miya osamu used to laugh at people claiming they "fell in love at first sight," until it happened to him.
it was his first year at inarizaki high, and he needed to have his and atsumu's application forms signed by the vice principal—which was stupid in his mind since it wasn't like they were going to be going out of campus every single campus. but he really wanted to join the club (plus atsumu was there and he doesn't have the heart to leave his twin just yet).
speaking of his twin brother, he was currently stuck in the restroom, fighting for his life after drinking spoiled milk.
and so, here he was about to knock on the vice prinicpal's door, mouth already open to excuse himself, before a loud scream echoed from inside the room. "The hell do ya mean denied?!" the voice was shrill and obviously upset about something, yet there was a strange tug from osamu's heart when he heard it.
another voice soon followed. this one was more mellow and on the quieter side. "senpai! don't yell at the vice principal!"
the vice principal's voice agreed. "listen to yer kohai, [last name]-san, it'll do ya some good."
osamu blinked, pocketing the surname he had heard for future purposes. he looked at his outstretched hand, ready to knock on the door. then, at the door itself, which hid the screaming match from him. then, back at his hand again.
he placed his hand back to his side and pressed his ear on the door.
"'m sorry but i don't agree to this decision at all!" you shouted.
"good thing my word's the decision then," the vice principal hummed.
"we're sorry, vice principal—"
"no!" you intervened, cutting off your kohai. "'ve been tryna make ta bakin' club legit since last year, but ya always turn us down."
osamu's interest was immediately piqued. baking club? inarizaki high doesn't have a baking club? why was that?
"an' i've been tellin' ya since last year: just enter the cookin' club."
a strangled cry came from you, which was followed by your kohai trying to calm you down.
"vice principal, bakin' is a science!" you declared. a loud bang and a startled yelp echoed. "we cannot be share space with the cookin' club 'cuz we'll be fightin' for every single ingredient, utensil, an' equipment!"
"[lastname]-senpai!"
osamu backed away from the door as a scuffle seemed to be happening inside. damn, you're really into baking to be fighting this hard for a club, huh? his heartbeat quickened as he continued to listen to your passionate monologue about how baking is superior to cooking (which he would have to disagree; they were both hard to do), how the baking club needed it's own space to cultivate, and how you'll never reach your potential if you were stuck doing omelets for the remainder of your high school life.
honestly, osamu was rooting for you to win... unfortunately, it seemed that you really angered the vice principal.
"that's it! a week suspension for ya, [lastname]-san! reflect on yer actions an' maybe i'll entertain yer idea."
"ya've been sayin' that since last year too!"
the door suddenly slid open and osamu swore his breathe just got stolen away. you looked absolutely radiant—too beautiful to put into words. even with a deep scowl on your perfect face, you'd managed to quicken his heartbeat like he had just finished a whole three sets of volleyball. when your sharp eyes landed on him, he corrected his posture, praying that his hair was having a good day and that there wasn't any seaweed stuck between his teeth.
though, before he could greet or have the chance to flirt with you, you sneered, "what'cha lookin' at, ugly ass dust feather?"
he blinked, caught off-guard by your insult.
yet he wasn't really offended by it. oh no, more like his heart soared through the air, backflipped in space, and crash-landed back into his chest. you were not only pretty, a baker (he assumed), and a mean senpai at that?
damn, you were a package deal!
you didn't bother apologising, turning to walk down the hallway, hair swaying with each step. after you, your kohai left the room, an exasperated look on her face as she bowed to osamu. "'m sorry! [lastname]-senpai didn't mean ta insult ya, i swear!"
again, before he could even speak, your kohai ran after you, scolding you for your brash behaviour.
osamu could only watch as you disappear from the hallway. his lips moved on its own, mouthing your surname like a prayer to the gods as his grip on his and atsumu's application forms tightened.
he wondered how piss his twin would be if he decided to switch to a none existent club.
is it cliche to use a baker! reader with osamu. yes. do i regret it. absolute not lmao
after watching your high school's volleyball game, a certain setter had caught your attention. what else does a bored girl supposed to do in bed but stalk through his socials?
note: this was insipired by drop dead by olivia! <3 also this is my first haikyuu work, i hope y'all like it ( ´ ▽ ` )
the screams inside the giant gymnasium felt as though they might burst your eardrums off. the game had been going on for so long, both teams on the court were locked in this seemingly endless rally that had your eyes going back and forth to both sides.
but obviously, you were rooting for your high school’s team. fukurodani academy was known for having a strong team, though guiltily, this was your first time watching any of their games.
it was competition season, as your friends called it—they had practically dragged you out here to watch a bunch of games—mostly that of your volleyball club’s.
at first, it took you a few games to understand the rules and what they were actually doing on court, but when you got the hang of it, you found yourself cheering along with your friends, eyes locked onto that ball.
your heart pounded inside your chest as the ball returned to fukurodani’s side. the ball was received by the libero, flying high in the air. then, your gaze locked onto that player that had stolen your attention for a while now.
number 5, the setter, as your friends called him.
he flawlessly tossed the ball to the tall guy running up to the net. and with a powerful spike that had you sitting on the edge of your seat, the team successfully earned their victory.
the gymnasium erupted with cheers, your friend grabbed your arm and pulled you up to jump and cheer with her.
“they’re so good!” one of your friends commented, grinning as she lifted a makeshift banner—or more like a piece of paper with the fukurodani name scribbled on it.
“i swear, that number 4 looks like he could rip arms off with his spikes!” your friends discussed the game, watching as the players approached your side of the bleachers to bow.
your eyes stayed glued onto the composed expression number 5 had on his face. he didn’t look that ruffled from the game save for the quick rise and fall of his chest—indicating just how exhausting that game was.
the team bowed in front of the bleachers, shouting ‘thank you’ to the audience. more girls around you cheered, waving their signs around and shouting ‘good job’ across the bleachers.
you couldn’t help but wonder what number five looked like up close.
your attention is torn away when your friends grab your arm, “we should head to the cafe before going home! i could really use a drink.”
the cafe was quiet when you arrived. it was already deep into the afternoon and everyone was probably headed home by now.
you sipped from your drink as your friends passed a phone around the table. you took a peek at the screen and found a social media profile opened.
it was that guy with white-gray hair that won the game with that terrifying spike. “this guy’s in my older friend’s class, he’s a third year.” one of the girls shared.
“i think his name was bokuto. apparently, he’s like one of the top aces in the country.”
“damn, really? no wonder his spikes were so clean.” you comment, eyes skimming over his profile.
then, you see it. a post that showed that familiar number 5 jersey.
bokuto smiled up at the camera with the setter you saw earlier standing just right behind him. he wasn’t even looking at the camera but the ball in his hands as though he was deep in thought. it looks like it was captured without him knowing.
now that you could see his face more clearly, you felt your heart skip a beat. he was cute—handsome, you couldn’t quite put the words together.
but the way he looked at the ball in his hands, eyes glimmering with determination made you lean closer to the phone, scrolling through more pictures until you found another.
it was another post, another candid shot. this time, he was sitting by the window of a classroom, chin resting on his hand. his eyes were trained onto the textbook before him, wired earphones dangling loosely.
a few other people surrounded him, casually tossing volleyballs around. yet, he seemed quite used to the ruckus with how unbothered he looked.
was this some sort of deja vu?
school had finally ended for the day, but before heading home, you’d forgotten your notebook somewhere on your table. you tell your friends to go on ahead as you ran up to the second floor.
you stopped in your tracks when you passed by an empty classroom—except it wasn’t completely empty.
near the window, a boy sat in his seat, fingers flipping through the pages of his textbook. your eyes grazed his dark—slightly messy hair, and that composed expression on his face, like this was just another one of his routines.
you swear you’ve seen this before.
“akaashi!” a loud voice echoed across the corridor. you quickly moved to the other side of the hallway and away from the door.
a guy you recognized to be bokuto sauntered into the classroom, a volleyball tucked in his arm. “let’s go!” he called out.
so, his name was akaashi, huh.
as soon as your head hit the pillow, you grabbed your phone and dialed your friend. for some reason, your heart was racing—feeling a bit nervous. but god, were you just so curious.
“hey! did you find your notebook?” your friend answered.
“yeah. but i… have a question.” you hesitated, feeling warmth rise to your cheeks.
your friend chuckled on the other line, “what’s up?”
“you know that setter from the volleyball club? number 5.” you mumbled, trying to keep your voice steady. but of course, your friend has none of this and laughs from the other line.
“akaashi keiji? i’m on it!” she announces, voice filled with excitement.
not even a minute later, his username was already in your chat.
“he’s a second year like us, and oh my god look! he’s the vice captain of the volleyball club!” she giggled over the phone, almost sounding as though she were endorsing him to you.
“and you know, i heard he’s really smart—and isn’t he cute too?!” she spoke quickly and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes while fighting a smile.
“i didn’t ask for all of that.” you mumbled, fingers already typing in his username.
“you wanted it anyway.” she teased.
when you opened his profile, you were greeted with basically nothing. although he had a good amount of followers, he only had two posts in his feed. one being a picture of his table with a few mangas scattered about.
the other post seemed to be his volleyball team, they were at a restaurant, big smiles and drinks raised up. akaashi sat quietly beside bokuto, smiling softly. he held up a peace sign and had an onigiri on the other hand.
a small flutter in your stomach tells you everything—you need to see his smiles up close, and maybe how his voice would sound too.
it was almost as though you had manifested him. ever since you noticed him at the game, you just kept on running into him.
at first, it was at the convenience store near your school. you were buying yourself a quick drink before class and ended up grabbing the same one as akaashi. when your hands touched, you both flinched and pulled away, murmuring apologies to each other before awkwardly grabbing something else.
but that ended up with both of you standing in front of the cashier, offering the other to go on ahead. the cashier switched his gaze between the two of you, smiling to himself.
the next time was on the train. by the time you managed to get on, the train was practically full and you had no choice but to stand somewhere off to the side. just as the doors were about to close, a person squeezed in just at the last minute.
you recognized your school’s uniform on him and slowly looked up. akaashi was already staring back at you, eyes a little wide from recognition.
the two of you exchanged a short, awkward greeting before you pulled out your phone and stared at the screen—your mind reeling from the sudden proximity between you.
at this point, your heart was already pounding in your chest. you snuck quick glances at him and noticed how he just looked out the window, eyes tracing the view outside, completely indifferent from the world around him.
and of course, just as fate would have it, when your stop came, he also got off the train. you quietly trailed behind him, noticing how the two of you were taking the same path home.
but of course, you wouldn’t let an opportunity like this pass up. you started visiting that convenience store near school more often. who knew akaashi would go there everyday like clockwork? that he seemed to buy that drink almost habitually every morning before school?
or maybe the fact that when he didn’t have practice you’d find him sitting across from you on the train ride home.
what mattered the most was how he looked at you. first, he was curious—of how often he’d see you around when he didn’t notice before.
curiosity turned into familiarity, and whenever akaashi keiji found himself looking for you. his morning convenience store runs had become a complete staple of his day, sometimes he’d see you already heading inside and find himself walking faster to catch up.
“when did you start drinking these sweet drinks, akaashi?” bokuto asked during lunch, his finger poking the drink carton on akaashi’s desk.
akaashi shrugged, “i like it.”
it reminded him of you.
it’s probably feminine intuition. your fate was sealed the moment you saw him at that volleyball game. you knew it then, akaashi keiji had your whole undivided attention, without even trying.
the court was filled with loud cheers from the audience. fukurodani academy had just taken another win, advancing them further into the competition. you got up from your seat, hands clapping as a smile tugged at your lips.
“they’re on a roll! akaashi’s doing well today too! did you see those dump shots?” your friend laughed, waving her banner around.
but just like a routine, you slipped away from the stands and found your place near the court and in the shadows of the door.
you clutched his favorite drink in your hand, feeling the cold seep against your skin.
after the players were free to leave the court, akaashi’s legs were already moving towards you.
“keiji!” you smiled, waving your hand. akaashi smiled, feeling the exhaustion ebb away from him the closer he got to you.
akaashi stood in front of you and walked right into your open arms. his own automatically coming up around you.
“good job today!” you commended, feeling his arms tighten around you as he rested his chin against your shoulder.
“thank you.” he mumbled quietly. akaashi had practically melted onto you.
maybe it was really intuition. because the moment you saw him that day, a part of you had already imagined what it would feel like to be this close to him.
˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ 1.86k wc, @lumixnouss on ao3 and wattpad <3
ℒ ove, lumi.
husband!shinsuke who wakes up before the sun, but not before kissing your cheek and tucking the blanket closer around you so you stay warm while he starts the day.
husband!shinsuke who comes in from the fields smelling faintly of earth and fresh grain, his first stop always being you—dusting himself off just enough before wrapping you in a hug.
husband!shinsuke who saves the best produce from every harvest for you. the ripest strawberries, the juiciest peaches, the sweetest corn—all set aside because “my wife deserves the best.”
husband!shinsuke who builds little wooden crates just for you to carry vegetables from the garden, though he always ends up doing it himself so you don’t strain your arms.
husband!shinsuke who insists you wear his wide-brimmed hat when you join him in the fields, because the thought of the sun touching your skin too much makes him uneasy.
husband!shinsuke who works from dawn to dusk without complaint, but the moment you call for him, he’ll drop everything—your voice outweighs any responsibility.
husband!shinsuke who has dirt on his hands but never lets them touch you until he’s washed up, because he thinks you’re too precious for roughness.
husband!shinsuke who plants rows of flowers along the edge of the crops just because you once said you liked the way they looked.
husband!shinsuke who builds sturdy fences and strong locks, not just to keep animals out, but because the idea of anything unwelcome getting too close to you unsettles him.
husband!shinsuke who notices when you look lonely while he’s working, so he shortens his hours, even if it means less sleep for him—he’d rather be exhausted than see you sad.
husband!shinsuke who always washes the dirt from under his nails before touching you, because he sees you as something clean, soft, untouchable by the roughness of his work.
husband!shinsuke who carves little wooden charms during winter evenings to gift you, simple but made with such love it makes your chest ache.
husband!shinsuke who would rather his crops fail than ever see you unhappy—he can rebuild a field, but he can’t rebuild you.
husband!shinsuke who walks you around the farm at sunset, pointing out each patch of land with quiet pride, saying, “all of this is for us.”
husband!shinsuke who keeps an old flannel draped over your shoulders whenever you’re outside, murmuring that the chill in the air “isn’t fit for you.”
husband!shinsuke who takes you into town on market days, but keeps a steady hand at the small of your back, his calm expression making it clear you’re never to be approached carelessly.
husband!shinsuke who will always downplay how hard farm life is because he doesn’t want you to ever worry about him—your comfort comes before his own.
husband!shinsuke who comes home with scratches and callouses, but the moment you frown at them, he cups your face with a soft smile and says, “it’s nothing, long as I can hold you.”
husband!shinsuke who works with quiet intensity, but you’re the one thing that can make him put down his tools without hesitation.
husband!shinsuke who thinks of you with every seed he plants, imagining how this life will keep providing for you, how the earth itself bends to serve you through him.
husband!shinsuke who prays every night before bed—not for his farm’s success, not for his own health, but simply to keep you safe and beside him.
husband!shinsuke who sometimes stares at you across the dinner table like he still can’t believe you’re real, and when you ask why, he just says, “I just love lookin’ at what’s mine.”
husband!shinsuke who keeps your favorite fruits growing year-round in the greenhouse, tending them more carefully than his cash crops because they’re yours.
husband!shinsuke who will never let you lift anything heavy, even if you argue—you’ll just find he’s already moved it before you can try.
husband!shinsuke who makes you sit on the porch while he works late, just so he can glance up and see you watching him.
husband!shinsuke who lets everyone else in town know, in his calm, steady voice, that you’re his wife—and he says it with a finality that brooks no argument.
husband!shinsuke who falls asleep the second his head hits the pillow after a long day, but his arm always finds its way around you, even in his deepest dreams.
husband!shinsuke who believes his hands were made to work the earth, but his heart was made for you—and that’s a truth he carries like gospel.
summary: You ask Kita to marry you when you're children, because it only makes sense for your childhood friend to stay by your side for the rest of your life. You eventually forget your promise, but Kita always remembers.
notes: 13.3k words, author's notes, childhood friends, fluff, obliviousness, romcom/shoujo vibes, vague haikyuu spoilers, inarizaki volleyball team as side characters
You ask Kita Shinsuke to marry you during the spring when you’re both eight years old, a bundle of roadside daisies clutched in your hands that you proffer like a gold ring.
“Please!” you say, holding out the flowers straight in front of you, screwing your eyes shut as you bow. “Marry me, Shin-kun!”
It’s the only step to take in your relationship that makes the most sense, according to your childish logic. Your grandmothers have been friends since they met in high school, inseparable old women with an unchanging weekly appointment to drink tea in your grandmother’s kitchen.
Even your parents are close; your fathers were childhood friends and grew up splashing by the riverbank and racing alongside empty stretches of open fields. Family holidays are often spent together, so it was an inevitability that you and Kita would end up being friends.
The two of you were born in the same hospital, and as your mother likes to joke, “When we put you two down on the same mat to play, you started reachin’ for Shin-kun instead of the toys! Ya even tried to bite him, and he didn’t cry a bit, just blinked real slow and let you nibble on his arm.”
And so the two of you are close, too. In cool, misty mornings, Kita waits outside your door so the two of you can walk to school together; he has an umbrella that he shares when it rains and a hat when it’s too sunny, and never misses a day to see you. During summers, you’re both sent up north to his grandmother’s home in the country, nothing to do but spend lazy days in the rice fields and taking Kita’s hand in your own as you come up with your own elaborate fantastical games.
A lot of times it feels like your relationship is the same as when you were babies: you drag Kita around and he follows willingly, the voice of reason to every impulsive plot you come up with. If Kita is popular with the neighborhood grannies for his manners and mature demeanor, then you’re popular with the other kids for your cheer and athletic prowess at every neighborhood game.
“What do I gotta do to keep Shin-kun with me?” you asked Kaasan once, as she trimmed edamame in the kitchen with a pair of scissors. “Why’s he gotta go home everyday? I wish he was around forever.”
“Why don’t ya marry him?” she said mischievously, tapping her chin with her free hand. “That made sure yer Tousan would come home to me every night.”
Her words lit a spark in your brain. You can’t imagine a life without Kita; he’s been by your side since you were born. To lose him would be like losing a limb, unimaginable and devastating. And since Kaasan is one of the smartest adults you know, this must be the best way to keep him with you.
This is how you find yourself, on a routine weekend playdate exploring the nearby park, with flushed cheeks and clammy hands, stems wilting from the strength of your grip. Kita is sitting crosslegged in the field, flowers in hand, considering your words with the same gravity he considers everything in life, from the instructions of his teachers to laminated menus at the local diner.
“I’m sorry,” Kita says seriously. His eyes are wide and piercing, and you can see the world reflected in them. “But we can’t get married. You gotta be an adult to get married. And Obaasan always says when you want ta do something, you gotta take yer time with it, especially if it’s something ya care about.”
“Oh. But I like ya, Shin-kun,” you add helplessly. But you already know that Kita makes decisions carefully, and once he makes up his mind on something, he rarely changes it.
“And I like ya, too,” Kita says.
“But we can’t get married?”
“We can’t get married now,” he says. “Because marriage’s a big decision. Ya can’t rush into it.”
“Okay, but do you still want my flowers? They’re the best ones I found. The biggest and prettiest,” you add hopefully. The fat white petals of the daisies droop in your hands, as if they, too, are dejected by Kita’s rejection.
“Yeah,” Kita says. He takes your flowers with a solemn reverence.
“Let’s make flower crowns,” you say. “I wanna make one for Kaasan.”
“Okay,” Kita says.
The sting of his rejection passes like a summer rainstorm, brief and temporary. Kita is still your friend, the one nearest and dearest to your heart, even if he doesn’t want to marry you. There are other things to worry about, anyways, like your homework and what sort of bento Kaasan is going to pack for lunch tomorrow.
(You don’t notice the way Kita glances carefully at you through his eyelashes, gaze thoughtful as he considers your question).
Kita’s hands are deft as he weaves your flowers together into a crown, braiding stems together with a careful, slow ease. The flowers are spaced evenly apart, bright heads facing outwards. In contrast, your work is swift but a tad more clumsy, and you rip more than one petal in your haste to complete your work.
“This is for you,” Kita says, placing it gently on your head. He adjusts the band so it no longer rests so lopsidedly.
“Thank you, Shin-kun!” you say. “Does it look good?”
He nods seriously. “Real good.”
“I made ya one, too!” You hold up your flower crown. The flowers are spaced unevenly and your weaving is loose in sections, but Kita regards it as if you’ve presented him with a priceless treasure.
“Thank you,” Kita says. “Will you put it on me?”
In response, you plop it on his head, where it tilts sideways, one end closer to his ear.
“We’re matching,” you say, smiling.
You spend another half hour in the fields before you tire of your work, eager to present the fruits of your labor to your parents, as you’ve made flower crowns for both of them. Kita’s crown is still placed on your head when you turn to head inside, waving vigorously at Kita as he waves back before turning and walking down the sidewalk towards his own home. He only lives a few minutes away, but still, you stand in the doorway until you can’t see him, not even blinking, eyes burning, trying to preserve the memory of his dear back.
(For the next few days after that, Kita painstakingly presses and preserves the flowers you’ve given him. The dried flowers sit on a shelf in his room, and whenever he passes them by, he considers them carefully. Marriage, after all, is a big decision).
—
“Shin-kun doesn’t want to marry me. I asked,” you tell Kaasan the next day, sitting at the dining table with your reading homework spread around you, your collection of colorful pencils rolling across the surface.
“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Kaasan says. She’s across from you, marking her own documents, laptop and manila files organized in a neat square on the table. “Are you sad about it?”
“I was but, but I’m not anymore.”
“What if Shin-kun marries someone else?” she teases. “Would ya be sad then?”
“Why would he?” you ask. “If he doesn’t wanna marry me, then he definitely doesn’t wanna marry anyone else. There’s no one he likes more than me.”
Kaasan bursts into laughter, shoulders shaking as she tries to cover her mouth, documents forgotten. “Oh, I see,” she says in-between a gasp.
You make a doodle of a flower on your homework. Really, you can’t understand what Kaasan finds so funny, when all you did was tell her the truth.
—
If there’s one thing you know about your childhood friend, it’s that Kita Shinsuke is a creature of habit. Everything he does, he does with the same precision and meticulous care: his chores, his studies, and even the way he organizes his playdates with the air of an office worker planning meetings.
It’s one of the things you like about him, how dedicated he is to everything. Even if the same can’t be said for yourself, as you love spontaneity too much to deny yourself the pleasure of a sudden impulse, you try your best to respect Kita’s routine.
“I’m going to play with Shiori-chan and Jun-kun today, but I’ll come find ya after I’m done,” you tell him, grip loose on your backpack as you bounce down the road.
“Okay,” Kita says. He’s walking at a steady pace, and you’re careful to match your strides to him, even if you want to run ahead. “How long are ya gonna take?”
“Maybe a few hours? Not sure yet! But I’ll definitely see you before I go home,” you say earnestly. “Because being with ya is a part of my routine!”
There’s a small smile on Kita’s face at your words, as faint and lovely as a pattern of frost on a window. “But ya don’t normally have a routine. Does it even count?”
“Shin-kun, that’s mean,” you whine. “I try to see ya every day!”
“We’re neighbors, and our families are friends,” Kita points out.
“Still! The effort counts!”
“Well, being with ya is part of my routine, too,” Kita says. “I like seeing you every day.”
You can’t help but skip down the street at that, backpack bouncing on your back at your sudden burst of energy, and Kita watches you, smiling all the while. Not that it’s unusual, though; Kita is always watching like that, everything and everyone.
When you drop Kita off at his doorstep, you give one giant wave at him, promising to stop by as soon as you can, before you turn down the street and head towards the nearby park.
(Kita likes to watch you from the window whenever you leave, waiting until you’re nothing more than a dot on the horizon before he turns away. This, too, is a ritual).
Shiori and Jun are already waiting by the time you drop your backpack off at home and rush over to the nearby park, a good fifteen minute run from your home. They live farther inside the neighborhood than you, but attend the same school, so you know them fairly well. Not as well as Kita, but you don’t know anyone else as well as you know Kita.
After a particular explosive game of tag (Shiori was it at first, and she knabbed you by the tail end of your shirt) and kick the can (you’d like to brag you valiantly defended the can quite well, which was a water bottle donated by Jun, as you hunted down Jun and Shiori), Shiori finally turns to you with cheeks rosy from exertion, her mouth opening into a question.
“Kita-kun isn’t here with ya today?” Shiori asks. “I feel like you two are always together.”
“He had ta go home,” you confirm. “And that’s not true! We’re not together right now, aren’t we?”
“Why’re you always with Kita, though?” Jun asks. He’s a little quiet, but there’s something in his tone that you try not to bristle at.
“Whaddya mean? Shin-kun is Shin-kun,” you say. “He’s the best.”
“But Kita-kun is kinda… quiet. And he’s always in the corner, just doing his work! He doesn’t really talk to us unless he has ta,” Shiori says, hesitant.
“Kita is boring,” Jun says bluntly. Shiori blushes at his statement, but makes no move to disagree. “He doesn’t seem like a lotta fun. What do ya even talk about with him?”
You pause. Kita, boring? The idea has never occurred to you before. Kita is steady, reliable, responsible, and chides you sometimes like your mom might do, but he’s not boring. Boring is for things like schoolwork, and chores.
“Shin-kun isn’t boring. If you’re mean to Shin-kun, I’m not going to play with ya anymore!” you say firmly. “He’s real fun and super smart. He knows everything, and he can do anything, and he works hard!”
“Aw, don’t be mad!” Shiori says hastily, elbowing Jun, who grumbles. “We didn’t mean anything like that. I guess he’s just a little hard to talk ta sometimes.”
“If it’s hard to talk to him, why don’t we play together next time?” you suggest. “I’ll make sure ya understand how great Shin-kun is.”
“Yer bragging about him an awful lot,” Jun says again.
“Shin-kun is Shin-kun,” you repeat firmly, as if that answers the question. And it does, in your mind, but Shiori and Jun glance at each other and say nothing more.
The rest of the time passes well enough, though you are perhaps a little too enthusiastic to win in seeing who can swing the highest and then leap off, because even though you’re the clear champion, you’re left with scrapped knees that Jun winces at. You, Jun, and Shiori wave at each other before heading home, the setting sun its own reminder to keep your promise to Kita.
Still, by the time you meet up with Kita, you’re kicking at the ground, smarting from your friends’ comments you can’t get out of your head. You knock on his door, once, twice, and Kita opens it as if he’s been expecting you.
It’s hard to hide the expression on your face, but even if you weren’t terrible at concealing your emotions, Kita would probably pick up on it anyways, because he always seems to know how you feel. Not that you could tell him what’s wrong, because you don’t want to repeat those awful comments.
After taking a few seconds to observe you, Kita asks quietly, “Do ya want something sweet? Okaasan brought back some madelines.”
You sniff. “Really?”
“Yeah. Come on,” he says, taking your hand, chubby fingers secure around your own. “Let’s get some together.” He then glances at your knees. “And ya gotta do something about that.”
A few cakes and bandaids applied to your skinned knees courtesy of Kita, and your troubles are forgotten. Even Kita seems to look a little more relaxed in the presence of your smile again, a sunflower turning towards the sun it can’t help but follow.
You really don’t get why people are incapable of understanding a simple fact: Kita isn’t boring at all. In fact, he’s the most wonderful person in the entire world.
—
Elementary school comes and goes, with a graduation full of classmates that cluster around you, begging for one last photo together. Your bouquet wilts from how tight you’ve clutched it as you run from camera to camera, but when Kita sees, he offers you a few pink gerbaras of his own.
(He’s also the first to take a picture with you, your families cooing as they crowd you close together, but he’s never needed to be told to stick close to your side. It’s simply what’s natural, and he frames the photo, keeping it near those dried flowers he still hasn’t let go of).
You have a longer commute in middle school, but it’s one you still share with Kita. It’s a precious period of your day where the two of you walk to school together, side by side. He shows up at the same time at your door like clockwork. You’re usually scrambling with a last-minute breakfast or putting your uniform together, your blazer slipping down your shoulders while Kita looks impeccable as always, not even a thread out of place.
“Ya should have learned to be more careful now,” he chides, even as he reaches out to smooth away the wrinkles with gentle hands, fixing the uneven knot of your tie. “‘s not a good habit to be sloppy.”
“Aw, but Shin-kun,” you say, “Ya always fix it for me!”
“Maybe I should stop.”
“Noooo,” you wail as Kita spins on his heel, collecting both your bag and his in one smooth motion, while you dart after him. “Don’t do that, Shin-kun! Then I’ll be even more of a mess!”
One of the great changes in middle school, besides the advanced curriculum and different uniforms and the evolving roster of classmates, are the inclusion of more involved clubs.
Of course, you already know what club you want to join, and have known it since the beginning: you want to join the boys volleyball club as a manager. As it is, you’re assistant to the current manager, Yuna, who jumps every time you speak up behind her, taking in your enthusiasm and loud voice with wide eyes.
You’re quick to brag about it to Jun and Shiori, too, who are in a class down the hall from you, popping in for a brief visit during lunch, pulling up a chair to huddle around Shiori’s desk. You have an armful of snacks from the cafeteria, unable to resist spending a few yen on baked goods.
“Always felt like ya should be on the team and Kita should be manager,” Shiori says. “Didn’t realize it’d be the opposite way ‘round.”
“Why’s that?” you ask, curious.
“‘Cause of… um… Just, you know, the sorta impression you and Kita-kun give off is a little different—”
“It’s ‘cause Kita is smart and yer a meathead,” Jun interrupts bluntly.
“Jun-kun, ya better be ready to back-up what you just said,” you threaten.
“See? Only a meathead would say that,” Jun says. “Aren’t ya faster than Kita, too? And during gym class, ya were always the one ta spike the ball over the most. Just makes sense, right?”
“Well,” you huff, flattered despite yourself at Jun’s acknowledgement of your prowess, “Being on the court is cool, but being a manager is real important too. They do a lot of work behind the scenes to support the players, like helping plan scrimmages and researching opponents. Without ‘em, the players wouldn’t be half as prepared as they are.”
“And,” you add, “They get ta tell people what to do! Shin-kun’s always lecturin’ me about this and that, but if I’m the manager, he’s gotta listen to me for once!”
“There it is,” Jun says. “Knew there was another reason.”
“Jun-kun,” you begin, but a quick glance at the clock has you straightening up, plucking a few wrapped bread from your arms and dropping them onto Shiori’s desk. “We’ll settle this later, but I gotta get back to class. I said I’d spend the rest of lunch with Shin-kun. This is for you two, though!”
(Shiori and Jun both sigh as you burst out of the classroom, Jun propping up his cheek with his hand. It’s obvious from your smile that you’re hoping to see a smile on Kita’s face or hear, at the very least, a quiet thank you. You’ve always been predictable in that way, chasing after your childhood friend with all the clumsy, floppy grace of a lovesick puppy.
“I just don’t get it, not them, or Kita-kun,” Shiori says. “Do ya think they really don’t know how obvious it is that they like him?”
“Ya know how they are. Kita has it rough,” Jun says, and leaves it at that.)
You trundle through middle school, easily collecting friends with your cheer, a parade of people greeting you every morning when you step through the gates. Kita is just behind, by your side as steadily as the way shadow follows light.
Kita is liked well-enough, you think, but people always seem to have difficulty approaching him. Maybe it’s his mature demeanor, or his steady gaze they can’t meet, as luminous as snowfall on a winter night, quiet and all-consuming. Or maybe it’s the way he’s consistently top of the class, pulling perfect hundreds, and the principled student all the teachers uphold as the model everyone should strive to emulate.
“If only you could be more like Kita Shinsuke…” is a phrase troublemakers hear in their nightmares.
You maintain decent grades, too, but you still badger Kita for his notes, if only because he keeps such meticulous, detailed ones, and his handwriting is prettier than yours with how graceful it looks, like the work of a professional calligrapher. He beats you out easily in class rankings, much to your chagrin.
The real highlight of your day is volleyball practice after school, to the point your friends in class offer to take over clean-up duty from you so you can get to the gym early. Your duties mostly consist of helping keep track of scores during games, managing player statistics, and refilling and passing out water and towels.
At times, you’ll help Yuna and the coach contact other schools for practice matches. Your role is mostly to observe how Yuna handles being manager, in preparation for when she graduates and you take on the role yourself.
That leaves a lot of time where you can stop to watch Kita. If he’s watching everyone else, who’s going to watch him? It might as well be you, his childhood friend, and it’s a habit you’ve maintained since you were children. Besides, it’s easy for your eyes to follow Kita, and you seek him out in every room before you’re even aware of what you’re doing.
Kita is diligent and steadfast, going through every drill without a word that the other students complain constantly about. He never takes shortcuts, and always does what’s required of him. He even stays after to help collect the balls and mop the gym with you.
You’re proud of him. There’s no way you wouldn’t be, but when two other first-years are selected as regulars for the team, you can’t help but feel slighted on his behalf. During games, sometimes you’ll end up side-by-side, watching rallies, though Kita always scolds you if you talk too much and end up distracting the benched players.
“Don’t ya wanna be on court, Shin-kun?” you ask, hands behind your back. Right now, your team is hosting a scrimmage with a local middle school, and one of your wing spikers pulls a sharp cut shot that leaves everyone cheering.
“Everyone wants ta be on court, but only the players who’ve proven they deserve to be there can stand on it,” Kita says. “I only do what I’m supposed to, and if I do it well, then that’s when I deserve ta be on court. That’s the proper way to go about it.”
“If that’s the case, then yer definitely gonna be a starting member one day,” you say. “Because I see ya, Shin-kun. Ya work hard, and you’re careful with everything that ya do. You never skip practice, or take shortcuts during laps, and you always do all your drills until ya can do the motions in your sleep! You’re gonna earn yer place there, I know it!”
Yuna calls your name and you scamper off before he can respond.
(Kita breathes in. Breathes out. Like Obaasan told him, so long ago: “The gods are always watching.” Someone will always notice. Someone will always see him, but she never said that when they did, there would be a miniature sun in his chest, overflowing gold that he can’t keep contained).
—
Middle school passes with its own routine, one that you settle into. Kita and you walk to school together in the mornings, rain or shine, eat lunch in his classroom and share parts of your bento with each other (he’s always putting vegetables on your plate), and then you attend volleyball practice, where you’ll mop the floors and wipe down the balls with Kita’s help and then walk home together. Kita will drop you off on your doorstep, and then head off to his own.
There’s little deviation to your routine, at least until your second year during lunchtime, when a boy approaches you when you’re halfway through your anpan. You’ve pulled up a chair right across from Kita, your bento and notebooks scattered across his desk. Though you’re in different classes this year, you still make an effort to bother him daily, and eating lunch together is one of your rituals.
“Can I talk with you?” he says. You try to place where you’ve seen him before; maybe in the class across from yours?
You’re still chewing and covering your mouth with your hand, trying frantically to swallow before responding. “Yes? Did ya need me for something?”
“There’s something I want to tell you. In private,” he emphasizes, flicking a glance at Kita.
“Sure,” you say. “But lunch is almost over, so we should hurry. I’ll be back, Shin-kun!” you add over your shoulder.
Kita only nods, watching you scamper off without a thought in the world as to what your classmate could want now. Maybe about homework? A shared classmate?
(Kita’s hands are steady, even as he grips his chopsticks tight enough that his knuckles turn white. A lot of people have been confessing to you lately, but it’s not surprising, not with how well-liked you are. Not that you ever seem to realize what’s happening, how the easy, careless charm of your smile, the way you always face the person you’re talking to like they’re the only ones in the world, is dangerous).
The boy guides you down hallways and stairwells until you’re in the courtyard, standing in a little alcove that shields you from views of most of the windows. Including, you think, the gaze of your own classroom’s.
Clouds swirl overhead, grey and heavy, a light breeze stirring the grass. Is it going to rain soon? You glance up, just as the boy in front of you wrings his hands and takes several deep inhales.
“I wanted ta say… I’ve noticed ya from the very start of orientation! Yer always so bright and cheerful, and I couldn’t stop thinking about you since then. When we pass by in the halls, I always look at ya and…!” his voice raises in a shout. “And I wanted to say I like you. Please go out with me!”
Your mouth works before your mind does, but even then, all you can say is a strangled little “Oh… erm?” You remember his name now, Eiji, but you’re still too startled by his sudden words, all your thoughts scattering like birds. This has happened a few times now, but it still takes you by surprise every time. You? Liked? It’s strange to think that people think of you in such a way, that they could hold such expectations for you, when you’re just going about your day.
He’s still staring at you expectantly, and it’d be rude to keep him waiting any longer. Your tongue is still glued to your mouth, but you manage to unstick it to croak out, “I’m sorry. I appreciate your feelings, but I can’t return them.”
Eiji hangs his head. “I figured. I wanted to let ya know, anyways, but ya already have Kita-san, right?”
“Huh?” you squeak.
“Huh?” He tilts his head. “Ya and Kita-san. Aren’t ya dating? Everyone says you are.”
“That’s not—we’re just childhood friends,” you say hastily. “I mean. It’s not as if I don’t like him, but—we aren’t—I mean, I think—he’s just my friend.”
Huh? Wait a moment. What do you feel about Kita, then? All your feelings for him have always been rolled into one glowing ball that you’ve termed “like,” but people like each other in different ways. Is the way you like Kita different from how you like Jun and Shiori, or your own parents? What does “liking” someone even mean, then?
Eiji must see the confusion mar your face because he sighs. “‘s all right. Thank ya for yer time. But I hope ya and Kita-san can work out whatever it is you have. You don’t want ta be leading him on, or anything.”
Eiji heads in first, ducking his head and running away as you stand in the courtyard for a moment longer, eyebrows furrowed. A drop of something cold splashes on your head. It’s raining, the clouds sending out a shy drizzle as a warning, and so you hurry inside, distracted for the rest of lunch.
After school, you’re standing by your shoe locker glumly. The rain has transformed into a monstrous downpour, causing squawking students to brave the weather with only their bags over their heads, or hang under dripping eaves as the world is washed clean.
You’re one of the people who didn’t bring an umbrella, and so you’re stuck contemplating your options. You can run out and hope to make it home, or stay behind until the rain clears a little. Either way, you’re most likely going to be soaked, and a trek in soggy loafers is not on your list of enjoyable post-school activities.
“Did ya forget your umbrella?”
It’s Kita, and though he’s a respectful distance away from you, as he always is, you jump as if he’s whispered right into your ear.
“Yes!” you say, with more force than necessary.
“Ya should have checked the weather report,” Kita says plainly. He has a clear plastic umbrella in his right hand.
“I shoulda…” you say morosely. Eiji’s earlier comments are still swirling around your head, and you let out a long sigh. Are you hurting Kita, somehow? At least the rain is as miserable as your mood.
You expect more admonishments or another remark about your lack of preparation, but Kita only unfurls his umbrella and says, “We can share.”
The umbrella is small enough that your shoulders are pressed side by side, and you can feel, distinctly, the heat from his body. Kita doesn’t run hot, and he’s always at a consistent, mild temperature. His hands are always cold, though, and you like to rub his fingers with your own until they warm up. You’re hyper-aware of his body now, and how much of it you know. Stupid Eiji.
“What did that guy want from ya?” Kita asks.
“Just confessin’,” you grumble. “But I wasn’t interested. I don’t know why people are so caught up in romance. Doesn’t make any sense. Relationships? Dating? Marriage? ‘S all ridiculous.”
“I see,” Kita says simply. “Did he say something to ya?”
“Just…” You let out another sigh. “I don’t know, Shin-kun. Am I hurting ya? Do ya feel like I’m leading you on? If I’m hurtin’ ya, you gotta let me know.”
“Yer not hurting me,” he says. “Yer my oldest and closest friend, and you’ve never done anything wrong. Ya don’t gotta listen to people like that; they don’t think before they speak, or consider how their words affect others. They just say what they want, so what they say doesn’t matter one bit as long as you know what you believe in and what’s true ta you.”
“Aw, Shin-kun!” You fight the urge to fling your arms around his neck, and settle for slapping his back empathetically as Kita lets out a quiet little “oomph” with each strike. “Yer right!”
Eiji’s comments don’t matter, you decide. Your relationship with Kita is no one’s business other than your own, and people can think whatever they want. It doesn’t really matter if you aren’t sure of the exact nature of your own emotions; you like Kita, no matter what it means, and that’s all that matters.
(Kita has heard what other people whisper in the hallways. You’ve never asked him how he views your relationship, but that’s all right. You don’t need to. What he feels is something he has nurtured for years. Step by step. Day by day. Ritual by ritual).
—
It’s the last volleyball match of your middle school careers. Kita has never played a game, never been on the starting line-up, but still people flock to him for advice or for his analysis on the other team’s plays. He’s often sitting with you on the bench, watching, quietly exchanging notes with you.
He’s your assistant, you like to joke, though you think you feel more annoyed than Kita over the fact he’s never been chosen. Even though he practices more consistently than anyone else. Even though everyone relies on him. He’s not flashy, sure, but he’s steady, and that’s more important than anything in a game where even the best-laid strategy can go awry.
“Are you Kita Shinsuke?”
You spin around, and through the half-open gym doors, you see a man dressed in a track suit, with glasses and a keen smile. He’s not immediately recognizable as one of the other middle school coaches. But he still speaks with a surety that makes you wrack your brains, regardless, trying to place him. It’d be awful to have met him and forgotten his name.
Kita looks up from his clipboard, gaze tranquil and steady. “Yes.”
“Have you thought about what high school you’d like to attend? What volleyball programs are you interested in?”
(Someone is always watching. Someone will notice).
And that’s how you and Kita end up at Inarizaki, a bus ride and fifteen minute walk away from your neighborhood.
—
You say goodbye to middle school in a deluge of tearful farewells and congratulatory wishes to classmates who’re attending different high schools. You’re encircled by admirers, take so many pictures your mouth starts hurting from how often you’ve had to smile. You’re given flowers, last-minute confessions, invitations to lunch and dinner and dates you have to refuse.
You’re just not interested, you explain. You don’t have the time for such things, but you appreciate their feelings regardless.
Jun and Shiori are attending a different high school, so you’re sure to squeeze them extra hard during graduation, handing them flowers from your own bouquets, yellow roses with stems stripped of thorns.
“Let’s still hang out,” you say. “We’re always going ta be friends! Don’t be afraid to say hi!”
“I’ll miss ya,” Shiori says sincerely. “I’ll stop by when I can, I promise!”
“Don’t forget to invite me to yer wedding in the future,” Jun adds.
“Wedding? We’re too young ta get married! I’m not even thinking about that right now,” you say. “Jun-kun yer so weird.”
He only shrugs. Really, what an odd thing to say, though it does give you a disconcerting feeling that you’ve forgotten something, some hazy, half-remembered flashback to flower crowns and a distant spring day. But it can’t be too important or you’d have remembered, so you tackle Jun and Shiori in another hug instead.
Your favorite picture from graduation, though, is the one you take with Kita, an electric smile on your face, your arm looped around his, your bodies leaning towards each other like flowers sheltering in a storm. When you line it up with your elementary school graduation picture, it feels like a perfect set, a history of your life so far with Kita.
Outside of your new uniform, high school proceeds much the same as middle school did. You and Kita have a routine, the precious rituals you’ve built over a lifetime of knowing each other, and those aren’t things that collapse so easily.
In the morning, Kita shows up at your door, albeit a little earlier than he did in middle school, smoothing down your rumpled tie without too much complaint. Kita always gives you the seat on the bus, standing in front of you, your knees knocking together when the bus lurches around a corner. He always asks if you’ve eaten, and if you’ve run out the door without any food, he pulls out packaged bread that you much on.
You share your first year class together, which means you only need to drag your chair to Kita’s desk and place your bento in your lap to see him. You flick crumpled-up notes at him, but he only reads them, smoothes them out, and places them within his notebook, sending you no reply in return. You chatter about your day at every opportunity, about the difficulties you face in lessons or the petty squabble between new friends that you’ve made.
In the afternoon, you and Kita head to the gym after school. You’ve applied to be manager of the Inarizaki volleyball team, though it seems plenty of other students in your grade have the same idea. You hear it’s a popular one to apply for but near impossible to get the position, if only because so many people want to join just to get close to the boys on the team. Which is ridiculous, because the boys on the team are just like the boys anywhere else: a little sweaty, a little rude, and wholly ordinary.
Kita might be the exception to that, but that’s because he’s Kita. Even when he sweats, he smells nice, and he’s always polite, and he’s the most wonderful person ever. It’d be hard for any other boy to beat that, really.
Suffice to say, you manage to beat out the other candidates and snag the spot. Much like in middle school, Kita is on the bench, not having made the starting lineup again, and you’re lugging around water bottles and tracking scores in practice games.
After school, you and Kita head home together, side by side. You match his slow, steady pace, and sometimes if the weather is nice, you’ll take a longer route home, just to see the scenery. Kita walks you to your door, and you wait in the doorway to see him enter his own before you wave goodbye for a final time.
The one thing that’s different about high school, though, is the confessions. Not to you, though you still get your fair share of them and have managed to tune them out as mild irritations in your day, but to Kita.
The first is a girl from the class across from you, clutching at the edges of her skirt during lunch. She went to your middle school, you think, but you were always in different classes and didn’t share any friends.
“Kita-san,” she says shyly, in a tone so full of longing it makes you want to take Kita’s hand and pull him away in the other direction, “Can I talk to you in private?”
Your classmates snicker around you as Kita calmly stands and says, “Okay.”
You stare out the window, unable to relax, bouncing your leg so nervously that the entire desk shakes. More and more catastrophic scenarios arise in your mind—of Kita accepting her confession, of distancing himself from you, of deciding to move away to another country with this girl—before Kita comes back and says, simply, “She asked me out and I turned her down.”
Then there’s a second-year, two weeks later, who even brought food with him as if a love confession was a bribe. And then someone from your own class, who Kita shared his notes with, shouting so loud you’re pretty sure the kids from the class next door overheard. The confessions pile up, little by little, irritating and spaced far apart enough that each new one feels like a bucket of ice water thrown at your head, even though you’d hoped it wouldn’t happen again.
Because of course people would like Kita. He’s wonderful, and kind, and smart, and the best person in the entire world. But no one has ever confessed to him before, or shown much interest in him, romantic interest, until high school.
The thought of Kita, your best friend, spending more time with someone else or just liking someone more than you makes you feel sour. Sure, you don’t like the idea of him with a partner, but you also can’t stand the idea that your relationship will deteriorate because he chooses to prioritize someone else in his life. He’s always been by your side, and you’ve always been by his. That’s not a position you ever want to relinquish.
The last straw is a pretty third year who corners Kita after practice and clean-up, leaving you behind to wait near the gym doors, glowering at the rocks near your shoes, as if they’re the world’s worst criminals.
“Let’s go home,” Kita says, when he returns. The third year is noticeably absent from his side, and he looks as unruffled as ever.
“What did she want?” you say, not moving, twisting your hands together.
“She wanted to say that she likes me. And wanted ta know if I was free to go to a cafe with her this week.”
“Oh. What did ya say?”
“I told her no,” he says plainly. “Volleyball practice takes up most of my time after school.”
“She was pretty,” you grumble. “And real nice. You really said no?”
“I’m not interested in a relationship with her,” he says.
“There’s been a lot of people who’ve been asking after ya these days, Shin-kun,” you press. “You really aren’t annoyed by it?”
“It’s not annoying because it’d be wrong of me to treat those peoples’ feelings carelessly. It takes courage ta tell someone you like them, and I want to respect that courage and their feelings, even if I don’t feel the same.”
Good old Kita, thoughtful as always. But you still feel petty, and small, and wrap your arms around yourself. How is it that he can look favorably upon these others, when all you do is feel rotten? He could stand to be less honorable, let them know that he isn’t available because—because what?
You shake your head, as if to clear yourself of your confusing thoughts. You try to pin a smile on your face, but it’s small, tight. “Okay. I get it. Let’s just go home, then. Before someone else tries to get ya.”
Kita doesn’t say anything for a while. He seems to be weighing his words in his mind, watching you with the same intensity he devotes to everything, and you hunch your shoulders, as if doing so will help you escape his scrutiny. Finally, he says, “Okkasan got some madeleines on sale last week. The kind ya like.”
“Ya can’t bribe me with cakes, Shin-kun! I’m not a kid anymore.”
“ Even if it’s yer favorite flavor?” he says.
“That’s not…” you say, pressing your lips together. “Well…”
“Ya can have as much as ya want.”
“... Fine,” you grumble.
“Not too much, though. It’ll spoil yer dinner.”
“Shin-kun!”
You swear you see him smile then, a brief flash like the glint of sunlight on water, but his face relaxes, falling back into its usual neutral expression.
(Kita’s just glad you’re the same as you always are. He’s had a lot more practice than you, after all, to exercise patience in the face of unwanted confessions directed towards someone he likes, even if you look awfully cute when you’re jealous).
—
Inarizaki High, you’ve come to learn, is a real powerhouse for volleyball, a school that regularly makes appearances at nationals, so practices are more intense than in middle school. Inarizaki also has its own marching band that comes to games, and the money to buy all its members, starting lineup or not, the same brand of athletic sneakers. And so there’s a certain pressure that comes with being manager and having to oversee a gaggle of rowdy teenage boys and wrangle them into practice and drills.
Everyone who makes it to the starting line-up, you’ve come to learn, is a bit of a personality. There’s Aran, who’s funny and reliable as their ace, and Omi, who reminds you of your grandmother, steady and stern. And, of course, there’s the upcoming batch of first years.
“Are ya and Kita-san dating?”
The question comes from one of your boldest newcomers, the starting setter, who has bleached blond hair and unrelenting cockiness in his own skills. The team is in the middle of serving drills, but he’s evidently taking a break from his current set, because he’s hounding you as you refill the water bottles, one by one.
“We’re not,” you say.
Atsumu curses under his breath. In the distance, you can see Osamu raise his eyebrows and Suna snicker. Is this a bet of some kind? But you’re used to these sorts of inquiries from middle school, the assumptions of everyone else.
You know what you and Kita are to each other. You’re best friends from childhood and… well, it’s better not to think about it too much.
“Did ya ever date him?” Atsumu presses. “Like in the past? Even just a little?”
“Hm? Not at all,” you say. “Shin-kun’s my best friend. We’ve known each other since we were kids.”
“Manangerrrr,” Atsumu groans, “Yer killing me here. I got my lunch riding on this. Yer really not together? Then why’re ya always hanging off each other?”
“We don’t hang off of each other,” you protest.
“Ya do! And Kita-san always gets this soft look on his face when he’s with ya, like–”
“Atsumu. Did ya finish your serving drills?” Kita cuts in, hovering somewhere over your shoulder, voice cold and direct. He must have noticed Atsumu’s absence on the court.
Atsumu visibly straightens under the force of Kita’s stare. As someone who’s been subjected to that cold stare for a majority of your life, you can’t help but pity Atsumu, who’s not used to it at all. “Er… ya see, Kita-san, I was just—”
“If you’re not finished, then why are you here?”
And with that, Atsumu trudges off back to Suna and Osamu, who both seem to be holding back laughter at Atsumu’s expression.
“Was he bothering ya?” Kita asks.
“Not really,” you say. “But I think the first years were bettin’ on whenever we’re together. Isn’t it a little silly? I don’t know why everyone assumes that.”
Kita gives a soft hum of acknowledgment, tucking a stray curl of hair behind your ear. “There’s no reason ta mind them. They should be focusin’ on practice, anyways.”
“Right, right,” you say. “Oh, Shin-kun. I just refilled the water bottles.” You pluck one off of the bench and hand it to him. “Have some. You’ve been running around so much, and ya gotta make sure yer staying hydrated!”
(There are few team dynamics that Suna and the others are quick to pick up on. For example, you’re popular on the team for your cheer and energy, but Kita is known for his cold perfectionism. No flaws, always diligent, never a single hair out of place.
Sometimes, it makes them all just a little curious to see where he trips up, because surely, someone like Kita must have one weakness, right? Whether it’s a silly habit, a dislike, or another person.
“I really thought they were datin’,” Atsumu groans.
“Too bad,” Osamu says unrepentantly. “Ya owe me yer lunch for that. I told you they weren’t.”
“Makes no sense! Didja see how he looks at them? And how they always dote on him?”
“That’s ya get for assumin’, ya scrub.”
“Yer the scrub!”
As the twins dissolve into another spate of bickering, Suna flicks a glance at you and Kita, the way he leans close to you, intent on catching every word, because he never gives you anything less than his full attention, no matter the circumstance.
When Kita glares at the three of them, though, the first years all jump and scramble to their feet, guiltily slinking towards the court to practice their next round of serves.
Troublesome. Just because Suna can pinpoint his weakness, doesn’t mean he can do anything with it).
—
It’s not until your third year that Kita is made captain, and he steps onto court for the first time, when Inarizaki down six points in a set during an Interhigh game. He’s subbed in for Aran, who rests on the bench alongside you and the coach, towel around his neck, hands folded in his lap as he intently watches the game resume.
“Are ya feeling okay?” you ask Aran, handing him a water bottle. “That was an intense rally.”
“I thought my hands were going to fall off,” Aran says, groaning. “But it’s a nice break. Can’t believe Atsumu kept settin’ on first touch.”
“He just trusts ya to always get the ball,” you say. “And he wants to make up for the point gap real bad.”
“Maybe he trusts me too much,” Aran grumbles.
Though you’re fairly friendly to everyone on the team, especially the third years, Aran is one of the people you’re most close to. It helps that he’s also friends with Kita and you’re in his class this year, so you gravitate towards his desk to trade silly jokes and steal pieces of his bento. Even though he groans, he lets you get away with it, and you’re sure to give him something from your own bento in return.
“Go Shin-kun,” you whisper under your breath, pumping your fist as he crouches and digs the ball with one perfect, fluid motion. “Ya got this!”
“Thought you’d be cheerin’ louder than that,” Aran says.“Haven’t ya been wanting him to be on court since our first year here?”
“I don’t want to distract him,” you say. “It’s his first time in a real match! Well, not that Shin-kun would get distracted by something like cheering, anyways.”
“First time in a match?”
“Yeah. Surprised no one told ya yet,” you say, eyes glued to Kita’s figure. He’s steady, reliable, and already the other players on court are relaxing their bodies, their focus sharpening. He’s lecturing them, you imagine, pointing out all the ways in which they’ve been overcompensating or slacking. “Never made it to the court in middle school. I knew he would, eventually. Shin-kun’s good, even if he doesn’t think so because he’s not flashy. But being diligent and doing things so consistently every time is real hard, and so that’s its own skill.”
“You’re… really paying attention to him, huh?” Aran says.
“Because he’s Shin-kun,” you say. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“You’re up again, Aran,” Coach Kurosu calls. “Take yer number. We’re gonna put ya back in after this rotation. Think the team’s back on its feet, and Kita’s about to rotate to the front row.”
“Good luck, Aran-kun. I want ya to score at least ten points in a row!” you say, holding out your hands as he slaps them in a double high five.
“Yer asking for too much,” he groans, picking up the plastic sign with the number four emblazoned on it, raising it as he stands.
The whistle blows. Kita returns to you and the coach, covered in a light sheen of sweat, breathing harder than normal. Other than that, he looks calm, cool, as if this isn’t the first match in his high school career.
“How was it, Shin-kun?” you ask, handing him a water bottle. “Did ya have fun on court?”
“What I did on court was simply the product of all my practice,” he says. “No more, no less. But…”
“But?” you prod.
“I enjoyed it,” he says simply.
“Good! I told ya you would be out there one day! Next time yer out there, I hope you have even more fun, because we’re gonna go far! Take first place at nationals, even!”
You raise your hands in the same gesture you just did for Aran, both hands splayed out for a high five. Kita observes the movement, sets down his water bottle, and quietly, carefully, slaps your hands in celebration.
—
Your dreams at nationals end after three sets during your first game there. You’re walking off the court, away from whatever promises you’ve made, a stage you can only see for this one final time. The echo of your shoes on the hardwood, the parade of volleyball players chasing the same desire, the dome so high and so impossibly large you have to squint to make out the ceiling.
Inarizaki High stays until the end of the day, when the sea of crowds trickle into a stream of stragglers and most stalls close, the window to buy souvenirs shrinking. You want to stay until the last possible second but then the entire team is packing their bags, and the Miya twins catch you while you check for the location of all the players.
“Sorry, manager,” Atsumu whispers. He looks deflated, properly chagrined for once, none of the usual arrogance in his stance or words. “We were supposed ta show you the first place trophy.”
“It’s yer last year,” Osamu says simply.
“Then make sure you make it next year,” you say, clapping both of them on the back so hard that they jump. “I’ll be watching ya, okay? So don’t disappoint me! I wanna see ya take Inarizaki as far as it can go, and then beyond!”
“I promise,” Osamu says. There’s none of his usual relaxed, lazy drawl now, just a fervent honesty.
“Make sure ya come watch!” Atsumu says.
The last six years of your life, spent chasing after volleyballs and planning scrimmages, tracking player stats and filling water bottles, is over. You’ll no longer have to dedicate your afternoons to a gymnasium. You’ve managed to find a replacement, a kind first year named Ichika, so the team will be in good hands.
In the lobby, you run into Aran, who’s watching one of the last games of the day on a television monitor mounted on the wall.
“‘S disappointing, but I’m still gonna do volleyball after this,” Aran says quietly. “I’m thinkin’ about going pro.”
“Then ya better not forget me when yer pro, Aran-kun. I want your autograph. Maybe I can sell it for a lot of money,” you cheer.
“Don’t try one of yer get rich quick schemes with me,” he says, but he still slaps your hands when you hold them out in a double high five.
“You were good on the court,” you say. “So I know you can make it. It was a good game. A real good game, the most excitin’ one I’ve ever seen so far, and ya had a lot of good spikes.”
“Did ya have to say that now?” Aran says groaning, turning away, and you pretend not to notice as he scrubs at his eyes.
On the bus ride home the next morning, you and Kita sit at the front two seats. The bus ride home is quiet; everyone must be exhausted, because when you look back, all you can see are closed eyes and slumped bodies. Atsumu has an arm flung over Osamu, whose eyebrows are drawn in irritation. Suna huddles in a corner by himself. Gin’s mouth is wide open while Omi’s arms are crossed as he leans back next to him. Akagi is smushed against a window, and Aran’s head jostles with every turn of the bus.
But Kita is wide awake, watching the scenery flash past outside. Your hands rest lightly next to each other on the bus seat, just a centimeter of distance. It’s a strange thing to be aware of, but all you can think about is how his fingers must be cold, and you have to resist the urge to pick them up and rub them, curling up all your desire to touch him into your clenched fists.
“Yer not going to keep up with volleyball, right, Shin-kun?” you whisper. “This is yer last season.”
“That’s right,” he says. “But yer not either, are ya?”
“It was a good six years. But there are other things I want ta do. I’m gonna miss this, though.”
“I’m never gonna forget it. I wanted to stay on court a little longer,” he murmurs, voice dropping low as if his words are for your ears alone even though everyone else is asleep, “And show off the team, and everyone’s hard work.”
“I wanted everyone ta place first. Show all of Japan who we are,” you groan. “‘Cause everyone was good enough to make it! We got out too soon. But the other team was way too good too. Can’t believe we never heard of ‘em before this year.”
“But even if we can’t make it to first place, it wasn’t a bad experience. Built a lot of memories, and a lot of muscle,” Kita says. “I know the team always says we don’t need memories, but all our past actions make up who we are now. The me in the past that practiced and ate well and studied hard and got the me of today where I am now.”
You turn over his words. It’s true, after all. Everything you’ve built becomes a foundation for who you are now, and everything you want to build in the future.
“That’s just like ya to say! But ya know, I kinda like our motto. We don’t need ta worry about the past and the things we can’t change. We can only focus on now, and what we’re gonna do in the future. Because who knows what’s gonna happen tomorrow. ‘S exciting,” you say. “And Shin-kun?”
“Hm?”
“Thank you for all yer hard work all these years,” you say sincerely. “I’m glad ya got to stand on court one more time, and that all of Japan could see just how awesome ya are! I wanted to show off and yell, ‘see? Isn’t my childhood friend the coolest?’”
Kita blinks, once, twice, and you wonder if you’ve caught him off-guard for once because he looks like a startled fox, fur bristling. There’s a faint pink tinge to his cheeks, but he only says, “But we wouldn’t get half as far without ya as support. If I looked cool, it’s only because ya and the others worked so hard to get us where we were. ‘S not just my effort alone. Ya were the one doing research and preparin’ all the supplies, so thank you for all of your hard work as manager.”
“Aw, Shin-kun,” you say, and this time, your hand reaches across the divide, forefinger loping around his own. Just this much should be okay, shouldn’t it? Kita has always had cool skin, but today, it burns with an intense heat that seeps into your skin. Or are you mistaking your own body heat for his? But isn’t it all the same warmth at the end of the day, because you’re always by his side? “I know all that! Ya should take the compliment. Ya don’t gotta find a reason for everything all the time.”
Kita laughs softly, a sound as gentle as the swirl of snow across a courtyard. “‘S habit. It’s important ta think through everything, and do it carefully and slowly. Especially for the important things. Ya don’t want to rush through those, even if no one notices.” His finger squeezes around yours. “I’m looking forward to seein’ what tomorrow looks like, after all that hard work.”
“Tomorrow will be good,” you say confidently, “‘Cause we built the foundation for it today. And ya don’t need to worry, Shin-kun. Even if yer watching everyone else, I’ll be watching ya, and I’ll see all the effort you put in.”
“I know ya will,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice, the fondness, how it colors all of his words, the way it always has.
—
March arrives in a froth of cherry blossoms and pink petals that get caught in your hair, long-winded speeches during the graduation ceremony as you bounce in your seat, your juniors crowding around you with a bouquet of flowers they pooled their allowances together to buy. The flowers are vibrant reds and pinks and yellows, as vivid as the team you’re leaving behind.
“We’re going to miss you, manager,” Atsumu says. His eyes are rimmed in red.
“He cried thinkin’ about you and the other third years leavin’,” Osamu says bluntly. “Like a baby.”
“And Samu couldn’t even sleep ‘cause today was the last day he could see ya all,” Atsumu responds nastily. “Made him all worried.”
“I’ll send you the photos later,” Suna whispers, discreetly aiming his phone at the bickering twins, who look like they’re one step away from escalating it into a physical altercation.
“Thanks, Suna-kun,” you whisper in return, shifting the flowers to rest in the crook of one arm. “Take care of yourself, okay? Don’t slack too much.”
Suna hums noncommittally, eyes sliding away from you, but Ginjima pats his chest, standing straight.
“I’ll watch out for Suna,” he says, voice already strained with restrained tears. “Don’t worry, manager! I’ll work hard, so ya won’t have anything to worry about.”
“Thank you, Gin-kun,” you say. “But watch out for yourself, too!”
With graduation comes a last minute wave of tearful confessions, of promises to stay together, and a request for buttons. You navigate skillfully around an obstacle course of classmates clamboring for your second button or any buttons at all, turn down a wave of confessions, and skirt around anyone who seems like they’re eying you.
Is Kita getting the same influx of confessions? You really hope not. It takes you a few seconds to spot Kita hanging back from the mingling crowds, at a careful distance. For a moment, all you can do is stare. He looks pretty framed against the trees, like an ephemeral spirit watching over humanity, forever separated. But unlike a spirit, you don’t want him to fade away to a place where you can’t be with him.
“Shin-kun!” you say, running up to him. You flick a quick glance at his jacket; all his buttons are still there. “There you are!”
Kita reaches a hand to your head, brushing away a shower of petals that must have settled into your hair in your journey to find him. “Did ya talk to the second years? They were lookin’ for ya.”
“Just finished!” you announce, waving your flowers in front of him like a baton. “They gave me these. Aren’t they pretty?”
“They really like ya,” he says.
“Well, they like you a lot too! Are ya gonna give me something, Shin-kun? Since it’s our high school graduation?” you joke.
Kita regards you for a long moment. Then, his nimble fingers reach towards his uniform blazer, tugging out the second button, before he holds it out to you, button lying flat on his palm. “This is for you.”
“Shin-kun?” you say. Kita, who has never looked anything less than perfect, who keeps spare buttons in his bag in case he loses one and has to sew it back on, who never does anything unnecessary, is handing you a button. His second button, the one he ripped out of his jacket.
“It’s customary to do something like this,” he says. “Ain’t it?”
“It is, but ya know, giving the button… it’s like…”
“You don’t want it?”
You quickly snatch the button from his hands, your fingers grazing against his palm, and it feels like even that momentary touch has burned you, like you’re marked by him in a way no one else can ever do. “I didn’t say that! I’m glad ya didn’t give it to anyone else, but…”
“Ya didn’t give yers to anyone else, either,” he says quietly. “That’s good.”
“I didn’t want ta,” you stammer. It’s Kita. Kita, your best friend and childhood friend. The one you hold near and dear to your heart, who’s always gone along with your whims. But right now, it feels like he’s one leading you along.
You like him. Of course you like him. But the shape of his feelings are different from what you expected, or thought they would ever be. And what are your feelings? How do you feel about Kita? Kita, who you adore, who you like, who is the most important person in the world to you?
“So there’s no one ya want to give it to?” Kita asks.
You open your mouth, and you don’t know what you’re going to say, because Kita looks so serious, and he’s always serious, but today, he has an intensity that he only gets when he’s focused, when he really cares about what he’s doing, and you’ve never felt more flustered to be on the receiving end of such a penetrating stare—
“Kita! Manager!” Akagi calls, waving his arms. “There ya are!”
Startled, you whirl around, waving back to Akagi, who’s running towards you, and Omi and Aran, who stand a little ways back.
“Let’s go, Shin-kun. The others are calling for us!” You scurry off, your entire body fever-hot. For now, at least, you’ve been granted another reprieve from having to think about your feelings.
(“I told him not to interrupt ‘em,” Aran says, groaning, watching as you high five Akagi, Kita trailing just a bit behind. “Did ya see how Kita looked?”
“He looked fine to me,” Omi replies.
“Are ya kidding?” Aran says. Once again, he has to wonder if he’s the only sane one on the team, a thought he’s had many, many times before.
It’s obvious that Kita cares about you in a different way than he does for the others, a special regard that you yourself seem oblivious to, whether that’s purposeful or not.
Kita is perfectly polite, kind, and meticulous, the sort of boy that parents absolutely adore. Aran would struggle to come up with a single bad word to say about him, not that he wants to. They’re friends. They’ve spent three years together. But there’s something about the way he looks at you, something that most people wouldn’t pick up on.
It’s just…
“Foxes mate for life,” he mutters, the fact springing into mind unbidden, from a nature documentary or class, he isn’t sure.
“Did ya say something, Aran?” Omi asks.
“‘S nothing. Let’s join them.”
It’s just a little possessive).
—
You squint up at the house in front of you, shading your eyes with your hand. It’s been a few years since you’ve visited Kita Yumie’s home, but it looks just as it did in your childhood: clean, small, well-maintained, curtains pulled back and windows open to let in a breeze, with a porch that you just want to sit on with a pot of tea.
The spring air is warm, inviting, as if winter had never shown its face and it’s always been such pleasant weather. Your suitcase rattles behind you as you pull it along the dirt road and up the house steps, knocking on the door.
It’s been a year since you’ve graduated college, and five years since you left high school. In the time since, you’ve landed a job at a wedding planning company, and you haven’t had time to rest. There’s always a last minute disaster to handle, an argument between the couple, or a mistake in booking. And just when you’re done smoothing out one problem, there’s always two more to handle, and a new wave of clients at your door.
But you’ve always wanted to work in hospitality, to connect with others, and the look of joy on your clients’ face when the wedding comes together gives you a satisfaction like nothing else. There’s something about connecting people, of watching people who want to spend their lives by each other’s side, that makes you feel as giddy as if you’re the one getting married.
You keep in touch with your classmates and the volleyball team members you once coached, though it’s still hard to wrap your head around the fact you know three professional volleyball players now. Osamu has a habit of giving you free onigiri whenever you stop by his shop, and Shiori and Jun still text you sporadically with updates on their lives.
But it’s Kita who you make an effort to call and text everyday. Even if you don’t live next to each other anymore, hearing from him is always a part of your daily ritual. He’s your best friend, and the two of you have only seen each other in person at family get-togethers during the holidays, or when you try to take a day off to see him on his birthday. It’s a little lonely to know he’s no longer just a few doors down, that if you looked out the window, you wouldn’t see him walking by.
Neither of you talk about high school graduation. You don’t bring it up, and neither does Kita, and your relationship is virtually unchanged. Even though you still keep his button, turning it over in your hands when you try to think about what you want. Even though you know both you and Kita are waiting for something. Even though you’re no longer a child and it’s been five years, and you’re just taking advantage of his kindness, because he always, always spoils you.
But there’s never been a good time to broach the subject, not with classes and now work, and you wonder if it’s too late now. If you imagined the whole thing, if you were wrong, if this is finally the one line you’ve crossed.
“Yer here,” Kita says, opening the door. “And yer early.”
“Hi, Shin-kun! I’m back!” you say, smiling. “The plane landed at the airport ahead of the scheduled time. Thanks for lettin’ me stay for the weekend.”
Kita is taller now, hair kept a little shorter than he did in high school. He’s dressed in a plain blue jumpsuit, muddy gloves tucked in his pocket. But he still has the easy, silent grace he always has had, the same intense stare and efficiency and purpose to his actions with no wasted movement. And he’s still Kita, dear Kita, and you know every inch of him, from past to present.
“Obaasan likes ya, so it’s no problem,” he says, picking up your suitcase before you can protest. “She started preppin’ your room as soon as I told her ya were visiting for a while. She’s out visitin’ friends now, though.”
“How’s the farm doing? Want me ta help out?”
“Farm’s doing great, so you should only help if ya want to. I know yer here on break.”
“It’s not a problem!” you say, flexing your arm. “I still keep pretty fit. And I’d feel bad if I didn’t help out at all, ya know!”
When you come downstairs after arranging your luggage in your room (Kita is right. Yumie still has your pair of faded yellow slippers set out, and she fluffed up the futon and set up a vase of pink flowers to brighten up the room), Kita is waiting for you downstairs. He pulls you into his arms for a hug as soon as your feet touch the floor, and you try not to squeak in surprise at the gesture, at the strength hidden in his arms.
“I missed ya,” he says. There’s a confidence to his movements, an openness that he didn’t have before. It would have been unimaginable as children, the idea of Kita hugging you first, as if you belong nowhere else but his arms.
You wrap your arms around him, his body as familiar to you as your own, sinking into his touch. “I missed you, too.”
And then he pulls away, leaving you with only the tingling memory of his warmth all over your body.
“Yer not too tired?” he asks. “Was yer flight long? Did ya eat?”
“I slept on the train,” you say, ticking off on your fingers each question that you answer, “The flight wasn’t too long, and I packed lunch that I ate on the way over. If I didn’t, ya would’ve lectured me again, wouldn’t you?”
“Yer an adult, with a difficult job,” he says simply. “I wantcha to take care of yourself. Ya used to walk out the door in the mornings without making sure ta eat properly.”
“You’re always like this, Shin-kun. But I promise I won’t give ya a reason to worry anymore. I’m not a kid, so I know how to be careful now,” you say playfully. “Why don’t ya show me around?”
The rice paddies sprawl for what feels like miles with pools that reflect the blue sky and billowing clouds, as if shards of the sky have fallen to the earth. New, tender green shoots shyly peek their heads out, the start of the growing season. You walk on the outskirts of the fields, the same fields you once visited as a child during vacation.
Even if it feels the same, the plants and the gentle hands working the land are different. Each meter of land and each budding stalk is a testament to Kita’s diligence, to the dedication and care he puts into each and every single action he takes everyday.
“It’s beautiful,” you say. “A lot nicer to look at than my cubicle, that’s for sure.”
“Do ya have any weddings coming up?”
“Yup! I have a lot of clients who’ve booked me for May next month. That’s when the wedding season gets busiest, so I figured I might as well take advantage of our slow months to come see ya. It’s been ages, Shin-kun.”
“Have ya thought about your own wedding?”
“Me?” you say, startled. “It’s not something that’s really on my mind. I mean, there’s so much work that goes into it. And can ya imagine me gettin’ married? It’s a little silly. I’m the wedding planner, not the person who throws a wedding.”
“I can,” Kita says quietly. “And ya used to want ta, didn’t ya? When we were little. Did that change?”
“Shin-kun,” you say. The two of you have stopped walking, and a spring breeze stirs your hair. “What do you mean? Did I say something like that?”
He takes a step closer to you. And wonderful Kita Shinsuke, your childhood friend, your best friend, the person you’ve always loved most in the entire world, pulls out a bundle of daisies from his pocket, green stem tied with a white ribbon, holding them out to you like a wedding ring.
“I want to marry ya,” he says plainly. “I’ve been waitin’ my whole life, ever since ya asked me when we were little. We couldn’t then, but we can now. I wanted ta make sure my finances were all right, and didn’t want to rush ya while you were still in school and settling into your job.”
“But–When did—How!” you say, words a jumbled mess. Your face is hot, hotter the sun, and you’re dizzy from the sheer intensity of Kita’s open, genuine affection. You take the flowers from him with trembling hands. They’re simple flowers, but you remember now, your childish eight-year-old self’s declaration, Kita’s response, an ordinary spring day. It was just a silly, impulsive choice, born out of the intensity of your affection for Kita, but Kita remembers, because of course he does. Because he’s always looking at you, as much as you’ve been looking at him.
“Did ya forget?” Kita says quietly, bringing your hand to his mouth, his lips ghosting across your fingertips, the promise of a kiss. He lowers your hand, but doesn’t let go, your fingers hooked over the edge of his palm. You can’t shake him off, you could never even think about it, because it’s Kita, Shin-kun, the most wonderful person in the entire world. “But I didn’t forget all this time, ever since you asked me. Even if you didn’t mean it, I did. I wanted to take my time, court you properly, ‘cause that’s just the right thing to do.”
“Shin-kun, ya said you didn’t want to marry me,” you protest, but your voice is weak even to your own ears. “I remembered that you rejected me!”
“I said we can’t, not that I didn’t want to marry you. I meant that we should wait until we were old enough to. Kids can’t get married, but adults can.”
“You weren’t very clear on that! How was I supposed to know what ya met?”
“That’s why I’m telling ya now. Marry me,” Kita whispers. “I’ve been waiting for you all my life. I can wait as long as you want me to, but I’m not as strong as ya think. I’m a greedy man when it comes to you.”
“Shin-kun, yer not being fair,” you whisper. “We haven’t even dated.”
“We don’t have ta get married right now. We can date first, get engaged. Take the time to plan everything, do it in the proper way. I love you,” he says. “I’ve loved ya ever since we were kids. If ya don’t feel the same, then you can tell me right now, and I’ll still be yer best friend. That won’t change. I’ll always love you, even if ya don’t love me in the same way.”
He’s impossible. He’s impossible, and this isn’t real, it can’t be. You bring the bundle of flowers to your face, the smooth edge of a waxen petal pressed against your lips.
You can’t hide it anymore, even if you wanted to. You can’t lie to yourself, can’t pretend that your feelings are anything other than what they are. You have to stop running, because Kita is waiting for you, right here, right now, and he’s not going to leave.
“I love you,” you say, voice choking. “Shin-kun, I love you. What are ya saying? You really think I wouldn’t feel the same way? I’ve loved ya since before I knew what love even was. Yer the most wonderful person in the world. I’d choose ya, again and again. I want to marry you, Kita Shinsuke, even if we gotta wait another ten years.”
The flowers fall from your lips as Kita cups your face, cradling you as tenderly as he’s always treated you, because he’s always going along with all your whims while never straying from your side. His lips are on yours, soft, sweet, and he kisses you. Again, and again, and again, an endless shower of kisses that rain on you, as if he’s making up for the years in which he couldn’t. And you accept his kisses greedily, parched earth finally watered, because Kita Shinsuke is the most wonderful man in the world, your best friend from childhood, and the person you love more than anyone else.
(“Yer really not going ta ask them out? I thought ya liked them. Yer young, Shinsuke. Ya gotta be bold,” Obaasan asks. She’s washing vegetables over the kitchen sink, shirt sleeves rolled up, as he chops radish on the cutting board, an efficient system for dinner that they’ve worked out ever since he moved in.
Ever since high school, she’s been slyly dropping hints about marriage, eyes drifting towards you meaningfully or inquiring about how your relationship has been going. But it’s Obaasan, so Kita dutifully entertains her questions every time even though he can see her ulterior motives, plain as day.
“I’m courtin’ them,” Kita says plainly, “In the way that works best for us. Datin’ would only make it more complicated, and I don’t think they want any of that yet, not with their job. ‘S no good to rush things. Ya taught me that.”
“Do they know that? What if someone snatches them up? They’re so cute, and they’re young and alone in a big city. Since they’re visitin’ tomorrow, ya gotta take the chance to say something, ya hear me? I want ta see the two of you at the altar soon.”
He thinks about the daisies he’s grown and picked that are now waiting patiently for your hands, the photographs from your childhood together carefully framed on his dresser, the years he’s spent by your side, nursing his feelings day by day, ritual by ritual.
“I’m not worried,” Kita says. “Because we’re important ta each other. Even if they didn’t love me like I loved them and married someone else, that wouldn’t change.”
Obaasan chuckles. “Ya know, the two of you really think alike. ‘S like yer meant to be. When you were babies, they used ta reach for ya on the playmat and chew on ya, but ya wouldn’t let go once they did. Clung to them like ya were afraid of them disappearing, like they belonged right by your side.”
“Obaasan?”
“‘S nothing. As long as the two of you find yer way to each other, it doesn’t matter how bumpy the road is. All that matters is that day by day, moment by moment, yer building yer life and relationship together. And as long as the two of you reach each other in the end, you’ll be okay.”)
— shinsuke has always been by your side… and now he can’t bear the thought of anyone else having you.
kita shinsuke x f!reader
category: fluff fluff flufffff (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the first time kita shinsuke realized he loved you was so unremarkable that it nearly ruined him.
you’d been his best friend since before either of you could properly write your names. the kind of bond sewn in with scraped knees, shared snacks, and afternoons running between rice fields until his granny hollered that dinner was ready. he thought he knew you as well as he knew the seasons.
but then, in the middle of his first year at inarizaki, he’d been quietly tying his shoes outside the gym when he overheard two guys walking past.
“did you see y/n in class? she’s so cute. i might ask her out.”
he hadn’t even known who they were talking about, not until the other one said your name. your name. his heartbeat had stuttered like a missed set. the shoelaces slipped through his fingers, useless, and suddenly the ground tilted.
shinsuke was not the dramatic type. but he swore the world stopped turning for a moment.
because the thought — the horrifying, visceral thought — of you standing next to one of those faceless boys, laughing, holding their hand, smiling in that way you smiled only when you were really happy—
he had to sit down.
“ah,” kita muttered, blank-eyed, staring at the floor tiles. “so that’s what this is.”
and that was it. his quiet, steady heart had anchored itself to you and simply refused to let go.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the affection didn’t bloom in fireworks. it unfolded in habits.
he started waiting at the gates for you, no matter how early you arrived. the first time, you’d blinked at him.
“shinsuke? what’re you doing here? it’s barely seven.”
he shrugged, expression mild, voice calm as ever. “figured i’d walk with you.”
and that was all. the next day, he was there again. and the day after that. soon enough, you stopped asking. it felt normal, inevitable, like the morning sun rising.
then came the bento boxes. at first, he casually handed you an extra onigiri, saying granny had made too many. then, it was a whole packed lunch.
“shinsuke, i have my own—”
“don’t bother anymore,” he cut in, tone final but gentle. “i’ll handle it.”
you laughed, thinking it was a one-off. but no. from then on, your lunches were his responsibility. carefully prepared, every single day, filled with your favorite foods. when you tried sneaking your own bento again, he only frowned.
“i told you not to. eat mine.”
your protests died out. he was so steady, so insistent without ever raising his voice. soon, you found yourself waiting for his lunches, even craving them. it wasn’t a trap made of chains — it was comfort, dependence, inevitability.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
his team noticed.
“captain,” aran muttered once, staring as kita pulled out your thermos and shook it to make sure the tea was still warm. “are you seriously—”
“she likes it this way,” kita interrupted simply. “and i like when she likes things.”
“bro,” suna deadpanned, “you’re down bad.”
osamu snorted. “down catastrophic.”
atsumu threw his arms up. “nah, nah, this is beyond catastrophic. this is, like… meteor-strike extinction-level bad.”
kita only blinked at them, completely unashamed. “she deserves consistency.”
they groaned in unison. suna muttered something about how even romeo would’ve told kita to chill.
granny noticed too. one evening, as he carefully packed two bentos instead of one, she gave him a long, amused look.
“you’re makin’ lunches like a husband, shinsuke.”
he froze, ears pink. “…she eats better when i cook.”
granny chuckled. “mmh. say whatever you want, child. i know what this is.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
and maybe you should’ve noticed. maybe you should’ve questioned why your childhood friend’s whole life revolved around you so quietly, so thoroughly. but it was kita.
kita, who always picked you up, who always remembered the things you liked, who always listened, who always stayed. why would you question such a perfect guy?
his love didn’t announce itself. it just wove into your days until you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
third year came fast.
and oh boy, this guy is so deeply in love with you, he'll worship the ground you walk on.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
it started stupidly enough, in practice.
you’d come to watch, as usual, sitting cross-legged with his your lunchbox. suna had been watching you chew happily when he leaned over to whisper, “captain. you’ve gotta confess soon or i’m gonna throw up watching this married couple act every day.”
atsumu overheard, immediately yelling across the court. “CONFESS TO HER, CAP’N! DON’T BE A COWARD!”
the whole gym went silent. you looked up mid-bite, blinking at kita.
he stared back, perfectly calm on the outside, but internally calculating whether killing atsumu would be justifiable homicide.
“…ignore him,” kita said, voice flat.
but the seed had been planted.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the confession came a week later, and it was so kita it hurt, sooo so good.
he invited you to his house after practice, under the pretense of letting granny feed you. (a common occurrence; granny adored you.)
but when you arrived, granny was “suspiciously” gone, leaving behind a note in her shaky handwriting: “good luck, shinsuke. don’t be dense.”
you giggled reading it, and kita nearly combusted. you just sound so good, so cute, so precious.
the two of you sat in his tidy kitchen. he placed a small, neatly wrapped box in front of you.
“what’s this?”
“open it.”
inside were stacks of envelopes. carefully written letters. dozens, maybe hundreds.
“…shin?”
he met your gaze evenly, but his hands were tight on the table. “i’ve been writing them since first year. couldn’t say it out loud, so i wrote it instead. every day. every thought.”
you stared at the box. “you’re kidding.”
“no.” his voice was steady, but his ears were pink. “i can’t… i can’t imagine a life without you in it. i don’t want to. i’ve built everything i do around you, and i don’t regret it. i’d do it all again, even if it made me look foolish. i’ll keep waiting at the gates, i’ll keep cooking for you, i’ll keep—” his voice cracked, just slightly. “—loving you, no matter what. i’m already yours. i don’t know how to be anything else.”
there was a beat of silence.
and then you laughed. not cruelly, but brightly, that bubbling sound that always unraveled him.
“shinsuke, you’re so stupid.”
“…hm.” he blinked, a little thrown.
“you could’ve just told me years ago. did you really need to stockpile a whole post office worth of letters?”
“i wanted to be thorough.”
you snorted so hard you nearly fell off your chair. “thorough? this is insane!”
“…is it too much?”
“oh, absolutely.” you grinned, reaching across the table to grab his hand. “but it’s also very you. and i love you for it.”
kita stilled. his heartbeat thundered. “…you—”
“yes, idiot. i love you too. now give me those letters, i’m reading all of them.”
he exhaled, something loosening in his chest that had been wound tight for years.
“…thank you.”
the next day, the team walked in on you feeding kita bites of his own bento while he looked at you like you hung the stars.
“they’re worse than ever,” suna muttered, horrified.
atsumu gagged. “disgusting. domestic. revolting.”
osamu smirked. “kinda cute, though.”
“shut up,” atsumu snapped.
kita didn’t hear any of it. you were laughing beside him, and that was all that mattered.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
and that was how kita shinsuke confessed. not with grand gestures or fireworks, but with inevitable, ridiculous, unwavering devotion.
because by then, it wasn’t hopefully about trapping you. it was about the simple fact that his world didn’t turn without you in it.
and maybe that was the funniest, sweetest part of all.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
a/n: i hope it doesn't seem too repetitive (˶˃⤙˂˶) i just love tooth rotting fluff so much !! kita is THE man. i do not know if i should make one with just his letters..
and yet here they were, another couple of them in a little vase—your favorite vase—on the kitchen counter, like always. you stared at the blooming buds, as if they were taunting you, your mind struggling to remember if you’d ever even mentioned them to your fiancé.
your thoughts were quickly interrupted upon the familiar crunch, crunch, crunch of the grass beneath the footsteps of a familiar gait. shinsuke walked in through the back, so beautiful and so sweaty after taking his boots off on the porch.
“evenin’, sweetheart,” he greeted with his same gentle smile, coming to give you a quick kiss on the forehead. you hummed with a soft smile as he went straight to the sink to wash his hands.
“you smell,” you teased, earning a little laugh from your love.
“do i?” he asked with a knowing look, “thought i’d smell like peaches and wildflowers.”
apparently, your greeting smile and little joke was not enough to hide the serious brainpower you were using to try and figure out when the hell—
“i sense that brain workin’,” kita commented as he scrubbed and dried his hands, his voice gentle, “what’cha thinkin’ about?”
“when did I ever tell you my favorite flower?” you blurted out before actually thinking, and you inwardly cringed, sounding like some petulant little kid.
real smooth.
kita’s brows furrowed slightly in confusion at her question, looking to the vase in the kitchen. “i mean, i knew ya liked flowers ‘cause we always walk past that one florist in town when we’re out... but your eyes light up just a lil’ bit more when he’s got these in the window.”
your cheeks turn hot, not realizing he noticed things like that. clearing your throat, you awkwardly mumbled, “didn’t know i had a stalker on my hands.”
kita couldn’t help but let out a chuckle, the rich, low laugh still making your heart race and the butterflies in your tummy flutter. “yer the one who said yes to marryin’ me, sweetheart,” he said with a slightly crooked grin, coming over to rest his hands on the curve of your waist, “it ain’t creepin’—i just pay attention.”
context: you’re inarizaki’s only manager since you’re not freaking out over the twins and you’re the captain’s beloved girlfriend.
category: fluff fluff fluffff!!
change of headers 😖 finally got the energy!
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
you only sneezed once. once.
it wasn’t even a dramatic, echoing, cartoon-level sneeze—more of a tiny, almost cute “achoo” that got lost in the sound of volleyballs hitting the gym floor. but unfortunately for you, the one pair of ears that picked it up belonged to kita shinsuke.
the ball thumped, osamu groaned about atsumu’s set, aran shouted for focus—normal practice chaos. but the moment kita’s head whipped toward you, eyes narrowing like he’d just spotted a national emergency, you realized your sneeze had doomed you.
“y/n,” he said firmly, jogging over with that unshakable calm that somehow carried the weight of an entire family’s worth of responsibility. “you sneezed.”
“…yes?” you blinked, half-expecting him to scold you for disrupting practice.
he pressed his lips into a line, already reaching for his phone. “you’re sick.”
before you could protest, kita’s thumbs were flying at lightning speed, typing with terrifying efficiency.
“shinsuke, i literally just sneezed—”
“symptoms of sudden sneezing,” he muttered under his breath, squinting at the glowing screen. his frown deepened. “common cold. influenza. dust allergies. pneumonia. no, that one’s not it, you’re not coughing.”
across the court, atsumu served his ball straight into the net, distracted by the sight of his captain crouched like an old man googling medical articles. “uh, what’s goin’ on?”
“our manager’s sick,” kita said, already dialing.
“i’m not sick!” you tried, your voice muffled as he gently tugged you toward the bench like you were made of glass.
the ringing of a phone came through, and then—“yes, granny, it’s shinsuke. what’s your remedy for colds again?”
the gym went silent. aran stopped mid-spike. suna blinked. ginjima mouthed “is he serious?” while osamu smirked like christmas had come early.
“ginger tea with honey and sliced lemon,” kita repeated into the phone. “warm blanket. no cold drinks. okay, thank you.” he hung up, slipping his phone into his pocket before looking at you with absolute seriousness. “granny says you need ginger tea. and no cold drinks. we’ll get lemon slices after practice.”
“i don’t—”
he crouched in front of you like a knight swearing an oath. “i’ll take care of you.”
atsumu cackled from across the court, doubling over. “SHE SNEEZED ONE TIME, CAPTAIN.”
osamu elbowed him, but he was grinning too. “nah, let him cook. granny kita’s comin’ out.”
you covered your face with your hands, groaning. “guys, please—”
but it was too late. kita had already grabbed a towel, folding it neatly before setting it on your lap like it was some kind of protective barrier.
“don’t touch her,” he told the team firmly, his tone so authoritative that suna actually froze mid-step on his way to the bench. “she’s fragile right now.”
“…fragile,” suna repeated slowly, eyes glinting with mischief. “from a sneeze.”
kita shot him a look so sharp that suna held up both hands, backing away like he’d been threatened with bodily harm.
aran, bless his soul, tried to reason. “captain, maybe she’s just allergic to the dust in the gym.”
“no,” kita said flatly. “i keep the gym clean. it’s not the dust.”
atsumu, never one to miss an opportunity, sauntered over with the smuggest grin imaginable. “so what, if she hiccups are ya gonna call an ambulance?”
kita didn’t even flinch. “if necessary.”
the entire team erupted. ginjima almost fell to the floor wheezing, while osamu wiped tears from his eyes.
you sat there in disbelief, wrapped in a towel like a Victorian child recovering from the plague, while your boyfriend—the ever-stoic, ever-collected kita shinsuke—stood guard like a watchdog, eyes flicking to anyone who dared come too close.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
practice was doomed after that.
“captain, can we get water?” ginjima asked cautiously, eyeing the way kita hovered near you.
“one at a time. don’t crowd the cooler, she might catch your sweat droplets.”
“WHAT?” atsumu howled.
suna leaned against the wall, smirking. “oh, i’m documenting this. this is history in the making.”
sure enough, you caught the faint click of his phone camera. “hold still, manager-chan, let me get one with your blanket and towel throne. very regal.”
you threw the towel at him, and he dodged it easily, laughing. “count your days, sunarin.”
meanwhile, kita was rummaging through his bag, producing a thermos like he’d planned for this scenario his whole life.
“you brought tea to practice?” you asked, bewildered.
“always,” he said simply, unscrewing the lid. “just in case.”
“WHERE THE HELL DID YOU GET THAT GINGER FROM?! WHY IS THERE HONEY IN YOUR DAMN BAG?” atsumu was rolling around in laughter, “oh my gosh, i can’t breathe.”
the entire team groaned in unison, but not one of them dared argue when he poured the steaming liquid into the cup lid and handed it to you with both hands like it was sacred.
“drink.”
you sipped obediently, partly because you loved him and partly because arguing in front of the peanut gallery would only make the teasing worse.
the tea was warm, slightly spicy, and definitely loaded with ginger. “oh wow. this is actually good.”
kita’s lips softened into the faintest smile. “granny’s recipe.”
osamu clutched at his chest dramatically. “he SMILED. she drank the tea and he SMILED. y/n, you’ve turned our captain into a lovesick granny hybrid.”
atsumu was already halfway up the bleachers, yelling like he was announcing breaking news. “BREAKING: kita shinsuke quits volleyball to pursue full-time nursing career for his girlfriend! tune in at six!”
aran threw a ball at his head.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
by the end of practice, you were officially labeled “fragile” in the team’s group chat (suna had changed your nickname while kita wasn’t looking), and the boys had developed a running joke of fake sneezing just to see kita twitch.
“ah-choo,” osamu said dramatically, clutching his chest. “captain, i think i need ginger tea.”
“make your own,” kita deadpanned, but his hand automatically checked your forehead for a fever.
atsumu collapsed to the floor, wheezing. “SHE’S THE ONLY ONE WHO GETS THE ROYAL TREATMENT.”
“that’s right,” kita said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
and honestly? you couldn’t even be embarrassed anymore. because the truth was, being fussed over by kita shinsuke—stoic, steady, responsible kita—wasn’t bad at all.
in fact, when he draped his jacket over your shoulders as you left the gym, muttering about how the night air might make your “symptoms worse,” your heart felt warmer than the tea had.
the team hooted and hollered behind you, of course. but you didn’t care.
because you only sneezed once, and suddenly you were the most precious thing in the world to him.
and honestly? you could get used to that. either way, you wouldn’t be getting away from his care anytime soon.
you weakly open your mouth as KITA feeds you some hearty chicken and rice soup. his gaze is soft as he gently guides the spoon between your lips.
no matter how delicious it is, though, guilt quietly eats away at you.
“ya got work, shin,” you weakly protest as he settles in bed. despite wearing his usual, clean work attire of long sleeve overalls, he makes no notion that he’s leaving your side. waking up with a 38 °C fever and a pale, sickly complexion, you couldn’t quite hide your ailment from your love.
his brows knit together as he lets out a breathy, slightly disbelieving smile. “the farmhands got it for the mornin’. i’m doin’ somethin’ more important right now.”
and oh boy, kita absolutely loves to take care of you.
you welcome some more spoon-fed soup in your mouth, and no matter how much you wanna force him out for work, you secretly relish the attention. you secretly savor his gentle touch of moving your hair out of your face and tucking behind your ear.
“the soup’s good,” you murmur, “you didn’t have to do all this.”
he softly shushes you with a kiss to your sweaty temple. “my granny used to make it for me every time i got sick,” he explains, “always helped me.”
after you finish some soup and water, he helps you swallow some flu meds. “you’ve been workin’ too hard, angel,” he whispers as he watches you try (and fail) to fight sleep, “just rest for me. ‘s okay to rest, ya know.”
so as you finally concede to sleep, you can’t help but already feel a little better from the soup he made with love, and the warmth of his comforting arms around you, holding you close.
masterlist | navigation
taglist (comment to be added): @tiredafbruh @chlosology @liverandom @knightofwands-upright @sailanne @nectardaddy @pmgranate @shortcakebaby
— calling shinsuke “husband material” should’ve been just a joke. well, it should’ve been.
kita shinsuke x f!reader
c: fluff fluff fluff fluff!! it gets a little suggestive near the end.
i thought of this while rethinking my life choices. SOMEONE HOLD ME BACK BEFORE I JUMP KITA
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
you should’ve known better.
of all people to joke around with, kita shinsuke was the worst choice.
the boy had never once wasted words. if he said “i’ll bring you a notebook tomorrow,” then tomorrow you’d have a notebook on your desk before homeroom. if he said “don’t forget your jacket,” you’d somehow find an extra jacket already folded in your bag. kita shinsuke was reliability wrapped in a pressed uniform, with the emotional spontaneity of a filing cabinet.
so when you offhandedly told him, “you’re such a husband material,” you didn’t think much of it.
but kita shinsuke thought a lot.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the very next morning, he walked up to you, handed you a perfectly wrapped bento, and said, completely straight-faced:
“i accept your proposal.”
and that was the beginning of the end.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
at first it’s manageable.
bentos every day, wrapped in different colors of furoshiki. vegetables carved into flowers, rice seasoned with just the right amount of salt. he starts walking you home—quiet, steady steps beside you, carrying your bag like it’s law. he doesn’t make a big deal of it, either. just: “a husband carries burdens.”
when you protest, he just hums. and keeps carrying it anyway.
but then… then he escalates.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
you come home one friday evening and find him in your living room.
your mom beams when you walk in. “oh, you’re back! your husband is here.”
“WHAT?!”
kita stands up from the couch, bows politely, and says, “good evening. thank you for raising your daughter so well. i’ll take care of her from now on.”
“shinsuke,” you hiss, pulling him aside. “what are you doing in my house?!”
“it’s only proper to introduce myself,” he says calmly, as if this explains everything.
you blink at him. “proper—?!”
“i also helped your father with the laundry line. the poles were leaning.”
from the kitchen, your dad yells, “good kid! finally someone around here who notices the important things!”
“DAD?!”
“he’s such a husband material, isn’t he?” your mom adds cheerfully.
“DON’T ENCOURAGE HIM!”
but your parents are thrilled. kita has already swept them off their feet with his homegrown rice crackers “from my grandmother’s recipe” and the way he addresses them so politely it sounds like he’s about to bow them into another dimension.
when he leaves that night, your mom whispers, “you’re so lucky.”
you slam your bedroom door and scream into your pillow.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
and then, as if that wasn’t humiliating enough, his teammates find out.
you’re sitting in the gym during practice, quietly watching, when atsumu jogs by with a grin.
“hey kita, yer girlfriend’s watchin’ again!”
you immediately wave your hands. “i’m not his—!”
but kita doesn’t miss a beat. he deadpans: “wife.”
the whole gym stops.
aran nearly drops the ball. suna blinks, deadpan. osamu looks like he just walked into a soap opera.
atsumu cackles. “WIFE?! yer kiddin’, right?!”
“not kidding.” kita sets the ball with surgical precision. “she proposed. i accepted.”
“WHAT?!” you screech from the sidelines.
“marriage isn’t a joke,” kita adds simply, spiking the ball so cleanly atsumu has no chance to receive it.
the twins howl. suna smirks at you. aran looks ten years older.
after practice, atsumu teases you relentlessly “how’s married life?”. suna, of course, takes it to another level: “don’t let him do all the cooking, or you’ll forget how to fend for yourself.”
kita doesn’t even react. he just corrects them in his usual flat tone: “she doesn’t need to fend for herself. i’ll take care of her.”
and the terrifying part? he means it.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
he’s in your house again the next weekend.
this time, he’s in the yard with your dad, fixing a wobbly gate.
“dad, why is he here again?!”
“he’s handy!” your dad beams. “you should marry him before someone else does.”
“DAD.”
kita wipes his hands with a cloth and glances at you. “there’s no need to worry. i’m already hers.”
your heart does an unhelpful little flip.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
from then on, it becomes routine.
kita dropping off jars of pickles or fresh vegetables “for your household.”
kita politely excusing himself from team hangouts with, “i promised i’d help her mom with the dishes.”
kita casually mentioning your future children’s diets in the middle of a conversation with aran, who nearly chokes.
“kids need balanced meals,” he says firmly. “she likes sweet potatoes. they’ll like them too.”
you nearly faint.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
it should be suffocating. it should be too much.
but instead, it’s just… kita.
he doesn’t cling, not yet, at least. he doesn’t overtalk. he just exists, steady as stone, quietly moving your entire world around him.
and the worst part? you can’t even hate it.
because when he notices you forgot your scarf and drapes his around your shoulders, or when he presses a warm bento into your hands and says, “don’t skip meals,” or when he stands at your side like an unshakable constant—you feel safe. seen. maybe even loved.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve had to say “we’re not married.”
no one listens anymore.
atsumu calls you sis-in-law so casually that even teachers start giving you strange looks. once, in class, he leaned over and said, “hey, when’s the honeymoon? kita-san doesn’t strike me as the tropical-beach type, so maybe a farm stay?” the whole row of desks around you burst out laughing, and you wanted the earth to swallow you whole.
osamu isn’t any better. he corners you one afternoon with a deadpan, “ya like pork or chicken better? jus’ makin’ sure i know what ta cook when you two come over as a married couple.”
aran tries to be reasonable, but even he slips. “look, if kita’s calling you his wife, i don’t think anyone’s gonna argue with him. you seen his face? he means it.”
and suna… suna lives to watch you suffer. one day, he slides you a photo under the desk: kita wiping sweat with his shirt hiked up, gaze flicking toward the bleachers where you’re sitting. across the bottom, suna scrawled: the look of a husband providing for his family. proof pls
you almost threw your shoe at him, you kept the photo though.
the worst, though, is your parents.
your dad has already drafted a list of “future household projects” for kita, as if the boy doesn’t already handle enough at his own farm. and your mom? she adores him. she makes comments like, “oh, shinsuke is so thoughtful, i can’t wait to have him at family new year’s,” right in front of him. he just bows politely and says, “i’ll be there.”
you try to argue, to protest, but it’s like shouting into a typhoon. everyone else seems to think you’re already married, and kita never, ever corrects them.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the last straw comes at practice.
you’re sitting cross-legged near the wall, flipping through your notes, when atsumu yells across the gym, “yer wife’s here again!”
the ball ricochets off his head because kita’s serve doesn’t falter, but his voice carries calmly across the court: “she’s not again. she’s always.”
the entire team groans.
suna smirks at you, lazy and sharp. “you hear that? permanence. better start practicing your married signature.”
osamu shakes his head like a man twice his age. “poor thing. he’s already got ya signed and sealed.”
you bury your face in your notebook, muttering into the paper, “i hate all of you.”
kita doesn’t even acknowledge the chaos. his eyes just flick to you once, steady and unreadable, before returning to the game.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
it’s later that night, walking home, when the weight of all of it crashes into you.
the whispers, the teasing, your parents’ approving smiles, the way kita looks at you like every word you’ve said has been etched into stone.
the sky is soft with twilight, cicadas buzzing, and your heart is thumping too fast.
you finally blurt it out: “you can’t keep pretending we’re married, shinsuke. it’s not real.”
he stops in his tracks. turns toward you. his expression doesn’t shift, but his eyes—dark, sharp, unwavering—lock onto yours.
“it feels real,” he says, and the quiet in his voice makes you shiver. “every time i cook for you. every time i walk you home. every time you smile at me. it’s real.”
your chest tightens. you shake your head, voice cracking. “that’s not how this works. you can’t just decide—”
but he’s already reaching for you, fingers brushing your cheek, tucking your hair back like it belongs behind his hand. the touch is gentle, reverent even, but his eyes burn hotter than the summer dusk.
“i didn’t decide,” he murmurs. “i knew.”
and then his mouth is on yours.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the kiss is devastating.
kita shinsuke, who is never anything less than composed, kisses you like a man starved. his lips crash into yours, hot and insistent, teeth scraping your lower lip until you gasp—and he seizes the sound, tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that makes your knees weak.
his hand tightens on your jaw, angling your head just the way he wants it, while his other arm clamps around your waist and yanks you flush against him. his body is solid, burning, his heartbeat pounding through his chest and into yours, and you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but cling to him.
the kiss is messy—wet and frantic, your mouths clashing, tongues tangling, spit slicking your lips until you don’t know where you end and he begins. you taste the faint salt of his sweat, the sharp tang of the rice crackers he’d eaten earlier, the sheer overwhelming need pouring out of him.
you fist your hands into his shirt, pulling him closer, desperate to anchor yourself as he consumes you. a low sound rumbles from his throat—half growl, half groan—and it sends a shiver all the way down your spine.
when you finally tear apart for air, your lips are swollen and wet, your breaths ragged. his forehead presses to yours, his thumb stroking across your cheekbone, his other hand still gripping your waist so hard it borders on possessive.
“see?” his voice is rough, hoarse in a way you’ve never heard. “real.”
before you can answer, he kisses you again, slower but deeper, his tongue curling lazily into your mouth, tasting you, owning you. his hand slides lower, settling on the curve of your hip, fingers squeezing like he never wants to let go.
your whimper breaks between his teeth. his fingers spread against your bare skin where your shirt has ridden up, hot and deliberate, pressing you harder against him until there’s not a breath of space left.
when he finally pulls back, his lips are spit-slick and swollen, his eyes molten as they drag over your face. he swipes his thumb across your lower lip, smearing the mess, then leans in and licks it off with a slow, filthy drag of his tongue.
“you can deny it out loud,” he whispers, voice steady but trembling with want. “but your body knows. you’re mine.”
and with the way his hand is still locked firm around your waist, dragging you against him like he’ll never release you, you know he means it.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
after that kiss, everything shifts.
kita doesn’t mention it outright—he’s not one to waste words—but his actions say more than enough. and by actions, you mean his hands. because suddenly, they’re everywhere.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the first time happens the very next morning during homeroom. you’re bent over your notebook, scribbling half-awake, when his hand slips under the desk and rests on your thigh.
you jolt, nearly snapping your pen in half. “shinsuke,” you whisper, voice strangled.
he doesn’t turn. his posture is straight, eyes fixed on the blackboard as if the school announcements are riveting. but his thumb strokes a slow circle into your leg, deliberate and steady, like he’s branding you.
you hiss his name again, cheeks on fire, but the only response is the faintest squeeze of his fingers before he withdraws, calm as if nothing happened. when you finally glance at him, his expression is impassive, but the subtle quirk at the corner of his mouth gives him away.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
practice is even worse.
you’re on the bleachers flipping through notes when atsumu spots you. “yer wife’s here again!” he yells across the gym.
the ball ricochets off his head when kita’s serve nails him in the face. without missing a beat, kita’s voice carries clear and flat across the court: “yes, my wife.”
the team collapses into chaos. osamu groans into his palms. aran mutters something about boundaries. suna leans back on the bench, smirking at you like he’s watching his favorite soap opera unfold.
you bury your face in your notes, mumbling, “i hate all of you.”
kita retrieves another ball, jogs past you, and—without hesitation—presses a kiss against your temple before returning to the game. casual. effortless. like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
the gym explodes. atsumu screams, suna wheezes, even aran covers his eyes. you wish the bleachers would open up and swallow you whole.
kita doesn’t flinch. he’s already focused on the next serve.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
it only escalates after that.
walking to class? his hand finds yours, fingers threading through like it’s second nature. when you try to tug away, his grip simply tightens, calm but unyielding, until you give up.
lunch? he sits shoulder to shoulder with you, thigh pressed firmly against yours, arm resting along the back of your chair. when you mutter that people are staring, his quiet reply is, “they should. they need to know.”
at home, it’s even worse.
helping your mom in the kitchen, he brushes against your waist every time he passes. fixing the gutters with your dad, he still finds a way to wipe sweat off your temple with the pad of his thumb.
and when you’re slicing vegetables side by side, he leans down just enough that his lips graze the shell of your ear as he murmurs, “careful, the knife’s sharp.”
you drop it every single time.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
your parents, of course, are thrilled.
“he’s such a gentleman,” your mom sighs as kita dries the dishes after dinner. “he’ll make a wonderful husband.”
“i already am,” kita replies evenly, folding the towel.
your dad chuckles, shaking his head. “just treat her right, son.”
“i always do,” comes the steady response, as if it’s the most obvious truth in the world.
you nearly pass out at the table.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the team, meanwhile, has stopped pretending to be normal. they live for the drama.
atsumu points and wails, “he’s corruptin’ her innocence!”
osamu fires back, “innocent? ya didn’t see her kiss him back.”
suna hums lazily, “honestly? that’s hot of her.”
aran mutters, “stop hitting on captain’s wife. god give me strength.”
no matter what they say, none of them miss the way kita’s hand never strays far from you now—resting at your waist, tucking your hair back, fingers ghosting your jaw like he’s the only one allowed to touch.
and he is.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the next time he kisses you, it isn’t under the soft evening sky. it’s in your kitchen, soy sauce lingering in the air, your parents only a room away.
he corners you against the counter, palm flat against your lower back, and covers your mouth with his. it’s hot and consuming, tongue sliding against yours until you’re gasping into him, clutching his shirt to stay upright.
when he finally pulls back, lips spit-slick and swollen, his thumb drags across your mouth before he murmurs, low and certain: “my wife.”
the word sears hotter than the kiss itself.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
a/n: i’m gonna devour kita, i’m turning into a kita stan; sorry, fukunaga.
You’d locked yourself in the bathroom nearly an hour ago.
Cramps had you doubled over, your mood was in the gutter, and you felt bloated, ugly, and irritable. The last thing you wanted was anyone seeing you like this—especially not him.
Outside the door, Shoyo Hinata paced like a worried puppy.
“Y/N…?” he called gently. “You okay in there?”
No answer.
So, he tried again. “Do you need anything? Water? Chocolate? Me to go fight your uterus?”
Still nothing.
After a moment of silence, a quiet shhfff sound slid across the bathroom floor.
You blinked, turned, and looked down near the door.
A small pack of strawberry Pocky had been pushed through the crack under the door.
“…Shoyo?”
“Just in case you’re hungry,” he replied from the other side. “And if you’re sad. You always eat Pocky when you’re sad.”
You were silent for a while—partly confused, partly touched—when another shhfff noise happened.
This time, it was…a fuzzy pair of boxers.
Steam rose from them.
“What the hell is that?” you asked, leaning toward it like it might attack.
“…I microwaved my boxers,” Hinata said proudly. “So you can wear them and feel warm!”
Your jaw dropped. “Hinata Shoyo. You microwaved your underwear—for me?!”
“YEAH! Not the ones I wore today, okay? They’re clean!! I swear! I just thought—you know—you always say warm stuff helps when it hurts so bad, so I thought…”
You couldn’t help it. A laugh burst out of you despite the dull ache in your stomach.
“…That’s the dumbest and sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” you muttered.
You unlocked the door slowly, peeking out with tired eyes and a flushed face.
Hinata stood there with a lopsided smile, holding a heating pad in one hand and another snack in the other. His cheeks were just as red as yours.
“I just… wanna help,” he said sheepishly. “Even if I’m not good at it.”
You opened the door fully and pulled him into a hug.
“You’re more than good at it. You’re the best.”
And in that warm, giggly moment—with microwaved boxers, snacks on the floor, and a sunbeam of a boyfriend—you felt just a little better.
KITA SHINSUKE
Your legs are curled against your chest under a mountain of blankets. The world feels too loud, your body too heavy. Your cramps pulse like clockwork—sharp and relentless—and the heat pack isn’t helping anymore. Neither is your mood.
There’s a knock at your door.
Soft. Familiar.
You groan. “Don’t come in. Go away. I look ugly right now.”
Silence.
Then, the click of the door opening anyway.
You can’t bring yourself to lift your head, but you recognize his footsteps—quiet, deliberate. The scent of chamomile floats into the room before you even see him.
You peek out from the cocoon of blankets.
There he is. Kita Shinsuke.
Hair still perfectly combed. Hoodie sleeves pushed neatly to his elbows. Holding a mug with both hands like it’s something sacred.
“You’re not ugly,” he says plainly, like it’s just fact. “You’re in pain. That’s not the same.”
He sets the mug on your bedside table and doesn’t try to touch you. Doesn’t force anything. Just turns toward the messy basket of unfolded laundry near your desk and begins folding—slowly, methodically. Like it’s part of a quiet ritual he does just for you.
You stare, too tired to argue, too touched to say anything.
He doesn’t speak either. His movements are calm, steady. It’s like watching a warm breeze clean your room. Your shoulders start to loosen without you realizing. The throbbing in your abdomen is still there, but somehow, it’s less… sharp.
When the last shirt is folded and stacked, he walks over and sits on the edge of your bed, careful not to shift it too much. He picks up the mug again, now cooled just enough, and gently presses it into your hands. His fingers brush yours—warm, calloused, familiar.
“Drink a little. Then I’ll heat up your pad again,” he murmurs.
You do as he says, because you trust him, because his voice makes the ache in your chest ease.
As you take a slow sip, Kita leans in a little closer.
His hand brushes your hair back from your forehead, so softly it makes you want to cry.
“You’re beautiful,” he says. “Even when you think you’re not.”
You blink at him, stunned at the quiet certainty in his voice.
He studies your face for a moment—eyes calm, kind. Then he leans in and presses the softest kiss to your temple, lingering there for a second longer than needed. Your breath catches. It’s like everything stops—except your heartbeat, which stumbles in your chest.
You whisper, “Thank you.”
Kita smiles faintly, resting his forehead gently against yours. “Always.”
And for the first time that day, the ache doesn’t feel so heavy.
Not with him here. Not when he makes even your worst moments feel worth showing up for.
AKAASHI KEIJI
You were halfway out of bed when it happened—
That dreaded, telltale warmth.
Panic set in immediately. Your stomach dropped as you glanced down at the faint crimson bloom on your sheets. You scrambled to fix it, heart racing, trying to move fast, cover it up, clean it—anything before someone—
Creak.
The door opened. You froze, like a raccoon caught mid-crime.
And there stood Akaashi Keiji, blinking softly at you in the doorway.
You were hunched awkwardly, half-lifting your blanket, a pillow pressed to your side, and you just… froze. Wide eyes. Stiff shoulders. Total horror.
Akaashi took one look at your face and understood.
You broke first, your voice a whisper, shaky and small.
“I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I just—it's gross and—”
He stepped in without hesitation.
“Hey,” he said gently. “It’s okay. It’s normal.”
You turned away quickly, embarrassment burning through your skin. “I just—I didn’t want you to see it.”
He sighed—not out of frustration, but with the kind of softness people use when folding origami.
“Then I’ll close my eyes while I hold you next time,” he said, only half teasing, and you hated that it made your heart stutter.
Still overwhelmed, you slipped out of the room and headed straight for the laundry area, hiding behind the washing machine like a little gremlin. You didn’t even know why—it just felt like the safest place to melt from embarrassment.
Moments later, you heard the shuffle of sheets and footsteps approaching.
Akaashi appeared around the corner with a laundry basket, wearing that same calm, unreadable face he always did—but this time, his voice was warmer than usual. “Let me clean it. You go rest.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but he gave you that look. The one that somehow convinced Bokuto to sleep at a reasonable hour.
“You’re tired. And I know your back hurts. Please,” he added.
And you knew he wasn’t asking out of pity. He was offering care, in the quiet, thoughtful way only Akaashi Keiji could.
So you nodded, slowly, and let him take over.
Later, you found him again, curled on the couch with a blanket ready for you. A warm mug in his hands. Lo-fi playing softly in the background, paired with his voice as he read from your favorite book—his tone calm, steady, like nothing awkward had happened at all.
You sank beside him, cheeks still hot.
“Still feel gross?” he asked quietly, eyes flicking to yours.
You hesitated, then shook your head. “Not as much.”
He reached out, brushing your pinky with his.
“That’s good,” he said. “Because you’re not. And I’ll keep reminding you until you believe it.”
GOSHIKI TSUTOMU
You were curled up in bed, hair messy, hoodie oversized, hot water bottle clutched to your stomach. The cramps were rude. The bloating was worse. And your mood? Somewhere between “burn the world down” and “cry over a kitten video.”
When your bedroom door creaked open, you groaned.
“Go away. I look terrible.”
Silence. Then—
“Wha—NO YOU DON’T!!”
You blinked, startled, as Goshiki Tsutomu stumbled into your room like a panicked deer. “You’re literally glowing?? Like—like a powerful goddess or something??”
You stared at him, deadpan.
He stared back, cheeks going pink like cherry blossom petals in real time.
“I mean—!” he tried again, waving his arms. “I-I just meant, you always look good! Even when you’re, y’know… fighting for your life??”
You raised an eyebrow.
He clutched a plastic bag tightly. “I brought snacks!”
Then—of course—he tripped over your laundry basket.
Half the snacks spilled out onto the floor in slow motion. A pack of gummies hit your shoe. A chocolate bar slid under your desk like it was making a break for it.
He stood frozen, mid-squat, mouth slightly open in silent horror.
You couldn’t help it—you laughed. A small one at first, then a full giggle as he scrambled to collect everything, muttering apologies to both you and the snacks.
“I’m—uh—usually way cooler than this,” he said, red-faced, clutching the surviving chips to his chest like wounded soldiers. “But I just—I wanted to make you feel better, and I read that snacks and compliments help, so—”
You reached out, tugged him gently by the sleeve, and said, “Thank you, Tsutomu.”
He froze.
You gave him a tiny smile. “You're flustered, but you're sweet. And honestly, that’s way more comforting than being too smooth.”
His ears turned red. “S-Smooth is overrated anyway.”
You scooted over, patting the spot beside you. “Come sit, snack guardian.”
He sat beside you like a very nervous golden retriever, still holding the chips, trying very hard not to vibrate with excitement or accidentally touch your knee.
And despite the cramps and bloating, you couldn’t stop smiling.
Because in all his awkward glory, Goshiki made you feel like a goddess—even in sweatpants and pain.
USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI
You were flopped across the couch like a defeated warrior, wrapped in a blanket burrito with a hot compress against your stomach and a scowl on your face. Everything felt puffy. Your mood was foul. Your body felt like it was personally betraying you.
So when you heard footsteps approaching, you groaned.
“I’m bloated and horrible. Don’t come near me.”
A pause.
Then, in that calm, even tone only Ushijima Wakatoshi could pull off:
“Your appearance does not change how I feel about you.”
You peeked out from under your blanket.
He was standing beside you, stoic as ever, holding... a peeled orange. Perfectly sectioned. Not a bit of peel or pith in sight.
“I read that citrus is good during menstruation,” he said seriously, placing it in your hands with utmost care.
You blinked. “Wait—you peeled this?”
“Yes,” he said plainly. “With a spoon. It was... delicate work.”
Your heart did something warm and annoying.
He sat beside you then—not too close, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him. Strong. Steady. Like a mountain planted at your side.
He didn’t say much after that. Just rested a warm hand against your back, slow and grounding, like an anchor. You didn’t even have to explain how much it helped. He seemed to know, in his own quiet way.
After a while, you muttered, “You’re really not freaked out by all this?”
He looked at you, confused. “Why would I be?”
“I dunno... it’s messy. Complicated. Most guys don’t get it.”
“I don’t fully understand,” he admitted without shame. “But I understand you are in pain. And I want to help. That is enough for me.”
You just stared at him.
Because somehow, that was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to you.
He gently pushed the orange closer. “You should eat. I peeled it with precision.”
You laughed, even though it hurt a little. “You’re kind of perfect, Wakatoshi.”
He blinked slowly. “Only because I’m with you.”
And for once, the pain didn’t feel quite so heavy.
KAGEYAMA TOBIO
You were half-buried under a mountain of blankets, hoodie up, socks mismatched, and a microwaved heat pack balanced precariously on your stomach.
Your cramps had declared war. Your bloating was its loyal general. Your mood? Somewhere between “don’t look at me” and “don’t not look at me.”
So when the door creaked open, you groaned dramatically.
“Go away. I look ugly right now.”
A pause. Then his voice—flat, mildly confused, completely Kageyama:
“You’re literally just lying down.”
You peeked up. He was standing awkwardly in the doorway with a grocery bag and a furrow between his brows. Inside the bag? Snacks, bananas, a heat patch, and... chamomile tea?
You squinted. “Did you look this stuff up?”
He stepped in, muttering, “Yeah. Watched three videos. One of them had cartoons... I didn’t like it.”
Your heart did a small, ridiculous flip.
Kageyama placed the tea on the side table like it was a volleyball trophy, then sat stiffly beside you. He handed you a warm bottle of water like it was part of a ritual. He didn’t really know what to do—but he wanted to do it right. That much was obvious.
“You don’t have to stay,” you mumbled, a little shy.
He frowned. “I want to.”
You stared at him.
He stared at your blanket burrito.
Then, in a very serious voice:
“If you need anything... I’ll get it. Unless it’s, like, prescription stuff. Then we need to text someone with a license.”
You bit back a laugh. “That’s... thoughtful?”
He stiffened. “I’m just trying to help. You helped me when I failed that Math test.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t bleed for five days straight.”
His face turned bright red.
There was a loud knock at the door—probably your sibling yelling about borrowing something.
Kageyama stood up like a soldier mid-war. “I’ll handle it.”
You blinked as he marched out, posture tense, voice firm as he told them, “She’s busy. Come back later.”
You heard muffled grumbling. Then silence.
When he came back in, you were smiling.
“Tobio,” you said softly.
He looked over, slightly worried. “What?”
“You’re kinda bad at this... but you’re also kinda great.”
He sat back down beside you, scratching the back of his neck. “Well... yeah. I know. But I’m still gonna try.”
You leaned against him, heat pack between you, and for the first time all day, you didn’t feel quite so gross.
KUROO TETSURO
Your uterus was staging a full-blown revolution, your head was pounding, and your emotions were somewhere between burn everything and cry over nothing.
So when Kuroo Tetsurō peeked in through the door with his usual smirk, your reaction was immediate and primal.
“I feel gross, go away.”
He walked in anyway, waving a bar of chocolate like a white flag.
“You’re cute when you’re grumpy.”
You deadpan stared. He paused.
“Okay wait, don’t kill me—here’s chocolate!” He tossed it onto your bed like he was feeding a wild animal.
“I told you to go,” you gritted, grabbing the nearest pillow and launching it at him.
He ducked with a laugh, catching it midair. “Woah—projectile detected!”
“Oh, shut up with the science jokes—”
Too late.
“You know,” he said, inching closer, “your mood is just Newton’s Third Law in action: for every annoying boyfriend action, there is an equal and angry girlfriend reaction.”
You hurled a slipper next.
It missed, barely.
He gave you a look. “Did you just throw your slipper at me?”
“I’ll throw the other one too if you don’t leave me alone!”
But he didn’t leave.
Instead, he set the chocolate properly on your nightstand, sat beside you, and—very gently—reached for your foot.
You raised an eyebrow. “What now?”
“Massaging away the murder vibes before I die.”
You were still glaring... but you let him.
His thumbs pressed against the arch of your foot in slow, soothing circles. He was annoyingly good at it. You hated how fast the tension began to melt.
“I read that foot massages help with cramps,” he said casually, shifting a little to rub at your calf too. “Also, I like touching you. That part’s a bonus.”
You huffed, pulling the blanket over your face. “I hate you.”
He leaned down, kissing your temple through the blanket.
“You’ll love me again when the serotonin from the chocolate kicks in.”
Another grumble.
Then, softly, you peeked out. “...You are good at massages.”
“I know,” he smirked. “Physics, baby.”
You smacked him lightly with the pillow again—but this time, you didn’t throw it.
BOKUTO KOUTARO
You were curled up on the couch with a heat pack, blanket hood over your head, and an expression that said: I’m done with this world.
You barely mumbled, “I look like death. Don’t look at me.”
But Bokuto was already there—wide eyes, full heart, and very little understanding of how menstrual cycles worked, but deeply trained for this exact situation.
“NOOOO, YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL EVEN WHEN YOU’RE DYING!!” he cried out dramatically, dropping to his knees beside the couch like you were in a medieval tragedy.
You groaned and smacked a pillow over your face.
Three weeks ago, he’d caught sight of a single bloodstain on your sweatpants and screamed like you’d been stabbed. “BABE?! ARE YOU BLEEDING TO DEATH?! SHOULD I CALL KUROO? OR AN AMBULANCE???”
Since then, you sat him down—twice—and gave him the “Period 101” crash course with printed infographics, diagrams, and a checklist labeled:
“THINGS TO DO WHEN Y/N IS IN PAIN (DO NOT PANIC)”
And now? He was ready.
Bokuto gently removed the pillow from your face like it was sacred.
“You want the raspberry tea or the mango one? You said mango last time, but you also said raspberry makes you feel loved—”
You blinked.
“I’ll bring both,” he decided, already sprinting off like he was on a game show.
He returned with both teas, a small heating pad, and a pink sticky note taped to the mug that read:
“YOU ARE BRAVE AND AMAZING AND PERIODS ARE SCARY BUT YOU’RE SCARIER 💪❤️ – BOKU ❤️”
You stared at the note.
Then at him—grinning and rocking side to side, eyes expectant.
“Okay,” you said softly. “That’s actually really cute.”
He beamed. “I FOLLOWED THE LIST!!”
You motioned him over with a little wave. He dove beside you immediately, wrapping his arms and legs around you like a large, clingy marsupial.
“I’ll cuddle the cramps out of you,” he declared. “Koala mode: activated.”
You snorted. “You’re the most chaotic comfort ever.”
“Chaotic comfort is still comfort!” he said proudly, then kissed your cheek.
You buried your face in his hoodie, finally able to laugh through the pain.
He stayed like that for hours—occasionally gasping when you shifted or winced (“is it back?! should I karate chop it??”) but never leaving your side, not even once.
DAICHI SAWAMURA
You were curled up under two blankets, hoodie hood up, hair a mess, face pale, eyes tired. Your body hurt, your emotions were a rollercoaster, and the only words that escaped your mouth when Daichi walked into the room were:
“Please, I’m a disaster. Go away.”
But instead of leaving, Daichi Sawamura knelt down beside you with that soft, impossibly patient look in his eyes and said:
“You’re my favorite disaster.”
You groaned into the pillow. “Don’t say sweet things when I look like this…”
“I said what I said,” he replied, standing to his full height like this was some kind of operation he was born for.
And maybe it was.
Five minutes later, he returned with:
Your heating pad (already warm),
A fresh glass of water,
Your meds (right on time),
A snack you didn’t even know you were craving,
And his shoulder.
“Lean on me,” he said gently, tucking himself behind you on the couch and pulling you into his side like a magnet.
You didn’t resist. Couldn’t, really.
You pressed your forehead to his chest and closed your eyes. His arm wrapped around your waist, firm but soft, grounding you even when the cramps made your breath hitch.
“You’re doing great,” he whispered.
“I’m just lying here and not crying.”
“And that’s still brave,” he said, brushing your hair back gently. “Your body’s doing a lot. You don’t have to do anything else.”
You felt yourself melt into him—like your pain got a little lighter just from being near him.
He didn’t make a big deal. He didn’t flinch. He just stayed. And that was exactly what you needed.
IWAIZUMI HAJIME
You were curled up on the far end of the bed, hoodie zipped up to your nose, hot pack clutched like a lifeline. Your hair was a mess, your eyes watery, and you were pretty sure you looked like you’d fought a war and lost.
Iwaizumi knocked softly and peeked in. You turned your face away.
“Don’t look at me,” you mumbled. “I feel disgusting.”
He sighed. Not annoyed—never that—but like he was frustrated that you were hurting and blaming yourself for it.
“You’re literally sick,” he muttered, walking in without hesitation. “Let me take care of you, idiot.”
You glared at him half-heartedly from under the blanket. “Rude.”
“I said it with love,” he grumbled, setting a tray down on your nightstand. It had toast, soup, a glass of water, and your painkillers—organized like he was prepping for surgery.
Then he sat beside you and placed a hand gently on your back.
You were tense—tight with pain—but his palm was warm, his fingers steady as he rubbed small circles along your spine.
“…Your uterus is a damn menace,” he muttered under his breath, like he could intimidate it into behaving.
You laughed. It was small, breathy, but real.
He looked at you, still serious. “Did you eat anything?”
You shook your head. “Didn’t feel like it.”
Iwaizumi rolled his eyes and handed you a piece of toast. “Bite. Don’t argue.”
You opened your mouth to sass him, but he beat you to it with a warning stare. You took the bite.
He gave a satisfied nod. “Good.”
You chewed slowly, his hand never leaving your back, his other hand checking your forehead like he didn’t trust you to admit if you had a fever.
He didn’t coo or fuss. He didn’t hover. He just... showed up. Knew exactly when to speak and when to just be there.
His love was the kind that made you feel safe without needing to ask. Tough in tone, soft in every action.
And when you curled into his chest later, finally full, warm, and less in pain, he kissed your hair and mumbled:
“Still beautiful. Even when you’re annoying.”
You poked his ribs.
But you were smiling.
KYOTANI KENTARO
You groaned, face buried in the pillow, your stomach twisting like it was training for a wrestling match. The cramps hit you so hard, you barely had the energy to reach for your heating pad.
Then—knock knock—your bedroom door creaked open.
“Go away,” you muttered, not even turning to look. “I look disgusting.”
Kyōtani stood there, frozen for a second. He stared at you, disheveled and clearly in pain. His ears turned a little red.
“Shut up,” he grumbled, stepping in. “You don’t.”
You peeked through one eye, just in time to see him drop a small plastic bag onto your desk like it was nothing.
Inside: your favorite chips, a pack of sour gummies, a weird milk tea you mentioned once, and—somehow—your favorite brand of pain relief patch.
You blinked.
“…You went to the store?”
He didn’t look at you. “Was already out.”
That was a lie.
You knew it.
He knew you knew it.
But neither of you said anything.
Instead, he awkwardly stood there, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, hovering like he wanted to help but didn’t know how.
You groaned again as another wave of cramps hit. You clutched your stomach and curled tighter into the blankets, trying not to cry.
That did it.
Kyōtani took off his shoes and climbed onto the bed, silent but sure, like it was instinct. He didn’t say a word, just let you lean into him.
But the pain didn’t go away.
And before either of you could process what was happening, you climbed into his lap, straddling him, face buried in his chest like he was your personal heating pad. You let out a shaky breath and stayed there.
“Wha—” he froze, muscles stiff like he’d been turned to stone. “What are you doing???”
“Shhh,” you mumbled. “It hurts. You’re warm. I’m sleeping here now.”
You passed out within minutes.
He sat there, hands up like he wasn’t sure where to place them, cheeks burning, heart racing like he’d been spiked straight through the soul.
Eventually, his hands settled on your back—carefully, gently. He even leaned his chin on your head and closed his eyes.
“…Idiot,” he whispered softly, barely audible. “Don’t say you’re disgusting.”
Because even like this—messy, tired, pained—you were everything he secretly adored.
SHIRABU KENJIRO
You were bundled in a hoodie three sizes too big, hair in a messy bun, and a heating pad across your stomach like it was the only thing keeping you alive.
Your phone buzzed.
Shirabu: Outside. Open up.
You groaned. Noooo.
You shouted toward the door: "Don’t come in, I look like trash!"
But it was too late. The door opened a crack—and there he was. Backpack slung over his shoulder, hair slightly messy from rushing over, and his ever-present frown on full display.
“I’ve seen you cry over animal videos,” he said flatly. “You’re still out of my league.”
You blinked.
“…You’re annoying.”
“Good. I brought vitamins and warm towels. Don’t waste my effort.”
He walked in and started unpacking like this was a mission. You sat up a little, trying not to grimace from the cramps, pretending to scroll on your phone like you didn’t just feel like sobbing two seconds ago.
Shirabu caught the way you winced and muttered, “Tch. Idiot body. I’ll beat it up if I have to.”
You giggled at that, and he looked away, cheeks faintly pink.
When he finally sat beside you—arms crossed, like he wasn’t here for emotional support—his shoulder barely brushed yours.
And you?
You really wanted to lean on him. Just a little.
But no.
Too embarrassing.
So instead, you scooted just a tiny bit closer. Not enough to make it obvious. Just enough to feel the warmth of his sleeve.
He noticed.
He didn’t say anything, but his arms slowly, so slowly, uncrossed. One hand rested on your blanket. The other tugged you in by the hoodie strings like you were a cat being scruffed.
“…You could just say you want to be held, you know,” he muttered under his breath, placing your head gently on his shoulder.
“I don’t,” you whispered stubbornly, face already heating up.
“Sure,” he said sarcastically, wrapping an arm around you anyway. “That’s why you're basically glued to my side.”
You snorted and sank into him, pretending you were asleep so he wouldn’t tease you further.
But when he leaned down and whispered against your forehead, “Even your trash days are my favorite,” your heart skipped.
Maybe being clingy wasn’t so bad—if it was with him.
SAKUSA KIYOOMI
You curled up tighter under the covers, the heating pad already losing warmth and your cramps flaring like they had a personal vendetta. The light knock at your door barely registered.
“Go away,” you groaned. “I look ugly right now.”
The door creaked open anyway.
“I don’t care how you look,” Sakusa said gently, stepping in. “I care that you’re hurting.”
You peeked out from the blanket burrito you had made yourself into. There he stood—messy curls, fresh clothes, a pink mask (was that the one with the tiny peaches?), and a tote bag full of comfort items in his hand.
“Kiyoomi…” you mumbled, embarrassed.
“I brought your favorite snacks. The heat pad. Extra pads, the tea you like, and…” He trailed off, fishing something from his bag. “…the fuzzy socks you said felt like clouds.”
Your eyes watered a little—not from the cramps this time.
He crossed the room, set the bag on your desk, and placed a perfectly folded blanket at the edge of your bed.
“You didn’t have to,” you whispered.
“I wanted to,” he replied, gently placing a hand on your forehead, mask still on. “You're always taking care of others. Let someone take care of you.”
He pulled down the mask slightly—just enough to lean in and press a soft kiss to your temple, then one to your cheek.
“Even when you feel your worst,” he murmured, “you’re still the person I love the most.”
Your face heated faster than your cramps hurt.
You tried to hide under your blanket again, but he was faster—he slipped in beside you, gently pulling you into his chest as he tucked the warm heating pad between you.
“Rest,” he whispered against your hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Wrapped in Sakusa’s quiet love and warmth, even your uterus decided to calm down for once.
“kita, come here!” you call your husband from your shared bedroom.
he rushes from the kitchen where he was prepping dinner, peering through the door. “what’s wrong, sweetheart?”
“we have a bed bug. it’s like, some weird type though. never seen it before.”
his brows furrow at that. “bed bugs? how come? we just washed the sheets last night.”
“no idea. check this out.”
he walks over to one side of the bed, tentatively looking for any sign of insects crawling over the otherwise pristine white fabric. “hm. . . you sure it wasn’t something else? i don’t see anything.” and in perfect timing, under the mountain of blankets piled to beat the winter chill (because you both run cold), he hears muffled babbling. he leans in closer, and your baby boy appears from underneath the covers, lifting himself up and peering his head out to surprise kita.
“papa!” he cheers, and kita shouts in mock fear that makes your baby roll over laughing. the sound brings music to your ears and an overwhelming swell in your chest.
“that’s it! told you we had a bed bug.”
kita smiles tenderly, pinching your son’s chubby cheeks. “you had me worried for a second. i thought we were gonna have to wring the house dry.”
“what type of bedbug do you think this is?”
“couldn’t tell you. but an adorable one, that’s for sure,” he says, picking up your baby and rocking him close against his chest. he peppers kisses across your son’s wispy salt and pepper hair that matches his own. “you know, if all bed bugs were like this, i wouldn’t mind welcoming them into our home.”
“i agree,” you say, smiling as kita giggles alongside your baby when he places a long kiss to his tiny nose.
“let’s get this bed bug into his own bed. good thing i won’t need to bring out my pesticide.”
“does it not work on cute bugs?” you ask, trying to contain your grin.
“chubby little monsters are immune,” he says, smiling down at your baby’s pudgy arms, puffed out cheeks, and stubby legs. even though he doesn’t share those features with his big old papa (anymore, kita’s baby pictures are a different story), he’s still the spitting image of him in every other way.
yeah, this bed bug’s gonna be worth keeping around for a while.
watched with those sharp, observant eyes. watched as you laughed from your core, lightly hitting that other guy’s shoulder. watched as his hand lingered on your arm for way longer than it should have. watched his eyes wander where they shouldn’t.
his chest swelled with an uncomfortable, unfamiliar feeling, grip on his can tightening.
he watched as you pointed towards him, giving him a reassuring smile. the other guy’s face twisted, slightly, yet noticeable to kita’s eyes.
bidding the other guy goodbye, you walk over to your boyfriend, waving and smiling as if nothing happened.
“ready to go?” you asked kita, hand resting on his arm. he only nods and smiles, still stiff with a tight heart.
the drive home was silent, the only noise being the quiet radio. as you enter the door, your boyfriend closes it behind you. as soon as he does, you’re pressed gently towards the wall, kita’s hands cupping your face before kissing you — passionate, deep, slow.
your hands rest on his shoulders, lightly tapping with your finger, gently asking him to pull away.
“you okay, shin?” you asked, voice laced with worry. his hands softly grazed your sides, placing them behind your back as he hummed and nodded. he leans forward to find your lips again, but you stopped him.
“talk to me,” you whispered. you tiptoe forward to place your lips on the corner of his mouth, sweet and reassuring. “i’m here.”
he looked down for a bit, bangs covering his eyes. he fiddles his fingers behind you, wondering how to put his feelings into words.
“who was that guy?” he asked, voice timid and eyes still averted.
“an old friend, shin. just caught me and wanted to catch up,” you answered, brushing his bangs out of the way. he hums and takes a second to think.
“he was… really touchy,” he muttered. you sigh knowing just what he was talking about, but your heart skipped a beat knowing kita even noticed.
“he knows i have a boyfriend,” you replied, hand reaching up to cup his face. you lean forward to find his eyes, and once you do, his soften. “he knows i have you, shin.” he hums in response, chin up now to face you, eyes glimmering.
“i’m all yours, yeah?” you softly asked. he returns your smile, holding your back closer to him. still shy and hesitant, he hums and nods.
“all mine…” he mutters, parroting your words, but mostly saying it to himself. you tiptoe once more, pulling his face closer to meet his lips.
the kiss is tender, slow, soft. each movement felt like a promise, sworn and true for the rest of time.
— shinsuke has decided you’re his wife, which means you’re contractually obligated to eat lunch like a queen.
kita shinsuke x f!reader
c: fluff!!
he’s such a man, i wanna lick him
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
kita has always been a reliable man. dependable. consistent. if the world was ending tomorrow, people would line up behind him with clipboards in hand because they knew he’d somehow find a way to coordinate survival.
but reliable doesn’t begin to cover it when he decides, very plainly, that you are his wife.
not “potential wife.” not “maybe one day wife.” no—wife.
the paperwork may not exist, the rings may not shine on your finger, but every morning like clockwork, there’s a neatly wrapped bento box on your desk with a small, perfectly written note:
for my lawful wife.
the first time, you laughed. the second time, you blinked. the third time, you stopped laughing because the handwriting was deadly serious. the fourth time, you ate the food without complaints, because even if you weren’t married to kita shinsuke, your stomach apparently was.
and the food—dear heavens, the food. if there was a cooking olympics, kita would leave with so many medals his neck would snap. the rice was fluffy. the tamagoyaki was soft and sweet. the chicken was crispy perfection. he somehow made vegetables taste like they had been kissed by angels.
and every day, like a contract signed in sauce and soy, there’s the label:
for my lawful wife.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
you’ve told him before. you’ve cornered him at practice, half-exasperated, waving the little sticky notes in his face.
“kita. i’m not your wife.”
he’d only blinked those slow, gentle eyes of his, like a farm cat who had already killed the mouse and didn’t see why you were complaining about the corpse on your doorstep.
“not legally,” he said, voice calm, like he had consulted a lawyer about this and the lawyer had confirmed. “but it’s just a matter of time.”
a matter of time.
like he was waiting for a kettle to boil. like he was patient enough to count every grain of rice in japan. like he was so confident that the world itself would rearrange around the inevitability of you standing next to him in a matching apron, peeling carrots.
and the worst part? the absolute audacity?
he was right.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
you’re head over heels for him, of course. embarrassingly so. your heart stumbles whenever he tilts his head, whenever he says your name with that calm, steady voice GAWD, whenever he hands you chopsticks like you’re too delicate to pick them up yourself.
but he doesn’t know that. you’ve made sure he doesn’t know that. you’re careful. you hide your blushes behind fake scowls, you roll your eyes until they’re practically in the stratosphere, you act like the bento boxes are a burden instead of the highlight of your day.
so why, pray tell, does kita look so smug every time you eat every last grain of rice?
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
there was the time he caught you licking sauce from your thumb, eyes fluttering shut because it was that good. when you opened your eyes, kita was standing there, expression as blank as a chalkboard, but his ears—the tips of his ears—were pink.
“you liked it?” he asked, voice so soft it barely rustled the air.
“i—it’s fine,” you stammered, wiping your hand like you hadn’t just committed the world’s most incriminating crime.
“good,” he said, and then, with the subtlety of a man declaring war, “my wife deserves the best.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
sometimes, you think he must be joking. no one can be that straightforward. no one can be that devoted, that shameless. but kita isn’t anyone—he’s kita shinsuke, the boy who ironed his school uniform at age twelve, the boy who can’t lie because his soul is made of honest-to-god wheat fields and sincerity.
when he says you’re his wife, he means it.
and when you lie awake at night, hugging your pillow, face burning so hot you could power a small generator, you know you mean it too—even if you’ve never said it out loud.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
it’s the little things that undo you.
the way he knows exactly how you like your rice packed. the way he slices fruit into bite-sized pieces because “you shouldn’t trouble yourself with peeling oranges.” the way he adjusts his routine so that no matter what, your lunch is ready before his.
who does that? who prioritizes someone else’s lunch before his own?
kita shinsuke, that’s who.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
on a random tuesday.
you open your bento to find, as always, perfection arranged with surgical precision: rice with sesame seeds sprinkled into the shape of a heart (he’s not subtle), glossy karaage, pickled radish cut into little flowers. but tucked under the chopsticks is something new.
a folded piece of paper.
your stomach flips.
your hands shake.
you unfold it, bracing yourself for—what? a confession? a proposal? a grocery list?
it reads:
“don’t forget you’re mine. - your husband.”
your husband.
you slam the lid shut so hard it nearly cracks. you can feel your ears sizzling. you want to scream into a pillow, to throw yourself into the sun, to stomp over to him and demand—what, exactly? demand that he stop calling himself your husband? demand that he stop taking such good care of you? demand that he stop looking at you like you’re the sun he personally planted in his rice field?
you do none of those things. you sit quietly. you eat every last bite. and when kita passes by your desk later, eyes flicking down to see your empty bento, he smiles.
not wide. not cocky. just a tiny, knowing smile.
you want to die.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the week has been unbearable—every lunch, every sticky note, every little reminder that kita shinsuke has already packed you into the tupperware of his heart and sealed the lid.
you can’t take it anymore.
he hands you your bento that morning, wrapped in a pale blue cloth. his fingers brush yours—just barely, but it’s enough to spark every nerve in your body like dry grass in a wildfire.
“for my lawful wife,” he murmurs, as always.
“kita,” you blurt, throat dry.
he blinks. “yes?”
and then—you lean in, reckless, desperate, and kiss him. right there, in the middle of the hall.
it’s clumsy, too fast, your lips pressing against his like you’re trying to stamp approved on his soul. but kita—oh, kita—he’s steady. calm. one hand rises, cups your cheek with unbearable gentleness, holding you like you’re made of glass, and he kisses you back.
soft. slow. devastating.
when you pull away, you’re panting, face blazing hotter than the surface of the sun.
“i’m not—i’m not your wife,” you whisper, weak, like you’ve already lost.
he looks at you, utterly unshaken.
“not yet,” he says, eyes burning like wildfire contained in a glass jar. “but you kissed me, so we’re closer than yesterday.”
and you realize, with horrifying clarity, that you’re never escaping this.
not that you want to.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
later, when you open your bento, the sticky note doesn’t say “for my lawful wife.”
it says:
“for the girl who finally kissed her husband.”
you nearly choke on your rice.
and from across the room, kita smiles that tiny, devastating smile again—like he already knew you would.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
a: i want him so bad, no one stop me once i jump him. ushi and kenma fic tomorrow or whenever i can write ✌︎˶╹ꇴ╹˶✌︎
⤷summary: totally innocent things you do that makes them lose their minds a little
⤷content: fluff, light crack, suggestive undertones??, established relationship
⤷characters: miya osamu, sakusa kiyoomi, ushijima wakatoshi, miya atsumu, kita shinsuke, and tsukishima kei
. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁ OSAMU MIYA
it’s the sauce again.
you’re perched on the counter in one of his shirts, eating fried chicken with your fingers, and you don’t even notice him watching.
“you’re starin’,” you say, voice muffled with food.
“am not.” he’s absolutely lying.
he’s supposed to be mixing batter, but instead he’s thinking about the way you just licked your thumb clean—slow, absentminded. he grips the whisk tighter.
you tilt your head at him, all innocent eyes and a sauce-stained cheek. “you okay there, chef?”
osamu blinks, turns around, mutters something like “yeah, fine” while trying to look anywhere but you.
he’s not fine. not even close.
you swing your legs and hum as if you haven’t just ruined his entire morning. he swears the next time you sit on his counter like that, he’s confiscating all sauces within a ten-meter radius.
. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁ SAKUSA KIYOOMI
he’s folding laundry when you come in, hair down and messy from sleep.
then you grab a scrunchie, push your hair back, and tie it up.
he swears time slows down. the wrist twist. the tug. the reveal of your neck. he blinks once, twice, and looks away like he just saw something illegal.
“what?” you ask, oblivious.
“nothing.” he’s staring at the wall now. very intently.
you shrug, go back to scrolling your phone, and he’s left pretending that he isn’t imagining pressing his lips right where your pulse beats.
later, you catch him watching you again in the mirror. “you sure it’s nothing?”
he exhales sharply. “you should... wear your hair down less.”
you laugh, because you know exactly what he means.
. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁ USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI
you stretch beside him, arms raised above your head, shirt lifting just enough to show the soft curve of your stomach.
he’s reading, or at least he was. now his book is halfway forgotten.
“tired?” he asks, voice steady, but his eyes have gone a little unfocused.
“just stiff.”
he hums like he didn’t just witness a divine act. you drop your arms, sigh contentedly, and he swallows. he has a thought—something about how delicate you look and how badly he wants to trace the shape of you—but he keeps it to himself.
later, when you fall asleep next to him, curled and warm, he closes the book, presses a kiss to your forehead, and whispers something you don’t quite catch.
it sounds like mine.
. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁ ATSUMU MIYA
you sass him again—hands on hips, that tiny pout, that look.
“i told you it’s your turn to do the dishes,” you say.
“i’m the breadwinner ‘round here,” he argues dramatically, “shouldn’t have to wash dishes when i’m providin’ for us.”
you stare him down. he cracks first. he always cracks first.
five minutes later, he’s elbow-deep in soap suds, muttering under his breath. you lean against the counter, smug.
“what was that?” you ask sweetly.
“nothin’, sweetheart.”
you hum, start humming a tune as you dry the plates.
he glances up. there it is again—that stupid warmth in his chest that feels like home. he grins, shakes his head.
“ya drive me crazy, ya know that?”
you smirk. “that’s the point.”
. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁ KITA SHINSUKE
you’re curled up on the couch, oversized sweater sleeves covering your hands, a steaming cup of tea resting in your lap.
he stops in the doorway for a good ten seconds before he moves again.
“you okay?” you ask, smiling softly.
he nods. “you just look… peaceful.”
it’s a small thing, but it hits him every time—the way you exist so gently. the way you make his quiet evenings feel warmer.
he sits beside you, careful, and you shift enough to lean your cheek on his shoulder. he freezes for a moment, then exhales.
“that’s nice,” you mumble, eyes half-closed.
he hums. “yeah. it is.”
he’ll never admit it out loud, but he thinks you might be the most dangerous thing to ever happen to his heart.
. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁ TSUKISHIMA KEI
you’re talking—about something random, probably a meme or a classmate—and your hands are moving all over the place. waving, gesturing, tapping your knuckles on the table when you pause to think.
he’s not listening. not really.
“are you even paying attention?” you ask.
“no,” he says truthfully.
you roll your eyes, pretending to be annoyed, but you’re smiling.
he watches you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and it’s unfair, honestly, how you can make him feel this unsteady without trying.
when you reach out to poke his cheek, he catches your wrist—not hard, just enough to make you blink up at him.
“you talk too much,” he says, but his voice is softer than usual.
you grin. “and yet, you never tell me to stop.”
he doesn’t reply. just lets go of your hand and goes back to his phone—even though he’s not reading a single word on the screen.
kita shinsuke is very very very healthy, so he rarely ever does. but on the rare chance that it happens, you’re all over the moon.
pale lips cough against you as you cup his face, kita shifting back to consciousness as he looks up at you.
“you’re hot, shin,” you say, concern lacing your tone as your brows furrow, covering up the excitement bubbling within you.
the man in question only nuzzles up to you, closing his eyes. “you smooth talker.”
“no, literally. are you feeling sick?”
“...” he opens his eyes now, seemingly avoiding your gaze. “well... i have been feeling a little under the weather, but it’s nothing out of the ordinary.”
“no!” you almost yell. “i mean— no. um... i’ll grab the thermometer. you stay here, okay?”
“...okay?”
and rush, you do. you grab the thermometer, already plotting your next scheme.
“okay, baby, your temperature is... thirty eight point four,” you sigh, caressing his cheek. “looks like you’ll have to stay home and let me take care of you for the whole day.”
and kita chuckles, because of course that was what you were after. “oh, is that so?”
“mhm. so i’ll go ahead and make you some breakfast, we can eat together and you can drink some pills, okay?”
“you’re enjoying this too much, aren’t you?”
“you never let me baby you!” you whine in defense, hand travelling to his chest as you feel his heart beat against your palm.
shinsuke looks down, placing his hand atop yours before looking back up at you, his gaze hinting.
kita shinsuke the type of motherfucker to say "will you have me?" instead of "will you be mine/will you marry me?" bc he's spent his whole life trying to be good enough
