fluff/hurt/comfort, neighbours with Ushijima Wakatoshi
ushijima wakatoshi x f!reader
Moving day always sounds simpler in theory.
In practice, it’s sweat gathering at the base of your neck, cardboard biting into your forearms, and the slow, humiliating realization that the stairwell is narrower than you remembered when you toured the place. The elevator is still out of order, temporarily, the landlord had said, which apparently means indefinitely.
You pause on the second landing, box balanced awkwardly against your hip, breath coming shallow. Written in black marker on the side is ‘kitchen - fragile’
, underlined twice like that might somehow protect the contents from gravity.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “One more flight.”
The stairwell door above you opens.
At first, all you notice is the shadow, wide and tall, stretching down the concrete steps. Then heavy footsteps follow, unhurried, steady, like whoever’s coming down isn’t fighting the building at all.
You glance up without thinking.
And forget how stairs work.
He’s large. Not in a sloppy way, there’s nothing soft about him, but solid, like he’s built out of something sturdier than most people. Broad shoulders fill out a simple black T-shirt, the fabric pulled tight across his chest and arms. His posture is straight, relaxed, as if gravity simply respects him more.
Short, dark hair. Sharp eyes. Calm expression.
Your brain helpfully supplies the information a second too late.
Professional volleyball player. Opposite hitter. National team. Someone you’ve seen on screens far bigger than this dim stairwell, jumping higher than feels fair, spiking with a kind of terrifying inevitability.
And apparently your neighbor.
He stops when he sees you, gaze dropping briefly to the box in your arms. There’s no surprise in his expression, no awkwardness, just assessment.
“You appear to be struggling,” he says.
His voice is deep. Not loud, not gentle. Just matter-of-fact.
Heat crawls up your face. “um. I’ve got it. Mostly.”
The box chooses that moment to tilt, the bottom edge slipping against your forearm. You gasp, scrambling to readjust,
A large hand steadies it instantly.
“Allow me,” he says, already taking the weight.
You barely have time to protest before the box is lifted out of your arms like it weighs nothing at all. He holds it easily, one arm tucked underneath, the other steadying the side.
Your arms feel oddly light without it.
He nods once. “Which floor?”
He turns without comment and starts up the stairs.
He doesn’t slow down, but he doesn’t pull away either, his pace is consistent, measured, like he’s calculated exactly how fast to go so you can keep up. The box never wobbles in his grip.
Up close, the details hit harder. The sheer width of his back. The way his shoulders shift beneath the fabric when he moves. The quiet control in every step.
This is ridiculous, you think faintly. Get it together.
“You live here?” you ask, mostly to hear something other than your own thoughts.
“Yes,” he replies. “Apartment 4A.”
Your heart does something inconvenient.
“I recently transferred teams,” he continues, as if this is normal small talk. “The location is practical.”
That tracks. Of course Ushijima Wakatoshi would choose housing based on practicality.
By the time you reach the fourth floor, your lungs are burning. He doesn’t even seem winded.
He stops in front of your door, glancing at the number to confirm. Then he carefully sets the box down, aligning it neatly against the wall.
You fumble for your keys, suddenly hyper-aware of everything: the way your hair is sticking to your forehead, the dust on your hands, the fact that you’re standing next to a world-class athlete while holding a keychain shaped like a cartoon cat.
“Thank you,” you say again, more sincerely this time. “I didn’t expect help.”
He studies you for a brief moment, expression unreadable. Not cold, just focused, like he’s used to observing things carefully.
“You needed assistance,” he says. “It was reasonable to offer.”
You smile despite it and introduce yourself.
“I know,” he replies. Then, seeing your confusion, adds, “The landlord mentioned it.”
“I am Ushijima Wakatoshi.”
As if you didn’t already know, but hearing him say it, standing this close, makes it feel different. Real.
“Well,” you say, finally unlocking the door, “it’s nice to meet you. I guess see you around?”
He turns to leave, steps heavy and sure as he walks toward the neighboring door.
You watch him for a second longer than necessary.
Then you close your door behind you, heart racing, surrounded by boxes, and the sudden, overwhelming certainty that moving here is about to change a lot more than your address.
You discover two things very quickly.
First: couches are heavier than they look, especially when they insist on catching on doorframes like they’re doing it on purpose.
Second: the previous tenant must have been taller.
You stand on your toes, arms fully extended, curtain rod balanced precariously in your hands as you stare up at the brackets already drilled into the wall. Whoever installed them clearly hadn’t considered people who exist in the mortal realm.
“Come on,” you mutter, stretching higher. “Just, just a little more.”
You yelp, catching it against your shoulder before it can clatter to the floor. Fabric slides down over your arm, tangling around you like it’s mocking your effort.
“This is going great,” you announce to the empty apartment.
It’s late evening now. The sun has dipped low enough that the light coming through the bare windows is tinged orange, the air cooler against your skin. You’d changed earlier into what you’d planned to sleep in eventually, short shorts, a simple tank top, something comfortable enough to move furniture in without overheating.
You hadn’t expected to still be wrestling with curtains at this hour.
You drag the small step stool closer, climb onto it, and try again.
You groan, dropping your head back dramatically. “I should’ve brought a ladder. Or grown five more inches.”
There’s a knock at the door.
For a split second, your brain refuses to cooperate. Then your heart jumps into your throat.
Another knock follows, firm, polite, unhurried.
You glance down at yourself, suddenly very aware of bare legs, bare arms, the fact that you probably look like you’ve been in a mild wrestling match with your furniture. You consider pretending you’re not home.
Before you can overthink it further, you step down and open the door.
He’s changed since earlier, no longer in training clothes, but still dressed simply. A long-sleeved shirt this time, dark, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose his forearms. His hair is slightly damp, like he’s showered recently.
His eyes flick briefly past you, taking in the sight of half-assembled furniture and curtains draped over a chair.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
You feel heat bloom across your face. “Yes, well. I mean. I’m alive.”
“I was trying to hang my curtains,” you explain, stepping aside so he can see the offending wall. “And move a few things. I might’ve been louder than I realized.”
“I heard repeated impacts,” he says. Then, after a beat, “And commentary.”
You groan softly. “That tracks.”
There’s no judgment in his expression. If anything, he looks thoughtful, gaze drifting back to the curtain rod.
“You are unable to reach,” he observes.
“Yes,” you say. “Painfully so.”
Silence stretches, not awkward, just measured. Then he speaks again.
“I can assist,” he says. “If you would like.”
You hesitate, suddenly aware again of the time, your outfit, the intimacy of inviting a near-stranger into your space. Even if that stranger is built like he could bench-press your entire living room.
“That would be really helpful,” you admit. “If you don’t mind.”
He nods once and steps inside.
The apartment feels smaller with him in it, not cramped, exactly, but full. He moves carefully, mindful of corners and boxes, setting his shoes neatly by the door without being asked.
You hand him the curtain rod, fingers brushing his briefly. His hands are warm, calloused.
He doesn’t struggle. Not even a little.
He reaches up, slots the rod into place with practiced precision, checks that it’s secure, then steps back to assess his work like it’s a task worth doing properly.
“There,” he says. “They should hold.”
You pull the curtains closed experimentally. They glide smoothly along the rod, settling into place.
Your apartment instantly feels more like somewhere you live.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
He hums in acknowledgment and turns his attention to the couch still angled awkwardly near the wall.
“Would you like help repositioning this as well?” he asks.
From there, it becomes easy.
He lifts where you push. He asks before moving things, listens when you explain where you’d like them to go. There’s something oddly comforting about the way he works, focused, efficient, but never rushed.
When he adjusts the dining table, he measures the distance with his eyes alone. When he lifts your bed frame, he moves slowly enough that nothing scrapes.
You find yourself watching him when you think he’s not looking.
The evening deepens outside the windows. The apartment grows quieter, calmer, until finally there’s nothing left to move.
You sit on the arm of the couch, exhaling. “I can’t believe how much better it looks.”
Ushijima nods. “The space is functional now.”
You laugh softly. “High praise.”
“I would cook to thank you,” you say, then sigh, rubbing the back of your neck. “But I haven’t had time to buy food yet.”
“I could order food for us,” you add quickly. “As a thank you. If that’s okay.”
His gaze meets yours, steady and thoughtful.
“That would be acceptable,” he says.
Relief washes through you, followed by something warmer.
“Okay,” you smile. “Then stay?”
You end up sitting closer than you expect.
Not touching, at least not really, but close enough that the warmth from Ushijima’s side feels noticeable against your arm. The couch dips slightly under his weight, sturdy and unmoving, while you balance a small stack of laminated takeout pamphlets across your lap.
They fan out like oversized playing cards.
“I didn’t realize how many of these I had,” you say, half to yourself. “They just kept shoving them through the mail slot.”
He looks down at them, expression serious, as if presented with an important decision rather than dinner.
“These are all nearby?” he asks.
“Apparently. I haven’t tried any yet.”
He takes one from the top, then another, scanning them carefully. You watch the way his brow furrows slightly as he reads, the way his fingers, big, steady, hold the thin paper with surprising care.
You tell yourself to focus on the menus.
You fail almost immediately.
Your gaze drifts instead to the line of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders, the way his forearms rest against his thighs when he leans forward. He looks different like this, less like the distant figure on a screen, more like someone real. Someone sitting on your couch, deciding what to eat with you.
You catch yourself staring and quickly look back down, hoping he didn’t notice.
“Do you have any preferences?” he asks.
You shake your head. “Honestly? I’m too tired to decide. You choose.”
He pauses, as if surprised by the responsibility. Then he nods once.
He flips through a few more, then stops.
“This place serves sushi,” he says. “The reviews are consistent. And it would not take long to prepare.”
That sounds exactly like him.
“Sushi it is,” you agree, smiling.
You place the order on your phone, double-checking everything, then set it aside on the coffee table. The apartment settles into a comfortable quiet again, broken only by the low hum of the city outside.
“I should probably put something on,” you say, reaching for the remote. “Unless you prefer silence.”
“I do not mind either,” he replies.
You choose something light, nothing you have to pay too much attention to, and let it play in the background. The glow of the screen fills the room, reflecting faintly off the newly hung curtains.
The knock at the door startles you both slightly.
“Oh, that must be them,” you say, standing quickly.
You grab your wallet on the way, already mentally calculating what you owe. When you open the door and accept the bag, your heart sinks just a little as you check inside your wallet.
“I’m so sorry,” you tell the delivery driver, flustered. “Just a second,”
Before you can finish, Ushijima steps up behind you. He doesn’t crowd you, but his presence is solid, reassuring.
He reaches past gently and places the missing amount into the driver’s hand.
“That should be sufficient,” he says.
The door closes a moment later.
You turn to him, mortified. “I, I didn’t realize. I’m really sorry.”
“It is not an issue,” he replies calmly. “You were providing the meal.”
Still, you bow your head slightly. “Thank you. Really.”
He nods, as if that settles it.
You bring the food to the coffee table, spreading it out carefully. The smell fills the room immediately, clean, fresh, comforting. You hand him his chopsticks, and he accepts them with a quiet “Thank you.”
You eat together in easy silence at first.
The TV murmurs in the background. The sushi is good, better than you expected. You relax, shoulders dropping, the tension of moving day finally beginning to fade.
“This was a good choice,” you say.
You glance at him, catching the faintest hint of satisfaction in his expression.
Something warm settles in your chest.
And for a while, it’s just the two of you, neighbors, sharing a meal, the evening stretching gently onward.
You don’t realize how tense you’ve been until you’re halfway through eating and your shoulders finally relax.
The sushi is spread neatly across the coffee table, containers pushed aside to make room. Ushijima eats with the same focus he brings to everything else, unhurried, precise, clearly appreciating the food without making a show of it.
You find that oddly endearing.
“This place might become my go to,” you say, reaching for another piece. “At least until I figure out the grocery situation.”
“It is efficient,” he agrees. “And well prepared.”
You smile. “High praise again.”
He looks at you then, really looks, like he’s registering your expression, the way you speak. His gaze isn’t intense, exactly, but it is attentive, and you suddenly feel very seen.
“You seem to be settling in quickly,” he says.
You hum thoughtfully. “I think I had to. New job, new apartment it didn’t feel like I had the option to take it slow.”
He considers that, eyes drifting briefly toward the window before returning to you.
“Change often requires adaptation,” he says. “But you handled today well.”
The compliment catches you off guard.
“Thank you,” you say softly.
You eat a little more in comfortable silence. The TV continues on in the background, but neither of you is really watching it anymore. The city lights outside glow faintly through the curtains he hung, casting the room in a gentler light.
“What about you?” you ask eventually. “You said you transferred teams.”
“Yes,” he replies. “The schedule is demanding. But this location minimizes unnecessary travel.”
“Do you like it?” you ask. “Living here, I mean.”
He pauses longer this time.
“It is quiet,” he says. “That is preferable.”
You nod. “Yeah. I was hoping for that too.”
Another small silence settles, not heavy, just full.
You become acutely aware of how close you’re sitting again. If you shifted even slightly, your knee would brush his. You don’t move. Neither does he.
When you glance over, you catch him watching you, not in the way you’ve been watching him, but with a calm curiosity, as if you’re something he’s still learning how to read.
“Thank you for inviting me to stay,” he says suddenly. “For the meal.”
Your heart gives a quiet thump.
“I’m glad you did,” you reply honestly. “It would’ve felt weird eating alone after all that.”
When the last container is empty, you gather them up, stacking them neatly.
“I should probably let you get back to your evening,” you say, even though part of you doesn’t want the moment to end.
He stands, and once again the room feels subtly altered by the difference in height. He doesn’t rush for the door.
“If you require further assistance,” he says, “you may ask.”
You look up at him, smiling. “I might take you up on that.”
He inclines his head. “Good.”
He leaves quietly, closing the door behind him.
You lean back against it for a moment after he’s gone, heart still warm, mind still buzzing.
Tomorrow, you think, suddenly feels a lot closer than it did before.
Light filters in through the curtains, your curtains, softened just enough that it doesn’t feel intrusive. For a moment, you lie still, listening to the quiet hum of the building, the distant sounds of the city starting its day.
Your apartment feels different now. Lived-in. Warm.
You roll out of bed and go through the familiar motions of getting ready: brushing your teeth, pulling your hair back, changing into something comfortable. When you open the fridge, it greets you with emptiness and a faint hum.
You jot a short list on your phone, grab your keys and bag, and head out.
The hallway is quiet, washed in pale morning light. You lock your door and turn–
—and nearly walk straight into Ushijima.
You stop short, heart jumping. He stands just outside his apartment, a light sheen of sweat still visible along his temples. He’s dressed simply: a black T-shirt clinging slightly from exertion, dark joggers sitting low on his hips. His hair is damp, pushed back loosely.
This is unfair, you think faintly.
“Good morning,” he says, steady as ever.
“Morning,” you reply, suddenly very aware of how awake you are now.
You can tell he’s just come back from a run, the controlled breathing, the relaxed looseness in his posture. He looks good. Effortlessly so.
Your gaze flicks away before you can linger too long.
“You’re heading out?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you nod. “Grocery run. I realized last night that sushi can’t be a long-term plan.”
“That is accurate,” he agrees.
You smile despite yourself, fingers tightening slightly around your bag strap.
There’s a brief pause, nothing awkward, just soft.
“Well,” you say, shifting your weight. “I’ll see you later.”
“Yes,” he replies. “Have a good day.”
You step past him, catching the faint scent of clean soap and fresh air as you go. Your heart is doing something inconvenient again, thudding just a little too fast for a simple hallway encounter.
But you feel his presence linger, solid and calm, even as you head down the stairs and out into the morning.
The rest of the day unfolds normally, errands, groceries, the quiet satisfaction of filling your fridge at last, but every so often, your mind drifts back to a black T-shirt, a familiar voice, and the strange comfort of knowing he’s just next door.
The fridge is no longer empty.
That fact alone feels like a small victory.
You stand in your kitchen, staring at neatly stacked containers, chicken, rice, broccoli, simple, practical, and familiar enough that you won’t mess it up. It’s the kind of meal you know how to make without thinking too hard.
Which is good, because your thoughts are already occupied.
You hesitate, leaning back against the counter.
You should thank him properly.
He helped you move in. He paid when you were short on cash. He’s been nothing but considerate, and somehow that makes you want to do this right even more.
Decision made, you head to your bedroom.
You don’t go overboard. You tell yourself that firmly. You just try a little more than usual. You brush your hair until it sits the way you want it to, add a bit more makeup than you normally would, nothing dramatic, just enough to feel put together.
You choose a skirt, simple and comfortable, paired with a soft top. When you check your reflection, you pause.
You look like someone inviting someone over.
Your heart flutters nervously.
“Okay,” you whisper. “It’s just dinner.”
The walk to his door feels longer than it should.
You lift your hand and knock.
Footsteps approach. The door opens.
Ushijima stands there, expression neutral but attentive. He’s changed since the morning, clean clothes, relaxed posture, hair dry and neat.
You swallow. “Hi. Um, this might be a little sudden, but I was wondering if you’d like to come over for dinner.”
“I wanted to thank you,” you continue quickly, words tumbling out. “And also apologize for the other night. You really didn’t have to help pay, and now that I actually have food”
“You do not need to apologize,” he says calmly.
You stop, looking up at him.
“You did nothing wrong,” he adds. “And a thank you is not required.”
Your fingers curl slightly at your side. “I know. I just want to.”
“Very well,” he says. “I will come.”
Relief washes through you so strongly your knees feel a little weak.
When he steps into your apartment a few minutes later, the space feels different again, more intentional. You move around the kitchen, focused on cooking, while he sits at the counter quietly, watching without intruding.
The scent of chicken fills the air.
“You cook often?” he asks.
“Enough to survive,” you reply with a small laugh.
You plate the food carefully, a little more aware of presentation than usual. When you turn back toward him, you catch him looking at you, head slightly tilted, gaze thoughtful.
“Did you change something?” he asks.
“what?” You nearly drop the plate. “No. I mean. Not really.”
His eyes stay on you for a moment longer than necessary.
“Your hair,” he says. “And your clothing.”
Heat floods your face. “Oh. That. I just, this is normal. I always look like this.”
He doesn’t call you on it.
“It suits you,” he says simply.
Your pulse spikes so sharply you have to look away.
You bring the plates to the table, along with two glasses of wine. He accepts his with a nod, waiting until you sit before eating.
The conversation flows easier than you expect, about work, about the neighborhood, about nothing and everything in between. He listens carefully, responds thoughtfully, asks questions that show he remembers what you’ve said.
When you laugh, his gaze softens.
When you glance at him, your heart races.
This, this quiet, shared moment, feels important in a way you can’t quite name yet.
And as the evening stretches on, you realize you’re already looking forward to the next time your door knocks first.
The second glass of wine disappears more easily than the first.
You hadn’t planned on opening another bottle, but somewhere between refilling glasses and lingering at the table, it just happened. The tension you’d been carrying since inviting him over has softened into something warm and pleasantly fuzzy.
Ushijima drinks slowly, as he does everything, but you notice the way his shoulders have relaxed, the way he leans back a little more comfortably in his chair.
“This is good,” he says, gesturing to the empty plate. “You cooked it well.”
You smile, cheeks already warm. “I’m glad. I was nervous.”
He looks at you, mildly surprised. “You did not appear nervous.”
“That’s because I’m very good at pretending,” you admit.
That earns a quiet huff of amusement from him, not quite a laugh, but close enough that your heart jumps.
Conversation drifts, work, routines, little frustrations. You tell him about the awkwardness of starting over somewhere new. He tells you about the discipline of training, the pressure that comes with expectations, spoken about plainly, without drama.
“You don’t talk about volleyball like most people do,” you note.
“How do they speak of it?” he asks.
“Like it’s everything,” you shrug. “Like it’s all you are.”
His gaze drops briefly to his glass. “It is important to me,” he says. “But it is not the only thing.”
You like that answer more than you expect.
Another sip of wine. Another pause.
He looks around the apartment, not searching, just observing. Then his gaze returns to you, steady and thoughtful.
“You live alone,” he says.
Your stomach flips, though his tone is neutral.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asks.
The question lands gently, and still knocks the air from your lungs.
Your fingers tighten around the stem of your glass. “No.”
You glance down, suddenly shy in a way you haven’t been all evening. “I haven’t really dated in a while.”
Something in his expression has changed, not dramatically, but enough that you notice. His shoulders ease further, the tension in his brow smoothing.
And, unless you’re imagining it, he looks… pleased.
The thought creeps in uninvited, sudden and terrifying.
You don’t ask. You don’t dare.
Instead, you both finish the wine, the bottle emptying between you. The atmosphere shifts, not awkward, not heavy, just charged with things unspoken.
Eventually, the hour catches up to you.
“I should probably let you go,” you say softly.
At the door, you linger again, just a second too long.
“Thank you,” you say. “For coming. For everything.”
“You do not need to thank me,” he repeats gently. “But I enjoyed this.”
He hesitates, then inclines his head slightly. “Good night.”
He steps out into the hallway, turning once more before leaving.
You close the door slowly, pressing your back against it as your pulse pounds in your ears.
Something has shifted and you’re almost certain he feels it too.
You think about him the next morning.
That realization comes quietly, sometime between brushing your teeth and staring a little too long at your reflection. The memory of last night lingers, wine, warm honesty, the way his voice sounded when he asked that question, the look on his face afterward.
You shake your head, trying to reset. You have places to be, a routine to build. You can’t spiral every time you think your neighbor might,
You grab your bag and head out.
The hallway is cool and quiet, the air carrying that faint echo that always makes footsteps sound louder than they are. You lock your door, turn—
Ushijima stands a few feet away, keys in hand, dressed for the day. Clean lines, simple clothes. He looks rested.
Your heart does that thing again.
“Morning,” you reply, trying, and failing, not to sound overly aware of him.
Not awkward. Just deliberate.
“You are heading to work?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you nod. “Still figuring out the best route.”
“I can walk with you,” he says.
The words are simple. Casual.
Still, they land differently.
You fall into step beside him as you head toward the stairs. He matches your pace easily, stride measured so you don’t have to adjust. The space between you feels smaller than it used to, still respectful, but closer.
“You slept well?” he asks.
Your chest tightens slightly. “Yeah. I did.”
As you walk, you catch him glancing at you, not in the assessing way from before, but softer, like he’s checking in. When you meet his gaze, he doesn’t look away immediately.
“You seemed relaxed last night,” he says. “After dinner.”
You swallow. “I was. I think.”
“That is good,” he replies. “You should feel comfortable in your own home.”
The word home settles warmly in your chest.
At the building entrance, you slow, reluctant.
“I will see you later,” he says, not maybe, not if.
“Yeah,” you smile. “See you.”
He watches you go, and this time you do look back.
He’s still there and he doesn’t look away.
By the time you get home, the sky has already dimmed into evening.
Your day clings to you in small ways, tired feet, a lingering buzz behind your eyes, but the familiar sight of your apartment building eases some of it away. You push through the front doors, keys still in hand and slow.
Ushijima stands in the foyer.
He’s facing someone else this time, posture relaxed but attentive, hands loosely at his sides. The man beside him is taller than most, lean rather than broad, with sharp features and an easy grin. His hair is striking and unmistakable.
You recognize him a split second before he turns.
Your steps echo softly as you walk past. Ushijima’s gaze lifts immediately, finding you without effort.
The familiarity in his voice, quiet, natural, makes your heart jump.
“Hey,” you reply, smiling before you can stop yourself.
That’s when the man beside him perks up.
“Oh?” he says brightly, eyes flicking between you and Ushijima. “So this must be the new neighbor.”
He steps forward without hesitation, hand already extended. “Tendō Satori. Nice to finally meet you.”
You blink, then laugh lightly as you shake his hand and introduce yourself.
Tendō’s grin widens. “Wow. Wakatoshi, you really left out some important details.”
Ushijima stiffens beside him. “What details?”
“You didn’t mention how gorgeous she is,” Tendō says cheerfully.
You feel heat rush to your face. “Oh, thank you.”
Ushijima looks uncomfortable.
Not angry. Not exactly upset. Just noticeably rigid, eyes narrowing slightly as Tendō continues to beam at you like this is the best part of his day.
“I’m shocked,” Tendō goes on. “Living next door to this and not saying a word?”
“It was not relevant,” Ushijima replies.
Tendō laughs. “You’re unbelievable.”
He turns back to you. “We’re actually heading out for drinks tonight. A few of us from the team. You should come.”
You hesitate instinctively, fingers curling around your bag strap. “Oh, I don’t know”
Tendō tilts his head, already persuasive. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”
“Is that okay?” you ask him softly.
He meets your gaze, something unreadable passing through his expression. Then he nods.
“Yes,” he says. “You may come.”
Your heart does a small, excited flip.
“Great!” Tendō claps his hands together. “Be at Wakatoshi’s apartment in an hour.”
You nod. “Okay. I’ll be there.”
As you head toward the stairs, you feel their eyes on you, one bright and curious, the other steady and thoughtful.
You don’t see Ushijima’s frown. But he does.
And as the door to the stairwell closes behind you, he realises, dimly, unexpectedly, that the idea of Tendō’s attention lingering on you makes something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
Something he doesn’t have a name for yet.
You change outfits three times.
The first feels too casual. The second feels like you’re trying too hard. The third, jeans that fit just right, heels you don’t wear often, and a sparkly, low-cut blouse that catches the light when you move, makes you pause in front of the mirror.
You smooth the fabric, heart fluttering.
“Okay,” you tell your reflection. “This is normal. This is just drinks.”
You finish getting ready carefully, checking your makeup one last time before pacing your apartment. The clock ticks louder than it should. When the hour finally passes, you grab your bag and head next door.
The door opens almost immediately.
Ushijima stands there in a fitted black shirt and dark jeans, simple and understated, but the way the fabric pulls across his chest and shoulders makes your breath hitch. He looks unfairly good.
For a moment, he just looks at you.
“You look nice,” he says, tone even, but there’s a slight pause before the word, like he chose it carefully.
Your heart stumbles. “Thank you. You too.”
He steps aside to let you in.
His apartment is tidy, minimalist, but warm in a quiet way. A few people are already there, voices overlapping, laughter easy.
“Hey!” Tendō spots you immediately. “You made it!”
He waves you over, already holding a drink out toward you. “Pre-drinks. Very important tradition.”
Soon you’re being introduced around, Kageyama Tobio, who nods politely but seems more interested in his drink than conversation; Semi Eita, relaxed and friendly, who asks how you like the neighborhood.
Ushijima stays close, not hovering, but always within reach. You notice him watching occasionally, especially when Tendō leans in a little too close or jokes a little too brightly.
The buzz sneaks up on you slowly, warmth settling in your limbs, the edges of the room softening just a bit. Tendō is animated, telling a story with dramatic gestures. Semi chuckles. Kageyama listens, eyes flicking between speakers.
Ushijima’s gaze flicks to Tendō again, brief, unreadable.
“You okay?” you ask him quietly when the noise swells.
“Yes,” he replies. “I am fine.”
When it’s time to head out, you all spill into the hallway together, energy high, night waiting just outside. Ushijima falls into step beside you without comment, his presence solid and grounding.
As you head toward the bar, you can’t help the thought that lingers in the back of your mind.
And Ushijima feels it too.
The bar is louder than Ushijima’s apartment.
Music hums through the space, low and rhythmic, layered with voices and laughter. Warm light spills across polished wood and glass, reflecting off mirrors behind the counter. It’s busy, but not overwhelming.
You stick close to the group as you approach the bar, heels clicking softly against the floor.
Tendō leans forward immediately. “Alright, first round’s on the table, what are we feeling?”
“Something sweet,” you say without thinking.
Ushijima turns slightly toward you. “I can get it.”
You blink. “Oh, you don’t have to”
“I don’t mind,” he says simply, already stepping forward.
Tendō’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Oh?” Tendō grins, glancing between you and Ushijima. “Look at that. Wakatoshi offering to buy drinks now.”
Semi laughs. “That’s new.”
Ushijima stiffens almost imperceptibly. “It is efficient,” he says. “We are already here.”
“Uh-huh,” Tendō says knowingly.
You feel heat creep up your neck as Ushijima orders for you, something fruity and garnished neatly. When he hands it to you, your fingers brush again.
“Thank you,” you say softly.
Tendō watches this exchange like he’s witnessing something fascinating. “You two are adorable.”
“We are not” Ushijima starts.
Semi cuts in cheerfully, “Relax. It’s fine.”
You sip your drink, grateful for the distraction, sweetness blooming on your tongue. The group settles into easy conversation, standing close, leaning in to hear one another over the music.
At one point, Tendō nudges you playfully. “So, how’s life living next door to this guy?”
You laugh lightly. “Quiet. Helpful.”
Someone suggests shots, bright little glasses lined up at the bar, harmless, but still fun. You join in, laughter bubbling up as everyone clinks glasses.
Throughout it all, Ushijima keeps an eye on you.
Not obvious. Not possessive.
When Tendō leans a bit closer to speak near your ear, Ushijima’s posture shifts. When you laugh at one of Semi’s jokes, his gaze flicks back to you immediately.
But he doesn’t miss anything either.
You catch his eye across the bar at one point, just for a second, and something unspoken passes between you. Awareness. Curiosity. Maybe something more.
“Oh,” he murmurs to Semi, amused. “This is getting interesting.”
Ushijima pretends not to hear. But his attention never leaves you.
The night winds down without you quite noticing when it happens.
Laughter softens into tired smiles, conversations blur together, and eventually Tendō is stretching his arms overhead, announcing loudly that the hotel bed is calling his name. Semi agrees. Even Kageyama looks ready to retreat into silence.
“I’ll head back with them,” Tendō says, already stepping away. He glances at you and then at Ushijima, grin turning knowing. “You good?”
Before you can answer, Ushijima speaks.
“I will walk her home, we live in the same building.” he says.
It’s said plainly. Naturally.
The group reacts immediately.
“That’s nice of you,” Semi adds.
You feel warm, inside and out, and not just from the drinks. “I don’t mind,” you say, maybe a little too quickly.
Ushijima nods once, decision made.
Outside, the night air is cool and refreshing, brushing against your flushed skin. The walk back feels shorter than it should. You’re more talkative than usual, words spilling easily, laughter bubbling up when you ramble or lose your train of thought.
“I had fun,” you say, swinging your arms slightly as you walk. “I don’t usually do stuff like that.”
“I am glad you enjoyed yourself,” he replies.
You glance up at him, smiling. “You’re very attentive tonight.”
He looks down at you. “I wanted to be.”
When you reach the building, the quiet returns. The familiar hallway hums softly as you stop outside your door.
“Well,” you say, suddenly aware of how close he’s standing. “Good night.”
“Yes,” he says. “Good night.”
There’s a buzzing in your chest, liquid courage, maybe, or something that’s been building longer than tonight. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you step closer.
You rise onto your toes, hands instinctively resting against his chest for balance, solid, warm beneath your palms, and press a quick, soft kiss to his lips.
For a heartbeat, everything stops.
You pull back immediately, heart racing, the weight of what you just did crashing over you all at once.
“I, sorry,” you blurt, mortified. “I shouldn’t have”
Without waiting another second, you fumble for your keys, slip inside your apartment, and shut the door behind you, leaning against it as your pulse thunders in your ears.
On the other side of the door, Ushijima stands completely still.
His chest is warm where your hands were.
And for the first time in a very long while, he doesn’t know what to do next.
Not gently, slowly, like your body is negotiating with consciousness rather than accepting it outright. Your head feels heavy, limbs sluggish, mouth dry. The light filtering through the curtains is far too bright for comfort.
The bar.
The walk home.
The way your heart had been pounding.
The kiss.
You groan softly and roll onto your side, pulling the blanket up over your head like it might erase memory along with light.
“Oh my god,” you whisper into the pillow.
You squeeze your eyes shut, mortification washing over you in waves. You kissed him. You kissed him. And then ran away like a startled animal, leaving him standing there without a word.
You’re still spiraling when there’s a knock at your door.
Another knock, firm, familiar.
Your heart drops straight into your stomach.
You shuffle out of bed on instinct, brain not fully caught up yet. You don’t check the mirror. You don’t think about what you’re wearing, just an oversized T shirt that hangs off one shoulder and a pair of socks.
He looks composed. Fresh. Awake in a way that feels deeply unfair. His gaze drops briefly, taking you in, messy hair, bare legs, the way you’re clearly not prepared for company.
Heat floods your face instantly.
“Oh,” you start, then stop.
He holds out a bottle and a small packet.
“This is for you,” he says.
You blink, eyes focusing. A smoothie. Paracetamol.
“For the hangover,” he adds.
“Thank you,” you manage, mortified. You take them quickly, like the evidence might vanish if you move fast enough.
He watches you for a second longer, expression unreadable.
Then, just as simply as he arrived, he nods once.
You nod back, unable to meet his eyes. “Yeah. I will.”
You close the door gently but firmly, leaning against it the moment it shuts.
Your heart is racing all over again.
On the other side of the door, Ushijima exhales quietly.
Last night replays in his mind, not the shock, not the confusion, but the warmth of your hands, the softness of the kiss, the way you’d looked up at him.
He walks back to his apartment with one thought steady in his chest. He needs to talk to you.
Ushijima is reviewing game footage when the knock comes.
He pauses the screen and stands, opening the door to find Tendō leaning casually against the frame, hands in his jacket pockets, grin already in place.
“So,” Tendō says. “How was walking your neighbor home last night?”
Ushijima steps aside to let him in. “It was uneventful.”
Tendō snorts. “That’s a lie.”
He flops onto the couch without waiting for permission, stretching his legs out. “You didn’t text. You didn’t call. Which means something happened.”
Ushijima remains standing for a moment longer than necessary before sitting across from him.
“She kissed me,” he says.
“She stepped closer,” Ushijima continues, tone steady despite the memory flaring vividly. “Rose onto her toes. Placed her hands here.” He gestures vaguely to his chest. “And kissed me.”
Tendō stares at him for a full second.
Ushijima looks away. “I did not respond quickly.”
Tendō leans forward. “Define not quickly.”
“I did nothing,” Ushijima says. “She apologized. Then she ran inside.”
Then Tendō groans loudly, dropping his head back against the couch.
“You stood there?” he says incredulously. “Wakatoshi. Come on.”
“I was surprised,” Ushijima replies, frowning slightly. “I did not want to act incorrectly.”
Tendō sits up, expression shifting, still teasing, but sharper now.
“Listen,” he says. “That girl did not kiss you by accident. That was courage. Liquid courage, sure, but courage.”
“She is embarrassed,” Tendō continues. “And you’re over here analyzing like it’s a match.”
He points at Ushijima. “You like her.”
Ushijima doesn’t respond immediately.
Tendō’s grin returns, softer this time. “Then here’s your advice.”
He stands, adjusting his jacket.
“Go talk to her. Don’t overexplain. Don’t strategize. Just be honest.”
“And Wakatoshi?” Tendō adds, pausing at the door. “Next time someone kisses you, don’t freeze.”
The door closes behind him.
Ushijima sits back, the apartment quiet again, Tendō’s words settling firmly in his chest.
He looks toward the shared hallway and makes a decision.
The knock comes just after sunset.
You’re curled on the couch, smoothie half-finished on the table, still wrapped in that quiet, lingering embarrassment from the morning when you hear it. It’s firm. Familiar.
Your heart immediately knows before your brain catches up.
You open the door slowly.
Ushijima stands there, hands at his sides, posture straight but not rigid. He looks serious. Not stern, just purposeful.
“Yeah,” you say, stepping aside. “Of course.”
He enters, removing his shoes neatly, just like before. The apartment feels smaller again once he’s inside. You gesture toward the couch, and after a brief hesitation, you both sit, leaving a careful, respectful space between you.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
“Why did you leave after you kissed me?”
You stare down at your hands, fingers twisting together. “I thought I messed up,” you admit quietly. “You didn’t say anything, and I panicked. I was embarrassed.”
He listens without interrupting.
“You should not have been,” he says.
You look up at him, surprised.
“I was caught off guard,” he continues. “But that does not mean I did not want it.”
“I was thinking,” he adds, gaze steady on yours. “I should have said something sooner. I apologize.”
Something in your chest loosens.
“It’s okay,” you say softly. “I didn’t exactly give you much time.”
A faint pause. Then, very subtly, his shoulders relax.
“There is something else,” he says.
“Would you like to come over for dinner?” he asks. “This time, I will cook.”
You hesitate, just a second. “Is this a neighbor thing?”
He meets your eyes fully now.
“It is a date,” he says plainly.
The word hangs between you, simple, unmistakable.
Your lips curve into a small, stunned smile. “Then yes. I’d like that.”
He nods once, like something important has been confirmed.
When he stands to leave, the air between you feels lighter than it has in days, charged, but calm. At the door, he pauses.
“I will see you tomorrow evening,” he says.
“I’ll be there,” you reply.
After he leaves, you sink back onto the couch, heart racing, but this time, it’s not embarrassment.
The schedule changes without warning.
Ushijima reads the message twice to be certain, jaw tightening slightly as the implications settle in. An away game, important, mandatory, and not just for one night. They’re expected to travel early, leave the same day he had planned something else entirely.
The thought lingers longer than it should.
After training, he returns home earlier than usual, already adjusting his plans. He showers, changes, and then, without hesitating further, steps across the hall.
He waits longer than he normally would, listening. Nothing. He considers knocking a third time, then stops himself. You must still be at work.
He does not have your number.
That oversight feels significant now.
After a moment of thought, he pulls a pen from his pocket, retrieves a small notepad from his apartment, and writes quickly, neatly, without embellishment.
‘Away game.
Leaving tomorrow.
I will be gone several days.
Can we have dinner when I return?
—Ushijima’
He reads it once, nods, and tapes it carefully to your door at eye level.
You come home tired, but light.
The day drags, but the thought of dinner carries you through it, warming your chest every time it surfaces. You replay it in your head: sitting across from him, the quiet focus he brings to everything, the way he looks at you when he’s paying attention.
You get to your door and stop.
There’s a note taped to it.
Your smile falters as you read it.
The excitement drains out of you, replaced by a sharp, sinking disappointment that catches you off guard with how intense it feels. You know it’s not rejection. You know he’s busy. Rationally, it all makes sense.
You peel the note off slowly, fingers trembling just a little.
Inside, you change into pajamas without turning on the overhead lights. You tie your hair up, curl on the couch, and stare at your phone for a long moment before opening a food delivery app.
The apartment feels quieter than it has in days.
You order something simple. Familiar. Safe.
As you wait, you fold the note once, then twice, and set it carefully on the table.
You tell yourself it’s fine.
But when the knock comes, this time from a delivery driver, you don’t feel like smiling at all.
The days move forward whether you want them to or not.
Work fills your time easily enough, meetings, small talk, learning names, settling into routines. You make a few friends faster than you expect, the kind born out of shared lunch breaks and mutual exhaustion.
Still, there’s a quiet absence threaded through everything.
You don’t see Ushijima in the hallway.
You don’t hear his door.
There’s no note. No update.
You remind yourself that he said he’d be gone several days. That this is normal. Reasonable.
It doesn’t stop the dull ache.
So when one of your coworkers invites you out after work, you say yes before you can overthink it.
You get ready with less hesitation this time, short dress, heels, something easy and flattering. You don’t check your neighbor’s door on the way out.
The place is lively, lights low and music loud enough that you don’t have to think too much. You dance with your friends, laugh too easily, let the warmth of the night carry you along.
You feel a little light, a little unsteady, not enough to lose yourself, just enough that the edges soften.
That’s when someone approaches you.
“Hey,” he says, leaning in just enough to be heard over the music. “Sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to say, you look amazing.”
You blink, then smile politely. “Thank you.”
He introduces himself and adds. “Are you having fun tonight?”
“Yeah,” you say after a beat. “I am.”
He gestures toward the bar. “Can I get you a drink?”
You hesitate, just a second, then nod. “Okay.”
At the bar, conversation comes easily enough.
“So,” he says, handing you the glass, “what brings you out tonight?”
“Work friends,” you reply. “New city. Still figuring things out.”
“That explains it,” he smiles. “You’ve got that ‘new here’ energy.”
You laugh softly. “Is that a thing?”
He asks where you’re from. You ask what he does. He listens, nodding, clearly engaged. It’s pleasant. Comfortable.
When you rejoin your friends, he stays close but not intrusive. At some point, as the music shifts and your head feels a little lighter, he leans in again.
“Can I get your number?” he asks. “I’d like to see you again.”
A flicker of guilt. A thought you push aside.
“Yeah,” you say, pulling your phone out. “Okay.”
The night winds down eventually. You say your goodbyes, head home alone, heels clicking softly against the pavement. Your apartment greets you with familiar quiet.
You kick off your shoes, change, and sink onto the couch just as your phone lights up.
‘Hey, it’s the guy from the bar, Got home safe?’
You stare at the screen for a moment.
Your chest tightens, not with excitement, but with the realization that you’re still thinking about someone else entirely.
You type back.
‘Yeah, I did. Thanks for asking! Hope you did too.’
A reply comes quickly from him
‘I did. Tonight was fun. We should do it again sometime.’
Your fingers hover over the screen.
You don’t feel nothing, but you don’t feel right, either.
You:
‘Yeah, maybe. I’ve got a busy week coming up, but it was nice meeting you.’
You set your phone down after that, not waiting for a reply.
You curl into bed, exhaustion finally catching up to you, Ushijima’s face lingering in your thoughts whether you invite it or not.
You’re locking your door when you hear footsteps behind you.
For half a second, you don’t think anything of it, until a familiar presence settles into the hallway, steady and unmistakable.
Ushijima stands a few steps away, travel bag slung over one shoulder. He looks tired in the quiet way he always does after long days, eyes a little heavier, posture still straight but relaxed, like he’s finally exhaled after holding something in.
“Oh,” you breathe, then catch yourself. “You’re back.”
“Yes,” he says. “We returned late last night.”
There’s a brief pause. The hallway feels suddenly smaller, filled with things you haven’t said.
“I wanted to apologize,” he continues.
Your brows knit together. “For what?”
“For leaving abruptly,” he says. “And for the note. It was insufficient.”
You flush slightly. “It was just unexpected. I figured you were busy.”
“I was,” he admits. “But I should have explained better.”
He shifts his bag slightly, then adds, “I also realized something.”
“We do not have each other’s phone numbers,” he says. “That was an oversight.”
A small, shy smile tugs at your lips. “Yeah. It kind of was.”
You exchange phones, fingers brushing as you type your number in. When his name appears on your screen, Ushijima Wakatoshi, something warm settles in your chest.
“If you are still willing,” he says, meeting your eyes, “I would like to reschedule dinner.”
“Tonight,” he says. “If that is acceptable.”
You try very hard not to look too eager. You probably fail.
“Yes,” you say quickly, then soften it with a laugh. “Tonight works.”
He nods once, a subtle satisfaction in the movement.
“I will see you this evening, then.”
“I’ll be there,” you reply.
He watches you for a moment longer than necessary, then inclines his head and heads toward his apartment.
You stand there for a second after he’s gone, heart racing, cheeks warm.
You grab your bag and head out to work, excitement bubbling quietly under your calm exterior, the day suddenly feeling a lot shorter than it did a moment ago.
Work is busy enough that you almost forget to check your phone.
It’s during a lull, standing near the window, coffee cooling in your hands, that your screen lights up. Your heart jumps automatically before your eyes even register the name.
‘Training is running longer than expected.
I will not be able to make dinner tonight.
I am sorry.’
Not because it doesn’t make sense.
Not because you don’t understand.
But because it’s the second time.
You stare at the message, thumb hovering. The excitement from this morning drains out of you slowly, replaced by something heavier. Disappointment, yes, but also the quiet sting of feeling like you keep coming second to something you can’t compete with.
You type back before you can overthink it.
It’s short. Blunt. You don’t add anything else.
You set your phone down and finish your shift on autopilot, the rest of the day blurring together. By the time you’re walking home, the sun has dipped low, the air cooler against your skin.
Your phone buzzes again. It’s the guy from the bar.
‘Hey! Random, but are you free tonight?
Thought I’d see if you wanted to grab dinner ’
You stare at the message longer than you did Ushijima’s.
This time, the ache in your chest sharpens.
Why does it always feel like I’m waiting?
Before you can second-guess yourself, you type:
His reply comes almost immediately.
‘Awesome. I know a place nearby—7:30 okay?’
Back in your apartment, you move more slowly.
You shower, letting the water run longer than necessary. You dry your hair carefully, choosing something nicer than you usually would, soft, intentional. You apply makeup with more attention this time, lingering just a little longer at your reflection.
You choose a dress, elegant, flattering, paired with heels that make you stand taller. When you step back and look at yourself, you barely recognize the woman staring back.
She looks like someone who isn’t waiting.
You grab your bag and leave, locking the door behind you without glancing next door.
The restaurant is warm and softly lit when you arrive. You check the time, early. Jake isn’t there yet.
You take a seat near the window, folding your hands in your lap.
And as you wait, a quiet thought settles in your chest, unwanted, persistent.
Time stretches in uncomfortable ways when you’re waiting.
At first, it’s easy to excuse. Ten minutes late is nothing. You scroll your phone, adjust your bag on your shoulder, glance toward the entrance whenever it opens.
You check your messages. Nothing new.
Half an hour passes. The waiter offers water again, concern flickering briefly across his face before he masks it with professionalism. You thank him and tell him you’re fine.
By the time forty five minutes have gone by, your chest feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with the room. Your excitement has long since faded, replaced by a quiet dread you don’t want to name.
‘Hey, are you still coming?’
The typing bubble never appears.
It hits you all at once, sharp and undeniable.
Your throat tightens as you gather your things, murmuring a soft apology to the staff as you leave. The cool night air hits your face the moment you step outside, and that’s when your composure finally cracks.
You walk faster than you need to, heels clicking unevenly against the pavement. The city blurs slightly as tears spill over, frustration and hurt tangling together until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
Twice, your mind whispers cruelly.
In one night.
By the time you reach your building, your vision is hazy. You fumble with your keys, blinking rapidly, trying to pull yourself together,
You hear a voice clear and freeze.
Ushijima steps out of the stairwell, gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair damp like he’s just finished training. He stops short the moment he sees you.
You’re still dressed up, hair done, makeup intact but smudging now, dress catching the hallway light. Clearly not dressed for a quiet night in.
And clearly not waiting for him.
His brows knit together in confusion.
“I thought I canceled dinner,” he says slowly.
Then his gaze drops, to your shaking hands, the tears you haven’t managed to wipe away, the way your shoulders are curled inward like you’re trying to make yourself smaller.
Concern replaces confusion instantly.
You shake your head, lips trembling as you try, and fail, to speak.
He steps closer without hesitation.
His voice is low and gentle when he speaks “What happened?”
The hallway feels too quiet, too small, and suddenly you’re very tired of holding everything in.
You swallow hard, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand.
“I’m not hurt,” you manage. “Just embarrassed.”
Ushijima doesn’t move away. If anything, he steps a little closer, like he’s anchoring the space between you.
“Can you tell me what happened?” he asks quietly.
You hesitate. Your chest feels tight, vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with the tears. But something about the way he’s looking at you, steady, patient, makes it easier to speak.
“I met someone while you were gone,” you say finally. “Just a guy. We talked a bit. He asked me out tonight.”
Ushijima’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
You let out a shaky breath. “He didn’t show up. I waited an hour.”
For a moment, Ushijima says nothing. His expression shifts, something dark flickering briefly behind his eyes. Jealousy, sharp and instinctive, rises in his chest before he can stop it. He knows he has no claim here. No right to feel it.
“That was foolish of him,” he says flatly.
You let out a small, surprised laugh, broken, but real. “You don’t even know him.”
“I do not need to,” Ushijima replies. His gaze drops, taking you in properly now, the effort you put into your hair, the dress, the heels you’re no longer standing confidently in.
“You look very nice,” he says. “Anyone who would make you wait an hour is an idiot.”
Your laugh comes a little easier this time. “That’s very blunt.”
You sniffle, shoulders relaxing just a fraction. The hallway feels less suffocating now, like you can finally breathe again.
“I’m sorry,” you say quietly. “I didn’t mean to, I just. after you canceled, I thought maybe—”
“You do not owe me an explanation,” Ushijima interrupts gently. “I was the one who canceled.”
He shifts his gym bag higher on his shoulder, then hesitates, an unusual pause for him.
“If you are still willing,” he says, choosing his words carefully, “I would like to make you dinner. Tonight. As planned.”
“Even after all this?” you ask.
There’s no hesitation in his answer.
“I am tired,” he admits, “but I would rather spend the evening with you than alone. If that is something you still want.”
Your throat tightens again, but this time it’s not from hurt.
“I’d like that,” you say softly. “If you’re sure.”
You unlock your door with steadier hands this time, stepping inside just long enough to swap your heels for something more comfortable, wipe the last traces of tears from your face.
When you step back into the hallway, Ushijima is waiting.
And for the first time that night, the ache in your chest finally eases, replaced by something warmer, steadier, and unmistakably real.
Ushijima’s apartment feels different at night.
The lights are dimmed, the city glow filtering in through the windows, and the space smells faintly of clean linen and something warm already starting to cook. You hover near the doorway for a moment, suddenly shy again, unsure where to put yourself.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Ushijima says, setting his bag down. “You can sit. It will take a little while.”
You nod and move toward the sofa, smoothing your dress unnecessarily before sitting. From where you are, you can see into the kitchen.
He moves with quiet confidence, washing his hands, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, reaching for ingredients like this is something he does more often than he lets on. His broad back fills the space easily, muscles shifting under fabric as he works.
You watch without meaning to.
The way he concentrates.
The way he moves carefully, deliberately.
The way he glances over his shoulder every so often, like he’s checking that you’re still there.
“Is this okay?” he asks at one point, holding up a bottle. “I usually season lightly.”
“Yes,” you say quickly. “That’s perfect.”
He nods, satisfied, and continues.
The sound of cooking fills the apartment, gentle sizzling, the rhythmic chop of a knife. It’s domestic in a way that makes your chest ache pleasantly. No pressure. No expectations. Just being here.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
“For this,” you gesture vaguely. “For still wanting to do dinner. For earlier.”
He turns to face you fully then, expression calm but intent.
“I wanted to,” he says simply. “You looked like you needed someone to take care of you.”
Your face warms instantly.
He doesn’t tease you for it. Doesn’t smirk or comment. Just turns back to the stove like what he said was the most natural thing in the world.
By the time he plates the food, your stomach is growling softly. He sets everything down neatly, chicken cooked perfectly, rice fluffed just right, vegetables bright and tender.
He pours you a glass of water before you even ask.
He watches you take your first bite, shoulders easing slightly when your eyes light up.
“This is really good,” you say. “You’re really good at this.”
“I practice,” he replies. “Cooking is grounding.”
Dinner stretches comfortably. Conversation flows easily, about work, about moving, about small, ordinary things that somehow feel important just because you’re sharing them. Ushijima listens closely, asking thoughtful questions, remembering details.
Every so often, he does something small that makes your heart stutter.
Refilling your glass.
Pushing your chair in when you stand.
Handing you a napkin without a word when you spill a little rice.
You’ve never felt so quietly cared for.
When you laugh at something he says, rare, dry humor, you notice the faintest smile tug at his lips. It feels like a secret meant just for you.
By the time you finish eating, you’re warm all the way through. Not just full, but settled. Safe.
Ushijima clears the dishes before you can protest.
“I’ll clean.” he states easily.
You watch him again from the doorway, heart swelling in a way that’s almost overwhelming now.
Your crush isn’t just bigger.
And as you stand there, wrapped in the quiet of his apartment and the gentleness of his attention, you realize, maybe for the first time, that he might be feeling something too.
The dishes are done.
The apartment is quiet again.
You stand near the counter while Ushijima dries his hands, neither of you quite ready to say what comes next. The air between you feels different now, charged, careful, like something fragile has been set gently on the table and neither of you wants to knock it over.
“Thank you again,” you say softly. “For dinner. And everything.”
He turns toward you, towel set aside. “You’re welcome.”
You hesitate, then add, “I’m really glad you came back tonight.”
“So am I,” he says without pause.
The way he looks at you makes your breath hitch, not intense, not overwhelming, just steady and warm. Like he’s fully here, with you, not thinking three steps ahead for once.
Neither of you moves for a moment.
Then he speaks again, quieter.
“I should let you rest,” he says. “It’s been a long day.”
You nod, even though part of you wishes time would slow down just a little more.
“Yeah,” you say. “It has.”
You walk toward the door together. He opens it for you, standing close enough now that you can feel his warmth beside you. The hallway light spills in, softening the edges of everything.
“Good night,” he replies.
You don’t know who moves first.
Maybe it’s you, shifting your weight forward just slightly.
Maybe it’s him, stepping closer without realizing it.
He looks down at you, expression unreadable but gentle, and then, slowly, deliberately, he leans down.
One of his hands comes up, resting lightly at your side, steady and careful. He pauses just long enough to make sure you’re still there, still willing.
Then his lips brush yours.
It’s soft. Brief. Unhurried.
Because of the height difference, you tip up onto your toes without thinking . He adjusts instinctively, bending just a little more so the kiss feels natural, unforced.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests near yours for a heartbeat.
“Good night,” he says again, quieter this time.
Your face is warm, heart racing.
You step back into the hallway, turning toward your door before you can overthink it. When you glance back once more, he’s still standing there, watching you with an expression that makes your chest feel full in the best way.
You close the door gently behind you.
And for the first time in a while, you fall asleep smiling.
I think this is the longest thing i’ve written so far so i really hope you enjoy!
Ushijima is slowly becoming one my favourites to write for
