching without comment.
you are suddenly acutely aware of the warmth of his skin against yours, of the faint roughness along his knuckles, of the steady weight of his hand settling more fully into your grasp.
you donβt look at him right away. your gaze lingers on his injured palm, on the neat line of stitches beginning to pull the wound closed. each time the needle passes through again, you feel the subtle increase in pressure around your fingers β not crushing, not desperate, just anchoring.
your thumb begins tracing slow circles across the back of his hand without thinking.
his breathing shifts gradually, steadier, more even.
when you finally look up, itβs because you feel his gaze before you see it.
kita is not watching the needle.
he is watching you.
you canβt tell what heβs thinking.
but you can see the way his shoulders lower slightly, as if something inside him has unclenched.
you realize belatedly that youβre still holding his hand.
and that he hasnβt tried to pull away.
you swallow and look back down, suddenly aware of how instinctive it had been β the reaching, the holding, the way you hadnβt paused to consider whether you should.
his fingers tighten again when the thread pulls through skin, and this time you donβt just feel it β you see it. the faint shift in his breathing. the way his thumb presses more firmly into your palm.
you donβt know what that look means.
you only know that it isnβt the same one he wore when you walked into this room.
the doctor ties the final knot and trims the thread. gauze wraps carefully around his palm until the wound is concealed beneath clean white fabric.
βall set,β the doctor says. βkeep it clean. no heavy use for a few days. it will scar, but youβll have full function.β
you nod, though your attention is still anchored to the warmth in your hand.
it takes a second for you to realize neither of you has let go.
when kita finally loosens his grip, itβs slow.
the absence of his hand leaves your fingers colder than they should be.
the air between you shifts.
and for the first time since you walked into the room, you feel something other than fear.
you feel how close you are.
the exam room feels smaller when you step out of it.
you thank the doctor again, your voice steadier now, and follow kita down the narrow hallway toward the front of the clinic. the fluorescent lights hum faintly overhead, the scent of antiseptic lingering in your nose longer than it should. you walk half a step behind him at first before unconsciously matching his stride again, close enough that your shoulder nearly brushes his arm.
you donβt reach for him this time.
but youβre aware of the space where you could.
the receptionist barely glances up as you pass, and the outside air feels warmer than it did when you arrived. the sky is still wide and blue and indifferent. the gravel crunches under your shoes as you circle the car.
kita pauses when he reaches the passenger side door, adjusting his bandaged hand slightly as if testing its weight.
βi can drive,β he says quietly.
you stare at him.
βyou cannot.β
a faint crease forms between his brows, not in frustration β just habit. βitβs my left hand.β
βyou just got stitched,β you reply, already opening the driverβs side door. βsit down.β
thereβs a moment where it looks like he might argue.
he doesnβt.
he moves around the car and slides into the passenger seat instead, closing the door carefully with his uninjured hand.
the engine starts.
this time you donβt rush.
the road stretches out ahead of you, fields rolling past in long, gentle waves of green. the air inside the car feels thicker than before, not tense exactly β just full. full of everything that just happened. full of what neither of you is saying.
you glance at him once.
heβs looking out the window.
not distant.
just thoughtful.
his bandaged hand rests carefully in his lap. the gauze is clean and bright against his skin, stark in its neatness. you think about the stitches beneath it. about the way his fingers tightened around yours. about how easily you reached for him.
your throat feels tight again, but not from fear this time.
βdoes it hurt?β you ask.
βa little.β
you tighten your grip on the wheel. βyou shouldβve taken the anesthetic.β
βi didnβt want to be sluggish.β
βthatβs not a real reason.β
he shifts slightly in his seat and glances at you, the faintest hint of something almost amused in his expression. βi needed to stay steady.β
you look at him properly then. βfor what?β
he doesnβt answer immediately.
instead, he studies you for a second longer than necessary before turning his gaze back to the window.
βit wasnβt that bad,β he says finally.
you donβt believe him.
you also donβt push.
the silence settles again, but itβs different from the one on the way there. softer. less brittle. thereβs something beneath it now, something low and steady that hums under your ribs.
your eyes flick toward his hands again.
toward the one that isnβt wrapped in gauze.
the one that held yours.
βwhat were you working on?β you ask, keeping your tone light. casual. as if it hasnβt been lingering in your mind for days now. βyouβve been in the shed a lot.β
he doesnβt look at you this time.
βjust something.β
you huff softly. βthatβs what you said before.β
a faint pause.
βitβs not finished.β
βthat doesnβt answer the question.β
he exhales quietly through his nose, and you can hear the faint trace of a smile in it even though youβre not looking directly at him.
βit wasnβt meant to be a secret,β he says. βi just didnβt want to show you until it was ready.β
that makes something in your chest tighten.
βwhy?β
βbecauseβ¦β he hesitates, choosing his words carefully. βbecause it matters.β
the admission lands heavier than it should.
you keep your eyes on the road, but your pulse shifts slightly, slow and deliberate.
βmatters how?β
he doesnβt answer right away.
the farm begins to appear in the distance, the outline of the house familiar against the open sky. the gravel driveway curves ahead of you, and you slow as you turn in, tires crunching softly beneath the car.
kitaβs gaze shifts from the window to the house, to the shed beyond it.
you park.
the engine goes quiet.
for a second neither of you moves.
you become acutely aware of the small space of the car again. of how close your shoulders are. of how the air feels warmer than it should.
you reach to unbuckle your seatbelt, and the click sounds louder than usual.
kita opens his door first this time.
you step out into the afternoon light, the air carrying the faint scent of cut wood and warm earth. the shed stands where it always has, unassuming. unchanged.
but you look at it differently now.
kita closes his door gently and walks around the front of the car, stopping just short of you.
he looks down at you for a moment.
not rushed. not dramatic. just steady.
βcome with me,β he says.
and something in your chest answers before your mind does.
the shed door groans softly when kita pulls it open, the familiar hinge sound carrying into the warm afternoon air. youβve stood at this doorway before, glanced inside in passing, but youβve never stepped fully in while he was working. it always felt like his space β organized, deliberate, a quiet extension of him.
today he doesnβt hesitate.
he steps aside and gestures for you to go in first.
the air inside is warmer than outside, holding the lingering scent of fresh-cut wood and something faintly sweet beneath it β varnish, maybe, or oil rubbed into grain. sawdust rests in pale drifts along the floor, not messy, just evidence of steady work. light filters through the high window in soft angled beams, catching suspended dust in slow, golden motion.
your eyes adjust gradually.
tools line the far wall in precise rows, each one returned to its place. a workbench sits to the left, surface worn smooth from years of use. clamps still hang loose where they were recently unfastened. a measuring tape lies coiled near the edge. a pencil rests exactly parallel to the grain of the wood beneath it.
and then you see it.
not because itβs hidden.
but because itβs positioned slightly off-center, like he moved it away from the bench after finishing.
a desk.
not store-bought. not assembled.
built.
you step forward without realizing youβve done it.
it isnβt flashy. there are no ornate carvings, no dramatic curves or unnecessary embellishments. it is simple in shape and impossibly deliberate in execution. the surface is smooth β not glossy, not reflective, just softly finished, the grain running clean and uninterrupted from one end to the other. when you reach out and let your fingers glide across it, the wood feels almost like silk beneath your palm, sanded down until thereβs no edge left to catch on skin.
the corners are rounded, subtle but intentional, shaped so that even if you leaned too heavily or shifted too quickly, nothing would bite back.
the height is exact.
you donβt even realize youβre noticing that until you step beside it and your hand falls naturally to rest on the surface at a comfortable angle, elbow bending without strain. your shoulders donβt lift. your wrist doesnβt tilt.
your eyes lower slowly.
thereβs a shallow lip carved along the back edge, understated but precise. not decorative. functional. just high enough that a charger cable wouldnβt slip off the back and drag something with it. just enough to stop movement before it became frustration.
you swallow.
the left drawer pulls open more easily than the right.
you test it without thinking.
it slides smoothly under your hand, the motion effortless, aligned perfectly. the inside is sanded clean, no splinters, no roughness. the depth is enough for notebooks, stacked without bending. pens wouldnβt roll. papers wouldnβt snag.
your pulse shifts.
you step back and really look at it.
the width matches the way you spread your work out when youβre thinking β not narrow, not cramped. thereβs space to lay your laptop down and still rest your forearms comfortably on either side. space to stack documents without balancing them precariously on the couch cushion. space to breathe.
your throat tightens in a way that has nothing to do with panic.
you hadnβt realized how much heβd been watching.
not in a surveillance way.
not in a controlling way.
but noticing.
the way you shifted constantly on the couch. the way you caught your charger before it slipped. the way your back ached by midafternoon. the way you pressed your palm into the base of your spine and pretended it was manageable.
he measured you.
not with a tape.
with attention.
the realization lands slowly, heavy and warm all at once.
you can picture him in this space over the past few days, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted in pale sawdust, shaping wood in controlled passes. cutting carefully. sanding until the surface stopped resisting. running his palm across it to check for unevenness. adjusting measurements by fractions until the proportions matched the shape of you sitting and working and trying not to complain.
you step closer again.
there are faint carved lines along the underside lip, so subtle you almost miss them. not decorative patterns β more like quiet etchings, restrained but intricate enough to tell you they werenβt accidental. something personal, but not loud.
you trail your fingertips along one.
your chest feels full.
βkita,β you say softly.
he hasnβt moved from where he stands a few steps behind you.
you turn.
heβs watching you in that same steady way he did in the clinic, except this time thereβs something more vulnerable in it. not uncertain. not anxious. just open.
βi noticed you were uncomfortable,β he says after a moment, voice even but lower than usual. βworking in the living room.β
you blink at him.
βit wasnβt that bad.β
βyou shifted every few minutes,β he replies calmly. βyour charger slipped off the table at least three times yesterday.β
your mouth opens.
closes.
he steps closer, slow enough that you could step back if you wanted to.
you donβt.
βyour shoulders tighten by noon,β he continues. βand you press your hand into your lower back when you think iβm not looking.β
heat floods your face.
βi wasnβt trying to hide it.β
βi know.β
he stops a foot away from you, close enough that you can smell the faint trace of sawdust still clinging to him beneath soap and clean air.
βi just wanted you to have something steady,β he says. βsomething that fits.β
fits.
you look back at the desk.
then back at him.
thereβs no grand gesture here. no dramatic confession. no flourish of pride.
just a man who spent hours shaping wood because you were uncomfortable.
you donβt think.
you step forward and wrap your arms around him.
the movement surprises both of you.
he freezes for half a second β not stiff, not resistant, just startled β before his uninjured arm comes around your back, strong and warm and solid. his bandaged hand rests carefully against your side, mindful, restrained.
you feel the firmness of his chest beneath your cheek. the steady rise and fall of his breathing. the faint scent of wood and clean cotton and sun-warmed skin.
you didnβt plan to hold him this long.
you justβ¦ donβt want to let go.
your fingers curl slightly into the fabric of his shirt.
his arm tightens a fraction.
not enough to trap.
just enough to answer.
when you finally pull back, itβs slow.
too slow.
your hands slide down his sides instead of dropping immediately. your body lingers in his space. youβre close enough now that you can see the faint shadow of his lashes, the subtle flush high along his cheekbones that wasnβt there a moment ago.
your breathing feels heavier.
so does his.
the shed is quiet around you.
dust still hangs in golden light.
your eyes meet.
neither of you speaks.
thereβs something fragile in the space between your mouths. not quite a kiss. not yet. but close enough that the possibility feels tangible.
you become suddenly, painfully aware of how your hands are still resting against him.
you step back first.
barely.
but enough.
the air shifts again β not broken, just altered.
you clear your throat softly and glance back at the desk, trying to anchor yourself in something solid.
βitβs beautiful,β you say, and your voice is steadier than your pulse. βthank you.β
kita nods once.
but he doesnβt look away from you.
and the silence that settles between you now isnβt the same quiet as before.
itβs full.
you donβt sit at it immediately.
after the hug, after the air shifts and you both step back like youβve brushed too close to something fragile, he carries it in.
not alone.
you try to help, even though he insists he can manage with one good hand and careful balance. the desk is heavier than it looks, solid in a way that feels reassuring rather than cumbersome. you walk beside him anyway, hovering in case he needs you, heart beating too fast for something so domestic.
he brings it into the office.
your office.
the room that once felt temporary when you first stepped into it β bare walls, unused corners, a space designated but not yet inhabited. now the desk fits into it like it was always meant to be there. the proportions feel intentional. the light from the window falls across the surface at the right angle. it doesnβt crowd the room. it anchors it.
you donβt sit down that night.
you just stand there for a long moment after he leaves you to it, fingers resting lightly against the smooth wood, tracing the grain again as if it might disappear if you look away.
the next morning β or maybe itβs just the next quiet stretch of time β you carry your laptop into the office instead of toward the couch.
the living room looks the same.
but you donβt go there.
you set your things down on the desk carefully, almost reverently, and pull the chair in.
when you sit, your body doesnβt argue.
your forearms rest naturally on the surface without your shoulders lifting. your wrists align without bending awkwardly. your feet plant flat against the floor. your spine settles into the chair without that subtle twist youβd grown used to compensating for.
you wait for the familiar discomfort.
for the slow tightening between your shoulder blades.
for the dull ache in your lower back that used to bloom by midmorning and force you to press your palm there like you could manually hold yourself together.
it doesnβt come.
you open your laptop.
your charger reaches the outlet without tension. the cord rests against the shallow lip he carved into the back, exactly as intended, and stays there. you donβt have to glance down every few minutes to make sure it hasnβt slipped.
you start working.
and for the first time in weeks, you donβt shift constantly.
you donβt tuck one leg under you and then untangle it when it goes numb. you donβt lean forward too far and then sit back and then adjust again. you donβt fight your own posture like itβs something separate from you.
your thoughts move more cleanly.
less interrupted.
you move through tasks without the background noise of physical discomfort pulling at you every ten minutes. emails get answered faster. drafts flow more smoothly. you donβt lose your place because you had to readjust yourself again.
at some point you glance at the clock on your screen.
you blink.
youβre ahead.
not dramatically.
but enough.
enough that you lean back slowly, testing your shoulders out of habit, expecting resistance that isnβt there. your back doesnβt feel like it needs to be cracked like a glowstick. your neck isnβt tight. your wrists donβt ache.
you rest your palms flat against the desk and let yourself feel it properly.
the surface is smooth beneath your skin, warm where sunlight has reached it. solid. unmoving. steady.
it was built for you.
not generically.
not conveniently.
for you.
your mouth curves before you can stop it.
you try, briefly, to suppress it.
you fail.
it grows instead β soft at first, then fuller, until youβre sitting alone in your office smiling at a piece of furniture like it personally told you something tender.
a quiet knock brushes against the open doorframe.
you look up.
kita stands there, leaning lightly against it, his bandaged hand resting carefully at his side. he doesnβt step in immediately. he just takes in the sight of you seated at the desk, posture relaxed, expression unguarded.
you become aware of his gaze and straighten slightly, but the smile doesnβt fade.
βitβs perfect,β you say.
your voice sounds steadier than the warmth spreading through your chest.
his expression shifts subtly β that small softening youβve come to recognize, the faint easing of his shoulders.
βgood,β he replies.
he doesnβt make a big deal of it.
he doesnβt ask for praise.
he doesnβt remind you of how long it took.
he just stands there for another moment, as if confirming that the space is occupied the way he hoped it would be.
you turn back to your screen, but youβre aware of him lingering a second longer before walking away.
the house feels different now.
not decorated differently.
not louder.
just⦠aligned.
there is a space in it that fits you without adjustment. without compromise. without discomfort you have to pretend is manageable.
you finish your work earlier that day.
not because you rushed.
but because you werenβt fighting your own body the entire time.
when you close your laptop and run your fingertips lightly across the edge of the desk again, you canβt stop smiling.
bark bark bark bark bark bark bark bark bark bark ugh im screaming and crying and pissing and giggling at this the whole time i wrote it ugh the YEARNING the PHYSICAL TOUCH yah
I absolutely adore the way you write for tsuki π and im so so so glad you regularly make content for him since hes my fav <3
could I request one where the reader is a helper or comanager and has a huge crush on tsuki. She makes bento boxes for the team during a training camp. When they are being distributed, she personally goes to tsuki and gives him his. When he gets settled down and opens it, everything is in a heart shape or cut into hearts just very cutesy. He looks at everyone else's and sees that his is the only one like that. He confronts her later and the rest is a very fluffy and cute history β€οΈβ€οΈ
training camp days are long in a way that seeps into your bones.
itβs not just the hours spent on your feet or the constant echo of shoes against the gym floor, itβs the way time stretches, blurs, and somehow keeps moving even when everyoneβs exhausted. by the time lunch rolls around, the team is sprawled across benches and the floor, sweat-damp and loud and starving.
you hover near the doorway with the bento boxes stacked neatly in your arms.
youβd helped make all of them this morning. rice measured carefully, portions adjusted, names written in neat marker on the lids. everything uniform, everything practical.
except one.
you swallow and glance down at the box resting on top.
tsukishima keiβs name is written just like the others, clean and simple. itβs whatβs inside thatβs different. youβd told yourself you wouldnβt do it. youβd stood in the kitchen this morning, hands hovering over the ingredients, heart racing as if someone might burst in and catch you in the act.
but then youβd thought about him.
about how he always stood a little apart, glasses slipping down his nose as he observed everything with that sharp, unreadable gaze. about the way his teasing was precise, almost gentle when it was aimed at you. about how he always thanked you for small things, quietly, like it mattered.
so youβd done it.
you pass out the bentos one by one, keeping your smile small, your movements efficient. a few of the boys cheer when they get theirs, hinata already trying to pry his open before anyone tells him to wash his hands. you laugh softly, relieved. normal. everything feels normal.
then thereβs only one left.
you take a breath thatβs a little too deep and walk toward him.
tsukishima is sitting against the wall, towel around his neck, phone in his hand. he looks up when your shadow falls over him, brow lifting slightly.
βoh,β he says. βthanks.β
you hold out the bento with both hands. βum. here. tsukishima.β
your fingers brush when he takes it.
itβs brief. barely anything. but itβs enough to make your heart stumble.
you donβt wait.
the moment the box leaves your hands, you turn on your heel, already mumbling something about needing to help clean up, already pretending to be very invested in reorganizing a stack of water bottles that absolutely does not need reorganizing.
behind you, tsukishima watches you go, lips pressing into a thin line.
he opens the box a few minutes later, expecting the usual.
rice. protein. vegetables. functional. thoughtful in a practical way.
instead, he freezes.
the rice is shaped into a neat heart, edges carefully pressed. the side dishes mirror it, tiny hearts cut with a precision that had clearly taken time. even the egg has been folded just so, rounded and soft.
itβsβ¦ undeniably cute.
he glances around.
hinata is inhaling his lunch. nishinoya is trying to steal tanakaβs. no one else seems to have noticed anything unusual.
tsukishima looks back down at his bento.
then, slowly, his ears turn pink.
he eats every bite.
when lunch ends, you think youβve gotten away with it.
youβre wiping down a table, shoulders relaxing just a little now that the worst part is over, when a shadow falls beside you again.
βhey.β
you jump.
tsukishima is standing there, bento box in hand. itβs empty. clean. neatly closed.
your stomach drops.
βi, umββ you start, panic flaring hot and fast. βwas there something wrong withββ
βwhy,β he interrupts calmly, βwas mine the only one like that?β
you freeze.
your brain scrambles for an excuse. a joke. anything. but heβs watching you too closely, head tilted slightly, expression unreadable behind his glasses.
you can feel your face heating up.
βi justββ you fidget with the cloth in your hands, voice shrinking. βi thoughtβ¦ itβd be nice.β
thereβs a beat of silence.
then tsukishima sighs.
you brace yourself.
instead of teasing, instead of that familiar dry remark youβre half-expecting, he reaches out and gently sets the bento on the table between you.
βi liked it,β he says. βa lot.β
you look up, startled.
his expression is softer than youβve ever seen it. still composed, still tsukishima, but thereβs something warm there now, something careful.
βyou didnβt have to run away,β he adds. βi wasnβt going to laugh.β
βi didnβt think you would,β you admit quietly. βi justβ¦ didnβt want to make it weird.β
he huffs, almost amused. βyou made it obvious.β
your heart leaps. βobvious bad orββ
βobvious cute,β he corrects.
you stare at him, stunned.
tsukishima adjusts his glasses, gaze flicking away for half a second before returning to you. βif that was your way of telling me you like me,β he says, βthen i guess i should respond properly.β
he nudges the bento toward you. βiβll bring it back tomorrow. maybe with something in it this time.β
you blink. βyou donβt have toββ
βi want to,β he says simply.
your lips curve into a shy smile before you can stop them.
we donβt need the memories ζγεΊγͺγγγγγ
Solo
Kita Shinsuke
The Smallest Things π βοΈ
You Don't Owe Me Anything ππ€
More Warmth On The WayπβοΈπΌ
The Softest Smileππ€
Aran Ojiro
Echoes of Youππ‘
The Warmth Weβre GrowingππΌ
Ginjima Hitoshi
nothing here yet, try requesting something!
Miya Atsumu
Nailed It π βοΈπ€
Happily Ever After π βοΈ πΌ
Act Natural ππ―οΈ
Falling For YouπβοΈ
After the Applause π«π―οΈ; In the Silence Afterπ«π―οΈ
Miya Osamu
The Perfect Blend π βοΈ
Too Late π«π―οΈ; After All These Years π π―οΈ
At Your Pace π
The Soft Life After Him π€π
Suna Rintaro
Nap Betrayal π βοΈ π€
Almost Too Late πβοΈ
Divine Retribution πβοΈ π€
Where You Are ππ―οΈ
Misread π«π―οΈ; On My Terms π«π€π―οΈ
Things He Shouldnβt Have Saidπ«; After The Laughterπ«
Highest Bidder ππ€
Picture Perfectπ
Various
Meeting Your 'Little Baby' π βοΈ
How You Guys Met πβοΈ
When It Clicked πβοΈ π―οΈ
Awkward First Steps Into Parenthood π βοΈ πΌ
Dreams You Never Watched Me Chase π«
You, Me, and Them π βοΈ πΌ
Red Flags & White Knights ππ€
Little Attitudes πβοΈπΌ
Waiting For YouπβοΈπΌ
Series
Sticks and Stones Series (complete; 3 parts)
Sticks and Stones π«
The Weight of Words π«
The Quiet After π€
Kita Shinsukeβ Arranged Marriage AU (ongoing)
Part 1: The Arrangement, Part 2: The Wedding, Part 3: First Mornings, Part 4: Shared Errands, Part 5: Back in the City, Part 6: Back Where Its Quiet, Part 7: Built For You, Part 8: Already Yours, Part 9: Where We Linger
