[rnikage]

⟢ . . blue lock amateur, reonagi's third ★ ⟢ . . this blog contains dark and nsfw content ⟢ . . interacts from @cryoculus ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭ ੈ♡‧₊˚

꒰ about ✦ byf ✦  writing ✦  ao3  ✦ ko-fi ꒱

⤷ last seen: would that i | sakusa - ouroboros | kaiser

[rnikage]

ROMAN HOLIDAY. — review.

pre-reading thoughts

first of all, i am sooooo incredibly sorry that i've been behind on reading it. a lot has been building up that i couldn't find proper time to sit down and write down everything i want to say, which i so desperately want to do, so please forgive me!!!

secondly, jfjbdhjd i am sooo honoured that you personalised it, and made sure the details are written with me in mind. that makes me sooo happy and excited like skjndk SOMEBODY PERCEIVED ME??? ahhh, i am so thankful already.

ALSO THE FACT YOU MADE A PLAYLIST!!! kjdbhjbdhj i appreciate the hard work sooo much. OKAY. NOW ON TO READINGGGG

reading thoughts

i love your writing style already. it feels like i'm reading a rom-com-book jkdhbdjs which i LOVE btw, they're so fun to read and equally, i am already having sm fun reading this haha

also i feel reader sm; like ??? that's so out of the blue, hello!!! it's anxiety inducing! wdym i just forsake work for three weeks (although doing that sounds amazing bc who wants to work, but it's the principle!!), and it is a lot of money!!! but the fact that her friends still came around to collect money to do this is such an act of love, ohhh they want her to just do well. i love her friends so much

also babe :(( reader really going through it. and that's so true that just being in a different country with somebody speaking to you fast is so overwhelming and intimidating that you're like "okay, okay, i don't know what the fuck to do but you just told me something and half of it, i didn't get but if i ask you now, my brain will go into information overload so ykw? i'll just nod."

narrow streets my beloved!!!! also LMFAO AEJFBSHJB the comment about "so much for walking distance" — i feel that. everywhere is walking distance. even if it takes 90 minutes per foot.

> Like they’re not dragging baggage—literal and otherwise—up a hill that feels endless.< — i LOVE when there's these word plays, because ofcourse to reader they're without worries at all because hers weigh so heavy.

WDYM THE HOTEL DOESN'T HAVE THE RESERVATION ?? ? ?? ? ? ? HELLAUR why is this giving me anxiety kajsbhdj especally because it's so expensive too probably kjsdnj NAURRR

LALE MENTION !!!! KJSDBHJDB OMG ??? IT'S LALE !!! RIGHT HERE WOAHHH i'm so. djbfhj. i'm so appreciative that you brought her in. that means so much!! woahhh, what a beautiful surprise!!!

the looking up of prices is making my anxiety spike up again jdjbfhj IT'S SO BAD. WHY IS EVERYTHING SO EXPENSIVE.

oh noya. OH NOYAAAAAAA. THE BANDAID OVER HIS NOSE !!! oh this description won my heart over. oh, he WOULD be disarming, annoyingly so, charmingly so!!!

i like how straightforward he is in admitting he eavesdropped. he's not somebody who is embarrassed at all, actually, and i really like this little detail of how easy it comes to him to just be like "yep, did that!"

he WOULD make it so easy to just relax; any silence with him would be super comfortable, just as it's comfortable to fall into conversation with him.

ALSO THE FLASH OF MISCHIEF DSJKNFJKJK heheh he is so cheeky. "wanna be my wife—" YEAH NO NEED TO FINISH THIS. I WOULD LOVE TO BE YOUR WIFE.

your description of buildings is sooo pretty, what the hell!!! domestic noise, my beloved (back when i lived alone, i used to have a twitch stream running when i was studying of just a family being live and it was sooo domestic, it helped me study so !!! i love the mention of domestic noise!!)

(where did noya get the wedding bands >_> WAS HE PLANNING TO STEAL SOMEBODY FOR THIS DISCOUNT ALL ALONG sahjfbhjdb)

(i love that you chose the name chiara, because that was the name of my first childhood friend sjkdnbhjsdb)—i love her and her sister; making pastries from scratch??? (also love the hanging garden and herbs spilling over clay pots. beautiful imagery!!!)

ONE BED TROPE !!!!! YIPPIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE (i am usually a bit impartial regarding that, but HERE INT HIS SITUATION, IT HAS ME KICKING MY FEET!!!!)bhj hbsj i cannot WAIT for the feelings to occur :33

sfkbghjsb noya having slept in weird and worse places is killing me. UNDER THE BRIDGE, THIS LITTLE TROLL. i can imagine him trying to start a local legend by making noises to all the ones walking on it heheh

i also LOVE that he shrugs and just accepts her answer. he's like—he's so straightforward, right? so he takes people's answers at face value; the way he operates is "i tell you the truth and my thoughts as they are, and so i take it that you also do the same" — it kind of… forces (?) you into a position where you have to consider the same stance, and to be just as honest, because if you aren't then all the untruths will be made reality, and i think that's something a lot of people are not prepared for. usually, since they're kind of shifty with what they truly feel, they also kind of expect others to be the same and notice that something's off, so when it gets taken seriously from the getgo without a second thought, it kind of leads to consequences that, stupidly and honestly, haven't been thought of. (sorry for the little rant jahsbfhj i just think about stuff like that a lot hahha. which is why i love both, straightforward and shifty characters alike) anyway! moving on djkfnkj

i like how it changes from where we are now in the hotel room back to the past when he asked her to be his wife !! (also i really enjoy the saying of "[…] do a quick, ruthless inventory in your head." hehe it speaks to the gamer in me :>)

"safer not to belong to anyone, even in name. safer not to let yourself be folded into someone else's story again." — OUGHHGHGHG i loved that sosoososso much. i love that reader's being put into this scenario of completel uncomfortabilitiy and has to step out of the comfort zone to get out of it.

"don't worry, sweets" and then the CHEEKY LAUGH??? klefndfujiksbn kicking my feet rn

i like that everything she does is her choice, he doesn't ever push her into anything. he shows what he's got and then whatever propels this forward is always her doing. i like that, it's good to have a friend like that—or a partner heheheh >:3

i also veeeeeery much like that he doesn't let you be? like he's with you!!! as you leave the inn, as you go to find something to eat, he wants to be around jkdsnfsjk CAN HE BE AROUND MEEEEEEEE PLEASEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE (he's so easy-going and so incredibly chill and comfortable; he makes everything feel like it works out)

SEA CREATURES MENTIONED !!!!!!!!! I LOVEEEEEEEEEE MARINE BIOLOGY MENTIONED YIPPIE MED SCHOOL MENTIONED YIPPIEEEE i feel so loved and known in reading this :3333 heheheh thankyou so much, i'm so delighted. KICKING MY FEET DOUBLEEEE (the quaint little grin of noya's took me out)

the entire conversation about "i'm not a doctor yet" — "future doctor" OUGHH YEP. THIS IS HOW IT ALWAYS GOES FJKBGHJK i feel so known now jkghhfgs

OUGHGHGHGH ATTENTION ATTENTION IT'S HAIR DOWN NOYAAAAAAA I REPEAT HAIR DOWN NOYA! oughghghgh i love hair down noya sooo bad

(i also love that nothing happened between them during the first night, like they're still respectful about the boundaries! i like that lots. it makes it so that i can trust what they're saying, yk?)

heh. HEH. bothering lale for boredom >:33333 my favourite past time :>>

hey! never underestimate how aching standing is!!! i had to stand for a looooong time when i was working at this one vaccination centre, because they needed somebody who guided the elderly out and ohhhh my goooooooood, my feet hurt so much—way more than if i had walked; so i do NAWT blame reader at all!!!!

heheheh i love that he's got elderly women all surrounding him, what a charmer!!

THE CHEEK KISS OUT OF NOWHERE kldnjksnjkbnshjk ohhh god, i would DIE. INSTANTLYYY. i need to bite my cat's face rq. RIGHT NYEOW

oughghgh. the grin at your annoyance has me melting. i LOVE that shit dsjkfnshjk

OMG LALE AND KIYOOMI TOGETHER AHHHHHHHHHHHH

ooo i love the conversation on the boat about how he stopped to find himself without volleyball. i like that she didn't push, that there's something unsaid that exists between his words.

"eyes wide and bright" is my most favourite description for his eyes oughghgh AND FRECKLES DUSTED ACROSS HIS NOSE !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I ALSO DONT KNOW HOW TO SWIM, GIRL, I FEEL YOU !!!!!

NOYA GETS ME!! "if we die, at least it's scenic" [nods nods] i do point out to my friends, "hey this is a good place to bleed out in" because !!!! scenery!!

you have me googling "capri island" HELLO THIS IS SO GORGEOUS !!! THANK YOU FOR SENDING ME THERE [happy kicks] ouuuuu i wanna visit this :3

it felt like noya asking you "worth it?" is more than just for waking up at 4 am. it's also for coming here, for staying there, for giving him a chance, for giving him trust over and over and over again. yeah. it's worth it, alright.

(i need that ridiculous keychain shaped like a squid. i need it sooo bad)

ohhh i love this observation of noya that he doesn't cling to physical keepsakes, that he trusts his brain to rememebr everything that's important to him. i love that read on him soooooo much

THE DAYTRIP TO POMPEIII I WANT TOOOOOOOO ahhhhhhh i haven't been on holiday for soooo long, and this does make me want to hop onto a plane and go exploring sjksjkfjkdn

dkjfhbnsjfbghj not liking peas. IM DEAD I LOVE YOU YOU INCLUDED THAT BIT TOO !!! kdbnhjsfbhj ohhh hahahha i love that so much. i hate peas, and this is perfect djknfsjk

the learning how to swim—I WISHHHHHHHH OHHHHH i wish i could float too. i would float right into noya's arms ahhh

chiara and her sisters i love you so much. the goodbye banquet is so fucking cute

him saying "just… trust me" about the kiss. i'm. oh my god. i'm. my heart. KAI !!!!!! KAI THE CORNER OF THE MOUTH KISS !!!! I LOVE IT SM OUGHGHGHGHGHGGHGHJBS HJUBSRUJHBHJKGNJ "Nishinoya smiles at you like he loves you." — i'm. kdjfhnjskb BWOUGHGHGHGHGHHGHKUJSDHBNU JIKSBZHJ. "[…] the kind that exists only here, under Amalfi's stars, in this borrowed moment you didn't know how to ask to keep." — MY HEARTTTTTT. kill me nyeow. oughghhghg i wanna. i wanna. oughghfljkfbjk

"because you're a sweet person, sweets." — do you hear the sound of me dying unghh man why is he so charming and beautiful and awesome

NISHINOYA IN THE SWEETS SHOP !!!!!!!!! OUGHGHGHGHGHGHGH oh my god, i love the fact that if she hadn'tt aken the detour, she wouldn't've seen him. i love, love, love such coincidences that just make your heart pound because you know you were a hair width's away from not getting what you want

“Didn’t think I’d run into my wife the moment I got back, though.” — OUGHHHHHHHHGHGHGHGHHGHG KAIIIII MY HEARTTTTTT oh i love him so endlessly

post-reading thoughts

kai. i am so in love with the noya you wrote. i adore him so incredibly; you did a wonderful job with this fic, and the fact it's 13k !!!!!!!! HELLAURRRRRRRRR oughghgh i can see how much hard work you put into this, the effort to create this tale that ran so smoothly, the way stress and anxiety melted away in his presence.

i am, once again, sooo incredibly sorry that i'm doing this so late; please know i enjoyed reading this, and all the tropes that i'm not as sure about, you actually wrote them well and immersive and wonderfully ahhh i enjoyed this, thank you sosoososos much!!!! <33333

i cannot tell you just how many times i spent reading and re-reading this lovely comment of yours my jelly 🥹🤍 i sat on it and let it stew for so long i'm only just now responding HAHDHDHS I AN SORRY!! you made me so very happy with your valiant commentary !!! the thing i was most worried abt was the little personalization details i added bc we didn't quite know each other yet at the time of posting, and i feared i might be stretching details/you might hate the way i personalized it for you HAHAHA 😭 but thankfully it does not seem like that is the case! thank you for being so open and generous with your about info, filling it with snippets of trivia about yourself! that tiny window into your life definitely made me smitten with who you are as a person, even before we became mutuals it's so crazy!

thanks for giving it your time of day, and for leaving your thoughts for me to read even if you did not have to 🥹🤍 i appreciate you so much; people like you are the reason writers always want to write!

[sodaneko]

HQ CLUB ROOM SECRET SANTA ; m.list

an x reader fic exchange (haikyuu & friends)

year for year it's my greatest honor to host a gift exchange for all these incredibly talented and kind-hearted writers! together we wrote over 175k words for this event (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

my dear friends, i can only bow before your skill and the love for our craft. you never fail to leave me speechless with your creativity, diligence and unadulterated whimsy. thank you for participating and letting me give you another little homework for the little guys we adore so much. i admire all of you so deeply and consider myself lucky to know you ♡

… akira @inkpetrichor · sol meu ; hinata

… april @kentocalls · interlude ; zanka

… cube @realcube · christmas temp ; osamu

… donna @delirious-donna · a scarf's tale ; sugawara

… emma @crushoncaleb · rudolph the red-faced security guard ; sakura

… fuji @xstarjam · good neighbors ; osamu

… ix @prettyiwa · there's only been you ; kita

… jelly @megapteraurelia · on the measure of devotion ; sakusa

… kai @rnikage · roman holiday ; nishinoya

… kai @mythblossoms · layers ; matsukawa

… kaija @purpleqilinwrites · a kind of romance ; ushijima

… klay @tootsuro · home this christmas ; tsukishima

… koi @kkotda · it's beginning to look a lot like christmas ; tsukishima

… ky @saelynne · outlet ; kenma

… ky @oleander-cup · heartless ; hoshina

… lale @sodaneko · echoes ; atsumu

… lauren @c1nna1nmyr0ll · could this be considered a meet cute? ; akaashi

… len @tsukisangel · the christmas eve tradition & the christmas eve confession ; tsukishima & kenma

… marti @haikyu-mp4 · the first move ; daichi

… melk @paperspirits · nothing sweeter than you ; atsumu

… michelle @blushinggray · wanderland ; nishinoya

… mickey @blueflamebimbo · hunting for warmth ; kuroo

… mirka @mirkaaaluv · new year, new beginnings ; franky

… misttiique @misttiique · hold my heart ; kuroo

… moon @rosesforshoto · the first snowfall ; osamu

… nico alex @honey-decadence · underneath it all ; aran

… punk @punk-spic3y · something more ; hanamaki

… remus @remuswriting · you're like my other half ; oikawa

… robin @umesakus · nothing new ; iwaizumi

… runa @runaarinn · back to you ; asahi

… stellar @stellar-haikyuu · if these walls could talk ; kenma

… violet @antique-remains · almost quiet ; atsumu

… wyr @ottocre · the kita farm's own nimrod ; kita

… yuri @tyga-lily · paradise ; tendou

previous events: summer fic exchange & secret santa 2024

[rnikage]

timeskip hinata shoyo x f!reader

content. beach sex(?), thigh riding, exhibitionism

foreword. the author is currently in the trenches of a period-induced hinata psychosis. please take this piece i wrote at 4 am on the notes app. no idea how long it is, probs under 1k tho

The beach is quieter than usual. The wind has shifted, waves are smaller, perfect for practicing balance on a surfboard without getting absolutely pummeled. Hinata decides today is the day you’re finally going to stop popping up like a scared cat and actually feel steady.

Except he wants you to practice on land first.

On him.

“Like this—” He sits on the sand, legs stretched out in front of him, then pats one thick thigh. “Put your feet here. Pretend it’s the board. I’ll keep you stable.”

You stare. He blinks up at you, totally guileless. “C’monnn, it’s easier than the board. Promise.”

Your bikini bottoms are already damp and it has nothing to do with the ocean.

You swing one leg over, straddling his right thigh, toes digging into the sand on either side. The moment your core makes contact with the firm muscle, you have to bite the inside of your cheek.

He’s warm. So warm. And hard in all the ways that make your brain melt.

“Good,” he says cheerfully, hands settling on your hips like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Now, find your balance. Try to stay centered even when I move.”

He flexes his thigh. You choke on air.

Hinata’s grip tightens—fingers sinking into the soft flesh just above your hip bones—and he looks up at you through those stupidly pretty lashes, eyes half-lidded in the sunlight.

“Feel that?” His voice is still bright, but there’s something darker threaded underneath now. “That’s what you’re looking for on the board. Control. You don’t fight it. You ride it.”

He flexes again and drags your hips forward in one smooth pull. A sound slips out of you before you can stop it. Small. Needy.

Hinata’s grin turns sharp.

“Yeah… like that.”

Your palms land on his shoulders for balance. His skin is fever-hot under your fingers. You can feel every ridge of muscle shifting as he starts a slow, steady rhythm—flexing, releasing, guiding your hips in shallow drags along the hard plane of his thigh.

The friction against your bikini is obscene. You’re soaking through it. You know he can feel it. There’s no way he can’t.

“Shoyo—” you gasp, voice cracking.

“Shhh,” he murmurs as his eyes flick toward the mostly-empty beach, then back to you. “No one’s looking. Just keep your eyes on me, okay?”

His hands slide down until his thumbs are pressing into the crease where your thigh meets your hip, holding you exactly where he wants you.

“Ride it like you mean it,” he coos, voice low and filthy-sweet. “C’mon… show me how bad you wanna stay on top.”

You break.

Your head tips forward, your forehead pressing against his, and you start moving—small, desperate rolls at first, then longer drags, chasing the pressure right where you need it. His thigh flexes in perfect time with your rhythm, meeting every grind like he was made for this.

One of his hands leaves your hip to slide up your back, fingers threading into your hair and keeping your faces a hair’s breadth apart.

“Good girl,” he breathes against your mouth. “Just like that—fuck, you’re so wet I can feel it through my shorts.”

You whimper, hips stuttering.

He chuckles in a way that’s nothing like the sunny boy who taught you to pop up three days ago.

“Gonna come for me right here?” Hinata teases, flexing hard again. “Gonna make a mess all over my thigh while everyone thinks we’re just practicing?”

You nod frantically, digging your nails into his shoulders.

“Then do it,” he says, the words dipping into something dangerously soft. “Come on my leg, pretty girl. Let me feel how good I’m teaching you.”

The wave hits you fast—sharp and overwhelming. You bury your face in his neck to muffle the broken cry, thighs clamping around his as you shake through it.

He keeps rocking you gently through the aftershocks, hands soothing now, rubbing slow circles over your hips. When you finally lift your head, he’s grinning again—bright and boyish, like he didn’t just ruin you in broad daylight on a public beach.

“So…” he chirps before brushing a damp strand of hair off your cheek. “Think you’re ready to try the real board again tomorrow?”

You stare at him, still panting. He just laughs—loud and happy—and leans in to kiss the tip of your nose.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

[rnikage]

⟢ ROMAN HOLIDAY ┊ NISHINOYA

✦ synopsis. the plan was simple: go on a three-week getaway your friends had planned so you can get over your ex. falling for a complete stranger is not part of the itinerary.

✦ content. 13.6k words. nishinoya yuu x f!reader. strangers to lovers. fake marriage. noya asks you to be his fake wife to score lodging discounts lol. reader is a med student. good guy nishinoya. fluff. yearning. mild angst. happy ending.

✦ foreword. this is a little fic dedicated to @megapteraurelia for the hq club room secret santa event organized by our lovely @sodaneko (thank you lale!!!) to jelly, i've been admiring you from afar for a while now, and was glad to have you as my giftee :D your prompts were all very fun to experiment with, and i hope you don't mind my pitiful attempt at personalizing this for you specifically! ofc i made this as general as i could for a reader-insert, but every minute detail was definitely written with you in mind <3 happy holidays, friend!

✦ p.s. the fic doesn't rly take place in rome but we're in italy so. CLOSE ENOUGH LOL

✦ p.p.s. i made a playlist for this fic here!

READ ON AO3

You are fairly certain that if you had stayed home, none of this would be happening.

You wouldn’t be sweating through your shirt at ten in the morning. You wouldn’t be dragging a wheeled suitcase up a staircase that looks like it was designed by someone who actively hated travelers. You wouldn’t be standing in the middle of a narrow street in Amalfi Coast, blinking up at pastel buildings stacked like they’re daring gravity to do something about it.

When your phone buzzes against your palm, the group chat lights up with a flurry of messages from the girls. They want to know if you’ve landed yet, demanding pictures and insisting that you breathe in the sea air because it’s healing.

You slip the device back into your pocket.

This trip wasn’t your idea. You didn’t wake up one morning and decide to become the kind of person who books a solo vacation to Italy after a breakup. You are not that self-possessed nor are you brave in that aesthetic way influencers always seem to be.

Your friends, however, are relentless.

They’d booked the flights while you were still in the foggy aftermath of your split. You’d laughed it off and started listing reasons the way you always did. You couldn’t just disappear for three weeks. You had work. Your passport might be expired. It was too much money. You didn’t even like traveling alone.

They dismantled every excuse with alarming efficiency, not because they wanted to win the argument, but because they loved you and had been watching you slowly fold in on yourself for months. Your boss would understand—they’d already checked. Your passport was fine. They’d split the cost because they were terrifyingly serious about this. And traveling alone, they told you gently, was the whole point.

You remembered staring down at your wine glass that night, watching condensation trail slowly toward the table. You thought about how every corner of your apartment still felt haunted by your ex—how the silence he left had stopped feeling peaceful and instead had grown sharp and invasive.

So now you’re here. Alone. With a suitcase that weighs too much and a heart that feels oddly hollow despite being freshly broken.

You’re following directions you only half-remember, replaying the boatman’s kind but rapid English in your head as you wind your way away from the dock.

Walking distance, he’d said, smiling as he pointed vaguely uphill. You’d just nodded along because that felt easier than admitting you were already overwhelmed.

The harbor fades behind you, replaced by streets that get narrower the farther you go. The sound of the water gives way to the scrape of luggage wheels against stone, and each bump jars all the way up your arms. You stop once, then twice, pretending to admire the view while your legs scream in protest.

So much for walking distance.

Your suitcase feels heavier by the minute, as though it’s actively punishing you for agreeing to this trip. Sweat clings uncomfortably at your back, and you’re acutely aware that everyone passing you looks relaxed and sun-kissed. Like they’re not dragging baggage—literal and otherwise—up a hill that feels endless.

By the time you finally spot the hotel sign, you could cry. You almost do.

The lobby is quiet and mercifully air-conditioned. You approach the front desk with fragile optimism as things start to look up. The receptionist stationed there greets you politely, asks for your name, and starts clicking away at the computer.

But then her smile falters.

She clicks again. Frowns. Tilts her head.

“I’m very sorry,” she says carefully. “But I don’t see your reservation.”

The silence stretches just enough for her words to register.

“What?” You snap up, bewildered. “That’s not possible. I booked it weeks ago.”

She asks for confirmation. You pull out your phone, fingers growing clammy as you scroll. The charge is clear as day in your phone gallery, reflecting the exact amount deducted from your account. You hold it out like evidence, like this should fix everything because it should.

The receptionist studies it before nodding sympathetically. “I understand. But the payment did not register in our system. You will need to contact your bank.”

Something cold drops into your stomach.

Your friends had sent the money they all pooled together that same girls’ night. You remember them watching you book the hotel in real time, cheering when the confirmation page loaded. The transaction had reflected immediately on your end.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This couldn’t have happened.

“I-I can’t possibly pay for three weeks up front,” you stammer. “That money is already gone.”

“I’m very sorry,” she tells you, palms folding together on the counter. Her voice lowers as though she’s speaking to a child on the verge of tears. “But there is no active reservation under your name. Without confirmation from our system, I cannot check you in.”

You wait for an exception, a workaround, anything.

But the receptionist only offers you a small, helpless shake of her head.

Not wanting to inconvenience her further, you mumble a quick thanks before lugging your suitcase outside. You end up walking until you see a small café tucked just off the main road, shaded by an awning and mercifully empty compared to the others. Inside, it’s cool and smells faintly of roasted beans and sugar. You drag your suitcase in after you, parking it awkwardly beside a table like it belongs there.

You order an affogato because it feels safe. Because ice cream drowning in espresso seems like something meant to fix a bad day, even if only temporarily. When it arrives, you stare at it for a moment before taking a spoonful. Cold. Bitter. Sweet. The contrast makes your chest ache in a way that’s almost welcome.

Then you pull out your phone.

Lale picks up on the second ring.

“Hey,” your best friend greets groggily. You can picture her already sitting up in bed, hair a mess, worry written all over her face despite the harrowing time difference between here and home. “Was wondering when you were gonna check in. Everything alright?”

You close your eyes.

“The hotel didn’t have my reservation,” you tell her, the words tumbling out now that you’ve started. “They said the payment didn’t go through on their end, and… I don’t know what to do, Lale.”

There’s a pause—brief, but loaded.

“They what?” she says, sharp with disbelief. “But we watched you book it.”

“I know,” you sigh as you press the heel of your hand into your forehead. “I showed the receipts and everything, but apparently it didn’t go through on their end. They told me to talk to the bank.”

“Oh my god,” she exhales. “Okay. What did your bank say?”

Chewing on your bottom lip, you tell her the truth. “Haven’t reached out to them yet. I just know it’s just going to make me even more stressed.”

“Can’t argue with that.” Lale gives a sympathetic, lighthearted chuckle. “Where are you now though? Have you figured out where you’re staying?”

“A café. Where I’ll be staying is still up in the air though.”

“At least you’re safe.”

You huff out a weak laugh. “I mean… relatively.”

Silence falls over the line, the sound of sheets shifting on her end of the line. When Lale speaks again, her voice is calm in that way she’s perfected over years of being the level-headed one.

“Listen to me,” your best friend starts. “Flying back right now would be a nightmare. Last-minute tickets out of Naples are insane, and you’ll just be tired and miserable and crying in an airport for twelve hours.”

You glance down at your melting affogato. “So what, I just… stay?”

“You find another place for a few nights. I can help cover it if you need.”

“What? No. You guys already paid so much for me. I can’t ask for more.”

“Don’t be silly,” Lale beseeches gently. “That’s not—”

“I still have savings,” you cut in, forcing steadiness into your voice. “I’ll figure it out. I just needed a minute to rearrange my thoughts.”

She hesitates. You can hear it—the way she wants to push, the way she knows you too well.

“Are you sure?” she asks quietly. “The last thing we want is for you to end up broke in Europe with no way home.”

“I won’t,” you insist as you sit up straight. “I promise. I’ll be fine.”

Another pause.

“…Okay,” Lale sighs finally, still not convinced. “But you call me if anything changes. Anything.”

“I will,” you promise. “Thank you.”

After you hang up, the silence rushes back in.

You stare at your phone for a long moment before setting it down. Around you, the café hums softly with conversation and clinking cups. Even outside, people pass by unburdened, laughing and moving with purpose while your own world is just shy of collapsing in on itself.

It takes you seconds to open your phone’s browser.

Hotels near me. Cheap accommodation Amalfi Coast. Last-minute stays.

The prices make your stomach drop all over again.

You close the tab.

You have no plan. No backup. No idea where you’re sleeping tonight. You sit there with your suitcase at your feet, affogato half-melted, telling yourself over and over that you’ve got this.

Even though you absolutely, unequivocally, do not.

You’re still staring at the screen of your phone, thumb hovering uselessly when a voice cuts gently into your spiral.

“Is this seat taken?”

You answer without lifting your head, the response automatic as muscle memory kicks in before thought has a chance to intervene. “No, go ahead.”

It’s only after the words leave your mouth that you clock how something feels weird. Your gaze drifts upward, confusion blooming a second too late, and you realize with a faint jolt that the man before you just spoke to you in Japanese, and you’d replied in turn.

There’s a light tan to his skin, one that suggests time spent outdoors rather than a single reckless afternoon in the sun. He settles into the seat with easy familiarity, setting down a compact backpack at his feet—the same kind you’d noticed slung over the shoulders of other travelers on the boat ride you’d just disembarked from, people unburdened by excess.

A small portion of his bangs is dyed blond, the color catching the café’s warm light, while the rest of his hair sticks up in unruly black spikes. There’s a band-aid stretched across the bridge of his nose, slightly off-center, as if it’s been reapplied more than once. When he smiles at you, it’s open and unguarded, an expression that feels like it might get him into trouble more often than not.

He glances down at the affogato slowly losing its shape, espresso bleeding into pale ice cream. “That’s melting,” he remarks casually, still speaking Japanese as amusement threads through his voice.

You follow his gaze, momentarily flustered, and scoop up a hurried spoonful as if caught neglecting something important. Only then do you look back at him properly, the reality of the situation finally settling in.

“…Are you from Japan too?” you ask, still half-expecting the moment to dissolve.

He hums, lifting his own drink and taking an unhurried sip before answering. “I used to be. But I’ve been traveling for a while now. I haven’t been back in years.”

The way he says it is neither regretful nor proud—just matter-of-fact, as if home has become a flexible concept. You nod slowly, eyes flicking down to your oversized suitcase beside the table and then back to his lone backpack, suddenly aware of how conspicuous your presence must look.

Of all the places for this to happen, you think this feels absurdly, inconveniently well-timed. You glance at him again and the thought arrives almost fully formed.

“…Did you overhear me on the phone just now?”

There’s no point pretending otherwise. The café is small. Your voice hadn’t been as quiet as you’d wanted it to be. He doesn’t dodge it; doesn’t even look sheepish. He just exhales through his nose, a sound halfway to a laugh, and nods.

“A little,” he admits easily. “Not everything. Just enough to tell you were having a rough day.”

You should feel embarrassed. But instead, you feel tired enough that honesty slips out before caution can stop it.

“That obvious?”

He shrugs. “It’s happened to me before. Places like this mess things up all the time. Payments don’t go through. Reservations disappear. Somehow it’s always the traveler’s fault.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“You sound like you’ve got a lot of experience being screwed over.”

He laughs at that, head tipping back slightly, and when he looks at you again his smile is wider, warmer—crinkling at the corners of his eyes in a way that catches you completely off guard. It’s disarming. Annoyingly so.

“Well,” he drawls with an unapologetic grin, “that’s kind of the only thing traveling guarantees. You mess up enough times, you start collecting experience whether you want to or not.”

You huff a quiet laugh despite yourself.

There’s a pause then, the comfortable kind, filled only by the din of the café and the clink of a spoon against porcelain. He watches you for a moment before speaking again.

“I’m Nishinoya,” he says, offering his name like it’s nothing more than another small courtesy.

You hesitate, just briefly.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, Lale’s voice pipes up—don’t tell strangers your name, reminding you that shared language doesn’t equal shared safety. That you’re still alone in a foreign country with a suitcase and no plan.

Still.

You tell him your name anyway. Partly out of politeness. Partly because he doesn’t feel like a threat. Mostly because you’re too exhausted to guard every inch of yourself anymore.

He repeats it once, like he’s testing the sound of it. “Nice to meet you.”

You talk a little more after that. Nothing heavy. Where you’re from. How long you’re supposed to be here. He doesn’t pry when you skirt around details, doesn’t ask anything too personal, and you realize eventually that your shoulders have dropped, and you feel lighter than you’ve been all day.

It’s only when the conversation lulls that he shifts in his seat, expression turning thoughtful.

“The inn I’m heading to is doing couples discounts right now,” Nishinoya begins casually. “Honeymoon season and all that. Apparently if you’re married, everything’s cheaper here at Amalfi.”

You blink. “Oh. That’s… considerate of them.”

Something flashes across his face then—something like mischief, unmistakable and utterly unrepentant. His grin returns, brighter than before, all bad ideas and confidence, and it makes your heart stutter traitorously in your chest.

“So,” he says as he leans forward, brown eyes catching the light as they lift to yours

“Wanna be my wife for a few weeks?”

The place Nishinoya leads you to looks like it belongs in a movie.

It isn’t polished or minimalist like the hotel you initially booked, but the place feels lived in, rustic and sun-warmed. The stone exterior is worn smooth with age, pale bougainvillea climbing its walls in lazy bursts of color. Wooden shutters sit open, catching the light, and somewhere inside you can hear the low hum of conversation, the clatter of dishes, and domestic noise that makes your chest ache.

Your “husband” steps in beside you without hesitation, fingers brushing yours just once before settling properly in the spaces between yours. The gesture comes to him easily, as though he has always belonged there. You’re acutely aware of the matching wedding rings on your fingers—simple, unassuming bands of gold that catch the light every time you move. They feel heavier than they have any right to be.

“Welcome, welcome!” the owner greets warmly. Her smile only widens when her gaze catches on your intertwined fingers. “Newlyweds?”

“Yes,” Nishinoya answers smoothly in English, squeezing your hand once. “We just arrived today.”

You nod as you force your own smile into place. Husband and wife. Right.

The owner (Chiara, as she introduced herself) seems delighted when she ushers you both inside with an enthusiasm that leaves little room for questions. As she walks you through the inn, she points out the dining area first—wooden tables, mismatched chairs, candles already lit despite the lingering daylight.

“You may order until two in the morning,” she tells you cheerfully. “Breakfast begins at six. Oh, and you must try the pastries—my sister makes them from scratch!”

Chiara then leads you past a small hanging garden with herbs spilling over clay pots, leaves brushing your arm as you pass. Then she opens a set of doors that lead out onto a terrace, and you stop short.

The view stretches out endlessly—the coastline laid bare beneath a sky just beginning to soften into evening. The sea glimmers far below, rooftops stacked and scattered like something from a storybook rather than built with real human hands. The air here smells like salt and citrus and something faintly floral.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathe before you can stop yourself.

Nishinoya grins, and you try not to stiffen when his arm loops around your waist.

After the tour, Chiara finally brings you to your room, unlocking the door with a practiced twist of her wrist. You and Nishinoya step inside together, still playing your parts, still holding hands as your “husband” helps wheel your luggage inside.

The room is warm and close, wrapped in pale wood and softened by age. Sheer curtains lift and fall with the breeze slipping in from the open balcony, carrying with it the distant hush of the sea.

And there, unmistakably in the center of the room, is the bed.

One bed.

Large. Immaculate. Soft-looking in a way that feels vaguely threatening.

You keep your expression neutral, nodding along as the owner explains where everything is. You even murmur something about the immaculate view, and how perfect it all is. As a married couple, this should be unremarkable. Expected, even.

When Chiara finally leaves, the silence rushes in.

Nishinoya exhales before immediately blurting in Japanese:

“I can sleep on the floor.”

You turn to him, startled. “What? No.”

“I’ve slept in worse places,” he adds quickly, already glancing around like he’s assessing the terrain. “Trains. Park benches. Even under a bridge once—”

“Absolutely not,” you interrupt with an insistent shake of your head. “It’s fine. The bed’s big enough. We can just… stay on our own sides or something.”

He pauses to study you for a moment before shrugging. “Alright then.”

That’s it. No argument or awkwardness on his end. Just agreement, like this is another simple problem with a simple solution. You, on the other hand, are too hyper aware of everything else—of how close the bed is, of how small the room suddenly feels, of how real this arrangement has become in the span of a single afternoon.

You excuse yourself to the balcony under the pretense of wanting air.

The sky has deepened into soft gold and blue in the faraway horizon. You rest your hands on the railing, breathing in the salt air slowly as you try to steady yourself. Your gaze drifts down without meaning to, catching on the band of gold around your finger.

Your “wedding ring”.

It gleams softly in the fading light, and the weight of it settles somewhere deep in your chest. The mere sight of it makes you wonder what exactly you’ve gotten yourself into.

Wanna be my wife for a few weeks?

For a moment, you just stare at him.

At the ease in his posture, and the way his brown eyes are still warm with amusement, like he’s fully aware of how outrageous that sounded and has decided to say it anyway. The café noise fades into the background, replaced by the dull rush of blood in your ears.

“…Sorry,” you say finally. “What?”

Nishinoya doesn’t repeat himself right away. He watches you with patience, as though he knows you need the time. You take it and do a quick, ruthless inventory in your head.

You have no hotel. Flying home would be worse—expensive, exhausting, humiliating. Your savings exist, but they are not infinite. He’s Japanese, which helps in ways you don’t want to admit. He’s also a stranger, which absolutely does not.

And then there’s the word he used.

Wife.

Your ex’s voice rises unbidden in your memory—how he used to introduce you, how he liked the way being with him seemed to define you more than you ever meant it to. With him, marriage had always been framed as inevitability, not choice. Until you broke up, sure. But the thought of being perceived that way again, even as a joke, even as a lie, makes your stomach turn.

“You’re joking,” you say, though it comes out more uncertain than you’d like. “Right?”

He tilts his head. “Only a little.”

You blink. “This is something you’ve… done before?”

“Yeah,” he says easily, like you’ve asked whether he’s taken this bus route before. “A few times.”

A few times.

“Fake wives,” he continues, ticking it off on his fingers. “Fake husbands too, a few times. It really depends on the situation. Tourist places like this love couples, especially married ones. It’s basically a free discount code.”

You stare at him, mildly horrified.

“That’s—” You stop, recalibrate. “That’s insane.”

He grins. “Effective, though.”

Your instinctive reaction is to shut it down. To laugh it off. To stand up, thank him for the sympathy, and return to panicking alone like a normal person. That old reflex whispers that it’s safer not to belong to anyone, even in name. Safer not to let yourself be folded into someone else’s story again.

But practicality creeps in, unwelcome and persistent especially under that hazel-eyed stare of his.

“…You’re serious about this,” you say slowly.

“Absolutely,” Nishinoya replies. “But only if you are. I don’t push. Ever.”

He leans back in his chair, giving you space instead of crowding you with enthusiasm.

“Don’t get me wrong, we can set rules if it makes you feel better. A few boundaries,” he adds. “We decide everything beforehand. You can back out whenever you want—no explanations, no guilt. Same goes for me.”

You study his face, searching for something reckless, something slippery.

You don’t find it.

“And the lying?” you ask. “Won’t that get us in trouble?”

“Don’t worry, sweets. This isn’t airport immigration. They won’t ask us for our marriage certificate as proof,” he laughs cheekily, a sound that warms your cheeks. “We can just show them a matching set of wedding rings, and we’re home free.”

You try not to dwell on the way he calls you sweets.

Before you can respond, he reaches down and unzips his backpack, rummaging briefly before pulling out a small pouch. It looks worn and well-traveled. He opens it and tips the contents gently onto the table.

A handful of rings scatter softly against the wood.

They’re simple bands—gold, silver, one slightly too big, another thinner than the rest. None of them flashy. None of them new.

“Souvenirs,” he explains, nudging one aside. “A couple were given to me a few years back. Some I bought just in case.” He glances up at you with his lips curling into a sordid smile. “I try to be prepared.”

You let out a startled laugh before you can stop yourself.

It bubbles up unexpectedly, real and unguarded, cutting through the tension you’ve been carrying since you stepped off the boat on the way here. It surprises you both.

“This is unbelievable,” you mutter.

He slides the rings toward you. “You can pick. Or not. No pressure.”

You hover your fingers over them, suddenly aware of how absurd this all is—and how carefully he’s making room for you to decide. Your ex had always decided for you, always framed choices like conclusions already drawn. The contrast makes your throat tighten.

When you finally select one, it’s the simplest of the lot, cool against your skin.

It fits.

That shouldn’t matter. Yet it does.

“Okay,” you say slowly, exhaling. “Let’s say—hypothetically—I agree.”

Nishinoya nods, an implicit tell for you to keep going.

“We keep our finances separate,” you continue. “No touching in public unless it’s absolutely necessary. We don’t share a bed if it the circumstances allow it.”

“Agreed.”

“And if either of us wants out,” you add, meeting his gaze, “we’re out. No questions.”

“Right on the money.”

You hesitate, then add the last condition—the one that matters most. “This is temporary, okay? Just until I get back on my feet. I don’t want to inconvenience you during my entire stay…”

He smiles, soft and knowing, and agrees without hesitation. “Of course. Although I do think I’ll be staying here longer. In fact, how long are you here for anyway?”

“Three weeks,” you admit somewhat sheepishly.

“Oh? Three weeks is no time at all, sweets. Don’t worry about it.”

You don’t notice it then—the way he says it like he already knows how this will go. So you slip the ring onto your finger, heart pounding, and glance up at him.

“So,” you start. “You’re my… husband.”

Nishinoya grins even wider, looking far too delighted for his own good.

“And you are my wife.”

On your very first night, dinner ends up somewhere in Ravello.

Nishinoya recommended a bistro tucked away from the main road where the tables spill out onto stone pavement and the lights are strung just low enough to feel intentional rather than touristy. It’s affordable in a way that feels like a small victory for your budget.

You half expect your companion to excuse himself the moment you two leave the inn’s line of sight and reclaim whatever distance this arrangement is supposed to have. But he doesn’t. He walks beside you easily with his hands in his pockets, matching your pace without comment as if the idea of splitting off hadn’t occurred to him at all.

Once you’re seated, Nishinoya starts talking.

Not aimlessly but with the confidence of someone who’s walked these streets before. He points out which bakeries open earliest, which restaurants water down their wine, which viewpoints are worth the climb and which ones only look good on postcards. Nishinoya even shares which ferry schedules are a gamble on a good day.

Nishinoya talks like someone who’s learned things the hard way and you listen with your elbow propped on the table, chin resting in your palm. It’s easy to forget, for stretches of time, that this began as a negotiation. He isn’t performing expertise; he’s sharing it, passing it along freely, like information is meant to be used rather than hoarded.

“And never buy souvenirs near the docks,” he adds, spearing a piece of pasta. “They jack up the prices. You’ll find the same stuff two streets over at half the cost.”

“You sound like a tour guide,” you remark.

He grins. “I’ve been accused of worse.”

Between bites, he tells you about other places—crowded hostels, missed trains, nights spent sleeping wherever there was space. He talks about it all lightly, but not flippantly, like someone who knows the difference between hardship and adventure. Every so often, Nishinoya pauses to ask about you, and the questions aren’t cursory. He waits for the answers.

You find yourself telling him things you hadn’t planned to.

That you have always liked the sea. That you’re the kind of person who could stand by the water for hours and never feel bored. That sea creatures—big, small, strange, unseen—fascinate you in a way that feels silly considering your age, something that Nishinoya refutes immediately with a shake of his head.

“I was a volleyball meathead in high school. Still am now,” he shares with a quaint little grin. “So don’t call the stuff that makes you happy silly.”

“If I’d had it my way,” you admit, swirling your drink absently, “I would’ve studied something like marine biology. Anything that let me stay close to the ocean.”

“But you didn’t.”

You shake your head. “I’m in med school.”

He perks up immediately, eyes bright. “Oh? Is that so?”

You give him a wary look. “Don’t.”

He laughs. “What? I’m impressed.” Then, with a grin that tells you exactly where this is going, “Good to know we’ve got a doctor in our midst then, sweets.”

You smack his arm without thinking, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to get your point across. “I’m not a doctor yet.”

“Still.” Nishinoya shrugs, unfazed. “Future doctor. Even better.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, and you hate how easy it feels. How natural it is to sit here with him, trading stories over shared plates, the salt air brushing past your ankles like it belongs.

The two of you walk back at an unhurried pace. Evening has settled comfortably over Ravello by the time you climb the last set of steps. The air is cooler now, kinder, and the ache in your legs feels earned rather than punishing. When you make it inside, the lobby is quiet—lights dimmed, voices lowered, the kind of hush that signals the day is officially over.

Once you’re inside the room, Nishinoya hesitates by the door like he’s waiting for a cue.

“You go first,” he says, already reaching for a towel. “Bathroom’s all yours.”

You blink at him before murmuring a quick thanks as you retreat.

The shower you take is longer than necessary. You let the water run until your thoughts finally slow, then go through your nightly routine with careful attention—cleanser, toner, moisturizer, one step after another until you feel like yourself again.

When you finally step back into the room, Nishinoya is still there, rifling quietly through his bag as he sets out fresh clothes. He looks up when he hears you, gives you a brief nod, then heads towards the bathroom you just emerged from.

You change into sleepwear and perch on the edge of the bed, taking in the room again now that the day’s chaos has dulled into something manageable. The balcony doors are still open, and the curtains stir lazily with the breeze. After a moment, you hear the muted rush of running water.

By the time he returns, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, a towel slung loosely around his neck, you realize you’re staring.

His hair is usually styled upward, all sharp edges that reflect his endless reserve of energy. Now it hangs softer, dyed blond bangs slipping down across his eyes, giving him a gentler look that feels unfairly distracting.

You look away quickly, pretending to fuss with your phone.

“So,” Nishinoya asks, toweling his hair as he moves to the other side of the bed. “What’s the plan for tomorrow?”

You ponder about it for a moment before telling him about the guided tour you’ve already booked in advance—how it covers the coast for the first week and that everything’s scheduled down to the hour. As you speak, you realize how defensive it sounds, like you’re bracing for judgment. He was a seasoned traveler, after all.

But Nishinoya only listens.

When you admit you don’t have much planned beyond that—two weeks intentionally left open, meant for wandering and figuring things out as you go—he exhales through his nose and shakes his head.

“Guided tours,” he says mildly. “They’re kind of a scam.”

You wince. “I thought so.”

“They mostly bank on tourists being afraid of getting swindled,” he continues, tone thoughtful rather than dismissive. “Which—okay, sometimes that’s fair. But most of the time it’s just capitalism trying to mess with you.”

He glances at you, expression softening. “That said, it’s already paid for. No reason not to enjoy it.”

You relax at that.

“I’ll just… do my own thing while you’re on the tour,” he adds. “Wait for you to finish each day. But—” He pauses, eyes flicking to yours, a spark of something playful there. “—only if you agree to try the Nishinoya Yuu Grand Tour after that planned itinerary of yours.”

You snort. “Is that included in the honeymoon package?”

“Very exclusive,” he says solemnly. “No refunds.”

You consider the idea of having someone show you around without an agenda after a brief pause. He’s proven to be great company so far, and you’re free to jump ship whenever you please.

“Alright,” you agree. “Deal.”

“Nice,” Nishinoya grins, satisfied.

You settle into bed after that, each claiming a side without discussion. There’s a noticeable gap between you—respectful and intentional. As you lie on your back, staring at the ceiling, you are made even more aware of his presence without feeling crowded by it.

The sea murmurs somewhere beyond the balcony doors. The room smells faintly of soap and salt. Your counterfeit wedding rings sit together in a dish on the nightstand. You turn onto your side eventually, careful not to cross the invisible line between you, and let your eyes close.

Tomorrow will come soon enough.

Nishinoya was right. Guided tours are an absolute scam.

You learn this within the first hour, when you’re told not to stray more than five steps from the group, not to take photos without permission, not to ask questions until the end. Restrictions are fine. Sensible, even. But this feels excessive, like the experience has been vacuum-sealed for safety and convenience until there’s barely anything left to enjoy.

By the time the shuttle pulls over near a statue the guide announces as historically significant, you’re already drifting. He speaks in a steady monotone that suggests he never wanted this job in the first place and has long since stopped trying to pretend otherwise. The statue itself is weathered and solemn, positioned dramatically against the coastline, and you know you should care more than you do. But you don’t.

So you find a spot a little ways off, close enough to still be counted, and pull out your phone.

It’s a terrible idea. The time difference flashes across your mind—eight hours ahead, dead of night back home—but boredom outweighs caution. You tap Lale’s name before you can overthink it.

She picks up on the third ring.

“…Do you know what time it is?” she murmurs groggily.

Relief floods you anyway. “You’re awake.”

“I am now,” she sighs. “Why haven’t you updated us? Do you know how worried I’ve been?”

You smile faintly. “I’m fine. I swear. I’ve got everything under control.”

A scoff. “You always say that.”

“I’m staying at this inn in Ravello,” you continue, eager to redirect. “It overlooks the whole coast. It’s… a really beautiful place. Kinda glad you guys roped me into this whole thing.”

She hums, the sound softening. “Ravello, huh. Sounds expensive.”

“It’s not,” you say quickly. “Shockingly reasonable, actually.”

You talk her ear off for a few minutes, but you do not mention Nishinoya. You absolutely do not mention the fake marriage, or the ring on your finger, or the single bed. Lale does not need that information at two in the morning.

There’s a pause on the line, one that makes your shoulders tense.

“…Are you sure you’re alright?” she asks carefully. “No weird people trying to sidle up to you or anything?”

“Nope. Just a very boring guided tour I shouldn’t have splurged on.”

She laughs, the sound bright even through the phone. “Figures. At least tell me—has it helped? Are you thinking about him less?”

You blink.

You think back to how you’d left things behind—the apartment that felt too small once your ex was gone, the silence that pressed in on you from all sides. You’d spent so long turning conversations over in your head, replaying endings like they might soften if you examined them closely enough. But now, standing here by the sea, you realize you haven’t done that once.

“I…” You trail off. “I actually haven’t thought about him since I got here.”

There’s another beat, then Lale’s laugh turns soft and satisfied. “Good. That’s really good.”

“Yeah. I guess it is.”

“Enjoy the rest of your vacation,” your best friend implores. “And update the group chat, at least. We’re living vicariously through you.”

“I will,” you promise.

You hang up just as the guide’s voice drifts back into focus, still droning on about dates and names that refuse to stick. As the group starts moving again, you follow along, but your mind wanders.

Unbidden, you imagine Nishinoya at the front instead—gesturing animatedly, pointing things out not because he has to, but because he wants to. You can almost hear him explaining the statue in his own way, weaving some ridiculous anecdote into it, somehow making even this feel alive.

You shake your head, catching yourself.

The thought slips in and out just as quickly, and you don’t linger on it. You fall back in line with the rest of the group, climbing onto the shuttle and claiming a window seat as it rumbles to life. The coastline rolls past in familiar blues and greens, pretty but already starting to blur together.

Whatever this arrangement you have, it’s temporary. Even if, inconveniently, you’re already looking forward to telling Nishinoya just how boring your day was without him.

The tour finally spits you back out where it found you when the shuttle wheezes to a stop at the small waiting shed just outside town. You step down with the rest of the group, legs aching despite the fact that you’ve done little more than stand, shuffle, and take photos you’ll later send to the group chat as proof that you’re having a great time. The heat clings to you in a way that feels heavier than summers back home, the air thicker, saltier, and harder to ignore.

You’re tired in that particular, useless way—exhausted without feeling accomplished.

It takes you a second to spot him.

Nishinoya is already there, standing beneath the shade of the shed in what can only be described as full fisherman gear. Boots. A khaki vest over a loose, sun-faded shirt. Something slung over his shoulder that looks like it’s seen real work today. He’s mid-conversation with a cluster of elderly women, all of them animated, hands moving as they talk over one another. He laughs easily, bright and unrestrained, like he’s known them for years instead of hours.

You slow without meaning to.

He’d been gone when you woke up that morning, your shared bed empty and sheets cool on his side. You’d realized, belatedly, that neither of you had exchanged contact information, and had spent the rest of the day reasonably assuming that the oversight might’ve been a mistake.

Apparently not.

It takes him no time at all to notice you. His gaze flicks up, locks onto yours, and his face brightens instantly, like someone’s turned a dial all the way up.

Nishinoya excuses himself with a few quick words, tossing a quick, “Thank you! My wife’s here!” in English, waving once before turning fully toward you.

You freeze for half a second. He doesn’t need to pretend out here. The agreement only extends as far as the inn. Yet he’s already crossing the distance with a skip to his step like he was actually excited to see you again.

Nishinoya reaches you, slips a hand into yours, and presses a quick kiss to your cheek.

It’s brief, warm, and utterly casual.

“How was the tour?” he asks, eyes crinkling.

You blink, caught off guard, and scramble for something that sounds normal. “Oh—um. It was… good,” you say, then wince internally and tack on, “Very… educational.”

Nishinoya’s grin deepens, clearly unconcerned with the quality of your answer.

Behind him, you hear a chorus of soft chuckles.

“Ah,” one of the women says, eyes bright as she looks between the two of you. Another hums approvingly, her gaze dropping pointedly to the ring on your finger before sliding back up to Nishinoya’s face. She says something in Italian that earns a round of knowing laughter.

You shift on your feet, suddenly hyper aware of his hand now holding yours.

The woman nearest you smiles and switches to English. “You should leave the tour,” she says kindly, as if offering advice she’s very confident in. She gestures at Nishinoya with her chin. “Spend time with Yuu instead. He makes everything fun.”

You let out a nervous laugh, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I-I’ll think about it.”

They seem satisfied with that.

By the time you start walking back toward the inn together, your hand is still in his, and you don’t comment on it. Nishinoya launches into his day without prompting, words tumbling over each other as he tells you about heading out to sea with a few local fishermen that morning.

“And then—okay, you’re not going to believe this—but I actually caught a marlin,” he boasts.

You snort. “You’re bluffing.”

“I would never bluff about this sort of thing,” he protests immediately, affronted and already digging into his phone. He thrusts it toward you as the screen displays a photo of him beside an insanely large marlin, pride written all over his face.

You stare for a moment, then laugh. “Oh my god.”

“I brought it back to the inn after lunch,” he continues. “Chiara and her sisters are already figuring out what to do with it. Pretty sure dinner’s going to be… excessive. Could feed all of us for a week if they froze some of it. ”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, as he launches into stories about the morning. How he nearly lost his grip when the line first jerked hard enough to rattle his shoulders. How an argument broke out on the boat over whether the marlin was luck or skill. Nishinoya reenacts it all with broad gestures and poorly contained excitement, voice rising and falling as if the moment is still unfolding in front of him.

By the time he finishes, you’re laughing softly, the image of it vivid enough that it feels like you’d been there with him. And somewhere between his animated storytelling, you realize something:

Maybe you won’t be finishing that guided tour after all.

Unlike your carefully color-coded itinerary, the Nishinoya Yuu Grand Amalfi Tour appears to run on an entirely different operating system.

Namely: vibes.

He never tells you what’s planned ahead of time. Any attempt to coax details out of him is met with a grin that suggests he’s enjoying your mild irritation far too much to give it up now. “Trust me,” he keeps saying, like that alone should be enough to override years of habit and common sense.

At the end of your first week in Amalfi, you’re starting to suspect it might actually be the case because that’s the day he wakes you up at four in the morning.

You surface slowly, still disoriented, the room still dark and cool, and the sea outside nothing but a low, distant hush. For a blissful half second, you think you’ve imagined it—until the bedside lamp flicks on and Nishinoya’s face appears in your line of sight, far too alert for an hour that is meant for sweet, undisturbed REM sleep.

“Morning,” he whispers loudly in Japanese, like he always does when it’s just the two of you.

You squint at him. “It’s… still night.”

He checks his watch theatrically. “Technically, yes.”

You groan and roll onto your side, pulling the pillow over your head. “Nishinoya.”

“C’mon,” he cajoles, poking your shoulder. “This one’s important. Once-in-a-lifetime timing.”

“I am an early riser,” you mumble into the pillow before stealing a glance at the time on your phone lockscreen. “But four a.m. is a little ridiculous, don’t you think?”

He laughs, unabashed. “You’ll forgive me later.”

That remains to be seen.

Still, you drag yourself up, shuffle into the bathroom, and go through the motions on autopilot. You splash water on your face, tie your hair back, pull on clothes that feel only marginally appropriate for whatever fresh madness he’s orchestrated. When you step back out, Nishinoya’s already ready, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet like this is Christmas morning instead of ass o’clock.

You leave the inn at five while the streets of Ravello are hushed and half-asleep, shutters still closed, the sky a muted blue-gray that promises dawn but hasn’t delivered yet. Nishinoya stays infuriatingly tight-lipped the entire walk downhill, humming to himself while you trudge along beside him, trying not to trip over your own feet.

At one point, you consider texting Lale your location—just in case. He’s charming, yes. Friendly. Endearingly unhinged. But you’ve also watched enough documentaries to know better.

That thought loses steam the moment you reach the harbor.

It’s already alive with motion. Tourists mill about in small clusters, some yawning openly, others clutching steaming coffee cups. A few couples pose for photos against the faint light creeping over the water. The presence of people loosens something in your chest.

You board the boat with the rest of them, the engine rumbling to life beneath your feet. Nishinoya claims a spot along the side and pats the bench beside him. You sit, tucking your hands into your sleeves as the boat pulls away from the dock.

As it picks up speed, the coast slips past in quiet silhouettes, cliffs softened by shadows, and the sea smooth and dark and endless. The wind is cold enough to wake you properly, threading through your hair, carrying the clean, briny smell of open water.

It’s peaceful in a way that feels almost unreal.

You glance at Nishinoya, who’s leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees, watching the horizon like he’s greeting an old friend. The light catches his profile and something about it nudges at you.

“So,” you yell over the roar of the engine. “Where’re you from? In Japan?”

He blinks, then looks at you, surprised but not guarded.

“Sendai,” Nishinoya answers easily. “Miyagi Prefecture, specifically. Born and raised.”

You nod. “That tracks.”

“Yeah?” He grins. “How so?”

“You did call yourself a volleyball meathead,” you point out as you try to recall some things that Lale’s partner, Kiyoomi, once shared in passing. “I heard Sendai had some strong teams.”

Nishinoya snorts, but the expression that crosses his face afterward is… complicated. Fond, definitely. A little sad, maybe. It’s there and gone so quickly you almost think you imagined it.

Instead of addressing it, he straightens, grin snapping back into place like it’s muscle memory. “Best high school volleyball team in the world,” he announces proudly. “I was the libero. Got called all sorts of stuff: Guardian Deity, Savior of the Court, One in a Million Defender—”

“You’re making those up.”

“I am absolutely not,” he insists, offended. “Okay, maybe some of them. But the Guardian Deity thing was real.”

You smile, listening as he launches into story after story—about impossible saves, roaring crowds, teammates who trusted him with everything. You picture it without effort: him younger but no less electric, throwing himself across varnished wooden floors, fearless and unyielding.

When he finally pauses for breath, you ask carefully, “So… why’d you stop?”

The shift is subtle, but you feel it. Nishinoya’s shoulders relax, his gaze drifting toward the horizon where the sky has begun to lighten, the deep blue thinning just enough to hint at what’s coming.

“I just… thought I needed to see what else was out there,” he says after a moment. His voice is quieter now, but no less sure. “Figure out who I was without all that, and I’m glad I did.”

It sounds genuine. It feels genuine. Yet, there’s something unfinished about it, like a sentence deliberately left without its final clause.

You don’t push. Some things aren’t yours to pry open.

Instead, you sit beside him as the boat cuts through the water, the air cool and briny, the world holding its breath in that fragile space before morning. The sea stretches on in the slowly receding darkness and for the first time since you arrived, you don’t think about where you’re going next.

You just let yourself be carried by the tide.

You finally find out where he’s been taking you when the boatman throttles down and calls out their arrival, voice ringing clear across the water.

“Capri!”

The name lands with a strange mix of familiarity and disbelief. Capri Island was printed neatly on your abandoned itinerary, a crucial part of the guided tour you’d ditched without much remorse. You’d assumed you’d get here eventually, just… not like this.

The boat nudges up against the dock, ropes thrown, planks set. People begin to disembark in a loose, unhurried line. You step forward with them, misjudging the distance between the boat and the wooden platform by just a fraction—

—and your foot slips.

The world tilts off its axis. Salt air rushes up to meet your face.

But then a hand catches your waist, yanking you back before your brain even has time to panic. You collide lightly with a solid chest, fingers clutching instinctively at the fabric of his shirt. For a heartbeat, everything freezes.

You look up.

Nishinoya is already looking down at you, eyes wide and bright, breath warm against your cheek. You’re close enough to count the freckles dusted across his nose, close enough to feel the steady strength of the arm still braced around you. The noise of the harbor fades to a dull hum, replaced by the thunder of your pulse.

Then he clears his throat and gently sets you upright, hands lingering just long enough to make sure you’re steady before pulling back.

“Careful,” he says lightly, like he didn’t just pluck you out of mid-disaster.

Behind you, the boatman lets out a sharp whistle, laughing as he rattles off something in rapid Italian. You don’t catch the words, but the tone is unmistakably impressed.

Nishinoya beams and shoots back a reply just as animated, one hand gesturing wildly as if reenacting the whole thing. He offers you his arm as you step down the plank properly this time, steadying you until both your feet are safely on solid ground.

Your face burns.

“Th—thank you,” you manage, mortified and relieved in equal measure.

He just laughs, bright and unbothered. “Hey, I can’t have a future doctor drowning on me. My conscience would never let me live it down.”

You huff a shaky laugh as the two of you head toward town, the early morning still quiet enough that your footsteps echo faintly against the stone. After a moment, you add, almost offhand, “It was a… nice save. By the way.”

“Mm?” he hums.

“I, uh. I don’t know how to swim.”

He stops.

You take two more steps before realizing he’s no longer beside you and turn back to find him staring at you like you’ve just told him the sky is green.

“…I thought you liked sea creatures,” Nishinoya says slowly.

Your face goes even hotter. “Liking them doesn’t mean I’m good at swimming. That’s actually—” You hesitate, then sigh. “That’s part of why I never pursued marine biology.”

The words feel fragile once they’re out, like glass set carefully on a table. You brace instinctively for the familiar dismissal, the way your ex had always waved it off like a childish phase best forgotten.

Instead, Nishinoya just smiles.

“Then I’ll teach you how to swim,” he chirps.

You blink. “But I’m unteachable.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“No, I’m serious.”

He only grins wider. “Then I’ll be the judge of that. Soon, though—not now, ‘cause we gotta take a chairlift up the mountain.”

Before you can argue, he’s already tugging you along, leading you toward a small building with a sign proudly declaring ANACAPRI CHAIRLIFT above the entrance. To which Nishinoya helpfully supplies that Anacapri means 'top of Capri', implying that you’re in for a view. Thankfully, you’re the first ones there, the teller barely looking up as he recites the price.

You reach for your wallet automatically, but Nishinoya’s hand snaps out, stopping you mid-motion.

“I got it,” he says.

Before you can question that, he leans forward and produces something from his small pack—a small glass bottle sealed with wax, pale yellow liquid catching the light. Limoncello. The homemade kind, not the mass-produced stuff lining souvenir shop shelves. The teller’s eyes flicker with recognition. He glances once toward the door, then accepts it discreetly, sliding two tickets across the counter.

Free of charge.

Nishinoya ushers you out toward the lift before you can even process it.

“Did you just bribe that guy?!” you hiss in Japanese as an attendant begins strapping you into your seats.

From the chair behind yours, Nishinoya snickers. “Hey, it’s just a well-known custom around these parts.”

“You really are a cheapskate.”

“Implying limoncello is cheap?” he shoots back, mock-offended.

“Yes,” you say flatly. “That’s exactly what I’m implying.”

He laughs from the chair behind yours, the sound carried easily through the cool morning air.

You’re still mildly grumpy about it—about the bribe, about his infuriating ease with things, about the way he keeps pulling surprises out of thin air—when the chairlift lurches forward and begins its slow ascent. The motion pulls a small, involuntary sound from you as your feet lift off the ground, dangling freely over the slope below.

“Relax,” Nishinoya calls. “It’s sturdy.”

“That’s what everyone says right before something goes wrong.”

“Hey, if we die, at least it’s scenic.”

You huff, gripping the edge of the seat a little tighter than necessary as the lift carries you upward, the forest rising to meet you. The path cuts straight through a stretch of trees, branches brushing close enough that you can hear leaves whisper against one another. For a while, all you see is green and shadow and the pale steel line stretching endlessly above.

Then the trees begin to thin.

You hesitate, then let your gaze drift outward—and stop breathing for a second.

Capri spreads out beneath you, smaller than the main island along the Amalfi Coast but no less striking, its rugged cliffs catching the first real light of morning. The sea beyond it is an uninterrupted expanse of blue, darker near the shore and slowly lightening as it stretches toward the horizon. The sun hasn’t fully crested yet, but its presence is unmistakable now, gilding the edges of everything it touches.

“Oh,” you murmur.

You instinctively reach for your phone, then freeze, suddenly very aware of the fact that you’re suspended hundreds of feet in the air with nothing but open space beneath you. The idea of fumbling your grip and watching it tumble into oblivion is enough to make you tuck it safely back into your pocket.

Nishinoya laughs softly. “Yeah. Probably not worth the risk.”

You don’t answer right away. You’re too busy watching the light shift, the colors deepen, the island slowly wake beneath you. The earlier annoyance fades, replaced by a quiet understanding that settles in your chest.

So this is why he woke you up at four in the morning.

By the time the chairlift reaches the top of Monte Solaro, you feel almost weightless, like the ascent has shaken something loose inside you. You step off carefully, legs a little shaky, and follow Nishinoya toward the edge of the viewing platform.

The ocean stretches endlessly in every direction, an unbroken sheet of blue that makes you feel very small and strangely unburdened all at once. The breeze up here is stronger, cooler, carrying the clean scent of salt and sky. Below, the island curves and dips, rooftops and paths reduced to tiny, orderly shapes.

You stand there in silence, taking it in, letting the view settle into you.

After a moment, Nishinoya glances over, grin softer than before as he takes your hand in his. You let him.

“Worth it?”

You exhale slowly, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

“…Yeah,” you admit. “Worth it.”

Sometime later, you wander through narrow streets lined with shops selling hand-painted ceramics, linen scarves, little blue-and-white magnets shaped like fish and lemons and cliffs. You linger, compare prices, pick things up and put them back down again, trying to imagine your friends’ faces when they open these pieces of a place you hadn’t known you needed so badly.

Nishinoya trails along beside you with easy patience, hands tucked into his pockets or hooked through the straps of his pack. He doesn’t buy anything for himself—not once. Instead, he steers you subtly toward stalls tucked a street away from the main drag, murmuring, “This guy’ll knock ten euros off if you smile first,” like it’s insider knowledge meant only for you.

It strikes you, somewhere between haggling for a set of hand-glazed espresso cups and picking out a ridiculous keychain shaped like a squid, that he doesn’t leave pieces of himself behind the way most travelers do.

No trinkets. No keepsakes. No little proof that he was here.

He travels light—just his backpack, his clothes washed and rewashed at Chiara’s inn, possessions reduced to what he can carry without thinking. It’s not that he seems detached from places. If anything, he’s deeply present, absorbing details, collecting experiences with an intensity that makes everything feel brighter. It’s just that once he leaves, he doesn’t cling to physical reminders.

Like he trusts himself to remember.

Or maybe like he’s learned not to anchor himself to any one place for too long.

The thought lingers with you as the afternoon heat presses down, and by the time you end up at a quirky seaside restaurant, you’re still half-lost in it.

You’re staring absently at the water when Nishinoya leans forward with his elbows on the table, that no-good grin sharp enough to cut through your thoughts.

“You’ve been spacing out,” he observes. “Did souvenir shopping tire you out that much, sweets?”

You blink and refocus on him.

He looks… unfairly good like this. A little rumpled from hours in the sun, shirt clinging slightly at the collar, a thin sheen of sweat catching the light across his brow. His dyed blond bangs have fallen out of place, curling softly against his forehead, and he looks energized rather than worn down, like the heat only feeds whatever keeps him moving.

Your gaze drops without permission to the space between your hands on the table.

They aren’t touching. But they’re close enough that the fake gold bands on your fingers sit side by side in your line of sight, matching and unmistakable. The sight of them sends an unexpected warmth creeping up your neck, settling in your cheeks before you can stop it.

What is wrong with you today?

“I-it’s not like that,” you say quickly, lifting your eyes again.

“Okay.” He nods. “Then—is the Noya Tour at least enjoyable for you so far? You seemed to have a great time playing pickleball with the seniors at the Ravello rec center the other day too.”

A laugh slips out of you before you can catch it. “Yeah. I don’t think any guided tour would’ve let me go toe-to-toe with locals in pickleball.”

“Exactly,” he says triumphantly. “That’s the secret. You gotta earn your fun.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.

“Well, that’s great,” Nishinoya continues. “Because we still have a lot of things to cross off your bucket list.”

You eye him warily. “I’m afraid to ask.”

“Teaching you how to swim,” he says immediately.

You groan. “You’re not letting that go, are you?”

“Absolutely not,” he agrees, pointing at you with mock seriousness. “I take promises very seriously.”

You laugh again, and the sound surprises you with how natural it feels. Sitting here with him, watching the sea lap lazily against the shore, you’re struck by the quiet improbability of it all—that of all the people you could’ve met on this trip, of all the versions of escape this vacation could’ve turned into, it’s him you ended up with.

You glance at Nishinoya again, still talking animatedly about some other half-baked plan he’s already dreaming up, and feel something unfamiliar stir beneath the surface.

You don’t give it a name just yet.

For now, you’re content to sit here, letting the day stretch on, grateful in a way you don’t quite have the words for that you met Nishinoya Yuu of all people—and that, somehow, he chose to stay and weave himself into the tapestry of your life.

The rest of your stay doesn’t unfold so much as it happens to you, one day bleeding seamlessly into the next under Nishinoya’s cheerful, utterly unapologetic direction.

Somewhere along the way, he takes full control of the reins—and you let him.

There’s a day trip to Pompeii that starts with an obscenely early train and ends with you sunburned, dusted in ash, and laughing so hard your sides hurt. Nishinoya navigates the ruins like he’s been there a dozen times before, ushering you out of crowds and into pockets of quiet where the air feels more reverent. He insists on taking photos of you, angling himself low, then high, then darting sideways with startling speed.

“Trust me,” he says every time you protest.

And annoyingly, every time you look at the results, you do.

He makes you stand framed by crumbling archways, catches you mid-laugh when a gust of wind sends your hair flying, snaps a candid while you’re reading an inscription with furrowed concentration. When you accuse him of secretly moonlighting as a professional photographer, he just shrugs.

“I like catching people when they forget to pose.”

Then there’s Amalfi Cathedral, where you barely get three steps inside before Nishinoya tilts his head back, cups his hands around his mouth, and shouts just to see what happens.

You stare at him, horrified.

“Oh my god,” you hiss. “You did not—”

“I had to know if it was true that it only echoes once!”

You’re escorted out less than a minute later, the attendant visibly unimpressed, but Nishinoya only laughs, apologizing profusely in a way that somehow makes it impossible to stay mad. He makes it up to you by taking you to a tiny seafood place by the docks that evening, the kind that smells like salt and garlic and butter before you even sit down.

It’s there he discovers mid-bite that you don’t like peas.

He stares at your plate. Then at you. Then back at your plate.

“…Are you serious?”

You bristle. “They’re mushy.”

He doesn’t say another word. Just calmly reaches over with his fork and starts picking them out of your dish, piling them neatly onto the edge of his own plate.

“What are you doing,” you ask weakly.

“Protecting you from suffering,” he replies gravely.

You laugh, mortified, as he proceeds to tease you about it for the rest of the trip. Any time peas appear on a menu, he shoots you a look of exaggerated concern. Once, he even asks a waiter—entirely unprompted—if a dish is “pea-free.”

By the second week, you find yourself at Spiaggia Grande, standing at the edge of the beach in a fully modest bathing suit and wondering how you let this happen.

“I still think this is a terrible idea,” you say, arms crossed tightly over your chest.

Nishinoya, already barefoot and ankle-deep in the shallows, grins. “That’s okay. You don’t have to like it. You just have to trust me.”

You hesitate. Then, against your better judgment, you step forward.

Teaching you how to swim is… an experience.

You panic. A lot. One second you’re fine, the next you’re flailing, convinced the sea has personally decided to have you as a snack. Nishinoya stays close the entire time, steady hands at your elbows, voice calm and unwavering even when you’re anything but.

“I’ve got you,” he keeps saying. “I’m right here. You’re doing great. No, seriously, you are.”

You alternate between sputtering protests and intense focus, brows knitted, teeth clenched, refusing to give up even when your muscles start to burn. And somehow—somehow—it works.

When you finally manage to float on your back, arms loose, body supported by the water instead of fighting it, Nishinoya freezes.

“…You’re floating,” he gasps.

“I am?” you squeak, immediately tensing.

“No, no—stay like that!” He throws his arms into the air. “YOU’RE FLOATING!”

The celebration he throws would make you think you’d just broken a world record. He whoops loud enough to earn looks from nearby beachgoers, claps like a proud coach, nearly trips over himself rushing back to you.

“I told you!” he beams. “I knew you could do it! Come on. Freestyle next!”

You’re breathless—not from fear this time, but from laughter and the warmth blooming in your chest that has nothing to do with the sun.

There are smaller moments too.

Sharing leftover pastries from Chiara’s sisters at midnight on the steps outside the inn. Falling asleep on the ferry back to Ravello, your head tipping against his shoulder without either of you acknowledging it. Waking up early just to watch fishermen haul in their nets, Nishinoya translating bits of conversation with exaggerated flair. And lying awake just a few inches away from his snoring form on your shared bed, wishing so badly that you were brave enough to reach out.

Somewhere between all of it, you realize you’re no longer counting down the days.

You’re counting memories instead.

You can’t remember the last time you felt this light—this seen—without bracing for it to disappear. But when Nishinoya laughs, when he looks at you like the world is brighter simply because you’re standing in it with him, you feel something settle into place all the same.

Quiet. Certain. And growing.

Your last night in Amalfi arrives quietly—almost deceptively so.

You’d known it was coming, of course. The date has been sitting in the back of your mind like a tide chart you’ve been refusing to check. Still, when Nishinoya finally mentions it aloud over breakfast, the words land heavier than you expect.

He breaks the news to Chiara first.

It’s done gently, earnestly, his Italian rough but enthusiastic as he explains that his wife has to return to Japan early—medical school waits for no one, apparently. Chiara’s hands fly to her mouth immediately. One of her sisters clicks her tongue in sympathy, another shakes her head like this is a personal injustice.

“No,” Chiara says firmly. “We send her off properly.”

You think she means a hug. Or a nice dinner. Maybe a shared bottle of wine.

You are not prepared for a farewell banquet.

By sunset, the outdoor dining area behind the inn has been transformed. Long tables are draped in white cloth, fairy lights strung overhead in soft golden arcs. Someone has hung a banner between the olive trees that reads Arrivederci, amica!, the letters hand-painted and slightly crooked. The air smells like grilled fish and lemon and rosemary, dishes laid out generously—fresh hauls from the sea you and Nishinoya had helped reel in days earlier, alongside plates of pasta and sides you’d offhandedly mentioned you’d miss once you left.

The other guests are invited, too. Laughter spills easily between languages. Glasses clink. Music drifts through the warm night air.

Nishinoya is in his absolute element.

He talks and laughs and gestures wildly, weaving himself into every conversation, making sure no one feels left out. He retells stories from your weeks here with dramatic flair and embellishes just enough to earn laughs without crossing into nonsense. Every so often, he slides an arm around your waist or presses a kiss to your temple, easy and affectionate and convincing.

Too convincing.

You keep reminding yourself that this isn’t real. That it’s gratitude and kindness and performance, that it has to be—because the alternative feels too fragile to touch. Still, your heart doesn’t seem to care. It stutters every time he leans close, every time he smiles at you like this night belongs to the two of you.

Near the end of the evening, Chiara claps her hands loudly to get everyone’s attention.

“Dance!” she announces, pointing at you and Nishinoya. “Under the stars. It’s only right.”

One of her sisters is already seated at the vintage piano near the wall, fingers hovering expectantly over the keys.

You sputter. “Oh no, that’s really not—”

Too late.

Nishinoya grins, grabs your hand, and pulls you forward before you can finish the sentence. The guests cheer, clapping in rhythm as the first notes spill out, soft and lilting.

“Nishinoya,” you hiss.

“Trust me,” he murmurs back, squeezing your hand.

Of course he says that.

He draws you close, one hand settling at your waist, the other warm and steady around yours. You move together easily, swaying more than dancing, the world narrowing until it’s just the two of you beneath the lights.

You look up, only to lose yourself.

His brown eyes are warm and intent, reflecting the glow of the fairy lights overhead. There’s something unguarded there tonight, something gentler than his usual mischief, and it makes your chest ache. You think of the past three weeks in a rush: sunrises and sea spray, laughter and late nights, the way he made space for you without ever asking you to earn it.

Lale and the others had been right. This trip was exactly what you needed.

You just hadn’t known it would come with the quiet, devastating side effect of falling in love with a stranger you were about to leave behind.

The song ends too soon.

Applause erupts around you, cheers and whistles echoing into the night. Someone pops confetti, bits of silver and white fluttering down like celebratory snow. Chiara laughs, wiping at her eyes.

“It’s like a wedding reception!” Nishinoya jokes, breathless and bright.

Chiara beams. “Then you may now kiss the bride!”

The words catch him off guard—you can tell by the way his grin falters, just for a second. His gaze drops to yours, searching, careful.

He leans in, close enough that only you can hear him.

“I won’t actually kiss you,” he whispers. “Okay? Just… trust me.”

You nod.

You always do.

He presses his forehead to yours, breaths syncing, his arms tightening around your waist as the space between you disappears. Slowly, tenderly, he tilts his head and places a kiss at the corner of your mouth—close enough to feel, distant enough to remain an illusion.

The crowd roars.

When he pulls back, the noise fades again, replaced by the dull thud of your heartbeat in your ears. Confetti still drifts through the air, catching in his hair, on your shoulders, around your feet.

Nishinoya smiles at you like he loves you.

And all you can think is that this is the kind of smile you might never see again once you leave, the kind that exists only here, under Amalfi’s stars, in this borrowed moment you didn’t know how to ask to keep.

Narita feels… ordinary.

That’s what gets you. After weeks of light and noise and salt in the air, there’s something almost jarring about how everything here simply works. The floors are clean. The lines move. Announcements arrive on time. You step forward when you’re told to, wheel your luggage, keep going.

You’d thought twelve hours in the air might be enough to put some distance between you and Amalfi. Enough time for the memories to blur at the edges.

It wasn’t.

Lale is waiting just beyond the gates, eyes already searching the crowd. The moment she spots you, her face breaks into a smile, arms lifting in greeting like nothing has changed. You return it automatically, the expression practiced enough to pass.

“There she is,” she gushes as she pulls you into a hug. “Welcome home.”

Home.

You nod, letting yourself lean into the familiarity of her for just a second too long.

“I’m back,” you greet her brightly. “I have so much to tell you.”

And you do. Stories spill easily as you walk—about the food, the views, the absurdity of the tours you ditched. You talk about Pompeii and Capri and the ridiculous number of photos you took, about how Italy somehow managed to live up to the hype. You laugh at the right moments. You sound, by all accounts, like someone who had exactly the kind of healing vacation her friends had hoped for.

What you don’t talk about is your last moments at the harbor.

You don’t talk about how Nishinoya had walked you there that morning when the sun barely crested the water. How you returned the ring he let you borrow. How he’d pressed a small bundle into your hands at the last second—a mess of candies, some wrapped in crinkled paper, others clearly from different places, different days.

“Why these?” you asked, startled.

He just grinned, that familiar, lopsided thing.

“Because you’re a sweet person, sweets,” he said simply. “Always remember that.”

You’d stood at the edge of the boat afterward, eyes fixed on the dock as it pulled away from the shore. Nishinoya had waved until his arm must’ve hurt, until he was nothing more than a blur of color against the stone, until even that disappeared into the horizon.

You hadn’t asked for his number. Hadn’t asked if he was coming back to Sendai. Hadn’t asked for anything at all. Because some things were easier to carry if you never let them turn into hope.

Lale listens beside you as you talk, nodding, smiling, and occasionally bumping her shoulder against yours like she always has. At some point, her gaze lingers on you a fraction longer than usual, sharp and knowing in the way only hers can be. She doesn’t comment on the way your voice softens when you mention Amalfi. She doesn’t ask why your hands keep worrying at the handle of your suitcase.

She just says, “I’m glad you went.”

So are you.

You go back to your old life like nothing happened.

Classes resume. Syllabi pile up. Your days are swallowed whole by lectures, labs, late-night study sessions where time blurs into caffeine and fluorescent lights. Med school is merciless in the best way—it doesn’t leave much room for wandering thoughts. There are always terms to memorize, pathways to trace, exams looming close enough to keep your mind occupied.

Hazel-brown eyes don’t belong here. Neither does the endless ocean, or the sound of laughter carried on salt air. So you tuck Amalfi away. You tell yourself it was simply a fleeting season, something beautiful because it ended. You move through your routines with quiet competence, smiling when appropriate, answering questions, showing up exactly where you’re supposed to be.

You pretend you haven’t lost something.

You do such a good job of it that even Lale never pushes. She notices, you’re sure of that, but she lets it be. She’s never been the type to pry unless she’s certain something’s wrong, and you give her nothing concrete to grab onto. Just a version of you that’s functional, composed, unchanged.

Weeks pass and then somehow, it’s December.

Tokyo turns cold in earnest, winter settling into your bones with quiet determination. Snow becomes a regular companion—soft at first, then insistent. You finish your final exam of the semester in a haze, fingers stiff as you clutch the paper, relief dull rather than triumphant. By the time you make it back to your apartment, all you want is to disappear beneath your kotatsu and let the world wait.

You shower. You change. You sink briefly into stillness.

Then your phone buzzes.

A group chat lighting up—Lale and the others inviting you out, insisting it’s almost Christmas, and that you can’t keep hiding in your apartment forever. You stare at the screen longer than necessary, thumb hovering over the keypad as you roll some words of declination in your head.

In the end, you go.

You bundle yourself against the cold and head for the station, breath fogging in the air as you board the train into the city. Tokyo feels sharper in winter—steel and glass made colder by the season. You watch the snow blur past the windows and think, unhelpfully, of how different it was from the heat of the Amalfi Coast.

From the way the sun used to cling to your skin.

From him.

Normally, you don’t let yourself linger there. It’s a thought you banish quickly, like touching something you know will burn. But tonight, exhaustion lowers your guard.

You wonder where Nishinoya is now.

You wonder if he’s somewhere that snows. If he’s warm. If he’s laughing with strangers the way he always does. If he’s already convinced someone else to play pretend spouses with him just to save a little money.

The idea makes you snort softly.

A high schooler leaning against the wall near the doors glances at you, confused. You bow your head in apology and look away—only to catch sight of the poster behind him. It was an ad about the decisive match between two Division 1 volleyball teams, scheduled for later this week.

You sigh and turn your gaze elsewhere.

Not tonight. You really can’t afford that tonight.

You disembark at Tokyo Station to a barrage of messages asking where you are. Instead of replying, you make a small detour—a habit you’ve picked up since coming back. Your favorite sweets shop sits tucked between larger storefronts, warm and dimly lit, familiar in a way that feels comforting.

You ran out of the candies Nishinoya gave you months ago.

What they left behind, however, is harder to quit.

You browse the shelves, selecting your usual favorites, barely noticing that someone else is in the store—a lone figure with their hood pulled low and a large backpack slung over one shoulder. Probably a tourist, you assume, murmuring a quick excuse me as you pass.

You don’t see the way his head snaps up.

At the counter, the elderly shop owner smiles when he recognizes you. “Back again, huh?” he says fondly, already reaching for an extra handful to toss into your bag.

“You really don’t have to,” you protest automatically.

Before you can even reach for your wallet, another hand appears, placing additional items on the counter.

“Hey, gramps,” a voice says easily, familiar in a way that makes your chest seize. “Can you add these onto the receipt? I’ll pay for it all.”

You turn.

For a split second, your brain refuses to cooperate.

Because Nishinoya Yuu is standing barely an arm’s length away, the hood of his jacket pushed back just enough for you to see him clearly. He grins at you like he always does, like he hasn’t been living rent-free in your memory for months.

The shop owner looks between the two of you, confused, but shrugs and rings everything up in one transaction when you don’t respond.

You can’t speak. You can’t even breathe properly. You simply let Nishinoya guide you outside with a bag of sweets in hand like you’re afraid you’ll shatter if you resist.

It takes a few steps before your voice finally catches up to you.

“W—What are you doing here?!” you blurt.

For a moment, he just stares at you until he laughs, snow already beginning to gather on the hood of his jacket. “My pals have a pretty big game coming up this week. Thought I’d fly in to watch it myself.” Then his grin softens. “Didn’t think I’d run into my wife the moment I got back, though.”

Your face goes absolutely red. “I’m not your—!”

“Well,” Nishinoya cuts in cheerfully, “we never divorced. And I never took another wife or husband after you.” He tilts his head, eyes bright with something you cannot name. “So that still makes you my wife, sweets.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again.

Something in his gaze makes your stomach twist—too sincere to be brushed off as a joke, too careful to be casual. You can’t tell what it means, and that terrifies you.

“I—I have to go,” you say weakly, taking a step back. “My friends—”

You don’t get far.

Nishinoya steps forward and pulls you into him without hesitation, arms wrapping around you in a tight, grounding embrace. Your brain short-circuits. For a heartbeat, you’re frozen—

Then you melt into him.

You cling to his jacket, fists twisting into fabric as if letting go might undo him. You hug him back just as fiercely, breath hitching as the truth settles fully into your chest.

You missed him.

You missed him so much.

Snow falls quietly around you, the city fading into a blur as you stand there holding each other like this is the only place you’re meant to be. You don’t know what this means. You don’t even know what comes next.

But right now, with his arms around you and his warmth seeping through the cold, all you can think about is how impossibly, overwhelmingly glad you are to be here again.

Right where you left your heart.

Me: Rain check? Ran into an old friend. Gotta catch up.

Lale: What seriouslyyyyy

Lale: Bring her to girls’ night.

Me: That’s the thing. He’s not a girl.

Lale: Oh? 👀

Lale: And I’m guessing not just an old friend?

Me: …How did you know?

Lale: I’m your best friend, babes. I just do.

Lale: Have fun out there. Stay safe.

Me: WE ARE NOT DOING ANYTHING LIKE THAT

Lale: HAHAHAHAHA OKAY!!

Lale: Just introduce him to us sometime, yeah?

Me: …

Me: No promises.

Lale: Good enough for me 😙

✦ afterword. you made it to the end!!! thank you so much for reading, friend! i hope you liked this because it was such a tremendous joy to write HEHE i felt like i was writing some mamma mia-adjacent fic or something!! and please do forgive any errors i might have missed ! am only human T_T ++ thank you again to lale for giving me some important feedback abt some details here and there, and for letting me cast her into this fic as reader's best friend NYAHAHA! slowly but surely, i'm getting back into the grove of writing for haikyuu again, it's amazing! that said, happy holidays to all of you <3 (and if you don't celebrate, i wish you have the greatest day ever!!)

[rnikage]

⟢ WOULD THAT I ┊ SAKUSA

✦ synopsis. your lives have always unfolded together, and for sakusa, it's a life he wouldn't trade for anything else.

✦ content. 9.4k words. kiyoomi sakusa x afab!reader. childhood friends to lovers. coming of age. slice of life. fluff. reader has ehlers-danlos syndrome. stage accident mention. brief hospital scene. mentions of being disabled for a while (kiyoomi takes care of you for the entire time dw). fluff. smut. encompasses childhood to the professional timeskip.

✦ foreword. hello... i have not written for haikyuu in god knows how long, but this piece was commissioned by my lovely @haruchiyos aka the number one kiyoomi fan in the entire world <3 writing this made me realize how much i missed haikyuu, and how i'm planning to drop by the tags again :3c

READ ON AO3

Komori finds Sakusa one summer with a volleyball clutched in both hands.

It looks too big for him, the material scuffed smooth from use. Come play, he says before jogging toward the rec center. Sakusa hesitates as he thinks of all the ways this could go wrong—the sweat, the noise, the strangers. But the sky feels too wide, too blue, too empty to say no.

The ball hits the floor with a hollow thud that reverberates through his ribs. Komori’s laugh cuts through it, easy and light and so utterly careless that Sakusa almost envies it. He mimics the motion of Komori’s hands, uncertain but trying, and when the ball finally arcs clean over the net, something tight in his chest comes loose.

After that first session, they meet after school with their shirts sticking to their backs, counting how many volleys they can keep in the air without dropping. Sometimes they don’t even talk; the rhythm of the ball is enough. The sun sinks low and turns the rec center windows gold, and for the first time, Sakusa doesn’t mind staying somewhere that isn’t home.

One afternoon, Komori brings you.

You’re his neighbor, he says, as though that’s reason enough. You stand in the doorway with your backpack slipping off one shoulder. Sakusa looks at the smudge of blue paint near your knuckles and immediately decides you’re going to touch everything.

You do. The walls, the volleyball, even the sweatband on his arm. He flinches back with a scowl when you do, and you only tilt your head with a breathless laugh. You really hate people touching you that much? you ask, and nothing about it is teasing or mean.

Somehow, that makes it different.

You don’t look at him strangely whenever he wipes the ball before every serve. You don’t tease when he keeps a mask folded neatly in his pocket. You simply watch him with quiet interest that’s neither overbearing nor intruding. When Sakusa finally snaps, “What?” you only shrug.

“Doesn’t it hurt? Your wrists bend so far back. It’s kind of amazing.”

There’s no mockery in your voice, only that soft earnestness that somehow slips past his usual defenses. It’s such a small thing—so small it shouldn’t matter—but for some reason it does. You don’t make him feel like a spectacle, and that’s enough to let you stay.

You stick with them as the days bleed in a haze of late sunsets and scuffed shoes. Sometimes you sit cross-legged at the edge of the court, sketching in your notebook. Other times you join in, missing half the passes but laughing too hard to care, and even Sakusa finds himself smiling, though he hides it behind a shake of his head.

By the end of that summer, the rec center feels like a second home. The three of you don’t bother keeping score anymore. The ball just keeps moving back and forth, until the sky turns orange and someone finally says, Same time tomorrow?

Somehow, you always show up.

Years fold over like pages.

Junior high arrives, sudden and loud. Sakusa has grown taller, Komori talks more than ever, and you’ve joined some club he can’t remember the name of. The rec center still smells the same, but everything else has started to shift—your laughter, the way Komori has gotten better at digging for saves, and how time keeps pulling the three of you in different directions without asking first.

Still, you convene at Komori’s backyard towards the end of your last year. A little get-together before you all started high school, as celebrated with a bowl of neatly cut watermelon slices courtesy of Komori’s mother.

You’re talking about a recently concluded softball tournament and Komori keeps interrupting with mouthfuls of fruit, insisting he could hit better than anyone on your team if he actually tried. You throw a seed at him and he ducks with a shit-eating grin. The air feels soft, swollen with that strange fullness that always comes near the end of summer, when the world feels both endless and about to change.

It’s only when the laughter fades that you mention the injuries. Something about your knees, your shoulder, how you keep bruising too easily. You say it with a small laugh, one that sounds borrowed, and Komori snorts as he shoves another slice of watermelon into his mouth.

“You’re just getting old,” he says. “You do too much—softball, dance, what else? Maybe you’ve got early arthritis or something.”

You groan before punching him in the shoulder, and the sound of Komori’s yelp dissolves the tension before it can settle. He throws a rind at you in retaliation; you fling one back, laughing so hard you forget to hide the small grimace that flashes across your face when you reach too far.

Sakusa doesn’t laugh. He just watches.

He doesn’t know how to care out loud, so he does it silently—in the stillness between jokes, in the way he keeps his eyes trained on your hand as it steadies on the porch railing. He doesn’t ask are you okay because he’s never known how to make the question sound like anything other than intrusion.

When you catch him looking, you smile faintly before heading down the steps and calling goodbye over your shoulder.

He doesn’t breathe a word about it. Not to Komori. Not to you.

When you all start high school in Itachiyama, Sakusa is almost convinced that summer was just one of those hazy memories that sunlight distorts.

Because you’re standing in front of the blackboard when he walks into the classroom on the first day, in your neatly pressed uniform with your hair tied back. As though nothing is remotely wrong. Komori spots you first and shouts your name, waving so wildly the teacher has to remind him to sit down. You laugh until your eyes crinkle and for a brief moment, it feels like everything’s back where it was.

But when Komori asks where you’ve been for the rest of the summer, you just smile and tell him you were resting. He keeps trying to pry until you threaten to throw your shoe at him, and the conversation drifts elsewhere. Sakusa doesn’t press. He never does. But as you pass him a notebook later that week, your sleeve slips back, and he catches the faint trace of a bruise near your elbow, one that looks weeks old but still hasn’t faded.

It stays that way through high school: the unexplained bruises, your offhand excuses, and the distance that settles without meaning to. Sakusa doesn’t have time to wonder. His world has more or less narrowed to volleyball. He can’t remember when the goal to be Japan’s best high school spiker became so clear, only that now it’s the axis his life turns on.

But even with the sport devouring most of his time, Sakusa still keeps a close eye on you. It’s never intentional. He just notices things. The way you lag behind after school, weighed down by your dance bag; how you skip meals when you’re caught up in choreography or homework; the faint tension in your shoulders that never quite fades.

He tells himself it’s habit, the same focus he brings to the court. Reading his opponents and anticipating weaknesses from the other team is second nature to him. Still, he ends up carrying your bag more often than not, or shoving a sandwich into your hand on the walk home when you forget to eat.

Komori always tags along, teasing Sakusa about playing pack mule. “You’ve never offered to carry my stuff.”

“Kiyoomi’s got a soft spot for me,” you laugh, bumping Sakusa’s shoulder with your own. “Don’t you?”

He scoffs behind his mask but doesn’t bother to deny it.

Your walks home become a pattern, with Komori narrating the day, you listening with a half-smile, Sakusa quietly pacing beside you both, carrying what you can’t. Sometimes you fall behind when your leg starts acting up, and he slows down without thinking as Komori’s voice drifts ahead like background noise.

He doesn’t ask questions. You don’t offer answers. But he keeps watching anyway, because that’s what he does—on the court, in life—always ready to catch what might slip through.

Until the final match for Spring Nationals coincides with your senior recital.

You’d been rehearsing nonstop by then. Komori complained that they barely saw you anymore, and Sakusa noticed how your steps had turned uneven, as though you were favoring one side. You laughed it off whenever they asked, claiming it was nothing, just overuse. Though they were skeptical, there wasn’t much room for worry when they were too wrapped up with Nationals and the chance to end high school with a championship.

When the day comes, you’re on stage while Sakusa is under the stadium lights. You wished them luck that morning, eyes bright despite the stiffness in your smile. “Be the best ace and libero Japan’s ever seen, got it?”

He thinks about that all through the match. How certain you sounded, how easily you said it. How you always believed in him, even when he didn’t.

They lose by two points in the fifth set—a loss that sticks to the ribs; a loss that feels personal.

Sakusa sits on the locker room bench long after the noise has faded. The floor is littered with towels and athletic tape. Komori is talking somewhere beside him in a quiet hush until his phone rings. He doesn’t tell Sakusa who it is, but his face drains as he listens. Komori’s voice lowers into something Sakusa’s never heard before, and when he hangs up, all he says is:

“She’s in the hospital.”

They don’t even change out of their uniforms—just took their gym bags and bolted out of the venue before their coach can put a word in.

The train ride blurs by in fragments: the burn of streetlights, Komori’s silence, Sakusa’s hand clenched around his silver medal until it digs into his palm. When they finally arrive, the halls smell like wilted lilies and antiseptic. Your mother meets them at the lobby, her smile thin and tired.

“She’ll be happy to see you,” she tells them as they all head towards your room.

You were half-sitting when they enter, one leg propped up in a brace that looks far too heavy for you. Your hair is still pinned from the performance, though it looks a little crooked now. The moment you see them, your mouth trembles with the threat of tears.

“You came,” you whisper.

Komori grins weakly. “Of course we did.”

Even now, your laughter comes easily—a small, shaky sound that breaks halfway through. The tears follow shortly after and Sakusa can only stare. You never cry. Not when you lost softball matches, not when you were hurt. But now, your hands are covering your face, and your shoulders shake with each heaving breath.

“I didn’t want to disappoint her,” you choke out. “My partner—she worked so hard, and I thought I could handle it. I didn’t want to be the reason it all fell apart.”

Komori reaches for your hand without hesitation. Sakusa just stands there, his medal still cold even through the material of his jersey. Then, slowly, he set it down on the side table beside you, next to the cup you’d nearly knocked over.

“Guess we both lost today,” he says quietly.

Komori scowls at him. “Seriously? That’s what you say?”

“I-it’s fine, Motoya," you sniffle. “Kiyoomi’s trying.”

Sakusa doesn’t correct you, even though he’s not sure if he is. The words left his mouth before he could think—like a reflex, the only language he knows when things start to hurt. He meant it as comfort, some kind of shared solidarity in losing, but now it just sounds detached and insensitive.

Komori pulls a tissue from the side table and presses it into your hand, murmuring something light and easy that earns another small, trembling laugh from you. He’s always been like that—able to smooth out the air with nothing more than a smile and a well-timed joke.

Sakusa stands off to the side as he stares at his hands. They’re calloused from years of hitting powerful spikes, his nails trimmed to neat half-moons. His hands are meant for control, precision, and power. Not—whatever this is.

Care, Sakusa realizes, doesn’t come as naturally to him as it does to Komori. He doesn’t know how to hold it, how much pressure to apply before it starts to break.

So he stays quiet.

He listens as Komori fills the silence with stories of their match, how close it was, how they would’ve won if not for one bad serve. He watches you smile through your tears, your fingers twisting the edge of the blanket. Every so often, your gaze flickers toward the medal he left beside your bed.

When you finally fall asleep, the room settles into stillness. Komori sighs, sinking into the chair at your bedside. Your mother stepped out sometime ago to give you three time to yourselves, and Sakusa isn’t sure if he’s grateful or not for her discretion.

“You really could’ve said something nicer,” Komori mutters.

Sakusa hums in acknowledgment. He wants to explain that he meant to tell you he understood, that the words had simply twisted on the way out. But all that escapes is a quiet:

“I know.”

Komori glances at him, his expression softening. “You’re not bad at it, you know. You just… care weirdly.”

Sakusa doesn’t answer. He looks at the rise and fall of your breathing instead, and the way the lamplight catches on the curve of your brace. He thinks about how Komori reached for your hand without hesitation, and how he couldn’t.

But maybe—he thinks, as he adjusts the blanket a little higher over your shoulder—this is enough.

Your lives start to pick up the pace after that.

Graduation comes in a blur of half-hearted goodbyes, those everyone swears aren’t final even when they know better. College follows close behind, and you, Sakusa, and Komori still find yourselves orbiting one another when you end up going to the same university, tethered by the quiet years that came before.

By then, your world has slowed in a way that none of theirs could. The Ehlers–Danlos diagnosis explains everything—the constant bruises, the injuries that never seem to heal right, and the way your body always seemed to betray you at the worst times. It makes sense now, but that doesn’t make it easier.

You spend most of your first semester in a wheelchair, only transitioning to crutches when your joints allow. Even through your harrowing schedule of physical therapy appointments and new medication, you manage to smile through all of it, though Sakusa can tell the edges don’t always reach your eyes.

He and Komori make sure you never went through any of it alone. Between volleyball training and lectures, they learn to fit you into the rhythm of their days—Komori with his relentless chatter and easy charm, Sakusa with his quiet vigilance and steady hands.

It was Sakusa who made sure the path to your classes is accessible, who memorized the ramps and elevators across campus before you even got there. It was him who learned how to fold your wheelchair properly after you hurt your wrist one morning, and him who started driving you to class once he got his license, because “the trains are crowded, and you hate people bumping into you.”

You laughed when he said that. “You just want an excuse to drive your fancy car.”

He only shrugged. “Maybe.”

By your second year, the doctor finally deems you strong enough to forego the crutches, and the three of you celebrate with takeout in Komori’s apartment. He pops the cap off a bottle of sparkling juice like it was champagne, spraying half of it across his kitchen floor while you squealed and laughed until you were breathless.

Sakusa watches you wipe at your face, cheeks aglow as your hair sticks to your temples from giggling so much. It hits him then—how different you look now. The shadows under your eyes are gone, replaced by warmth and color.

You traded dance for film, the stage for sets and editing suites. Oftentimes, you would even tell him stories about shoots gone wrong, professors who play favorites, and classmates who thought artistic vision excuses bad lighting on set. He never understood half of what you said, but he likes listening anyway. You talk like the world still belongs to you, even after everything it has put you through.

Sometimes, when he picks you up from late classes, you’d sit in the passenger seat talking about your latest project long after he’d parked in front of your house. Your eyes always shine in the streetlight, hands moving animatedly as you speak.

Sakusa would find himself staring longer than he should.

He doesn’t know what to make of it at first—the tightness in his chest whenever you smile, the way he catches himself checking his phone for your messages, the small irritation he feels when Komori makes you smile more than he does. He chalks it up to habit and all the years of watching out for you. But habit doesn’t explain why his heartbeat trips every time you look at him too long, or why he starts noticing the way your perfume lingers in his car.

In the end, it’s Komori who finally calls him out.

They were cooling down after practice one afternoon, the gym still echoing faintly with the sound of squeaking shoes and distant whistles. Komori, toweling his hair dry, shoots him a knowing look.

“So,” he starts casually, “you gonna tell her?”

Sakusa frowns. “Tell her what?”

“That you’re in love with her.”

His head snaps up on reflex. “I’m not—” He stops, scowling when Komori raises an eyebrow. “That’s not what this is.”

“Right,” Komori tells him, dragging the word out. “That’s why you pick her up every day even when you don’t have class, and why you threatened to fight that guy who said she was cute in her Film Theory class.”

“He was staring at her weirdly,” Sakusa muttered.

Komori grins as he tosses the towel over his shoulder. “Uh-huh. Totally not love.”

The thing that Komori calls “love” starts small and invisible, like dust motes floating in the morning light. But little by little, it burns deeper, until it colors everything in his life.

You still show up to each of their games. Even when midterms pile up or your projects keep you up editing until dawn, you’re there—tucked somewhere in the stands, hands cupped around your mouth as you cheer. You never scream loud enough for him to hear, but Sakusa always finds you anyway.

After games, you text him simple things like Proud of you or That cross shot was insane. He tells himself they’re just words that anyone would send a friend. Still, he reads them more times than he’d ever admit.

When you move into your own apartment closer to the university, you insist you can handle it. “It’s only a five-minute walk from campus. You don’t have to drive me anymore.”

Sakusa nods, deciding he’ll walk you home anyway.

The path you take winds along the edge of campus, lined with lilac bushes that bloom heavy in the spring. You like to stop there to talk about whatever crosses your mind. Every time, Sakusa listens quietly, hands tucked in his pockets as you prattle along. The scent of lilacs linger in the air, and sometimes, he catches it later on his sleeves and thinks of you.

When you unlock your apartment, he always waits until you’re safely inside before heading home. You tease him for it every time—“You know, this isn’t a crime-ridden city.”

He only shrugs. “Doesn’t hurt to make sure.”

What you don’t know is that he often lingers by the lilac bushes on his way back to his car, tracing your footsteps in his mind, and trying to name the feeling that’s taken root in his chest.

Sakusa starts visiting more often to help out when he can. You’ve always been particular about cleanliness—your routines neat, your space spotless. But on bad days, when your joints ache or fatigue sets in, you still push yourself to scrub and wipe and polish.

He doesn’t comment or scold you like Komori probably would. He just rolls up his sleeves and joins you to wash the dishes while you vacuum, and rearrange your bookshelves so everything lines up just right. Sometimes you protest, telling him he doesn’t have to. He just says, “I know,” and keeps going.

You make tea when you’re done, and the scent of chamomile fills your little kitchen. Then you sit side by side on the couch with your legs tucked under a blanket. The world feels slower then, smaller in a way that feels right and as you reach for your mug, your fingers brush his. You laugh, soft and startled, and Sakusa looks away quickly. But later that night, long after he’s gone home, he still feels the warmth lingering on his skin.

Sometimes he wonders if you notice the small things he does for you—the way he leaves extra groceries on your counter when he visits, or how he always wipes down your doorknobs before he leaves. But he never brings it up. Caring, for him, is meant to be quiet.

You, on the other hand, fill silence like sunlight. You make his world brighter without trying. You tease him out of his head, send him photos of stray cats you meet, tell him to “live a little” every time he hesitates to go out.

So when Komori rents out a small bar near campus for his birthday, you somehow convince Sakusa to come along. He doesn’t even drink that much, but Komori’s grin and your hopeful expression are a dangerous combination. In the end, he lets himself be dragged there anyway.

The night unfolds easily at first. Laughter, clinking glasses, their teammates crowding around a pool table. You perch on one of the bar stools, nursing a light drink while talking to one of Komori’s upperclassmen. Sakusa keeps half an eye on you between conversations, more out of habit than jealousy—or so he tells himself.

Things shift gradually when that bastard starts leaning closer, his hands wandering in places they shouldn’t. You inch away with a polite smile, but Sakusa catches the stiffness in your posture anyway.

Before he can stop himself, he’s already on his feet.

“Hey.” His voice cuts through the music. “She’s clearly uncomfortable.”

The upperclassman blinks, half-drunk and slow to register the warning. “Relax, man. We’re just talking—”

“The way you’re touching her doesn’t really count as just talking,” Sakusa replies, stepping forward just enough to close the gap between them. He doesn’t raise his voice, but there’s something sharp in his tone that even he doesn’t recognize.

The guy scoffs and mutters something under his breath that Sakusa doesn’t quite catch—but it’s enough. Maybe it’s the alcohol burning in his veins or the months of quiet patience finally snapping, but he grabs the man by the collar before he can think better of it.

Chairs scrape. Komori’s already halfway across the room, hands up in alarm as he attempts to placate him. You’re on your feet too, with a hand wrapping gently yet insistently around Sakusa’s wrist.

“Kiyoomi. It’s fine.”

He doesn’t move at first. His jaw ticks as he breathes sharply through his nose. The bastard stammers something that sounds like an apology, but Sakusa doesn’t care to hear it. All he sees is the flicker of discomfort that crossed your face minutes ago, and it feels like flinstrike in his chest.

“Kiyoomi.” Your voice softens. “Let’s go.”

That’s what finally makes him release his grip. You pull him out through the side door, the muffled bass fading behind you until the only sound left is the buzz of streetlights outside of the bar.

Sakusa braces his hands on his knees, breathing hard and half-expecting you to start scolding him for overreacting. But curiously, you don’t. You just watch him from where you stood, the glow from the lamppost catching on your hair as you breathe out the softest of laughs.

“You know,” you murmur, nudging his arm, “you’re kinda hot when you’re mad.”

He stares at you incredulously. “You’re drunk.”

“Maybe a little. Still true, though.”

You slide down to sit on the curb, yawning as Sakusa sinks down to join you. The adrenaline’s long gone now, replaced by the soft exhaustion that comes after long nights and too much to drink. Within minutes, your head droops against his shoulder. Sakusa sits still for a while, watching the rise and fall of your breathing as the city buzzes all around you.

When you finally doze off, he exhales through his nose, more fond than frustrated. He mutters under his breath, standing carefully before crouching to lift you onto his back. Your arms loop around his neck out of instinct, your breath warm against his skin. He carries you to his car like that, ignoring Komori’s incoming text asking where you both disappeared to.

That can wait in the morning.

Sakusa’s relationship with you is… simple.

There isn’t a better word for it, really.

It’s nothing like the over-the-top dramas one of his teammates keeps bingeing between matches, nor like the slightly dramatized scripts you complain about.

He confessed to you on that trail lined with lilac bushes while walking you back home on your third year of college. It wasn’t planned. Sakusa was fully intent on taking his feelings for you to the grave. But something about the way the sunlight hit your hair on that one spring day as the flowers swayed all around you made him falter. The words I like you tumbled out without another thought.

He expected the worst—a polite smile, a kind rejection, something gentle but final. You’d always laughed so easily at Komori’s jokes; it wouldn’t have surprised him if your heart had found its way there instead.

But the rejection never came. Instead, you exhaled a soft, breathless Finally, before pulling him close, your perfume mingling with the scent of lilacs heavy in the air.

Since then, your lives unfolded side-by-side—just the two of you coexisting in the spaces between work, sleep, and the small domestic routines you’ve built over the years. Even now, with his name known across volleyball courts and yours flashing across film credits, there’s something steadfast about the way your worlds still revolve around each other.

After college, you both moved somewhere close enough to the city that you can walk to your studio, but far enough that Sakusa can breathe after long training sessions. The place is small but warm, lined with your framed photographs and his neatly arranged trophies, and the faint scent of flowers and detergent always lingering in the air.

It becomes home in quiet ways. You cook dinner while he wipes down the counters. He folds laundry while you edit footage on your laptop. Mornings start with the smell of coffee and breakfast; nights end with the steady rhythm of your breathing against his shoulder as you fall asleep before the end of whatever documentary you insisted on watching.

Your schedules rarely match, but you both make it work. When he’s away, he texts you photos of hotel breakfasts and gym selfies with teammates that love his personal space as much as he does. In return, you send him clips from shoots, half-finished edits, or voice clips about how much you hate the new floor director for your most recent project.

Once, that same director cornered you outside the studio after an exhausting day, pressing too close as he complained about deadlines and creative disagreements. You told Sakusa about it later in passing, more amused than upset.

He didn’t say much at all in the moment, but the next morning, he showed up at your set under the guise of dropping off lunch. You caught the director’s expression faltering when Sakusa greeted him politely, except the sharp gaze that accompanied it was anything but.

Later, as you ate together in the break room, you nudged his knee with yours. “You’re not subtle, you know.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

You laughed as you reached for his hand. “You didn’t have to come all the way here.”

“I know.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I just wanted to.”

Sakusa also makes it a point to attend your film events, even the ones where he has to wear a suit and smile for photos beside people who talk too fast and drink too much. You never ask him to come, but he always does and he thinks you love him a little more for the effort.

He’s met your friends, too—writers, cinematographers, a few producers who still can’t believe you’re dating a professional athlete. He listens when you talk about them, remembers their names, and even goes out of his way to greet them when you host get-togethers.

Komori still drops by when he can, usually unannounced, with snacks and stories from his own V.League team. The visits are fewer now, but when he’s there, it’s like nothing has changed. You still laugh until your stomach hurts, Sakusa listens with the faintest smile tugging at his lips, and for a while, it feels like you’re all in his backyard stuffing yourselves with watermelon again.

There’s a quiet rhythm to it all. A life you’ve both built piece by piece, without the noise or spectacle that fills most people’s stories.

But there are also times when that steady rhythm falters.

Like tonight.

The arena lights are blinding, and the air thrums with the kind of tension that only comes with a Schweiden Adlers matchup. Reporters crowd the sidelines, cameras flashing as the MSBY Black Jackals huddle mid-court, and Sakusa tries to focus on the game plan. He should be thinking about tactics or Ushijima’s serves or Kageyama’s unpredictable sets. Instead, all he can think about is you.

You, sitting somewhere in the stands despite your packed schedule. You, who barely managed to squeeze this match into your calendar before your 3 a.m. flight. You, who should be asleep or packing or doing literally anything else besides watching him play volleyball.

But that’s who you are. You always show up, and because of that, all Sakusa can think is: don’t humiliate yourself in front of her.

“Oi, Sakusa.” Bokuto leans over. “You’re all tense. You nervous or something?”

Across from him, Miya flashes that same, shit-eating grin that normally would have earned him an eye roll from Sakusa on a normal day. “Nah, he’s just fired up. Look at him—our Omi-kun’s got that in love and trying not to screw up face again.”

Sakusa scowls. “I don’t have that kind face.”

“But you kinda do!” Bokuto insists. “It’s all—” He scrunches his eyebrows together in a tragic imitation. “—‘If I mess this up, my girlfriend will break up with me.’”

Hinata bursts into laughter, clutching his stomach. “Oh man, he’s totally right! You’ve got the same expression I get when Kageyama watches me hit a straight across the net!”

“Focus,” Sakusa mutters, adjusting his sleeve like it can hide the flush creeping up his neck.

But it’s no use. Miya’s still smirking, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “Guess we’ll just have to make sure Omi-kun gives his girlfriend a show, huh?”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Thank ya kindly.”

As they take their positions, Bokuto elbows him once more, grinning too wide for comfort. “Don’t worry, man. We’ll make you look really cool.”

Sakusa exhales through his nose, shaking his head, but there’s a faint curve at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t need to ask where you’re sitting; somehow, he always finds you in the crowd. Front row near the middle with a camera in hand, hair pulled back neatly, smiling so softly it hurts. You wave when you catch his eye and mouth something he can’t quite hear over the roar of the crowd, but he knows it’s good luck. It always is.

The whistle blows, and just like that, the noise fades.

Sakusa jumps, blocks, digs, and spikes, but threaded through every move is the quiet desire of wanting to make you proud. Every serve feels a little sharper, every point a little sweeter, and when the scoreboard tilts in the Black Jackals’ favor, he catches Bokuto’s smug grin from the corner of his eye.

“See?” Bokuto yells over the crowd. “Love’s the ultimate motivator, baby!”

“Shut up,” Sakusa says, but he’s smiling when he says it.

By the time the match ends—with the Black Jackals victorious and the crowd on their feet—he’s drenched in sweat and his heart is racing a million miles per hour. The team celebrates, the reporters swarm, but all he’s looking for is you.

You’re already by the railing, beaming with pride as you snap a quick photo of him with your camera. Sakusa crosses the court without thinking, ignoring the teasing whistles and Miya’s dramatic “Go get her, lover boy!”

“You were amazing,” you tell him as soon as he’s close enough to hear.

He huffs, trying to hide the way his ears are pink. “I didn’t want to embarrass myself.”

That earns him a laugh. “You know you never could.”

When you lean forward to kiss his cheek, he thinks—yeah. Maybe Bokuto was right.

Love is the ultimate motivator.

You and Sakusa get home just in time for dinner, both of you still buzzing from the energy of the game. The arena’s roar lingers in your ears, and the echo of whistles and cheers follow you all the way back to your apartment.

“You know,” you say, glancing over your shoulder as he locks the door, “most people would go to their team’s victory party after a game like that.”

Sakusa sets his bag down neatly beside yours. “Most people aren’t me.”

You huff a laugh, brushing past him toward the kitchen. “Bokuto’s going to FaceTime me later to complain that you ditched.”

“He’ll survive.”

Your well-kept routine comes easily—him setting the table while you heat up leftovers, your shoulder brushing his arm as you move around the small kitchen. The TV murmurs quietly in the background, tuned to a rerun of some random talk show neither of you are really watching.

Over dinner, you tease Sakusa about that one serve from Hoshiumi that he barely saved (“I thought you were gonna pull something dramatic, you know? Fall to your knees or something.”) and he just gives you that flat, unimpressed look that makes you laugh harder.

When the dishes are done, you lean back against the counter with your arms crossed. “You should still go, though. It’s your team’s win. They’ll think you don’t care.”

“I do care,” he says simply.

“I mean about celebrating with them.”

He exhales, already half-turning toward you. “They know where to find me.”

You give him that look—the one that means don’t make me force you. “Kiyoomi.”

“I’ll go next time.”

“You always say that,” you counter gently. “Go on. You deserve to enjoy it too.”

He hesitates, eyes flicking toward your half-packed suitcase on the couch. “You have to leave in a few hours.”

“Three a.m.,” you confirm. “So I’ll be packing anyway. Go on, I’ll be fine.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Not quite pouting, but it’s something close—eyes soft, the corners of his mouth turned down just enough that you can tell he doesn’t want to leave. You laugh quietly before saying, “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like a sad weasel.”

That earns you a faint scoff, but before you can tease him further, Sakusa steps forward and cups your jaw. The kiss happens naturally like so many things in your relationship have.

He tastes a hint of salt and mint gum, your lips warm against his. It deepens slowly, his hands sliding to your waist, yours finding their way into his hair. The world shrinks to the small space between you and it’s in moments like this when Sakusa doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

Your hands start to move, sliding up his arms and over the fabric of his dri-fit shirt. Sakusa thinks you’re getting bolder by the second when your fingertips slip beneath the hem. You trace the taut lines of his abdomen, the muscle carved by years of relentless training, and he exhales a quiet, shuddering breath against your lips at the contact.

Your back meets the wall as he presses in, one knee slipping between thighs. His mouth slants against yours with more intent, like he’s finally stopped thinking and started feeling.

Sakusa knows your body’s limits; he always has. But it doesn’t stop the heat curling through him, the fire that burns as he grips your hips to lift you just a fraction off the ground, easing the pressure on your joints without thinking.

“What happened to guilt-tripping me into going to the victory party?” he murmurs after pulling away, lips brushing yours with each word.

You let out a breathless laugh, and the sound reverberates against his chest. “We can always celebrate here,” you whisper, eyes alight with that same easy mischief that’s always undone him. Your fingers find the hem of his shirt again, like you’re trying to memorize the shape of him all over.

Something in his chest flutters at that—relief, want, the quiet certainty that this is where he wants to be. Sakusa scoops you up carefully with one arm under your knees, and the other supporting your back. You yelp in surprise as you loop your arms instinctively around his neck. Your face finds the crook of his shoulder, breath warm against his skin, and he holds you like he’s been waiting all season just to feel you this near.

As much as he’d like to pin you right there against the wall, and lose himself in the desire simmering in the pit of his stomach, Sakusa reins himself in. He’s too attuned to you—the way your body sometimes tires quicker, how one careless angle could leave you sore tomorrow. The bedroom’s better. There’s a mattress he spent hours picking out, pillows arranged just the way you like them. Somewhere he can take his time the way you deserve.

He carries you down the short hall, your weight familiar and light in his arms. You pepper kisses along his jaw as he goes, murmuring something teasing about him being a show-off, and he huffs a quiet laugh, kicking the door shut behind you with his foot.

The room is dim, washed in the soft amber light of the bedside lamp you must’ve left on earlier. It spills across the rumpled sheets, the half-open notebook on your nightstand, and the quiet remnants of your shared life.

Sakusa lowers you onto the bed with careful ease, following you down until his weight settles over you. His mouth finds yours again in another breathtaking kiss. His hands slip beneath your shirt, palms warm against your skin as his thumbs trace odd shapes along your waist, touching you with the same precision and intent he brings to everything that matters.

“Are you sure?”

He asks it quietly, his voice roughened by want but steady—always so steady. His forehead rests against yours, and you nod before the words even form, fingers tightening in the curls at the nape of his neck.

“I’m sure,” you whisper, and it’s all the permission he needs.

Sakusa kisses you again, and again, and again. His hands slide higher under your shirt, pushing the fabric up inch by inch until it bunches beneath your arms. You lift them just enough for him to tug it over your head, and he folds it before setting it on the nightstand like everything else in his life must be ordered, even now. The small act makes you smile against his mouth, and Sakusa would have been embarrassed, if he hadn’t already done this with you countless times before.

He trails his lips down the line of your jaw, the slope of your throat, lingering at the hollow where your pulse flutters. Every press of his mouth is careful, but the heat behind it is unmistakable. When he reaches the edge of your bra, he pauses, eyes flicking up to meet yours to ask again without words. You answer by arching into him, and he unhooks it with a single practiced motion, easing the straps down your arms and discarding it with the same quiet efficiency.

His warm palms cover your breasts in seconds, warm and sure, thumbs brushing over sensitive peaks until your breath catches. He watches your face like he’s reading a play on the court, every shift in your expression, every soft sound catalogued and responded to. When you whimper, his mouth latches onto your nipple, tongue circling, teeth grazing just enough to make your hips jerk.

Your jeans come next. He unbuttons them slowly before kissing down the center of your chest and the soft curve of your stomach as he slides the denim down your legs. You help kick them off, and he folds them too, setting them aside before settling between your thighs. His fingers trace the waistband of your underwear, eyes on yours again, and you nod in breathless admission.

He peels the fabric away like he’s unwrapping something precious. The next thing you know, his mouth is on you, no hesitation, no teasing. Just the flat of his tongue dragging up your center, tasting you like he’s been thinking about this all day. You gasp, back bowing off the bed, and his hands slide beneath your hips, lifting you gently to meet his mouth. He’s careful with your body, angling you so there’s no strain on your lower back, no pressure on joints that might protest tomorrow.

Sakusa’s tongue circles your clit with devastating precision, flicking then soothing with broad, lazy strokes. One of your hands fists in the sheets; the other finds his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan against you. The vibration sends a jolt through your spine, and he does it again, like he’s learned every sound you make and filed it away for moments like this.

When he slides a finger inside you, it’s meant to be a test. You’re slick and ready, but he still watches your face, waiting for the slight widening of your eyes, the parting of your lips that tells him yes. When he gets your implicit approval, a second finger joins the first, curling just right and you moan, hips rolling to meet the rhythm he sets. He keeps it steady and unhurried, even as your thighs start to tremble.

He pulls back only to murmur, “Tell me if it’s too much,” before his mouth returns to continue the onslaught, fingers stroking in time with the flick of his tongue.

There’s something addicting in getting to feast upon you like this—laid bare on the bed you’ve been sharing since you decided to let your life entwine with his. He loves feeling your thighs clamp around his head, loves losing himself in the tangy taste of your arousal as you thrash and whimper beneath his touch.

You’re close, so close, and he knows it. He feels it in the way you tighten around him, the way your breath stutters and your thighs start to twitch. But Sakusa doesn’t speed up. He just keeps that perfect, maddening pace until you’re coming apart on his mouth with a soft cry, his name breaking on your lips like a string of prayers.

He stays with you through it, licking you gently through the aftershocks, fingers still moving until you sag against the pillows. Only then does he pull away to press a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then your hip, working his way back up your body until he’s hovering over you again.

“Good?” he murmurs.

Your cheeks burn the moment the haze clears, the sight of his chin glistening with you too much, too intimate. You sit up just enough to yank his shirt over his head in one clumsy motion, the fabric catching on his curls before you hastily swipe it across his mouth, his jaw, and the faint sheen on his cheek. He lets you, eyes half-lidded and amused, and the corner of his mouth twitches as you mutter something about him being gross.

“Better,” you declare, tossing the shirt aside like it offended you. Sakusa huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling low in his chest, and catches your wrist before you can retreat.

He flashes you a small, slightly patronizing smile. “Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed.”

“Shut up,” you mumble, and he kisses the inside of your palm like it’s forgiveness.

The lamp paints gold across the lean lines of him as he strips off the rest, the sharp cut of his hips, the faint bruises from blocks and dives that you’ve traced a hundred times. He doesn’t preen; he just watches you watch him, something soft and possessive flickering behind dark eyes.

Sakusa reaches between you then, guiding himself with the same careful hand that blocks serves and folds laundry. The blunt head catches at your entrance, and you exhale shakily, but then he stills.

“Condom,” your boyfriend mutters. He shifts back onto his knees, the loss of contact making you whine softly, and pulls open the nightstand drawer. The foil packet is already waiting; he tears it with his teeth, rolls it down with practiced efficiency while his eyes never leave your face. You watch the flex of his fingers, the way the latex snaps into place, and something warm coils tighter in your belly.

When he settles over you again, skin to skin, he nudges your nose with his. “Still sure?”

“Always,” you breathe.

He lines himself up once more to press into you, the stretch eased by slick and patience. You muffle a quiet whimper into the curve of his neck as he sinks inch by inch until he’s seated fully, stretching you wide and perfect. He doesn’t move right away. He simply lets you get used to the sensation. One hand braced beside your head, the other cradling the back of your thigh, keeping your leg hitched gently at his hip so nothing pulls wrong.

When you roll your hips experimentally, he groans and finally starts to move.

The pace Sakusa sets is unhurried—deep strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside you, his rhythm steady like a heartbeat. You cling to him like a lifeline, nails digging half-moons into his shoulders, and he drops his mouth to yours to swallow down every sound you make. The bed doesn’t creak; the mattress is too good for that. There’s only the soft rustle of sheets, the quiet slap of skin, and your breath hitching in tandem with his.

Until he shifts his angle, and you gasp and your back arches.

Sakusa stills immediately.

“Too much?”

“No—just—” You shake your head, guiding his hips with your own. “There. Like that.”

He obeys, rolling into you with that same devastating precision, watching your face like it’s the only play that matters. When your breath starts to fracture, he slips a hand between you, thumb circling your clit in slow, firm strokes until you’re trembling again, clenching around him like a vice.

The first moan you let out is small, almost accidental, just a soft, broken “ah” that slips past your lips when he drags over that spot again. Sakusa’s rhythm falters for half a heartbeat; his eyes darken, pupils blown wide. He swallows hard, and he knows you feel the way your noises make his control fray at the edges.

You do it again, louder this time, a whimper that curls in the back of your throat as he fills you deep and slow. “Kiyoomi…”

His name cracks in the air between you, and something in him breaks. He’s not rough, he’s never rough, but the restraint he’s been holding like a leash loosens. Sakusa’s hips snap forward once, harder than before, and you cry out. He immediately stills once more, breath ragged against your neck.

“Shit, sorry—”

“No,” you gasp, nails scraping down his back, urging him on. “Don’t stop. Please—”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Sakusa picks up where he left off, but there’s a new edge to it now, a hunger he usually keeps locked down. Every thrust is still careful, still mindful of the care he’s learned to treat your body with instinctively, but the pace quickens just enough to make your head spin. You can’t help it; the sounds spill out of you, raw and needy, little gasps and moans that climb higher with every drag of him inside you.

“Fuck,” he breathes as though the word was punched out of him. “You sound—”

He doesn’t finish. Just buries his face in your neck, teeth grazing your skin as he thrusts again, and again, and again. Your legs tighten around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, and you moan his name like a plea.

“Kiyo—oh god, right there—”

He growls, low and wrecked, and angles his hips just right, hitting that spot over and over until your voice breaks on a sob. Your hands scrabble at his shoulders, his hair, anywhere you can reach, and he lets you pull, lets you claw, lets you fall apart beneath him.

“So good,” you choke out, barely coherent. “Feels so good…”

That does it.

His control splinters. His thrusts turn sharper, deeper, like he’s chasing the sound of you unraveling. His hand slips from your thigh to grip the headboard until his knuckles turn white, using it to leverage himself harder into you. The bedframe gives a soft thud against the wall, once, twice, and you moan louder in shameless pleasure, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

He’s losing it. He can feel it in the way his breath stutters against your skin, the way his hips jerk unevenly for a second before he reins himself back in. His forehead presses to yours, eyes squeezed shut with lips parted as he pants your name like it’s the only word he knows.

“Close,” you whimper, and he nods frantically as he presses his thumb harder against your clit, circling fast and tight. “’m so close, Kiyoomi…”

“Come on,” he rasps. “Let me hear you—”

You fall apart with a broken cry, back bowing off the mattress, toes curling hard against the sheets. The pleasure crashes through you in hot, pulsing waves, each one stronger than the last, dragging you under until you’re trembling, gasping, clenching around him so tight it almost hurts.

Sakusa’s rhythm stutters. His breath hitches sharp against your neck, and then he’s coming too, a low, guttural sound tearing from his throat as he buries himself deep. His hips jerk once, twice, grinding into you like he can’t get close enough, and you feel every pulse of him through the thin barrier of latex. He empties himself inside the condom in long, shuddering waves, each one drawn out by the way you’re still fluttering around him, milking him through it.

His forehead drops to yours, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted as he rides it out. Another pulse, another soft groan muffled against your skin, and his hips give one last, involuntary roll before he stills completely, buried to the hilt, breathing like he’s just run a full five sets.

For a long moment, neither of you move. There’s just the sound of your breathing, harsh and synced, and the faint tremor in his thighs where they’re pressed to yours. He stays inside you, letting the aftershocks ripple through you both as his chest heaves against yours. You feel the last faint twitch of him, the warmth trapped in the condom, and it’s strangely intimate—knowing he’s spent and undone all because of you.

Only when your legs start to shake from holding the position does he ease back, slow and careful, pressing a kiss to your temple as he pulls out. The loss of him makes you whine softly, but he’s already tying off the condom with steady fingers, dropping it into the bin by the bed without looking. Then he’s back, pulling you into his chest, your legs tangled, hearts slowing together.

His hand finds yours under the covers and your fingers thread together like they belong there. You press your face to his neck, breathing him in and he holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered.

You’re still catching your breath when you mumble, voice muffled against his chest, “How am I supposed to go on my flight now? My boyfriend just put me through the mattress.”

Sakusa huffs out a laugh. “You’ll live.”

“I might not,” you argue weakly, poking at his ribs. “I should cancel and tell them I tragically perished in battle.”

He smiles into your hair. “That’s a bit dramatic, even for you.”

“You love it,” you murmur, and he doesn’t deny it—just presses a kiss to your forehead, thumb tracing circles on your hip.

After a few minutes of quiet, he shifts on the bed to sit up, tugging gently at your arm. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up. I’ll help you pack after.”

You groan but let him tug you to your feet. He’s careful as ever—steadying your waist, handing you one of his shirts to wear while you both shuffle to the bathroom. It’s the small things that make it feel so domestic: the way he holds your hair back while you wash your face, how he folds your discarded clothes without thinking, and how he reminds you to drink water before returning to the bedroom.

By the time you’re done, your suitcase sits open on the bed again. You fold shirts while he rolls them tighter to save space. Every so often, he brushes your arm, and your shoulders bump together, but neither of you say anything about it. There’s no rush, only the quiet hum of shared space and the faint whir of the night outside your window.

When the clock creeps past midnight, he drives you to the airport. The city’s still half-asleep and the roads are mostly clear. You reach over once to fix the cuff of Sakusa’s jacket, and he catches your hand, lacing your fingers together on the console until you reach the terminal.

He gets out and insists on unloading your luggage despite your protests. The air outside is cool, carrying that faint, sterile tang of early morning departures. He closes the trunk and turns to you, leaning slightly closer, but before he can kiss you, you shake your head with a grin.

“Not so fast.”

He raises a brow. “What?”

“You have to promise me first,” you say, eyes bright even under the harsh airport lights. “You’re going to the victory party.”

That earns you an unimpressed look that has Sakusa wondering if you purposely want him to suffer in the hands of his godforsaken teammates. He already knows what’s waiting for him there: Bokuto’s drunken yelling, Hinata’s energy turned up to eleven, and Atsumu’s relentless teasing. A special kind of chaos he can only endure sober and armed with saintlike patience.

“Kiyoomi,” you warn when he doesn’t answer right away. “Promise me.”

He sighs before putting his hands up in utter resignation, though there’s a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Fine. I promise.”

“Good.” You rise on your toes and kiss him—slow and lingering, a kiss that says come home to me safely without needing words. When you finally pull away, he chases your lips for half a second, reluctant to let go.

“Text me when you land,” he says quietly.

You nod. “Text me when you get to the party.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat in it—only fondness. You give him one last smile before turning toward the terminal, dragging your suitcase behind you. He watches you go, eyes following until you vanish beyond the glass doors and into the tide of travelers.

For a long moment, he simply stands there with his hands shoved in his pockets, the night pressing close around him. He could drive straight back home, crawl into the sheets that still smell like you, and pretend the world doesn’t exist for a few more hours.

But he promised.

With a low sigh, he unlocks his phone and opens his messages. The screen’s glow catches in his eyes as he types, Is the party still going? before sending to the one person he reluctantly trusts to respond semi-coherently: Miya Atsumu.

He locks his phone before he can talk himself out of it, slips into the driver’s seat, and starts the car.

Because if there’s one thing Sakusa Kiyoomi doesn’t do—it’s break a promise he made with you.

[suguwu]

lover be good to me

minors and ageless blogs do not interact.

status: complete!

word count: 51k

pairings: kita shinsuke x f!reader, oc x f!reader

summary: You meet Kita Shinsuke on a rainy summer day, with a sea of hydrangeas swirling at your feet. You know him instantly, as only a soulmate can. He seems like a good man. Like a good soulmate.

But it's your wedding day.

notes: this fic. i am so excited to share this fic—i've been working on it for a very long time and it very much feels like my baby. thank you to everyone who has sat thru me yelling about it <3

title and part titles are from hozier's "be" and "nfwmb"

tags (contains spoilers for the fic): soulmate au (first words), this is a very reader-centric story, reader and kita are implied to be in their late twenties-early thirties, slow burn, hurt/comfort, pining, partner death (not kita), grief/mourning, love as a choice.

each part will have more specific warnings.

part one: when i first saw you, the end was soon (13k)

part two: felled by you, held by you (16k)

part three: the best of you, the rest of you (10k)

part four: oh, lover be good to me (12k)

read on ao3

[suguwu]

kita is more playful than you expected during sex. his eyes crinkle with his smile when you almost stumble into the bedframe, too caught up in the hot slide of his tongue in your mouth. he catches you, reels you in carefully, keeps you steady, but you can taste the laughter on his lips.

he's steady, as always. patient. when you pout at him because he's licking up the tender flesh of your inner thigh instead of your slick cunt, he chuckles, his voice deepening, the oncoming dusk on a humid summer night.

"stop teasing," you tell him, nudging his side with your foot.

"is this teasing?"

you scowl. "you know it is."

he breathes out another laugh, but he settles between your legs again, spreading your folds with one hand. you squirm, but before you can say anything, he dips his head and curls his tongue against your clit.

he works you with familiar ease, builds up your pleasure from kindling to bonfire. he's always been a quiet lover, but his fingers sink into the plush of your thighs; his hips stutter against the bed at times.

you cum hard. he squeezes lightly at your thighs, his firm grip grounding you as you shake through it. he keeps his mouth on your pulsing clit until you twist away, your overwrought nerves thrumming.

he doesn't go far. you can still feel his breath stirring against your dripping cunt. you slip your foot to the center of his chest and nudge him away. he goes easily; there's a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth.

"you're trouble," you tell him.

he wraps a big hand around your ankle, his thumb stroking across the jut of bone. he tugs your foot close, dipping down to press a kiss to the arch of it.

it leaves a gleaming print of his mouth behind; a brand of your own slick against your skin. embers stir within you. you squirm.

his chest rumbles with his little laugh, far-off thunder.

"is that a bad thing?"

you level him with an annoyed glance. "i haven't decided yet."

he hums, using his hold on your ankle to spread you wide again. his gaze meets yours even as he lowers himself back between your legs.

"let's figure it out, then."

[rnikage]

that fic post had so many typos oh my god

[rnikage]

⟢ WOULD THAT I ┊ SAKUSA

✦ synopsis. your lives have always unfolded together, and for sakusa, it's a life he wouldn't trade for anything else.

✦ content. 9.4k words. kiyoomi sakusa x f!reader. childhood friends to lovers. coming of age. slice of life. fluff. reader has ehlers-danlos syndrome. stage accident mention. brief hospital scene. mentions of being disabled for a while (kiyoomi takes care of you for the entire time dw). fluff. smut. encompasses childhood to the professional timeskip.

✦ foreword. hello... i have not written for haikyuu in god knows how long, but this piece was commissioned by my lovely @haruchiyos aka the number one kiyoomi fan in the entire world <3 writing this made me realize how much i missed haikyuu, and how i'm planning to drop by the tags again :3c

READ ON AO3

Komori finds Sakusa one summer with a volleyball clutched in both hands.

It looks too big for him, the material scuffed smooth from use. Come play, he says before jogging toward the rec center. Sakusa hesitates as he thinks of all the ways this could go wrong—the sweat, the noise, the strangers. But the sky feels too wide, too blue, too empty to say no.

The ball hits the floor with a hollow thud that reverberates through his ribs. Komori’s laugh cuts through it, easy and light and so utterly careless that Sakusa almost envies it. He mimics the motion of Komori’s hands, uncertain but trying, and when the ball finally arcs clean over the net, something tight in his chest comes loose.

After that first session, they meet after school with their shirts sticking to their backs, counting how many volleys they can keep in the air without dropping. Sometimes they don’t even talk; the rhythm of the ball is enough. The sun sinks low and turns the rec center windows gold, and for the first time, Sakusa doesn’t mind staying somewhere that isn’t home.

One afternoon, Komori brings you.

You’re his neighbor, he says, as though that’s reason enough. You stand in the doorway with your backpack slipping off one shoulder. Sakusa looks at the smudge of blue paint near your knuckles and immediately decides you’re going to touch everything.

You do. The walls, the volleyball, even the sweatband on his arm. He flinches back with a scowl when you do, and you only tilt your head with a breathless laugh. You really hate people touching you that much? you ask, and nothing about it is teasing or mean.

Somehow, that makes it different.

You don’t look at him strangely whenever he wipes the ball before every serve. You don’t tease when he keeps a mask folded neatly in his pocket. You simply watch him with quiet interest that’s neither overbearing nor intruding. When Sakusa finally snaps, “What?” you only shrug.

“Doesn’t it hurt? Your wrists bend so far back. It’s kind of amazing.”

There’s no mockery in your voice, only that soft earnestness that somehow slips past his usual defenses. It’s such a small thing—so small it shouldn’t matter—but for some reason it does. You don’t make him feel like a spectacle, and that’s enough to let you stay.

You stick with them as the days bleed in a haze of late sunsets and scuffed shoes. Sometimes you sit cross-legged at the edge of the court, sketching in your notebook. Other times you join in, missing half the passes but laughing too hard to care, and even Sakusa finds himself smiling, though he hides it behind a shake of his head.

By the end of that summer, the rec center feels like a second home. The three of you don’t bother keeping score anymore. The ball just keeps moving back and forth, until the sky turns orange and someone finally says, Same time tomorrow?

Somehow, you always show up.

Years fold over like pages.

Junior high arrives, sudden and loud. Sakusa has grown taller, Komori talks more than ever, and you’ve joined some club he can’t remember the name of. The rec center still smells the same, but everything else has started to shift—your laughter, the way Komori has gotten better at digging for saves, and how time keeps pulling the three of you in different directions without asking first.

Still, you convene at Komori’s backyard towards the end of your last year. A little get-together before you all started high school, as celebrated with a bowl of neatly cut watermelon slices courtesy of Komori’s mother.

You’re talking about a recently concluded softball tournament and Komori keeps interrupting with mouthfuls of fruit, insisting he could hit better than anyone on your team if he actually tried. You throw a seed at him and he ducks with a shit-eating grin. The air feels soft, swollen with that strange fullness that always comes near the end of summer, when the world feels both endless and about to change.

It’s only when the laughter fades that you mention the injuries. Something about your knees, your shoulder, how you keep bruising too easily. You say it with a small laugh, one that sounds borrowed, and Komori snorts as he shoves another slice of watermelon into his mouth.

“You’re just getting old,” he says. “You do too much—softball, dance, what else? Maybe you’ve got early arthritis or something.”

You groan before punching him in the shoulder, and the sound of Komori’s yelp dissolves the tension before it can settle. He throws a rind at you in retaliation; you fling one back, laughing so hard you forget to hide the small grimace that flashes across your face when you reach too far.

Sakusa doesn’t laugh. He just watches.

He doesn’t know how to care out loud, so he does it silently—in the stillness between jokes, in the way he keeps his eyes trained on your hand as it steadies on the porch railing. He doesn’t ask are you okay because he’s never known how to make the question sound like anything other than intrusion.

When you catch him looking, you smile faintly before heading down the steps and calling goodbye over your shoulder.

He doesn’t breathe a word about it. Not to Komori. Not to you.

When you all start high school in Itachiyama, Sakusa is almost convinced that summer was just one of those hazy memories that sunlight distorts.

Because you’re standing in front of the blackboard when he walks into the classroom on the first day, in your neatly pressed uniform with your hair tied back. As though nothing is remotely wrong. Komori spots you first and shouts your name, waving so wildly the teacher has to remind him to sit down. You laugh until your eyes crinkle and for a brief moment, it feels like everything’s back where it was.

But when Komori asks where you’ve been for the rest of the summer, you just smile and tell him you were resting. He keeps trying to pry until you threaten to throw your shoe at him, and the conversation drifts elsewhere. Sakusa doesn’t press. He never does. But as you pass him a notebook later that week, your sleeve slips back, and he catches the faint trace of a bruise near your elbow, one that looks weeks old but still hasn’t faded.

It stays that way through high school: the unexplained bruises, your offhand excuses, and the distance that settles without meaning to. Sakusa doesn’t have time to wonder. His world has more or less narrowed to volleyball. He can’t remember when the goal to be Japan’s best high school spiker became so clear, only that now it’s the axis his life turns on.

But even with the sport devouring most of his time, Sakusa still keeps a close eye on you. It’s never intentional. He just notices things. The way you lag behind after school, weighed down by your dance bag; how you skip meals when you’re caught up in choreography or homework; the faint tension in your shoulders that never quite fades.

He tells himself it’s habit, the same focus he brings to the court. Reading his opponents and anticipating weaknesses from the other team is second nature to him. Still, he ends up carrying your bag more often than not, or shoving a sandwich into your hand on the walk home when you forget to eat.

Komori always tags along, teasing Sakusa about playing pack mule. “You’ve never offered to carry my stuff.”

“Kiyoomi’s got a soft spot for me,” you laugh, bumping Sakusa’s shoulder with your own. “Don’t you?”

He scoffs behind his mask but doesn’t bother to deny it.

Your walks home become a pattern, with Komori narrating the day, you listening with a half-smile, Sakusa quietly pacing beside you both, carrying what you can’t. Sometimes you fall behind when your leg starts acting up, and he slows down without thinking as Komori’s voice drifts ahead like background noise.

He doesn’t ask questions. You don’t offer answers. But he keeps watching anyway, because that’s what he does—on the court, in life—always ready to catch what might slip through.

Until the final match for Spring Nationals coincides with your senior recital.

You’d been rehearsing nonstop by then. Komori complained that they barely saw you anymore, and Sakusa noticed how your steps had turned uneven, as though you were favoring one side. You laughed it off whenever they asked, claiming it was nothing, just overuse. Though they were skeptical, there wasn’t much room for worry when they were too wrapped up with Nationals and the chance to end high school with a championship.

When the day comes, you’re on stage while Sakusa is under the stadium lights. You wished them luck that morning, eyes bright despite the stiffness in your smile. “Be the best ace and libero Japan’s ever seen, got it?”

He thinks about that all through the match. How certain you sounded, how easily you said it. How you always believed in him, even when he didn’t.

They lose by two points in the fifth set—a loss that sticks to the ribs; a loss that feels personal.

Sakusa sits on the locker room bench long after the noise has faded. The floor is littered with towels and athletic tape. Komori is talking somewhere beside him in a quiet hush until his phone rings. He doesn’t tell Sakusa who it is, but his face drains as he listens. Komori’s voice lowers into something Sakusa’s never heard before, and when he hangs up, all he says is:

“She’s in the hospital.”

They don’t even change out of their uniforms—just took their gym bags and bolted out of the venue before their coach can put a word in.

The train ride blurs by in fragments: the burn of streetlights, Komori’s silence, Sakusa’s hand clenched around his silver medal until it digs into his palm. When they finally arrive, the halls smell like wilted lilies and antiseptic. Your mother meets them at the lobby, her smile thin and tired.

“She’ll be happy to see you,” she tells them as they all head towards your room.

You were half-sitting when they enter, one leg propped up in a brace that looks far too heavy for you. Your hair is still pinned from the performance, though it looks a little crooked now. The moment you see them, your mouth trembles with the threat of tears.

“You came,” you whisper.

Komori grins weakly. “Of course we did.”

Even now, your laughter comes easily—a small, shaky sound that breaks halfway through. The tears follow shortly after and Sakusa can only stare. You never cry. Not when you lost softball matches, not when you were hurt. But now, your hands are covering your face, and your shoulders shake with each heaving breath.

“I didn’t want to disappoint her,” you choke out. “My partner—she worked so hard, and I thought I could handle it. I didn’t want to be the reason it all fell apart.”

Komori reaches for your hand without hesitation. Sakusa just stands there, his medal still cold even through the material of his jersey. Then, slowly, he set it down on the side table beside you, next to the cup you’d nearly knocked over.

“Guess we both lost today,” he says quietly.

Komori scowls at him. “Seriously? That’s what you say?”

“I-it’s fine, Motoya," you sniffle. “Kiyoomi’s trying.”

Sakusa doesn’t correct you, even though he’s not sure if he is. The words left his mouth before he could think—like a reflex, the only language he knows when things start to hurt. He meant it as comfort, some kind of shared solidarity in losing, but now it just sounds detached and insensitive.

Komori pulls a tissue from the side table and presses it into your hand, murmuring something light and easy that earns another small, trembling laugh from you. He’s always been like that—able to smooth out the air with nothing more than a smile and a well-timed joke.

Sakusa stands off to the side as he stares at his hands. They’re calloused from years of hitting powerful spikes, his nails trimmed to neat half-moons. His hands are meant for control, precision, and power. Not—whatever this is.

Care, Sakusa realizes, doesn’t come as naturally to him as it does to Komori. He doesn’t know how to hold it, how much pressure to apply before it starts to break.

So he stays quiet.

He listens as Komori fills the silence with stories of their match, how close it was, how they would’ve won if not for one bad serve. He watches you smile through your tears, your fingers twisting the edge of the blanket. Every so often, your gaze flickers toward the medal he left beside your bed.

When you finally fall asleep, the room settles into stillness. Komori sighs, sinking into the chair at your bedside. Your mother stepped out sometime ago to give you three time to yourselves, and Sakusa isn’t sure if he’s grateful or not for her discretion.

“You really could’ve said something nicer,” Komori mutters.

Sakusa hums in acknowledgment. He wants to explain that he meant to tell you he understood, that the words had simply twisted on the way out. But all that escapes is a quiet:

“I know.”

Komori glances at him, his expression softening. “You’re not bad at it, you know. You just… care weirdly.”

Sakusa doesn’t answer. He looks at the rise and fall of your breathing instead, and the way the lamplight catches on the curve of your brace. He thinks about how Komori reached for your hand without hesitation, and how he couldn’t.

But maybe—he thinks, as he adjusts the blanket a little higher over your shoulder—this is enough.

Your lives start to pick up the pace after that.

Graduation comes in a blur of half-hearted goodbyes, those everyone swears aren’t final even when they know better. College follows close behind, and you, Sakusa, and Komori still find yourselves orbiting one another when you end up going to the same university, tethered by the quiet years that came before.

By then, your world has slowed in a way that none of theirs could. The Ehlers–Danlos diagnosis explains everything—the constant bruises, the injuries that never seem to heal right, and the way your body always seemed to betray you at the worst times. It makes sense now, but that doesn’t make it easier.

You spend most of your first semester in a wheelchair, only transitioning to crutches when your joints allow. Even through your harrowing schedule of physical therapy appointments and new medication, you manage to smile through all of it, though Sakusa can tell the edges don’t always reach your eyes.

He and Komori make sure you never went through any of it alone. Between volleyball training and lectures, they learn to fit you into the rhythm of their days—Komori with his relentless chatter and easy charm, Sakusa with his quiet vigilance and steady hands.

It was Sakusa who made sure the path to your classes is accessible, who memorized the ramps and elevators across campus before you even got there. It was him who learned how to fold your wheelchair properly after you hurt your wrist one morning, and him who started driving you to class once he got his license, because “the trains are crowded, and you hate people bumping into you.”

You laughed when he said that. “You just want an excuse to drive your fancy car.”

He only shrugged. “Maybe.”

By your second year, the doctor finally deems you strong enough to forego the crutches, and the three of you celebrate with takeout in Komori’s apartment. He pops the cap off a bottle of sparkling juice like it was champagne, spraying half of it across his kitchen floor while you squealed and laughed until you were breathless.

Sakusa watches you wipe at your face, cheeks aglow as your hair sticks to your temples from giggling so much. It hits him then—how different you look now. The shadows under your eyes are gone, replaced by warmth and color.

You traded dance for film, the stage for sets and editing suites. Oftentimes, you would even tell him stories about shoots gone wrong, professors who play favorites, and classmates who thought artistic vision excuses bad lighting on set. He never understood half of what you said, but he likes listening anyway. You talk like the world still belongs to you, even after everything it has put you through.

Sometimes, when he picks you up from late classes, you’d sit in the passenger seat talking about your latest project long after he’d parked in front of your house. Your eyes always shine in the streetlight, hands moving animatedly as you speak.

Sakusa would find himself staring longer than he should.

He doesn’t know what to make of it at first—the tightness in his chest whenever you smile, the way he catches himself checking his phone for your messages, the small irritation he feels when Komori makes you smile more than he does. He chalks it up to habit and all the years of watching out for you. But habit doesn’t explain why his heartbeat trips every time you look at him too long, or why he starts noticing the way your perfume lingers in his car.

In the end, it’s Komori who finally calls him out.

They were cooling down after practice one afternoon, the gym still echoing faintly with the sound of squeaking shoes and distant whistles. Komori, toweling his hair dry, shoots him a knowing look.

“So,” he starts casually, “you gonna tell her?”

Sakusa frowns. “Tell her what?”

“That you’re in love with her.”

His head snaps up on reflex. “I’m not—” He stops, scowling when Komori raises an eyebrow. “That’s not what this is.”

“Right,” Komori tells him, dragging the word out. “That’s why you pick her up every day even when you don’t have class, and why you threatened to fight that guy who said she was cute in her Film Theory class.”

“He was staring at her weirdly,” Sakusa muttered.

Komori grins as he tosses the towel over his shoulder. “Uh-huh. Totally not love.”

The thing that Komori calls “love” starts small and invisible, like dust motes floating in the morning light. But little by little, it burns deeper, until it colors everything in his life.

You still show up to each of their games. Even when midterms pile up or your projects keep you up editing until dawn, you’re there—tucked somewhere in the stands, hands cupped around your mouth as you cheer. You never scream loud enough for him to hear, but Sakusa always finds you anyway.

After games, you text him simple things like Proud of you or That cross shot was insane. He tells himself they’re just words that anyone would send a friend. Still, he reads them more times than he’d ever admit.

When you move into your own apartment closer to the university, you insist you can handle it. “It’s only a five-minute walk from campus. You don’t have to drive me anymore.”

Sakusa nods, deciding he’ll walk you home anyway.

The path you take winds along the edge of campus, lined with lilac bushes that bloom heavy in the spring. You like to stop there to talk about whatever crosses your mind. Every time, Sakusa listens quietly, hands tucked in his pockets as you prattle along. The scent of lilacs linger in the air, and sometimes, he catches it later on his sleeves and thinks of you.

When you unlock your apartment, he always waits until you’re safely inside before heading home. You tease him for it every time—“You know, this isn’t a crime-ridden city.”

He only shrugs. “Doesn’t hurt to make sure.”

What you don’t know is that he often lingers by the lilac bushes on his way back to his car, tracing your footsteps in his mind, and trying to name the feeling that’s taken root in his chest.

Sakusa starts visiting more often to help out when he can. You’ve always been particular about cleanliness—your routines neat, your space spotless. But on bad days, when your joints ache or fatigue sets in, you still push yourself to scrub and wipe and polish.

He doesn’t comment or scold you like Komori probably would. He just rolls up his sleeves and joins you to wash the dishes while you vacuum, and rearrange your bookshelves so everything lines up just right. Sometimes you protest, telling him he doesn’t have to. He just says, “I know,” and keeps going.

You make tea when you’re done, and the scent of chamomile fills your little kitchen. Then you sit side by side on the couch with your legs tucked under a blanket. The world feels slower then, smaller in a way that feels right and as you reach for your mug, your fingers brush his. You laugh, soft and startled, and Sakusa looks away quickly. But later that night, long after he’s gone home, he still feels the warmth lingering on his skin.

Sometimes he wonders if you notice the small things he does for you—the way he leaves extra groceries on your counter when he visits, or how he always wipes down your doorknobs before he leaves. But he never brings it up. Caring, for him, is meant to be quiet.

You, on the other hand, fill silence like sunlight. You make his world brighter without trying. You tease him out of his head, send him photos of stray cats you meet, tell him to “live a little” every time he hesitates to go out.

So when Komori rents out a small bar near campus for his birthday, you somehow convince Sakusa to come along. He doesn’t even drink that much, but Komori’s grin and your hopeful expression are a dangerous combination. In the end, he lets himself be dragged there anyway.

The night unfolds easily at first. Laughter, clinking glasses, their teammates crowding around a pool table. You perch on one of the bar stools, nursing a light drink while talking to one of Komori’s upperclassmen. Sakusa keeps half an eye on you between conversations, more out of habit than jealousy—or so he tells himself.

Things shift gradually when that bastard starts leaning closer, his hands wandering in places they shouldn’t. You inch away with a polite smile, but Sakusa catches the stiffness in your posture anyway.

Before he can stop himself, he’s already on his feet.

“Hey.” His voice cuts through the music. “She’s clearly uncomfortable.”

The upperclassman blinks, half-drunk and slow to register the warning. “Relax, man. We’re just talking—”

“The way you’re touching her doesn’t really count as just talking,” Sakusa replies, stepping forward just enough to close the gap between them. He doesn’t raise his voice, but there’s something sharp in his tone that even he doesn’t recognize.

The guy scoffs and mutters something under his breath that Sakusa doesn’t quite catch—but it’s enough. Maybe it’s the alcohol burning in his veins or the months of quiet patience finally snapping, but he grabs the man by the collar before he can think better of it.

Chairs scrape. Komori’s already halfway across the room, hands up in alarm as he attempts to placate him. You’re on your feet too, with a hand wrapping gently yet insistently around Sakusa’s wrist.

“Kiyoomi. It’s fine.”

He doesn’t move at first. His jaw ticks as he breathes sharply through his nose. The bastard stammers something that sounds like an apology, but Sakusa doesn’t care to hear it. All he sees is the flicker of discomfort that crossed your face minutes ago, and it feels like a flintstrike in his chest.

“Kiyoomi.” Your voice softens. “Let’s go.”

That’s what finally makes him release his grip. You pull him out through the side door, the muffled bass fading behind you until the only sound left is the buzz of streetlights outside of the bar.

Sakusa braces his hands on his knees, breathing hard and half-expecting you to start scolding him for overreacting. But curiously, you don’t. You just watch him from where you stood, the glow from the lamppost catching on your hair as you breathe out the softest of laughs.

“You know,” you murmur, nudging his arm, “you’re kinda hot when you’re mad.”

He stares at you incredulously. “You’re drunk.”

“Maybe a little. Still true, though.”

You slide down to sit on the curb, yawning as Sakusa sinks down to join you. The adrenaline’s long gone now, replaced by the soft exhaustion that comes after long nights and too much to drink. Within minutes, your head droops against his shoulder. Sakusa sits still for a while, watching the rise and fall of your breathing as the city buzzes all around you.

When you finally doze off, he exhales through his nose, more fond than frustrated. He mutters under his breath, standing carefully before crouching to lift you onto his back. Your arms loop around his neck out of instinct, your breath warm against his skin. He carries you to his car like that, ignoring Komori’s incoming text asking where you both disappeared to.

That can wait in the morning.

Sakusa’s relationship with you is… simple.

There isn’t a better word for it, really.

It’s nothing like the over-the-top dramas one of his teammates keeps bingeing between matches, nor like the slightly dramatized scripts you complain about.

He confessed to you on that trail lined with lilac bushes while walking you back home on your third year of college. It wasn’t planned. Sakusa was fully intent on taking his feelings for you to the grave. But something about the way the sunlight hit your hair on that one spring day as the flowers swayed all around you made him falter. The words I like you tumbled out without another thought.

He expected the worst—a polite smile, a kind rejection, something gentle but final. You’d always laughed so easily at Komori’s jokes; it wouldn’t have surprised him if your heart had found its way there instead.

But the rejection never came. Instead, you exhaled a soft, breathless Finally, before pulling him close, your perfume mingling with the scent of lilacs heavy in the air.

Since then, your lives unfolded side-by-side—just the two of you coexisting in the spaces between work, sleep, and the small domestic routines you’ve built over the years. Even now, with his name known across volleyball courts and yours flashing across film credits, there’s something steadfast about the way your worlds still revolve around each other.

After college, you both moved somewhere close enough to the city that you can walk to your studio, but far enough that Sakusa can breathe after long training sessions. The place is small but warm, lined with your framed photographs and his neatly arranged trophies, and the faint scent of flowers and detergent always lingering in the air.

It becomes home in quiet ways. You cook dinner while he wipes down the counters. He folds laundry while you edit footage on your laptop. Mornings start with the smell of coffee and breakfast; nights end with the steady rhythm of your breathing against his shoulder as you fall asleep before the end of whatever documentary you insisted on watching.

Your schedules rarely match, but you both make it work. When he’s away, he texts you photos of hotel breakfasts and gym selfies with teammates that love his personal space as much as he does. In return, you send him clips from shoots, half-finished edits, or voice clips about how much you hate the new floor director for your most recent project.

Once, that same director cornered you outside the studio after an exhausting day, pressing too close as he complained about deadlines and creative disagreements. You told Sakusa about it later in passing, more amused than upset.

He didn’t say much at all in the moment, but the next morning, he showed up at your set under the guise of dropping off lunch. You caught the director’s expression faltering when Sakusa greeted him politely, except the sharp gaze that accompanied it was anything but.

Later, as you ate together in the break room, you nudged his knee with yours. “You’re not subtle, you know.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

You laughed as you reached for his hand. “You didn’t have to come all the way here.”

“I know.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I just wanted to.”

Sakusa also makes it a point to attend your film events, even the ones where he has to wear a suit and smile for photos beside people who talk too fast and drink too much. You never ask him to come, but he always does and he thinks you love him a little more for the effort.

He’s met your friends, too—writers, cinematographers, a few producers who still can’t believe you’re dating a professional athlete. He listens when you talk about them, remembers their names, and even goes out of his way to greet them when you host get-togethers.

Komori still drops by when he can, usually unannounced, with snacks and stories from his own V.League team. The visits are fewer now, but when he’s there, it’s like nothing has changed. You still laugh until your stomach hurts, Sakusa listens with the faintest smile tugging at his lips, and for a while, it feels like you’re all in his backyard stuffing yourselves with watermelon again.

There’s a quiet rhythm to it all. A life you’ve both built piece by piece, without the noise or spectacle that fills most people’s stories.

But there are also times when that steady rhythm falters.

Like tonight.

The arena lights are blinding, and the air thrums with the kind of tension that only comes with a Schweiden Adlers matchup. Reporters crowd the sidelines, cameras flashing as the MSBY Black Jackals huddle mid-court, and Sakusa tries to focus on the game plan. He should be thinking about tactics or Ushijima’s serves or Kageyama’s unpredictable sets. Instead, all he can think about is you.

You, sitting somewhere in the stands despite your packed schedule. You, who barely managed to squeeze this match into your calendar before your 3 a.m. flight. You, who should be asleep or packing or doing literally anything else besides watching him play volleyball.

But that’s who you are. You always show up, and because of that, all Sakusa can think is: don’t humiliate yourself in front of her.

“Oi, Sakusa.” Bokuto leans over. “You’re all tense. You nervous or something?”

Across from him, Miya flashes that same, shit-eating grin that normally would have earned him an eye roll from Sakusa on a normal day. “Nah, he’s just fired up. Look at him—our Omi-kun’s got that in love and trying not to screw up face again.”

Sakusa scowls. “I don’t have that kind face.”

“But you kinda do!” Bokuto insists. “It’s all—” He scrunches his eyebrows together in a tragic imitation. “—‘If I mess this up, my girlfriend will break up with me.’”

Hinata bursts into laughter, clutching his stomach. “Oh man, he’s totally right! You’ve got the same expression I get when Kageyama watches me hit a straight across the net!”

“Focus,” Sakusa mutters, adjusting his sleeve like it can hide the flush creeping up his neck.

But it’s no use. Miya’s still smirking, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “Guess we’ll just have to make sure Omi-kun gives his girlfriend a show, huh?”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Thank ya kindly.”

As they take their positions, Bokuto elbows him once more, grinning too wide for comfort. “Don’t worry, man. We’ll make you look really cool.”

Sakusa exhales through his nose, shaking his head, but there’s a faint curve at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t need to ask where you’re sitting; somehow, he always finds you in the crowd. Front row near the middle with a camera in hand, hair pulled back neatly, smiling so softly it hurts. You wave when you catch his eye and mouth something he can’t quite hear over the roar of the crowd, but he knows it’s good luck. It always is.

The whistle blows, and just like that, the noise fades.

Sakusa jumps, blocks, digs, and spikes, but threaded through every move is the quiet desire of wanting to make you proud. Every serve feels a little sharper, every point a little sweeter, and when the scoreboard tilts in the Black Jackals’ favor, he catches Bokuto’s smug grin from the corner of his eye.

“See?” Bokuto yells over the crowd. “Love’s the ultimate motivator, baby!”

“Shut up,” Sakusa says, but he’s smiling when he says it.

By the time the match ends—with the Black Jackals victorious and the crowd on their feet—he’s drenched in sweat and his heart is racing a million miles per hour. The team celebrates, the reporters swarm, but all he’s looking for is you.

You’re already by the railing, beaming with pride as you snap a quick photo of him with your camera. Sakusa crosses the court without thinking, ignoring the teasing whistles and Miya’s dramatic “Go get her, lover boy!”

“You were amazing,” you tell him as soon as he’s close enough to hear.

He huffs, trying to hide the way his ears are pink. “I didn’t want to embarrass myself.”

That earns him a laugh. “You know you never could.”

When you lean forward to kiss his cheek, he thinks—yeah. Maybe Bokuto was right.

Love is the ultimate motivator.

You and Sakusa get home just in time for dinner, both of you still buzzing from the energy of the game. The arena’s roar lingers in your ears, and the echo of whistles and cheers follow you all the way back to your apartment.

“You know,” you say, glancing over your shoulder as he locks the door, “most people would go to their team’s victory party after a game like that.”

Sakusa sets his bag down neatly beside yours. “Most people aren’t me.”

You huff a laugh, brushing past him toward the kitchen. “Bokuto’s going to FaceTime me later to complain that you ditched.”

“He’ll survive.”

Your well-kept routine comes easily—him setting the table while you heat up leftovers, your shoulder brushing his arm as you move around the small kitchen. The TV murmurs quietly in the background, tuned to a rerun of some random talk show neither of you are really watching.

Over dinner, you tease Sakusa about that one serve from Hoshiumi that he barely saved (“I thought you were gonna pull something dramatic, you know? Fall to your knees or something.”) and he just gives you that flat, unimpressed look that makes you laugh harder.

When the dishes are done, you lean back against the counter with your arms crossed. “You should still go, though. It’s your team’s win. They’ll think you don’t care.”

“I do care,” he says simply.

“I mean about celebrating with them.”

He exhales, already half-turning toward you. “They know where to find me.”

You give him that look—the one that means don’t make me force you. “Kiyoomi.”

“I’ll go next time.”

“You always say that,” you counter gently. “Go on. You deserve to enjoy it too.”

He hesitates, eyes flicking toward your half-packed suitcase on the couch. “You have to leave in a few hours.”

“Three a.m.,” you confirm. “So I’ll be packing anyway. Go on, I’ll be fine.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Not quite pouting, but it’s something close—eyes soft, the corners of his mouth turned down just enough that you can tell he doesn’t want to leave. You laugh quietly before saying, “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like a sad weasel.”

That earns you a faint scoff, but before you can tease him further, Sakusa steps forward and cups your jaw. The kiss happens naturally like so many things in your relationship have.

He tastes a hint of salt and mint gum, your lips warm against his. It deepens slowly, his hands sliding to your waist, yours finding their way into his hair. The world shrinks to the small space between you and it’s in moments like this when Sakusa doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

Your hands start to move, sliding up his arms and over the fabric of his dri-fit shirt. Sakusa thinks you’re getting bolder by the second when your fingertips slip beneath the hem. You trace the taut lines of his abdomen, the muscle carved by years of relentless training, and he exhales a quiet, shuddering breath against your lips at the contact.

Your back meets the wall as he presses in, one knee slipping between thighs. His mouth slants against yours with more intent, like he’s finally stopped thinking and started feeling.

Sakusa knows your body’s limits; he always has. But it doesn’t stop the heat curling through him, the fire that burns as he grips your hips to lift you just a fraction off the ground, easing the pressure on your joints without thinking.

“What happened to guilt-tripping me into going to the victory party?” he murmurs after pulling away, lips brushing yours with each word.

You let out a breathless laugh, and the sound reverberates against his chest. “We can always celebrate here,” you whisper, eyes alight with that same easy mischief that’s always undone him. Your fingers find the hem of his shirt again, like you’re trying to memorize the shape of him all over.

Something in his chest flutters at that—relief, want, the quiet certainty that this is where he wants to be. Sakusa scoops you up carefully with one arm under your knees, and the other supporting your back. You yelp in surprise as you loop your arms instinctively around his neck. Your face finds the crook of his shoulder, breath warm against his skin, and he holds you like he’s been waiting all season just to feel you this near.

As much as he’d like to pin you right there against the wall, and lose himself in the desire simmering in the pit of his stomach, Sakusa reins himself in. He’s too attuned to you—the way your body sometimes tires quicker, how one careless angle could leave you sore tomorrow. The bedroom’s better. There’s a mattress he spent hours picking out, pillows arranged just the way you like them. Somewhere he can take his time the way you deserve.

He carries you down the short hall, your weight familiar and light in his arms. You pepper kisses along his jaw as he goes, murmuring something teasing about him being a show-off, and he huffs a quiet laugh, kicking the door shut behind you with his foot.

The room is dim, washed in the soft amber light of the bedside lamp you must’ve left on earlier. It spills across the rumpled sheets, the half-open notebook on your nightstand, and the quiet remnants of your shared life.

Sakusa lowers you onto the bed with careful ease, following you down until his weight settles over you. His mouth finds yours again in another breathtaking kiss. His hands slip beneath your shirt, palms warm against your skin as his thumbs trace odd shapes along your waist, touching you with the same precision and intent he brings to everything that matters.

“Are you sure?”

He asks it quietly, his voice roughened by want but steady—always so steady. His forehead rests against yours, and you nod before the words even form, fingers tightening in the curls at the nape of his neck.

“I’m sure,” you whisper, and it’s all the permission he needs.

Sakusa kisses you again, and again, and again. His hands slide higher under your shirt, pushing the fabric up inch by inch until it bunches beneath your arms. You lift them just enough for him to tug it over your head, and he folds it before setting it on the nightstand like everything else in his life must be ordered, even now. The small act makes you smile against his mouth, and Sakusa would have been embarrassed, if he hadn’t already done this with you countless times before.

He trails his lips down the line of your jaw, the slope of your throat, lingering at the hollow where your pulse flutters. Every press of his mouth is careful, but the heat behind it is unmistakable. When he reaches the edge of your bra, he pauses, eyes flicking up to meet yours to ask again without words. You answer by arching into him, and he unhooks it with a single practiced motion, easing the straps down your arms and discarding it with the same quiet efficiency.

His warm palms cover your breasts in seconds, warm and sure, thumbs brushing over sensitive peaks until your breath catches. He watches your face like he’s reading a play on the court, every shift in your expression, every soft sound catalogued and responded to. When you whimper, his mouth latches onto your nipple, tongue circling, teeth grazing just enough to make your hips jerk.

Your jeans come next. He unbuttons them slowly before kissing down the center of your chest and the soft curve of your stomach as he slides the denim down your legs. You help kick them off, and he folds them too, setting them aside before settling between your thighs. His fingers trace the waistband of your underwear, eyes on yours again, and you nod in breathless admission.

He peels the fabric away like he’s unwrapping something precious. The next thing you know, his mouth is on you, no hesitation, no teasing. Just the flat of his tongue dragging up your center, tasting you like he’s been thinking about this all day. You gasp, back bowing off the bed, and his hands slide beneath your hips, lifting you gently to meet his mouth. He’s careful with your body, angling you so there’s no strain on your lower back, no pressure on joints that might protest tomorrow.

Sakusa’s tongue circles your clit with devastating precision, flicking then soothing with broad, lazy strokes. One of your hands fists in the sheets; the other finds his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan against you. The vibration sends a jolt through your spine, and he does it again, like he’s learned every sound you make and filed it away for moments like this.

When he slides a finger inside you, it’s meant to be a test. You’re slick and ready, but he still watches your face, waiting for the slight widening of your eyes, the parting of your lips that tells him yes. When he gets your implicit approval, a second finger joins the first, curling just right and you moan, hips rolling to meet the rhythm he sets. He keeps it steady and unhurried, even as your thighs start to tremble.

He pulls back only to murmur, “Tell me if it’s too much,” before his mouth returns to continue the onslaught, fingers stroking in time with the flick of his tongue.

There’s something addicting in getting to feast upon you like this—laid bare on the bed you’ve been sharing since you decided to let your life entwine with his. He loves feeling your thighs clamp around his head, loves losing himself in the tangy taste of your arousal as you thrash and whimper beneath his touch.

You’re close, so close, and he knows it. He feels it in the way you tighten around him, the way your breath stutters and your thighs start to twitch. But Sakusa doesn’t speed up. He just keeps that perfect, maddening pace until you’re coming apart on his mouth with a soft cry, his name breaking on your lips like a string of prayers.

He stays with you through it, licking you gently through the aftershocks, fingers still moving until you sag against the pillows. Only then does he pull away to press a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then your hip, working his way back up your body until he’s hovering over you again.

“Good?” he murmurs.

Your cheeks burn the moment the haze clears, the sight of his chin glistening with you too much, too intimate. You sit up just enough to yank his shirt over his head in one clumsy motion, the fabric catching on his curls before you hastily swipe it across his mouth, his jaw, and the faint sheen on his cheek. He lets you, eyes half-lidded and amused, and the corner of his mouth twitches as you mutter something about him being gross.

“Better,” you declare, tossing the shirt aside like it offended you. Sakusa huffs a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling low in his chest, and catches your wrist before you can retreat.

He flashes you a small, slightly patronizing smile. “Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed.”

“Shut up,” you mumble, and he kisses the inside of your palm like it’s forgiveness.

The lamp paints gold across the lean lines of him as he strips off the rest, the sharp cut of his hips, the faint bruises from blocks and dives that you’ve traced a hundred times. He doesn’t preen; he just watches you watch him, something soft and possessive flickering behind dark eyes.

Sakusa reaches between you then, guiding himself with the same careful hand that blocks serves and folds laundry. The blunt head catches at your entrance, and you exhale shakily, but then he stills.

“Condom,” your boyfriend mutters. He shifts back onto his knees, the loss of contact making you whine softly, and pulls open the nightstand drawer. The foil packet is already waiting; he tears it with his teeth, rolls it down with practiced efficiency while his eyes never leave your face. You watch the flex of his fingers, the way the latex snaps into place, and something warm coils tighter in your belly.

When he settles over you again, skin to skin, he nudges your nose with his. “Still sure?”

“Always,” you breathe.

He lines himself up once more to press into you, the stretch eased by slick and patience. You muffle a quiet whimper into the curve of his neck as he sinks inch by inch until he’s seated fully, stretching you wide and perfect. He doesn’t move right away. He simply lets you get used to the sensation. One hand braced beside your head, the other cradling the back of your thigh, keeping your leg hitched gently at his hip so nothing pulls wrong.

When you roll your hips experimentally, he groans and finally starts to move.

The pace Sakusa sets is unhurried—deep strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside you, his rhythm steady like a heartbeat. You cling to him like a lifeline, nails digging half-moons into his shoulders, and he drops his mouth to yours to swallow down every sound you make. The bed doesn’t creak; the mattress is too good for that. There’s only the soft rustle of sheets, the quiet slap of skin, and your breath hitching in tandem with his.

Until he shifts his angle, and you gasp and your back arches.

Sakusa stills immediately.

“Too much?”

“No—just—” You shake your head, guiding his hips with your own. “There. Like that.”

He obeys, rolling into you with that same devastating precision, watching your face like it’s the only play that matters. When your breath starts to fracture, he slips a hand between you, thumb circling your clit in slow, firm strokes until you’re trembling again, clenching around him like a vice.

The first moan you let out is small, almost accidental, just a soft, broken “ah” that slips past your lips when he drags over that spot again. Sakusa’s rhythm falters for half a heartbeat; his eyes darken, pupils blown wide. He swallows hard, and he knows you feel the way your noises make his control fray at the edges.

You do it again, louder this time, a whimper that curls in the back of your throat as he fills you deep and slow. “Kiyoomi…”

His name cracks in the air between you, and something in him breaks. He’s not rough, he’s never rough, but the restraint he’s been holding like a leash loosens. Sakusa’s hips snap forward once, harder than before, and you cry out. He immediately stills once more, breath ragged against your neck.

“Shit, sorry—”

“No,” you gasp, nails scraping down his back, urging him on. “Don’t stop. Please—”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Sakusa picks up where he left off, but there’s a new edge to it now, a hunger he usually keeps locked down. Every thrust is still careful, still mindful of the care he’s learned to treat your body with instinctively, but the pace quickens just enough to make your head spin. You can’t help it; the sounds spill out of you, raw and needy, little gasps and moans that climb higher with every drag of him inside you.

“Fuck,” he breathes as though the word was punched out of him. “You sound—”

He doesn’t finish. Just buries his face in your neck, teeth grazing your skin as he thrusts again, and again, and again. Your legs tighten around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, and you moan his name like a plea.

“Kiyo—oh god, right there—”

He growls, low and wrecked, and angles his hips just right, hitting that spot over and over until your voice breaks on a sob. Your hands scrabble at his shoulders, his hair, anywhere you can reach, and he lets you pull, lets you claw, lets you fall apart beneath him.

“So good,” you choke out, barely coherent. “Feels so good…”

That does it.

His control splinters. His thrusts turn sharper, deeper, like he’s chasing the sound of you unraveling. His hand slips from your thigh to grip the headboard until his knuckles turn white, using it to leverage himself harder into you. The bedframe gives a soft thud against the wall, once, twice, and you moan louder in shameless pleasure, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

He’s losing it. He can feel it in the way his breath stutters against your skin, the way his hips jerk unevenly for a second before he reins himself back in. His forehead presses to yours, eyes squeezed shut with lips parted as he pants your name like it’s the only word he knows.

“Close,” you whimper, and he nods frantically as he presses his thumb harder against your clit, circling fast and tight. “’m so close, Kiyoomi…”

“Come on,” he rasps. “Let me hear you—”

You fall apart with a broken cry, back bowing off the mattress, toes curling hard against the sheets. The pleasure crashes through you in hot, pulsing waves, each one stronger than the last, dragging you under until you’re trembling, gasping, clenching around him so tight it almost hurts.

Sakusa’s rhythm stutters. His breath hitches sharp against your neck, and then he’s coming too, a low, guttural sound tearing from his throat as he buries himself deep. His hips jerk once, twice, grinding into you like he can’t get close enough, and you feel every pulse of him through the thin barrier of latex. He empties himself inside the condom in long, shuddering waves, each one drawn out by the way you’re still fluttering around him, milking him through it.

His forehead drops to yours, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted as he rides it out. Another pulse, another soft groan muffled against your skin, and his hips give one last, involuntary roll before he stills completely, buried to the hilt, breathing like he’s just run a full five sets.

For a long moment, neither of you move. There’s just the sound of your breathing, harsh and synced, and the faint tremor in his thighs where they’re pressed to yours. He stays inside you, letting the aftershocks ripple through you both as his chest heaves against yours. You feel the last faint twitch of him, the warmth trapped in the condom, and it’s strangely intimate—knowing he’s spent and undone all because of you.

Only when your legs start to shake from holding the position does he ease back, slow and careful, pressing a kiss to your temple as he pulls out. The loss of him makes you whine softly, but he’s already tying off the condom with steady fingers, dropping it into the bin by the bed without looking. Then he’s back, pulling you into his chest, your legs tangled, hearts slowing together.

His hand finds yours under the covers and your fingers thread together like they belong there. You press your face to his neck, breathing him in and he holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered.

You’re still catching your breath when you mumble, voice muffled against his chest, “How am I supposed to go on my flight now? My boyfriend just put me through the mattress.”

Sakusa huffs out a laugh. “You’ll live.”

“I might not,” you argue weakly, poking at his ribs. “I should cancel and tell them I tragically perished in battle.”

He smiles into your hair. “That’s a bit dramatic, even for you.”

“You love it,” you murmur, and he doesn’t deny it—just presses a kiss to your forehead, thumb tracing circles on your hip.

After a few minutes of quiet, he shifts on the bed to sit up, tugging gently at your arm. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up. I’ll help you pack after.”

You groan but let him tug you to your feet. He’s careful as ever—steadying your waist, handing you one of his shirts to wear while you both shuffle to the bathroom. It’s the small things that make it feel so domestic: the way he holds your hair back while you wash your face, how he folds your discarded clothes without thinking, and how he reminds you to drink water before returning to the bedroom.

By the time you’re done, your suitcase sits open on the bed again. You fold shirts while he rolls them tighter to save space. Every so often, he brushes your arm, and your shoulders bump together, but neither of you say anything about it. There’s no rush, only the quiet hum of shared space and the faint whir of the night outside your window.

When the clock creeps past midnight, he drives you to the airport. The city’s still half-asleep and the roads are mostly clear. You reach over once to fix the cuff of Sakusa’s jacket, and he catches your hand, lacing your fingers together on the console until you reach the terminal.

He gets out and insists on unloading your luggage despite your protests. The air outside is cool, carrying that faint, sterile tang of early morning departures. He closes the trunk and turns to you, leaning slightly closer, but before he can kiss you, you shake your head with a grin.

“Not so fast.”

He raises a brow. “What?”

“You have to promise me first,” you say, eyes bright even under the harsh airport lights. “You’re going to the victory party.”

That earns you an unimpressed look that has Sakusa wondering if you purposely want him to suffer in the hands of his godforsaken teammates. He already knows what’s waiting for him there: Bokuto’s drunken yelling, Hinata’s energy turned up to eleven, and Atsumu’s relentless teasing. A special kind of chaos he can only endure sober and armed with saintlike patience.

“Kiyoomi,” you warn when he doesn’t answer right away. “Promise me.”

He sighs before putting his hands up in utter resignation, though there’s a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Fine. I promise.”

“Good.” You rise on your toes and kiss him—slow and lingering, a kiss that says come home to me safely without needing words. When you finally pull away, he chases your lips for half a second, reluctant to let go.

“Text me when you land,” he says quietly.

You nod. “Text me when you get to the party.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat in it—only fondness. You give him one last smile before turning toward the terminal, dragging your suitcase behind you. He watches you go, eyes following until you vanish beyond the glass doors and into the tide of travelers.

For a long moment, he simply stands there with his hands shoved in his pockets, the night pressing close around him. He could drive straight back home, crawl into the sheets that still smell like you, and pretend the world doesn’t exist for a few more hours.

But he promised.

With a low sigh, he unlocks his phone and opens his messages. The screen’s glow catches in his eyes as he types, Is the party still going? before sending to the one person he reluctantly trusts to respond semi-coherently: Miya Atsumu.

He locks his phone before he can talk himself out of it, slips into the driver’s seat, and starts the car.

Because if there’s one thing Sakusa Kiyoomi doesn’t do—it’s break a promise he made with you.

[suguwu]

anything, everything

notes: so uh. i had a dream about naoya and it wouldn’t leave me alone. i’m also not capable of writing a reader that isn’t at least a little conniving with him. if you see parts of this in another story down the line no you didn’t. also will someone please stop letting me write things in my tumblr drafts.

wc: 2.1k

pairing: naoya x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ minors & ageless blogs dni naoya is his own warning, established (unhealthy) relationship, possessive behavior, dubcon, rough sex, semi-public sex, not much prep, one smack (thigh), misogyny (bc naoya), biting/marking, breeding (bc naoya), pregnancy mentions (bc naoya) including brief references to the reader having a child with naoya. please let me know if i missed anything!

You can feel your husband’s gaze.

Naoya’s attention has always been a heavy thing; it wraps around you, drags at you, an anchor with its weighted chain.

You glance at him from beneath your eyelashes. It’s a quick, demure little flutter, but Naoya sees it. He beckons to you, one elegant brow raised. You bid a quiet goodbye to the clan member who had approached you as you waited for Naoya to conclude his business. The man brushes his fingers against the sliver of skin peeking out from your kimono sleeve, his rough fingertips dipping under the silk and skimming over the delicate flesh of your inner wrist.

Naoya’s gaze grows heavier still, an undertow current.

Keep reading

[prettyiwa]

AO3 | SFW | Playlist

STATUS: In Progress (7/12 Chapters Written) WORD COUNT: 30.4k April 2025 –

Relationship: Sakura Haruka x Florist!Reader Rating: SFW Content Tags: Post Canon (Sakura (et al.) and Reader are 22+), Koi no Yokan, Love as a Choice, Fluff, (semi-)Hurt/Comfort, Strangers to Lovers, Developing Feelings, Wound Tending, Mutual Pining, Grief, Almost-Dates, Mentions of drinking together, Suo is a menace(/technically a good friend), Protective Sakura, Confessing via Flowers, Hanakotoba (obv), Reader has hair long enough to be put up (take that as you will) Summary: His voice replays in your mind, the deliberate way he spoke your name, and you feel it in your heart. Sakura Haruka has the potential to be someone important in your life. The edges of such a thought feel almost like an inevitability. Shortly after moving to Makochi, you encountered the old Bofurin class 1 captain and his old vice captains, and you offered them thanks as befitting the new florist on Tonbu Street.

Updates every Thursday. * Mini-Hiatus between Ch. 7–8. Will be resolved ASAP.

California Poppy | (Do not refuse me)

Alstroemeria | (Friendship)

Coreopsis | (Love at first sight)

China Aster | (I will think of you)

Azalea | (Take care of yourself for me)

Sakurabito

Lilac | (First feelings of love)

Orchid | (Exquisite beauty)

Petunia | (Your presence soothes me)

Pink Camellia | (Longing)

Red Camellia | (You are a flame in my heart)

Tulip | (Declaration of love)

Bonus:

the original text post

leaf in your hair (takes place between Ch. 7 & 8)

on patrol (takes place between Ch. 10 & 11)

sit with me (4 months after Ch. 12)

Coming Home (3 years later)

and you love me (4 years later)

It'd be in your arms tonight (4.5 years later) + If there was a place that I could call home (5.5 years later)

Each chapter will contain a Flower Glossary + individual tags

windbreaker masterlist

[sodaneko]

sakusa + a bikini top draped over a bed ; cw: +18 (mdni), f!reader, fingering, dry humping, clothed male/naked female ; wc: 1.2k

“I still can’t believe you own a beach house.” “My family owns a beach house.”

Kiyoomi’s huff is hot against your damp skin, causing a pleasant shiver to run down your spine. Summer is in its final throes, the salty breeze coming through the open balcony window not as warm as it used to be just a few days ago. Your husband wraps you up in a big towel, his arms encircling you from behind and his chin coming to rest on your shoulder as he holds you.

“You’re freezing. Told you it’s too cold around this time of the year,” he mutters between two kisses pressed against the side of your neck, tasting salt and you. His hands rub your arms over the soft fabric in an attempt to warm you up. Your bikini top is draped carelessly over the bedpost, your sundress abandoned in a pile on the floor from where you slipped out of it in a haste earlier, eager to catch the last rays of sunshine for your dip in the big waters.  

“Wouldn’t have been so cold if you joined me for a swim,” you quip back, earning yourself a small click of his tongue. You can’t help but laugh quietly about how easy it was to rile him up at times. “Now I’m wet and dripping all over your clothes.” 

The ambiguity isn’t lost on Kiyoomi, the kisses he leaves against your skin turning from gentle into something hungrier, something more desperate. His big hands wander underneath the towel, brushing over your bare skin and leaving a wildfire below your navel in its wake. You can feel him smile at the small hitch in your breath. His fingers wrap around the laces of your bikini bottoms, barely held together by two little bowties, toying with it. 

“And how is that any different from usual?”, he asks, his voice dropping dangerously low as he looks down at your unclad form, the towel threatening to slip off your shoulders. “All wet and dripping for me?”

You let out a low hum and arch more into his touch, your back pressed against his front, leaving damp stains against his suit pants and his half-unbuttoned linen shirt. His sleeves are rolled up and the metal of his expensive watch feels cool against your skin. One hand of his wanders up your body again, featherlight touches against your skin, finding its way from the valley of your chest up to your throat, tipping your chin up. His lips meet yours in a hungry kiss that has your knees weak. 

“Kiyoomi…” you plead quietly, trying to wiggle out of his embrace to continue this on the bed (or on the carpet, anywhere as long as it’s horizontal and lets you feel his full body weight on top of you). Unfortunately for you your husband has a bit of a mean streak; never malicious, but cruel enough to make you come untouched at all times.

With just a few steps he has you crowded against the antique drawer, both of his hands coming to rest against the mahogany wood, caging you in. Your towel is abandoned on the floor next to your sundress, your bikini top swaying lightly in the ocean breeze. One corner of the drawer is pressing right against your core, the unexpected friction making you mewl, your hips rolling, chasing more of that feeling–sticky like molasses, a pooling heat in your stomach. 

“That’s what I thought,” Kiyoomi murmurs, his voice darker now. After all, he knows best what gets you off, and if it isn’t his thigh (or–on special occasions–his leather shoes) it is any surface you can hump against like some animal in heat. He kisses the soft spot behind your ear, pressing up closer against you from behind, letting you feel how bad he’s straining against his pants, rock hard for you. “My sweet girl is so good for me, isn’t she? I haven’t even touched her pretty pussy yet and she’s already making such a big mess for me.”

He doesn’t wait for your reply but pushes a leg between yours, gently nudging them further apart to make room for him. Nifty fingers unravel the bows holding up your bikini bottoms, letting them drop to the floor with a soft thud and leaving you humping more desperately, trapped between the corner of the drawer and his bulge, barely enough to relieve you of the buzzing cursing through you. 

You’re dripping for him when he has mercy and reaches around you, dipping two fingers into you, letting you grind against his palm. He knows it’s not enough, that you’re craving the impossible stretch of his cock (how beautifully you take him every time he sinks into you), but it’ll do–he can tell from your small hiccups and your hands reaching for anything of him you can grasp, one clawing at his wrist and the other tangling up in his hair as his fingers curl up just right inside of you.

“More,” you beg, and Kiyoomi gives you a third finger, knowing you can take it. You clench and throb around his digits, riding out the pleasure he drags you through, drawing out the sweetest sounds from your throat. At moments like this he wonders who is the one in charge really; him, practicing restraint yet leaking uselessly in his own pants, or you, divine and so honest and unabashed in your love and hunger for him. Maybe he is just the puppet on your strings after all, dancing to the tunes you conduct. 

“Come for me, sweet thing,” something between a command and unsatiated desire murmured against the shell of your ear, like a spell to unravel you. You throb violently around his fingers, leaking and creaming, so good for him, perfect for him. With his free hand he presses down on your lower stomach and watches your eyes glace over as pleasure crashes in white waves over you. His arm tightens around you when you melt into his embrace, boneless and your chest heaving, your lashes fluttering from the aftershocks of your high. 

Kiyoomi kisses every inch of your skin he can reach, more gently now. He withdraws his fingers (under your whiny protests) and lifts you up so he can sit you down on top of the drawer, standing between your spread legs. In this position he can finally kiss the hollow of your throat and your collarbone, all the way down to your chest. His big hands rest against your thighs, keeping you spread wide open for him, his thumbs still running over your wet folds, toying with them. He just can’t get enough of seeing the beautiful mess that you are. 

“I adore you,” he murmurs, pressing his cheek against your palm when you cup his face, urging him to look up and kiss you on the lips again. “You’re my everything. My sweet girl. I love you. I love you so much. You’re mine.”

One of his hands comes up and covers yours, one finger absentmindedly tracing your wedding band. Behind his dark eyes lies a sea of love, the calmest and deepest to exist–and together you’re drowning in it.

[neiptune]

to be seen

cw: 2.6k wc, female reader, oliver doesn't quite know how to cope with being perceived, protective reader, banter, another episode of the let's write something short whoops here's 3k words filled with too many raw feelings v-sitcom

You curse your friend for being late.

Not because it’s his fault that the bus he’s on is stuck in traffic as the horrifying amount of rain currently coming down probably makes it damn near impossible for drivers to have good visibility. It’s not his fault and he’s probably having a very shitty time too. But, by all means, you need to blame someone for the fact that Oliver Aiku materializes by the counter you’re sipping your drink at, only to then sit on the empty stool next to you. The indie music they’re playing in the dive bar isn’t loud enough to conceal your groan and his subsequent, silvery chuckle.

“Let me guess”, he offers a stupidly bright grin, “you missed me too much”.

“I don’t even know you”.

Oliver laughs again but decides against pushing it. He’s genuinely happy to see you: most of your encounters are determined by either fate or luck, you certainly never go out of your way to see him. He does, though. Makes the most of the friends you share, the fact that your workplace is close to the gym he trains at, your brother being a big fan.

You like carrying yourself as closed off but he knows better, has familiarized with the kind glint in your eyes by now, your wit and humour. Your quiet jealousy too, the few times you witnessed the way he charms those around him. You’re so stubborn you’d probably rather walk barefoot on a bed of hot embers than admit it bothers you at all, the amount of people he flirts with. It’s none of your business, is it?

But Oliver finds it endearing. And while he certainly doesn’t deny himself some fun just because you’re an agonizingly stubborn little thing, he enjoys the attention you give him. Even if you conceal it with childish, fabricated hostility. Because it just so happens that he’s never once felt the need to conceal his interest, manifest the way daylight is.

“I take it you’re waiting for someone, then”, he thanks the bartender who serves him his usual drink with a graceful smile.

“My friend”.

“She pretty?”.

“He’s a man”.

Oliver hums.

“He handsome?”.

You roll your eyes.

“Handsome and straight, try elsewhere”.

“Damn it, I just might have to”, he sighs, “can I buy you a drink?”.

He’s already grinning by the time you scoff.

Whatever smart retort you might come up with gets tucked right back into your throat as one of the most attractive women you have ever seen suddenly approaches him with a warm smile.

“Hi”, she says and of course Oliver smiles back.

“Hi. Sorry, I’m currently-”

“You should join us”, she suggests, one hand appreciatively closing around his arm, “and then maybe we could find somewhere discreet? Just the two of us”.

“Ah”, he clears his throat, “I don’t know, sweetheart. Maybe some other time”.

She pouts.

“Come on”, her eyes dart to you for just a moment, she probably decides there’s nothing to worry about right away, “I have things I want to do to you. More things I want you to do to me”, she leans closer, presses a kiss to his jaw. Oliver pulls back ever so slightly.

“Hey”, your annoyed voice as you stir the ice in your drink surprises them both, “shouldn’t you wait until you’re in private to make such comments? If he wants to get private with you at all, that is”.

The woman looks at you with furrowed brows, then offers a mellifluous laugh.

“Oliver never says no”, her smile glimmers the way her lipgloss does, “biggest dick of his entire team, did you know? I’m sure he knows how to use it too”.

You grimace at her wink and shoot her a genuinely grossed out glare.

“Do you usually speak about people you don’t know like that?”.

“But I do know him”, her hand gently squeezes his arm.

“Really?”, you scoff, “I don’t think-”

“I’ll be there”, Oliver’s arm finds its way around her waist and he pulls her in for a brief second. A friendly, intimate gesture, his smile familiar and cordial. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think the tension tugging at the corners of his mouth is something anyone would notice.

The woman smiles back, pleased. Her thumb lightly smears the lipgloss mark her kiss left on the curve of his jaw, she playfully clicks her tongue and pouts when it doesn’t fully come off.

“Don’t be long”, she shoots you one last look before heading back to the table she came from. You curse your friend some more.

“Why did you do that?”.

For a stupid, naive moment, you believe he’s asking out of genuine curiosity.

“You seemed uncomfortable. I didn’t like the way she-”

“Don’t speak for me again”.

You blink, taken aback.

Oliver is not looking at you the way someone who is curious would. He’s looking at you like you just embarrassed him and his quiet resentment makes your cheeks burn with humiliation. You feel so immensely stupid, even more so for the effect his stare has on you: he’s never looked at you with such tangible irritation.

“You’re right”, you clear your throat as you get off the stool, “I’m really sorry, it won’t happen again. I’ll see you around”.

He doesn’t acknowledge you or your words, only watches you leave once you turn your back to him. Some guy meets you by the door and only then you seem to remember that you were waiting for someone in the first place. Oliver meets his confused gaze only for a moment, your friend seems to ask you a question but you always collect yourself so easily: with a shrug and a smile that looks so fake, you let him guide you to an empty table.

“You really are a goddamn idiot”.

“Shut up, Shoei”.

The man sitting one stool away from him grunts into his drink.

“Sure. Go ahead, be an asshole to the one person who doesn’t treat you like a-”

“Don’t say it”.

“Cum supplier”.

Oliver sighs, wearily rubbing his forehead.

“Just don’t think you’re special or anything”, Barou finishes his drink in one sip, “she defended Meguru from some journalists too, once. She’s just a good person”.

Two days later, he still doesn’t know what bothers him the most. What prompted that knee jerk reaction of resentment.

Oliver didn’t expect you to pick up on cues he usually hides so well, your attentiveness embarrassing him for the wrong reasons. It’s not like he feared you’d ruin a fun night, it’s the fact that he didn’t want a fun night in the first place and didn’t have the balls to say so himself. You did.

People talk to him like that, he’s used to compliments and sometimes uncomfortable flattery. They flirt with him and he flirts back. But the thing is that no one ever expects him to not flirt back and it’s entirely his fault. Oliver doesn’t remember the last time he said no, the last time he clearly expressed his discomfort: sometimes he doesn’t even know what it stems from in the first place. But you? You thought it was unfair, the way that woman was talking to him. You thought it was distasteful and, hell, maybe it was? Does he actually want strangers to approach him and feel entitled enough to touch him, discuss his goddamn size?

Oliver doesn’t know. He just knows you were looking out for him in a way he’s often unable to do on his own and he rewarded you by getting annoyed about it. Barou is right, he really is an idiot. What’s worse is that your pride will now probably make it impossible for him to apologize, or get close enough to at least attempt.

It’s not like he thinks he’s special: he never does, not with you. Of course you’d do that for anyone because that’s just who you are. But it certainly does pique his interest that you’d notice something he prouds himself on concealing fairly well. It must mean something that you’d speak out for him of all people, that you’d care enough to. Or perhaps he’s just a fool, as one always becomes when having a crush.

Oliver has a wide network and all the right connections but he still has to beg in your friend’s instagram DMs for her to disclose your current location.

You look happy and carefree as you laugh, shoulder pressed against some guy’s arm as everyone else laughs too. You’re having drinks with your friends and he’s about to stain the moment with his unwanted presence but, god, does he want to make sure you’ll laugh with him again eventually.

“Hi”, he stops by the table and of course all eyes are instantly on him, “can we talk for a second?”. There’s surprise he can read in your stare, the only thing he can focus on.

“Are you stalking me or something?”.

Oliver huffs out an awkward chuckle.

“Fate. Destiny, if you will. We were supposed to meet tonight”.

You see the way his eyes briefly flicker to Mai and she looks away in shame when you groan, in disbelief.

“Really? My own people-”

“I begged”, Oliver comes to her rescue and you just roll your eyes, “I sent her a sad, wet cat gif. She couldn’t block me”.

“He did! I couldn’t!”, Mai clasps her hands together in prayer.

“Well, I’m busy”, you click your tongue and shoot him a cold look.

“Please”, he dips his head ever so slightly, “five minutes”.

“Ugh”, you make a show out of begrudgingly getting up from your seat as some of your friends chuckle.

You follow him outside the restaurant with your arms crossed and a bitterness to your frown. Hopefully, he’s not here to friendly scold you about what happened two days ago. Because that’s pretty much all you have been thinking about. You want to kick yourself in the face over how stupid, idiotic, foolishly protective you have been of someone who never even asked-

“I wanted to thank you”, Oliver exhales, “and tell you I’m sorry”.

You blink rapidly, stunned. What?

“What?”.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, which unfortunately gives you the chance to notice how good that leather jacket looks on him. He’s so goddamn infuriating.

“I’ve been a dick”.

“It’s fine”, you lie, “I shouldn’t have-”

“No”, Oliver interrupts you and it’s gentle, almost sweet, “I appreciate what you did. But I just don’t understand, how did you know?”.

Your brows furrow in confusion.

“How did I know? Oliver, you were clearly uncomfortable. A stranger approached you out of the blue, started talking about your dick in public and took it for granted that you wanted to fuck her. I don’t think there was anything complicated to understand there”.

He doesn’t know what to say and that hesitation is so genuine it tugs at something within your chest. You take a step forward and gently flick his forehead.

“Stupid. You don’t owe the world all the goddamn time, you know?”, you smile and he has to resist the urge to grab your hand, “no one can pressure you into doing or saying anything you don’t want to do or say. You’re Oliver Aiku”.

“Sometimes I don’t know what that means”, he admits in the quiet of the evening, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, “they seem to have a pretty clear idea of who Oliver Aiku is”.

“You know who he is best. Don’t let them claim him, he’s yours to own”.

His nails are digging crescents into his palms. He hopes to draw blood, although not even such pain might be enough to satiate the need to pull you into him right this moment. If you ever said something like that to Meguru too, he doesn’t ever want to find out.

“I do some of the things they say I do”, he speaks before his brain can catch up with his mouth, “I fuck strangers and see multiple people at once and enjoy the attention”.

Your expression softens.

“Doesn’t mean that’s all there is to you. Or that you only want that, all the time. Did you feel like talking to that woman?”.

“No”, he mutters, “I only felt like talking to you”.

You pretend his words don’t affect you the way they do, you pretend they don’t have the power of conjuring a storm of restless wings suddenly fluttering in your stomach. But you can’t deny how familiar he feels, how clearly you see him and how desperately you want this beautiful, foolish man to stick up for himself.

“I don’t know if they’ll ever been fair to you”, for the sake of your own mental sanity you decide to ignore what he just said, “I hope they will. I just wish you were fairer to yourself, captain”.

Oliver exhales through his nose, gets close enough for the tip of his shoes to be pressing against yours.

“Some of the things they say I do, I don’t. Would you believe me if I said I never cheated on anyone?”.

“Yes”.

He cocks his head to the side.

“Would you believe me if I said I really want to take you out?”.

“Like a sniper?”.

Oliver smiles.

“Like on a date”.

“Oh”, this is your nightmare, the way your heart is beating so violently in your chest makes you feel like a caged hummingbird. You never thought there’d be something more to it, the subtle teasing and the playful flirting. But how could you doubt a stare so genuine? He’s looking at you in a way that makes your insides churn, that makes it impossible for you to hide behind your usual, biting humor.

“Are you seeing other people?”.

He hesitates for a moment, then his jaw sets as he nods.

“Yeah”.

Oliver waits: to be turned down, to be doubted, maybe to be ridiculed. So he is quite surprised when you relax your shoulders and cold fingertips graze his own. You have never really touched each other besides the usual playful shove of the shoulder of light smack of the arm. He wonders if you’re battling the sudden, odd need to take his hand too. Are you drawn to him the way he is to you? Are your palms currently burning with torturous absence? He feels deprived of something he’s yet to have and it’s nothing short of excruciating.

“Okay”, you murmur as the pads of your fingers brush against his knuckles.

Relief floods his chest and Oliver smiles, incredulous, as he bites into his bottom lip.

“Okay”, he repeats and the way he sounds so reassured, so effervescent, almost kills you. “Dinner?”.

“Coffee”, you warn. God knows he’s not above doing something insane like renting the whole restaurant for the night.

“Whatever you want”.

“Good”, you take a step back and toss him a cautious smile, “make sure you bring him”.

“Who?”.

“Oliver”.

He blinks once, then smiles back.

“He’ll be there”.

Oliver has a feeling you’re someone he’ll always, inevitably show up for. He couldn’t pretend to be someone else if he tried.

Your friends welcome you back with what is, no doubt, a plethora of questions. He watches you say something and then roll your eyes when Mai excitedly hugs you. Through the large, street-facing windows, he sees the way the man you’re sitting next to casually throws his arm around your shoulders and just keeps it there.

Oliver finds himself biting the inside of his cheeks. You said you want to get coffee but never really opposed the idea of him renting the entire cafe for a few hours, did you?

[sunflwrpie]

kamikakushi- sfw, gin gagamaru x f!reader, sengoku au(~1560s), noble lady!reader, mentions of arranged marriages, nudity, spirits wc:2645

"My lady! Please come back! You'll catch a cold!" Your maid calls out from behind you as she tries to catch up, the kosode that was meant to serve as your outerwear held carefully in her arms.

You paid her no mind, eyes focused on the canopy of lush green leaves above you, the endless sea of dark bark and moss in the unmarked path you walked. The soft mist of the upper points of this seemingly endless forest cascading down to swirl at your feet.

The crunch of leaves, the clink of pebbles beneath your sandals, the chirping of birds and the distant thrums of bugs, of babbling streams, everything so loud yet so quiet. Wild. Peaceful. The mountains truly were alive like in the tales.

The tales of ghosts and gods you overheard from servants sending a little shiver down the back of your neck. The ones your sister used to share with you when everyone else had gone to bed, smiles and naive giggles, huddled together under your warm blankets, dreaming foolish little dreams.

Now those dreams did not sound so distant.

Would you be whisked away by a mountain god? Made to stay in these mountains for all of eternity as their companion, their bride? Constraining silk layers and suffocating expectations cast aside for soft moss and free flowing streams, bare skin clothed only in endless mist and dappled sunlight. That didn't sound so bad..

"My Lady! It is getting cold..how about we turn back now? The servants have prepared warabimochi…" Your maid murmurs gently, that familiar placating tone, already catching the sour notes in the slight puff of your cheeks, the quick flutter of your lashes. Carefully placing that heavily ornate kosode on your shoulders, the lush purple embroidery of curved wisteria branches marring your back yet again.

You let the little green leaf you had held in your hand flutter back down to the rich ground beneath you. Fingers still slightly damp from the touch of cold dew. Lips puckering into that petulant pout you had still yet to out grow.

"My father sent me to the mountains for my health. My uncle said I could walk around his land as I please. And right now I am following their instructions. Are you questioning the words of your masters?"

Your maid folds easily. She had been with you since you were but a whiny, sickly little girl, always keeping your brazier hot, ensuring you were swaddled in fur and silk, coaxing you to drink the endless bitter herbal tonics. Soothing your tantrums and fevers. Rocking you in her arms and wiping your tears when you wailed for your sister to come back home.

She knew when to push and when to back off. This part of the forest was safe. You would sooner see a deer or serow than a wild boar or bear. You could only stumble upon one of the many monks that resided in the various temples throughout the mountains, there were no bandits or roaming warriors, no skirmishes between clans. This part of the land was untouched by human chaos.

So she took a step back and bowed, telling you she would wait here so you could walk at your own leisurely pace for awhile more. The wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, the progression of her sagging cheeks too notable in the speckled sunlight. Her light, gentle smile the same as always.

Huffy air finally leaving from where it was welled up in your chest, that tiny awkward smile forming on your lips. Giving her one last sheepish look before continuing farther into the forest. Deeper into mist and fertile forest.

Further into your thoughts.

Father had sent you to your uncle's newly built castle in hopes the strong mountain air would do you some good, like the physician had said. It would help appease Mother's overly excessive spending on herbs and charms and the pungent 'healing' incense she always insisted on burning in your chambers.

It was also an excuse to keep you away from the chaos back in Kyoto, your marriage into the Mori clan was now uncertain. Unneeded perhaps.

The Oda Daimyo's entry into Kyoto and his clear support of the imperial court meant that Father didn't have to sacrifice another daughter in a marriage to a lower clan for more funds. He could wait and watch carefully this time. His role as the emperor's kampaku always came first of course, but he didn't like tarnishing the clan's prestige to keep the imperial coffers full.

Whatever. It was pointless to think of such things.

You bent down to pick up a smooth little pebble. Beautiful despite being no different than the other pebbles beneath your feet. All round and tiny, grey and cold. Shaped and molded by the gentle stream in front of you. Weren't you just like this little shaped stone? Fate left to things far out of your control.

You kept it against your palm as you followed the path of the little stream. Your cousin had said that there were plenty of steams and rivers, little pools to cool your feet. Waterfalls. You would see where this one led.

The sound of distant, powerful rushing water excited you. Giving you the energy to push past the heavy rise of your chest, the drops of sweat starting to form on your temple. Careful of your footing on the mossy, damp rocks. Usually you would have grown tired from walking this long. But the forest beckoned you. A goal. A purpose. You had to press on.

Soon you were rewarded for your efforts. Lush thick water bursting down from higher into the mountains, forming the sparkling clear pool of water in front of you. Setting your little pebble aside on the remnants of an old fallen tree before removing your sandals and tabi.

Relishing in the feel of dark earth and fallen leaves beneath your feet before dipping them into the water. A refreshing coolness. Your smile drawn out easily by the tiny little fish swimming towards your toes.

Closing your eyes and letting the gentle earthiness of the air, the sounds of birds and water soothe your thoughts.

A loud splash nearly causing you to fall into the water out of fright. Was it a deer? Maybe a monkey?

A mountain god?

Peering into the slight hazy mist to try and discern the figure in front of you.

Something tall with two long limbs. Arms?

You shift closer, a twig snapping under your palm.

It turns to face you.

Sun kissed skin. Firm lines indicating strong muscle beneath flesh.

Wet hair sticking to the sides of his face, his shoulders. The hair dark yet silvery, reminiscent of mist. Big black eyes, too dark and fathomless. Looking back at you, tranquil yet piercing. Unmoving. Like that undisturbed serow you had spotted with your cousin.

Watching you.

For a brief moment you believe that you have indeed stumbled upon a divine being of the forest. Hands trembling. Heart in your throat. Goosebumps on your neck. Waiting for it to take you.

But then he yawns, one of his hands lazily scratching at his shoulder. Breath leaving his mouth, the subtle rise and fall of his chest. Human just like you. His crude spear and plain clothes on a large rock near where he bathes. Scars littering his arms, his chest and below his-

H-He's naked!

"I..I am not a peep!" You stammer, more of a squeak than words. Face flushed, eyes carefully concealed by your hands. Still able to catch a glimpse of the man between the little gaps of your fingers.

"Huh? I don't care."

He shrugs, continuing to cup water and splash it onto his skin. Drops of water trickling down..down..down…

Focus!!

"W-Well! I do! You should be ashamed of yourself! Out here acting like a..um a-a wild man!"

You promptly move to face away from him, hoping the shade of the trees will bring relief to your burning ears.

"You're the one that interrupted my bath…"

A nonchalant statement, perhaps not meant to be aggravating but it mattered little at this point.

Your nose flaring, spinning back around to face him. Pointing your finger, a hand on your hip. Your family would surely weep with shame if they saw the contorted look on your face. Succumbing to your petty, childish temper yet again. In the face of a stranger no less. Not suitable for a lady of your prestige at all.

"T-This is my uncle's land! You shouldn't even be here!"

He makes a deep hum, too soothing and relaxed as he shakes his wet hair and reaches for his clothing. A single plain kosode and dark cloth leg covers. Sitting on the large stone to wrap his well worn waraji onto his bare feet.

"My family has lived on this land for generations. It belongs to no one but the kami. They've let your Uncle live here too."

A bird sings nearby, weakening the crude point of your finger. The soft rustle of his straw sandal straps around his ankles cooling the hotness of your chest. His face still passive, calming like the ancient trees surrounding you. A sheepish pout on your lips, now feeling awkward.

A little cough leaves your lips, half true half fake, as your hand drops, fidgeting with the edge of your outer kosode.

Peaceful silence, not full of expectation or disappointment or judgement. Just silence.

"I um I remember now! My uncle did mention the woodsmen….your family is the one that handles the wood and meat and all that other stuff right? My uncle said he was um..very thankful for your service….um I-I am too! The bear fur keeps me warm at night..I like it…"

It had been a long time since you had uttered something similar to a compliment. It felt strange on your tongue. But nice.

He nods, lips faintly curling into what must be a smile. He stands up, walking closer to you.

"You're pretty. Do you need help getting back to the castle?"

You choke, then cough. Fully real this time. Your heart beating too fast. Face boiling.

W-What did he say!?

"Oh, you okay?"

He steps closer, towering over you for a moment before he slightly bends down, his large, sun kissed hand patting against the silk fabric covering your back. Uncaring that his calloused hand touched fabric more valuable than the land the two of you stood on. Big black eyes only on your face, your wobbly lips as your coughing eventually stopped.

"Thank you.."

A little croak, your eyes downcast to look at dirt and leaves. To see how the tips of his toes nearly met yours. His were large and toughened, healed blisters and other marks marring the skin of his feet. So unlike yours. But both were flesh. You were both just mortals in this vast forest. Equal. If you walked this forest enough times, would your feet look like that too?

"I..um..walk me back to the castle..um! Please.."

Pushing yourself to say the words you wanted to even though it made you want to die. Your sister had wrote in a letter once that it was good for your body and mind to speak what you truly held in your heart. Life was too short to let regrets stack up, to drown in what-ifs and what-nots.

"Sure."

He nods and takes a step forward before waiting for you to walk next to him.

"Um! Do you um know every part of the woods?"

Letting your curiosity out as the two of you walk.

That gets a chuckle out of him. Deep and soft. Warm. Lovely.

"No, but I know a good portion of it. My grandpa's been here his whole life and still doesn't know every where. The forest reveals what it wants when it wants to…"

Conversation comes so easy. He talks of the forest, of animals, of wild bears he's fought with his bare hands, the nasty scar on his right ear.

Your face flutters with so many emotions, your cheeks hurt and lips are dry from moving so much. But it's a good feeling. Usually you only feel boredom or irritation. You didn't know you could experience so much in such a short span of time.

"I'm Gin, by the way."

You exchange names, full names, and you splutter when he uses your first name right away. Big black eyes twinkling with something that must be amusement. That little subtle sweet curve of his lips.

He talks about his life and his family and you talk about your rather...stuffy, boring life. But mainly your sister and all the letters she sends you. The silly little dreams you keep to yourself. He talks about his encounters in the forest. That he's seen glimpses of the divine.

You're beaming, eyes crinkled and heart feeling light as he tells you he'll teach you how to befriend the local deer. A next time. It helps ease the sinking of your heart when you realize you have reached the castle.

Your maid coming to your side, distancing you from Gin. Her eyebrows furrowed, suspicious and judging as she looks him up and down. The layers of silk you wear on your skin heavy yet again. Suffocating.

But there would be a next time.

Glancing back one last time, eyes softening in relief as you saw him still standing there. The vast, misty forested mountains behind him. Waiting. Patient. Waving his hand until the heavy wooden doors were shut behind you by the guards.

There would be a next time.

Something delicate and hopeful bubbling in your chest. The smile on your face so soft that even your maid couldn't help but soften her disposition towards the unruly woodsman as well. Promising that she would help you arrange another walk around the forest. That he would be a good guide. Next time.

Your maid helping you prepare to rest, lighting your brazier, helping you change into your night garments. Before a gentle good night, her wrinkled eyes crinkling at the fragile twinkle now found in your eyes. Expecting that she would see it the next morning as she roused you from sleep to drink your morning medicine.

But there wasn't that next morning.

The letter that you had forgotten to read the other day, now left half read on your lacquered desk. Your father's announcement of your betrothal to one of the Oda daimyo's clan members. All the priceless trinkets in your jewelry box left untouched. The luxurious wisteria embroidered kosode left by it's spot next to the brazier. Your futon neatly arranged as if you had never slept. Everything in it's place.

Except for you. Gone.

Your Uncle's men sent to search the land and villages, the deep depths of the forest and mountains. Torches dotting the moonlit forest for days, weeks until finally extinguishing.

Another story added to the long list of tales told at night to keep children from being naughty.

The village people paid little attention to the increased frequency of the youngest Gagamaru woodsman's visits into town. Fur and meat traded for more than the usual portion of food and fabric. The occasional purchase of a well made comb or other little trinket of little use to him. There was no crime for being in love, after all.

Instead they focused on the rumors of the beautiful, barefoot spirit spotted in the lush forests. Dancing with the trees and birds and deer. Spotting her meant good fortune. That you would not get lost in the endless misty forest.

The tale of the beautiful princess coveted by a mountain god, whisked away in the middle of the night. Her laughter guiding others away from that same fate.

[rnikage]

⟢ OUROBOROS ┊ KAISER

✦ synopsis. the night you are to assassinate emperor michael kaiser, you do not expect to find the ghost of your childhood staring back. to the court, he is a savior. to the empire, he is a tyrant dressed in gold. but to you, he is still mihya—the one person your blade was never trained to kill.

✦ content. 11.8k words. michael kaiser x afab!reader. royalty au. monarch!kaiser x assassin!reader. childhood friends. enemies to lovers. implied/referenced abuse (both for kaiser n reader). implied sexual content. reader sleeps with other bllk men for the job's sake. lots of courtly politics going on. one (1) actual assassination attempt. angst. eventual smut.

✦ foreword. episode 2 of writing for characters i despise (affectionate) to bolster the rnikage audience /silly !!! writing this took way more effort than i was willing to shell out, but i'm nothing if not a sucker for a proper royal au. kaiser just happens to be the perfect muse for it <3 disclaimer that i have not fully read up on his backstory, so do with that information as you may lmfao

✦ THE SPARROW ┊ THE SNAKE ┊ THE SUN

On the night of the harvest moon, Aurelia’s imperial family was massacred.

The emperor, the empress, and the rest of their kin—each found in their chambers the same way: still and untouched by struggle, as if death had come to them in their sleep. Oddly enough, not a single guard posted outside their doors shared the same fate. They had all been found merely unconscious and slumped against their spears, unable to recall when they even closed their eyes.

No windows were broken. No locks were forced. Though the corridors smelled faintly of bitter herbs and steel. Whoever entered the palace that night had done so as though the shadows themselves had opened for them.

By midday, the word assassin swept through the capital like fire. Scholars and nobles called it impossible and blasphemy in the same breath. But the people whispered the truth no one dared to write: someone had toppled the empire in a single perfect breath, and got away with the crime.

By dusk, the banners of mourning unfurled above the palace. The empire’s sun had fallen, its blood still warm in the marble veins of each imperial bedchamber. Across the capital’s grand quadrangle, thousands gathered in reverent silence, grieving not only the fall of the imperial family but the shadow it left behind.

From the balconies and the cobbled streets below, the wails came dutifully—soft, practiced, almost ceremonial. The air was heavy with incense and dread, the kind that clings to the throat and does not let go. But beneath the solemnity, uncertainty simmered quietly.

The people did not know whether to weep or to wait.

The imperial family had ruled for centuries, but poorly in its last years. Crops had failed, taxes had risen, and the court had grown fat on borrowed time. Now that the dynasty was gone, what would follow? A savior? A tyrant? A hundred claimants tearing the empire apart?

But while the capital is engulfed in the last vestiges of imperial flames, a different kind of chaos exists quietly in a place untouched by the empire’s light.

Down where the river rots into mud and smoke, the slum district cannot hear the toll of the mourning bells. The air was heavy with heat and iron, and the faint tang of spoiled grain. Children chased stray dogs through puddles that never dry. Women scrubbed clothes in water that will never run clean. And you walked through it all, balancing a bundle of kindling against your chest, careful not to look too long at the soldiers passing by.

You were born in the gutter, and the gutter has rules: keep your head down, your pockets shut, your eyes on the ground.

Still, you always looked up.

The grasslands stretched just beyond the last shanty—wild, unkempt, and golden beneath the lowering sun. You cut through them every evening to shave a few minutes off the walk home. The stalks reached your knees, brushing against your skin with a soft hiss. Crickets sung. The world was quiet enough to pretend that it belonged to you.

But then you heard a quiet, inhuman hiss.

You froze. The grass parted just ahead, and the movement came in a quick ripple of scales and a glint of sharp fangs. You opened your mouth to scream, but before you could—

Someone slammed into you.

You hit the dirt and the air is torn from your lungs. A blur of pale gold and dust passed over you in a moment’s notice. The boy who appeared out of nowhere landed hard as he wrestled the snake off his arm. It coiled and snapped viciously, but by some miracle, his reflexes were faster. He grabbed it by the tail before flinging it into the weeds, where the serpent then vanished with a whisper.

Silence settled among the reeds yet again.

You pushed yourself upright. The boy righted himself a few paces away, breathing through his teeth and it gave you time to study him. His hair, a pale tangle of gold, glinted in the dying light like it’s been kissed by something the slums have never seen. His eyes were so blue, they don’t look real.

You’ve seen him before, darting between stalls and backstreets, the boy who moved like he’s always running away from something. Your mother had told you to stay away from him. That one’s cursed. Nothing good ever follows him.

But what do you do when the cursed boy saved your life?

For a moment, all you could hear was your own heartbeat. But then you caught the blood running down his arm, bright against his pale skin.

You took a step closer, eyes on the bite already turning dark. “You’re bleeding.”

He looked at his arm. “It’s fine.”

“Does it hurt?”

He smiled then—small and strange. “I’m used to it.”

You almost asked used to what? until you noticed the rest of his frail, scraggly body: the yellowed bruises on his arms, the fading welts on his legs, a thin scar curling along his jaw.

“What’s your name?” you whispered.

He hesitated for a moment, as if answering would cost something precious. In the end, he relented with the quietest of murmurs.

“Mihya.”

The boy’s grin remained, as if the pain doesn’t matter. As if saving you was worth it. Even as the blood dripped down his hand, at that moment, you thought he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

That was how you met the first friend you’ve ever made.

“Friends?”

You echo the word back at your companion, brows furrowing as you fasten the clasp of your belt. The room still smells faintly of incense, rain and wine spilled hours ago. Chigiri lounges against the headboard with a sort of lazy confidence, his crimson hair falling loosely across his bare shoulders. He isn’t usually one for small talk. But when he is, he always asks something strange.

“Yes,” he repeats plainly as he reaches for his tunic on the floor. “Do you not have other friends to do… this with? I didn’t peg you as the type to sleep with your informants.”

You glance at him over your shoulder. “Didn’t peg you as the type to sleep with your clients.”

He breathes out a quiet laugh. “Fair.”

You spot the rest of your clothes crumpled on the floor, still tacky with the stains of your last kill. You hadn’t even bothered to wash them—just came straight here, blood and all. With a sigh, you pull the fabric back over your skin and flick your hair out of the way.

“I didn’t come here for a lecture. You said you had something for me.”

Chigiri’s grin widens. “I did. But now I’m curious. What’s got you digging around imperial business all of a sudden?”

You meet his gaze in the cracked mirror across the room. The glass splits your reflection into fragments—eyes too cold, face too still, as if the years had carved you out of someone else. Around your throat, the faint gleam of brass rose catches the light. The pendant is old and worn, the only softness left on you.

“Just tell me what you know.”

Chigiri huffs, but relents like he always does.

“The new emperor’s consolidating power fast.” He stretches, slow and feline, the picture of unbothered ease. “After all those years spent grooming him into their perfect little sovereign, the council’s tripping over itself to parade him as Aurelia’s savior. Half of them already kneel. The rest are too afraid to breathe wrong in his presence. I heard Kaiser is a bit… callous.”

“Kaiser,” you murmur.

Chigiri hums affirmatively. “The late empress’ bastard son, dragged out of whatever hell he grew up in to play monarch. Took a while, but he’s finally been crowned emperor a few days ago.” His eyes then flick toward you, narrowing ever-so slightly. “Humor me. When did you get so ambitious? Don’t tell me you’re planning to recreate the massacre from ten years ago or something.”

“None of your business.” You click your tongue, reaching for your dagger on the bedside table to flick it across your fingers. “What else you got for me?”

“Nothing that’ll help you slit his throat unnoticed, if that’s what you’re after.” He exhales through his nose, languid as ever despite the outright rejection. “The council kept their little Kaiser project under wraps for years. Even my contacts in the imperial guard couldn’t dig up anything worth the trouble.”

For a moment, you two can only stare each other down in silence. Chigiri studies you from where he still lingers on the bed, the edge of a smile ghosting over his lips.

“I’d advise you to be careful,” he starts. “Men like him don’t die easily, birdie. Not after what happened ten years ago. Whoever unmade the empire in a single night set the bar high, and Kaiser doesn’t strike me as the type to fall to anyone less.”

Finally, you slide the dagger into its sheath, the soft click punctuating his words.

“Then I’ll just have to be better,” you tell him confidently, shrugging into your cloak as you move for the door. “Contact me if you’ve got anything more useful than the scraps you gave today. I’ll pay in advance.”

Chigiri laughs under his breath. “Noted. Gotta admit though, ambition looks good on you. Try not to die for it, will you? All my regulars keep getting killed by their own hubris.”

You don’t bother answering. The hefty bag of gold coins you toss onto the table should be enough. Cold air bites against your skin when you reemerge in the streets of the capital. Somewhere within its walls, the empire’s new sun has risen, but you know better than to fly too close too soon.

The wet cobblestones are still slick with last night’s rain, and the glow of lanterns catches in the puddles like fallen stars. You move through the alleys without a sound. This city never truly sleeps, but tonight, it dreams uneasily. You can feel it in the air—the tension coiled tight in the dark, the scent of smoke and steel carried by the wind.

Your hand brushes against the letter tucked in the pocket of your cloak, but you don’t need to read it again to know what it says.

When you finally reach the tavern, the familiar creak of its old wooden sign greets you—a faded serpent devouring its own tail, the paint chipped and weather-worn. The Ouroboros is quiet tonight, unusually so. There is no laughter spilling from the bar, no dice rolling in the corners or soft murmurs of bribery. Only the faint scratch of a broom sweeping somewhere in the back.

To the untrained eye, it’s a place of ale and cheap food, but to those who know—those who belong—it’s the heart of a network that breathes secrets. Every drunkard’s rambling, every whispered affair, every careless mention of coin or crown is sifted, stored, and sold. You learned early on that there’s no treasury richer than the words of the inebriated.

You push through the door, and the warm scent of oak and smoke washes over you as Anri looks up from behind the counter. Her vibrant hair is tied loosely with a ribbon today, and her eyes soften at the sight of you in the low light.

“Well, look who the wind dragged in,” she says, smiling faintly. “You look half-dead. Rough job?”

“Feels about right,” you mutter.

Anri tilts her head, studying you the way she always does—equal parts concern and curiosity. “Would you like a drink, then? It’s on the house.”

Brutally tempting, especially after the number Chigiri has done on your body, but the ache in your shoulders is heavier than your thirst. “Not tonight. I just need a bath and a bed.”

Her smile dips just slightly. She’s used to your refusals, but it never stops her from offering. “Fine, fine. Go on, then. I’ll have the kettle ready for the bathhouse.”

You nod in thanks and slink toward the back hallway. Your fingers are already undoing your cloak’s clasp when Anri’s voice suddenly calls after you again.

“Oh, wait!”

“…What is it?”

Her expression shifts, the warmth in her eyes replaced by something quieter.

“Ego’s looking for you.

You exhale through your nose. “Now?”

“Now,” she confirms, wincing in sympathy.

Well. There goes your bath.

You sigh, pushing the exhaustion back down where it belongs, and offer her a half-smile. “Guess he’ll have to settle for a half-dead sparrow, then.”

Anri chuckles softly, though her eyes linger on you a moment too long—like she wants to say be careful. You nod once in silent understanding before turning down the narrow corridor that leads deeper into the tavern. The noise fades behind you, replaced by the faint dripping of water through the gutters and the steady rhythm of your own heartbeat.

By the time you reach the old oak door at the end of the hall, your exhaustion has already hardened into something sharper.

You knock once.

“Enter,” comes the reply.

You push the door open, stepping into the dim light.

The air inside your master’s quarters is different—cool and sterile, thick with the scent of parchment, oil, and something metallic beneath. A single lantern burns low on the desk, its light catching on rows of knives and glass vials lined neatly along the wall.

He’s already there, sitting behind the desk, spectacles glinting faintly as he looks up from his papers. Ginpachi Ego has never looked particularly intimidating, but there’s something in the stillness of him that unsettles even the most hardened assassins. You’ve seen men who could kill a person before they blink, but none who could disassemble them word by word, thought by thought, until nothing was left like Ego does.

His gaze flicks up to meet yours, sharp and impersonal. “Sparrow.”

The name lands as coldly as it always does. A title. A leash.

“Master,” you reply, stepping closer. The dim light cuts across his face—sharp nose, sharper eyes, and a frown that never quite deepens nor fades. He looks like a man perpetually calculating odds only he can see.

He leans back in his chair with his fingers steepled. “How did the job go?”

“Completed. The client from Varen paid in full before I could even carry it out.”

He cocks a single brow in interest. “Varen. Foreign soil. You’ve been wandering far from home, little bird.”

“It was a profitable flight,” you answer evenly. “The target’s death stirred less noise than expected. You can say it was worth the distance.”

He does not respond right away. You learned long ago not to fill that space; silence here is a measuring stick. It tells you what he wants to know without his mouth moving.

It reminds you of other nights: nights when you were smaller, stripped of choices, taught to move like a shadow and to love nothing that asked for repayment. The slums burned ten years ago and it was Ego who picked you up from the ashes. He fed you. He broke you. He stitched you back into usefulness. You grew up faster than a child should, learning to count heartbeats in the dark and to read the slope of a person’s neck like a map of veins to cut.

“You missed the coronation,” he finally says, and relief threads through your chest in ribbons.

“So I’ve heard.”

“Then you already know about the new emperor.”

You incline your head, careful not to reveal more than necessary. “Word travels fast even beyond Aurelia’s borders. That, and I received my orders in the nick of time.”

The weight of the envelope still tucked in your cloak becomes more conspicuous. There is something almost obscene in how clear Ego’s letters are. Your orders were scribbled in four measly words: Kill Emperor Michael Kaiser. There’s no room to misunderstand that, no gray for doubt to seep through. A single sentence, as efficient as the blade he once placed in your small, trembling hands.

“I don’t have much to go on yet,” you add. “My informant’s come up empty. The coronation’s too recent, and Kaiser’s been hidden away for years. The council raised him to replace the dynasty that burned a decade ago, and now they’re guarding him like he’s all they have left.”

Ego hums. “Then take your time.”

That’s all he says, and the silence that follows stretches taut. It’s strange how this still unnerves you—the weight of him simply watching. You grew up under that stare, learned to breathe within its confines. But for all your posturing in Chigiri’s presence, you can’t quite silence the question that’s been festering since the moment you broke the seal of Ego’s letter. It slips out before you can stop yourself

“Why me?” you murmur, more to the space between you than to him. “There are better hands in Ouroboros for this. You could have picked anyone else.”

You already know the answer. Maybe it’s masochism that makes you want to hear it said aloud, to remind yourself that every breath you take is one he permitted. Ego never saved you out of kindness; he rebuilt you out of ambition, molding you into something sharp enough to be useful. A creature carved in his image, all precision and obedience. When he levels you with his calculating grin across the desk, you no longer shudder.

“Because they don’t owe me what you do.”

There’s no cruelty in his tone, only certainty—one that leaves no room for refusal.

You should be used to it by now. The way he reduces everything into transactions. Sometimes you wonder if he ever thinks of that day the way you do: smoke choking the air, your fingers bleeding from digging through wood and ash, and his voice being the first thing that cut through it. You mistook it for salvation once. Now, you know better. Now, you are nothing but a bird once plucked from the ruins, fed and warmed until its feathers grew back, then tethered to a string so it never flies too high. You’ve never cut the string.

Maybe you never will.

Thus, you bow your head before him without another word. It’s less reverence, and more acknowledgement of debts paid and still owing. You leave the room before the lantern can throw more of his shadow across your shoulders. The pendant on your throat feels heavier than usual—as if it remembers everything you had to lose just to wear it.

One day in the summer, you came across an injured sparrow.

It lay in the dust by the roadside, wings trembling like scraps of paper caught in the wind. When you bent to pick it up, its tiny heart beat so frantically against your palms that you were sure it would die before you reached home. But you ran anyway, clutching it as though the warmth of your hands alone could keep it tethered to life.

Your mother was sitting by the window when you burst in your old house.

“Can it be saved?” you asked, voice breaking as you held the bird out to her.

She looked at you for a long time before answering. Her hands were steady—the same hands that once mixed poultices and tinctures in the apothecary before the empire’s taxes turned medicine into luxury. She touched the sparrow gently to trace its broken wing with a thumb.

“We can try,” your mother said at last.

With what little you had left, you fed it crumbs from your own meals, ground herbs to ease its breathing, and sang to it softly at night in the corner of the room. The days passed in fragile hope, but by the end of the week, the sparrow laid deathly still.

That day, you cried until your throat burned and your eyes were swollen red. Your mother said nothing to comfort you, only gathered you close and waited for the storm to pass. When your sobs finally quieted, she pressed a hand to your hair and whispered, “Take it to the riverbank. Give it back to the world.”

So you did.

You dug a shallow grave beneath the reeds where the mud met the water and laid the sparrow down, covering it gently with your hands. The river lapped quietly at the shore, carrying away your reflection in small ripples as you quietly sniffled to yourself.

That was when you saw him again.

Mihya.

He was panting when he stumbled through the grass, dirt on his knees, clutching half a loaf of bread against his chest. For a moment, he looked like he might bolt again, but then his bright blue eyes found you, and they softened with recognition.

“You’re the girl who almost got bitten by a snake.”

“And you’re the boy who took the bite for me,” you murmured, eyeing the faint scar that altercation had left on his forearm.

Both of you laughed quietly—small and awkward, but genuine. The wind moved through the reeds, whistling soft and low, as though the river itself was trying to listen in on the conversation unfurling between you.

“What are you doing?” Mihya asked quietly.

You glanced down at the patch of earth by your knees. “Burying a sparrow.”

He was silent for a long while as he eyed the mound of dirt by your knees. Then, without a word, he tore the loaf in half and offered you a piece, making you flounder about in polite refusal.

“You don’t have to—”

“Take it,” he insisted anyway. “It’s better when it’s shared.”

You could tell he hadn’t eaten in days. It was obvious in in the hollows of his cheeks, the way his arms shook when he handed the bread over. That made you wonder if he was an oprhan, with how often he had to steal just to get by. So you took the bread anyway, because you worried that refusing would have hurt him more than hunger ever could.

After that, you started to see him more often.

You were never sure how Mihya figured out where you lived, but he somehow always found his way to your door. Your mother never truly turned him away, no matter how many times she warned you about the “cursed boy.” At first, she would scold him gently, shaking her head as he handed you a bruised apple or a trinket that clearly didn’t belong to him. But the reprimands never lasted long. Mihya just had that effect on people, you supposed.

He had the bluest eyes you’d ever seen, and a smile that made you forget the filth of the slums for a moment. It was hard to believe someone with such a big heart could exist in a place that devours kindness. Perhaps your mother felt that too because after a while, she stopped trying to chase him off.

Especially when he began showing up bloodied.

At first, it was just scrapes and bruises, the kind of marks all street urchins wore like second skin. But then came the split lip, the blackened eye, the torn shirt sticky with dried blood. He would never tell you where the wounds came from, only laughing it off with a sheepish grin and some flimsy excuse about falling over or fighting for food.

Your mother would sigh, usher him inside, and clean the wounds in silence. Her hands were steady as always, though her eyes betrayed the ache of helplessness. Sometimes she told him to stay for supper, to rest awhile, but Mihya always refused.

“I can’t,” he would say. “I have to go home.”

Home.

You never asked where that was. Maybe you were afraid to find out he didn’t have one.

This went on for months—him arriving and disappearing like the tide, always smiling, always pretending he wasn’t hurting. Until one day, he came back worse than you’d ever seen.

There was blood crusted along his temple, dirt smeared down his neck, his hands trembling as he clutched the doorway. Your mother rushed to fetch water and cloth, but you couldn’t move. You just stood there in quiet shock, your throat tight and burning.

When your mother left the room to boil water, the words broke out of you all at once.

“Why do you keep doing this?”

Mihya blinked. “Doing what?”

“This!” you cried, stepping forward, fists balled at your sides. “Coming here hurt, pretending you’re fine, and running back into whatever’s doing this to you!”

He stared at you, startled, unsure what to do with your tears. “I—”

“I don’t want to bury you too, Mihya.”

The room went very still. The sound of the boiling kettle seemed far away. For a moment, he just looked at you and something in him faltered. His mouth opened like he wanted to say something, but no words came. You could see the tremor in his jaw and the flicker of disbelief in his eyes. No one had ever said that to him before.

“You care that much?” he whispered.

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. “If we didn’t, we would’ve turned you away the first time you came here.”

He blinked fast, as if trying to hold something back but the tears fell anyway. You didn’t even realize you were crying too until your vision blurred, and the two of you stood there, sobbing in a quiet broken rhythm only children ever fall into.

When your mother came back and saw the state you were both in, she didn’t ask a single question. She only set the basin down, drew the two of you close, and wrapped her arms around you both. Her voice was soft, trembling slightly against your hair.

“Shhh. No more tears,” she murmured. “Promise me you’ll look out for each other from now on. The world takes enough from children like you. Don’t let it take this too.”

You nodded into her shoulder. Mihya did too, though his small hands were shaking.

The three of you stayed like that for a long time, until the light outside turned amber and the air smelled faintly of river reeds and herbal salve. Somewhere beyond the window, a sparrow called once before the dusk swallowed it whole.

Just like Ego said, you take your time.

Assassinations done too quickly tend to end badly, especially when the target is a crowned emperor hidden behind more layers of protocol and politics than armor. The usual channels of Ouroboros turn up little on the new sovereign. The council keeps news of their emperor sealed tight, and whispers travel slower when tongues are cut for carelessness.

So you bide your time.

The fastest way to the palace is always through its weakest gatekeeper. In this case, it happens to be the man who controls the employment registry: Oliver Aiku, Chief of Personnel.

You learn his habits before you ever learn his name; where he drinks, how long he stays, what kind of flattery he prefers. He’s handsome in that smug, seasoned way—an older man who knows the weight of his charm and wields it as leverage. He is the type of person who enjoys watching people squirm for his approval.

It doesn’t take much to make him notice you.

Ego once told you that your body was your most important tool. Weapons, poisons, disguises—they were all just extensions of it. It wasn’t a lesson you enjoyed learning, but you learned it well. Oliver doesn’t ask many questions. After a few nights and a few well-placed words, he’s already offering to “pull some strings.”

By the week’s end, you have forged documents, a name that isn’t yours, and a position among the palace’s housekeeping staff. Not glamorous, but perfect. Servants see more than courtiers do—they are ghosts in plain sight.

Your quarters lie in the southernmost wing, tucked behind the western gardens where the halls are wrought with the buzz of cicadas and secrets. Once you settle in, the days blur quickly into routine: scrubbing marble floors until your fingers ache, delivering fresh linens to the council chambers, serving tea to officials too self-important to meet your eyes.

You never see the emperor during that first month. Not once. There are no portraits of him hung in the gilded halls, no likeness displayed as the old dynasty once decreed. Yet you hear his name spoken often. Michael Kaiser—the last thread of imperial blood through his mother, the late empress.

Although his face remains unseen, you begin to learn him in fragments.

You learn that he dines alone even when the council gathers in full. That by sundown, every attendant is dismissed, and none are permitted beyond the doors of his chambers or study without summons. You learn that the guards outside his chambers rotate every two hours, and that his most trusted courtier, Alexis Ness, rarely strays more than a few paces from his side. You also learn that the emperor’s handwriting is precise and elegant, and that he always signs his decrees in blue ink.

None of these things are useful on their own, but they will be. Eventually. After all, information is like poison—it works best when it seeps in slow.

As always, you keep your distance and observe. The corridors are quiet, echoing with the faint rhythm of boots and the whisper of silk. You map the palace by memory: which doors creak, which staircases lead to dead-end halls, which corners stay cloaked in shadows long enough for a blade to disappear.

But whenever you pass the gilded mirrors in the eastern wing, you look away. You’ve long since despised reflective surfaces as each one always throws back a different face—a servant, a courtesan, a messenger, a ghost. You’ve worn too many names, slipped into too many borrowed skins, until even your own reflection feels like a lie you’ve repeated one time too many.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. At the end of the day, all of this is nothing more than the prelude to what you were tasked to do.

Oliver’s shadow crosses yours again a few weeks later.

You’ve taken to tending the gardens in your spare hours, pruning the hedges and sweeping the gravel paths long after the sun has set. It’s quieter here than anywhere else in the palace, and far more useful. Courtiers come to the gardens to breathe and gossip and scheme. The air here is thick with secrets looser than any tongue inside the marble halls.

Oliver likes the gardens, too. Or rather, he likes the people who haunt them. More often than not, you’ll glimpse him leaning against the fountain’s edge, smiling lazily as noblewomen sidle close, their laughter trickling softer than the water itself. Watching him, you often wonder how a man so transparently indulgent managed to earn such a post within the imperial ranks. But then, that same carelessness is what got you this far, so you can hardly fault him for it.

He spots you one evening after shaking off a persistent viscount’s daughter.

“Still working after dark?” Oliver drawls.

“The weeds don’t sleep,” you say, straightening from the bush you were trimming.

He grins at that. “Neither do you, apparently.”

You keep your eyes on your shears and go back to work. It’s easier that way. Oliver Aiku is a man who remembers more than is safe. The story you fed to him while warming his bed weeks ago was simple: you were a refugee from Varen, orphaned by border skirmishes, just looking for work. You’re not sure he believed any of it, but you know better than to let your guard down.

Yet since the first time, he’s grown quite… friendly.

He always asks how you’re settling in. If you were eating properly. If the other servants are treating you well—a strange question, since you’ve barely spoken to any of them. You keep to yourself for a reason because one careless word, one wrong glance, and everything could unravel before you ever lay eyes on the emperor’s face.

That is how you start using Oliver’s interest like any other small advantage.

When he drops by the gardens for small talk, you keep your answers light and let your hands do the work. Your questions about the palace come wrapped in harmless curiosity—old stories, and tall tales softened by time. He fills the silence with gossip and half-truths about ministers and marriages, embellishing as he goes. You let him. The lies are easy enough to sift from the useful fragments. And sometimes, when the mood strikes him, Oliver drifts toward things that actually matter.

“There’s going to be a banquet soon,” he says one evening, watching petals scatter across the path. “A grand one. Invitations were sent to every noble house worth mentioning, and a few that aren’t. The emperor’s first formal introduction since his coronation.”

You glance up, feigning curiosity. “I thought the coronation was the introduction.”

Oliver chuckles as if the thought itself is naive. “The coronation was for Aurelia’s citizens—to remind the people they still have a throne to kneel to. This,” he says, gesturing lazily with one gloved hand, “is for everyone else. A show of power, so the neighboring nations stop circling like vultures. A declaration that the empire still breathes, and that it will not be consumed.”

You nod along. “I see.”

The rest of the conversation, you let drift toward safer shores—menu speculation, décor, the petty vanities that seem to keep him entertained. By the time Oliver takes his leave, the only thing heavier than the dusk settling over the garden is the thought lodged quietly in your chest: a public gathering means a weakness somewhere.

By morning, you find the head servant, Mistress Celene hunched over her ledgers in the service hall, assigning shifts with the efficiency of a commander. You clear your throat and ask, careful to sound merely eager, not desperate.

“Do you need more hands for the banquet, ma’am?”

Her quill stills. “Yes. I was just about to call for help from the southern wing.” For a moment, that sharp gaze lingers on you. “The initiative is good. I’ll put you with the logistics team.”

You bow your head in thanks, concealing the relief that flickers sharp and bright behind your ribs. And this newfound goal is what keeps you up that night.

Nobles both foreign and Aurelian will gather under the crystal chandeliers of the ballroom. Dishes will steam, voices will clink against fine glass, and the hubbub of a hundred pretensions will create the one distraction you need. For the first time since you slipped into palace life, the emperor will be within reach.

You let yourself imagine the face you have only sketched in fragments: the solitary dinners, the blue-inked decrees, the man who refuses attendants after sundown. You temper the image quickly; anticipation is a blade that can cut both ways. There is a plan forming in the margins of your patience and you take your time pinning each detail in place. You trace the pendant at your throat and let your thoughts settle like a blade being sheathed.

In two weeks, you will finally see his face.

And if the gods are merciful, you will end his life that same night.

Mihya was hiding something.

You could tell because he no longer came by your house at the same hour every day. The rhythm you’d grown used to had become irregular and unpredictable. When he did appear, it was later than usual, and he always smelled faintly of flour and sugar left too long on the hearth. But you never really asked.

It was enough to see that he didn’t look perpetually half-starved anymore. The bruises had faded from his skin, the cuts on his arms had healed without new ones taking their place. The only scar that lingered was the pale crescent on his forearm—the mark of a snake’s fangs. You still thought of it fondly sometimes; it was the first thread that had tied your fates together.

You found out the truth by accident.

Your mother had sent you to the market one morning for herbs, and you nearly missed him entirely in the crowd. There were more guards than usual along the slum road, their helmets gleaming under the sun, and you kept your head down as you walked. Then, through the noise of the street, you caught sight of a familiar figure behind the bakery counter—a boy with pale hair and blue eyes, wiping flour from his hands as he handed a loaf to an elderly woman.

You stopped in your tracks.

So that’s where he’d been disappearing to.

You didn’t call out his name. You didn’t even linger long enough for him to notice. If Mihya wanted to keep it to himself, then you would let him have that secret. For someone like him, any moment of peace was worth protecting.

Days passed until one morning, a sharp rap at the door woke you before dawn. Your mother was still asleep, so you stumbled out of bed and opened it yourself.

Mihya stood there with tousled hair and shy eyes, holding something behind his back.

“What are you doing here so early?” you whispered.

He hesitated before bringing his hands forward. For a second, you had to rub away the leftover drowsiness in your eyes until you finally see what he’s holding. Dangling from Mihya’s fingers was a pendant—a small rose cast in dull brass, the chain thin but sturdy. It wasn’t new; the edges were slightly uneven and the metal was scuffed in places. But it caught the morning light like it was made of gold.

“I, uh… got you a gift,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

You just blinked at him. “A gift?”

He nodded quickly, the words tumbling over themselves. “I-I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking! I swear! The baker lets me help out sometimes and I saved up for it. You said you liked the roses in the flower shop, remember? So I thought…” His voice trailed off, color rising to his cheeks. “Anyway. It’s not fancy or anything, but I paid for it myself…”

For a moment, you couldn’t speak. You just stared at him—the boy who used to run from guards with stolen bread under his arm, now standing in front of you, flustered and proud and trying so hard to be honest. The weight of it all settled behind your ribs, swelling warm and sharp until your vision blurred.

“Mihya,” you managed, and then the tears broke loose.

“Hey, wait—why are you crying? Did I do something wrong?” he asked, panicking a little, half-reaching toward you and half-afraid to.

You shook your head and threw your arms around him before he could retreat. He froze, then awkwardly patted your back as if he wasn’t sure what to do with you. When you finally pulled away, your cheeks were wet and aching from smiling. Mihya cleared his throat before carefully fastening the pendant around your neck until the cool brass pressed softly against your skin.

You touched it gently, a soft smile creeping up on your face.

That morning, with the rising sun spilling through the cracks of your home and Mihya’s hands still trembling against your nape, you decided you liked roses even more than before.

When the day of the banquet comes, the ballroom gleams like the heart of a jewel—glass chandeliers spilling gold across polished marble, a thousand voices weaving into a tapestry of laughter, gossip, and feigned civility. Nobles from every province of Aurelia and beyond crowd beneath the vaulted ceilings, their silks and brocades flashing like a moving constellation.

You’ve seen gatherings like this before. Danced between them even, though not in the way the courtiers did. The last time you moved through a room this grand, you carried poison in a jeweled ring and a dagger hidden in your garter. You remember the feel of sweat slicking your palm as your target raised his goblet, and the quiet certainty that every toast ends the same way: with someone’s pulse going still.

Tonight, however, your hands are clean.

Or at least, they appear to be.

You glide through the sea of bodies with a silver tray balanced on one hand, refilling glasses, exchanging murmured pleasantries with people who’ll forget your face within the hour. The uniform makes it easy to disappear and so does practice. Weeks spent under the palace’s roof have honed your rhythm—one step, one glance, one smile at a time.

Still, it isn’t the nobles that hold your attention tonight.

The hour grows late enough that anticipation trembles through the hall. You feel it in the hush that falls when the orchestra fades, in the ripple of motion as everyone turns toward the grand staircase. The herald’s voice cuts clean through the murmur:

“Announcing His Imperial Majesty—Michael Kaiser of Aurelia.”

Eyes gravitate towards the center of the hall, murmurs of anticipation buzzing about in your ears. But despite weeks of tempering your expectations, the man who steps into the light is nothing like the phantom you’d pieced together in your mind.

He wears imperial regalia as if it were spun for him and him alone; white and gold trimmed with sapphire threads, a mantle of midnight velvet draped across one shoulder. The crown that glints atop his head is modest, yet it catches the light like frost, a cold gleam that seems more fitting than any jeweled diadem.

His hair is long, pale gold fading into deep royal blue at the ends—the colors merging like the last breath of daylight before dusk. When he turns his head, the movement reveals the ink that curls along the line of his throat: a single blue rose, delicate and intricate, blooming just above his pulse. It’s a striking mark against his fair skin, too deliberate to be anything but a declaration. Then there are his eyes; blue in a way that seems almost impossible. They carry the stillness of the sea before a storm, and a beauty so sharp it borders on cruel.

For a heartbeat, the room forgets how to breathe. But the applause starts to swell in rolling, deafening succession. Even the servants pause in their work to strike their palms together in reverence.

Beside him stands the imperial advisor, Noel Noa himself, a living legend of Aurelia’s court and the man responsible for reviving what once was a dead monarchy. Beside the emperor, he stands tall, broad-shouldered, and clearly exasperated. You can see it in the way his gaze flicks toward Kaiser with the weariness of a man who has given up trying to rein in a storm.

“Honored guests,” Kaiser drawls with a voice as smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. “How pleasant to see so many faces still eager to swear loyalty—to power, if not to the man wearing it. Whether it’s faith or fear that brings you here hardly matters. I’ll take both.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd.

The emperor’s grin is effortless, wicked in the way light plays along the angles of his face. “Eat well. Drink deeply,” he says imperiously. “After all, it would be a pity if all this beauty went to waste.”

The nobles laugh though it sounds as though uncertain whether they should. Still, the orchestra stirs again, violins rising like a breath released, and the illusion of merriment returns.

But not for you.

You stand there with a tray poised at your hip, watching him take his place among the council, and something twists beneath your ribs. That face of his, those eyes of endless blue… You’ve seen them before—or at least, something hauntingly close to it.

You blink, forcing yourself back to the present yet the thought lodges anyway.

Why does he look so familiar?

The emperor settles into the throne-like chair at the head of the council’s table, his posture so effortlessly regal that it almost feels mocking. Even seated, he commands the space. The nobles crowd around him like moths to a flame, vying for his attention, their laughter bright and hollow.

Kaiser gives them nothing.

When they speak, he listens the way a cat watches a bird—idly, with the sort of interest that makes you wonder whether it’s curiosity or hunger behind the gaze. Every word he utters lands heavily; every tilt of his head draws the entire room with it. But for all that effortless command, there’s something faintly detached in him, as if this grand spectacle were nothing more than a game he’s already grown tired of winning.

You drift along the outer ring of the ballroom, eyes lowered just enough to feign deference. But your mind is elsewhere—tracing the line of his shoulders, the gleam of his hair, the sharpness of his smile. You know little of the man beneath the crown. Rumors say Noel Noa scoured the empire’s edges to find the late empress’s lost bastard son. Others whisper that the boy had been hidden by loyalists, raised in secrecy until the time was right to reclaim the throne. None of it makes sense.

Yet there he sits, perfectly poised, like a lie that has learned to breathe.

You hate the way he unsettles you. You hate even more that he feels familiar. Somewhere in the back of your brain, the ghost of a memory stirs—half-formed and maddeningly out of reach. You try to wrap your mind around it, but it slips through your grasp like smoke.

But it hardly matters. Your mission remains the same.

You remind yourself that now is not the time to strike. Not in a hall so crowded and with half the empire watching. Even your usual methods are useless here—the champagne flutes are rimmed with alchemical glass, charmed to shimmer red at the faintest trace of poison. Whoever designed this banquet understood paranoia well.

So you lie in tireless wait.

All while you try not to think about how the candlelight glances off Kaiser’s jawline. Or how his derisive laughter carries like velvet drawn across a blade’s edge. From the snatches of conversation you catch as he mingles with other courtiers, you can tell he’s arrogant. But not the kind that comes from birthright or privilege. His is the arrogance of survival—the sort born in fire and sharpened on loss. He speaks like a man who’s seen death and learned how to make it listen.

You’re studying him so closely that you almost don’t notice the movement cutting across your path—until a firm shoulder clips yours, jolting the tray in your hands. The champagne flutes tremble, liquid catching the light before settling again.

“Ah, my apologies,” you murmur quickly.

The man you’ve collided with doesn’t step back. His deep brown hair fades into mauve at the tips, catching the light like bruised wine; his eyes at ease but assessing. Alexis Ness. You recognize him instantly.

“It’s quite all right,” he tells you with a soft smile. “You should be more careful, though. Wouldn’t want to draw unnecessary attention.”

You bow your head. “Of course, my lord.”

Ness doesn’t move. For a beat too long, his eyes hold yours in a way a nobleman has no business doing to some lowly servant. Before you can think much of it, he steps aside with a faint, courtly gesture that feels like dismissal.

You retreat with practiced ease, heart steady even as your thoughts twist tight. That wasn’t an accident. You know the rhythm of crowds, and the weight of movement all around you. Years of slipping through shadows have trained your senses to catch the smallest shifts, and you would have avoided him easily if he hadn’t meant for it to happen.

Alexis Ness. A new variable. A threat you’ll need to account for.

You return to the edges of the ballroom, slipping back into anonymity just as the orchestra swells again. The dance resumes. The laughter rises. But your gaze catches one last time on the figure once again seated at the head of the room.

Michael Kaiser leans back in his chair, the faintest smile playing at the corner of his mouth as though he knows something no one else does. For the briefest moment, before you force yourself to look away, you swear his eyes flicker toward you through the crowd.

Blue meeting yours.

As cold as a blade, and just as familiar.

Today was Mihya’s birthday.

You’ve been saving for weeks. Every spare coin from selling pressed flowers and ribbons at the market was tucked away. Every flash of his face when he sees the cake you’ll be giving haunted your thoughts. It wasn’t much, but it’s more than you’ve ever been able to give him before.

Your mother hummed by the stove as you tied your shawl around your shoulders, the room thick with the smell of stew and warm bread. She smiled hesitantly when you told her where you’re going, and reminded you to be careful. People from your part of town weren’t always welcome where the streets are clean.

The walk to the patisserie took you past the edge of the slums, where cobblestone replaced dirt and the air smelled faintly of lilacs instead of smoke. You half expected to be turned away at the door, to have the shopkeeper’s eyes flick down to your worn shoes and patched skirt before telling you they’re out of stock. But the woman behind the counter only greeted you with a gentle smile. She let you pick the smallest cake in the display—a single layer brushed with chocolate glaze and threw in a tiny blue candle with your purchase.

“Whoever it’s for,” she said as she wrapped the box in brown paper, “they must be someone very dear to you.”

You blushed, thinking of Mihya’s crooked grin, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about wanting to see the world beyond the slums. You paid with trembling fingers and thanked her before hurrying out, clutching the cake box close to your chest.

The streets grew rougher as you walked back home, the scent of lilacs fading into soot and rain. Still, your heart felt light. It will be the first of Mihya’s birthdays you’ll celebrate together, and you promised yourself it wouldn’t be the last.

You toyed with the small pendant he’d given you weeks ago, smiling to yourself as you turned the corner toward home—

—and that’s when you heard the first scream.

At first, it didn’t register. The market was always loud; vendors arguing, children running, carts clattering down uneven roads. But this sound was different. It tore through the air like metal splitting apart. Then came another scream, and another, until the noise rose into a chorus that turned your blood to ice.

You lifted your head. Smoke was already rising in the distance—dark and thick, curling against the pale morning sky. For a heartbeat you just stood there, frozen in the street as you clutched the cake box so tight the paper begins to crumple. But the instinct that something is dreadfully wrong takes over. You bolted before your mind could catch up.

The closer you got, the worse it became. People were shouting and shoving and spilling from the narrow alleys with soot on their faces. A mother stumbled past, dragging her child by the arm. A man was on his knees trying to smother a fire with his coat. The air reeked of burning wood and something else.

Your lungs seized with every breath.

By the time you reached your street, the world was already an inferno. Homes you’ve known your whole life were split open, flames climbing the walls faster than you can blink. Roofs caved in with groans that sounded like dying beasts. The sky was a furious red, and you dropped the cake without realizing it, the box tumbling into the dirt.

“Mother!” you called out, stumbling toward your door. It’s already burning.

You crashed through the threshold as your eyes stung and smoke clawed its way down your throat. The room glowed orange with heat, every surface alive and shuddering. “Mother!” you cry again, louder this time, until your voice broke with desperation.

There by the hearth, you caught a glimpse.

You saw her hand first, limp beneath the beam that’s fallen from the ceiling. For a moment, your mind refused to understand what your eyes were seeing. You crawled toward her to keep your head as low as possible, dragging yourself through the heat and smoke and ash.

“Mama—please, wake up,” you whispered as you gripped her arm to shake her awake but she wouldn’t move. She’s too still. Too heavy.

You tried to lift the beam, dug your nails into it until your hands bled, but it wouldn’t budge with your measly strength. The fire roared around you, greedy and endless as the smoke started to fill your lungs. Eventually, your body started to tremble from exhaustion. You couldn’t breathe. The heat bit at your skin, licking up your arms like it meant to swallow you whole. When you finally collapsed beside her, your tears evaporated before they could even fall.

Outside, the shouting started to fade into white noise. The world narrowed into the sound of your own breathing, ragged and uneven. With what little strength you could still muster, you reached for the pendant at your throat, clutching it as tightly as you could. Mihya’s face flickered in your mind—his sun-warmed hair, the easy smile that always reached his blue eyes. You wanted this day to be perfect for him.

You never even got to tell him happy birthday.

The simmering heat began to fold around you, lulling you into its encompassing embrace. Your eyes drifted shut. For a moment, you imagined Mihya standing in the sunlight, alive and untouched by the ruin spreading through your world.

When you opened them again, everything was quiet. The flames were gone. Smoke and ash curled through the air as it drifted over the blackened remains of your home.

A figure moved silently through the haze.

He stopped a few paces away, tall and straight-backed, his silhouette framed by the dying light. The glint of spectacles caught your eye first, then the faint reflection of firelight in his blank gaze. He studied you for a long time, his posture calm in a way that felt deeply unnerving.

“Still breathing,” he murmured. “What a fortunate little bird you are.”

You tried to speak—to ask who he was, what had happened—but the words caught in your throat. The edges of the world wavered. The smell of smoke began to fade. His shadow fell over your form before you felt the faint brush of a hand against your temple.

Your body seemed weightless and untethered, as though the ground had slipped away. For a brief, dizzy moment, you thought you were being lifted into the sky; ashes swirling around your limbs, the ruins of your home shrinking beneath you.

The darkness then claimed you in its quiet embrace, soft and absolute.

The banquet’s end is a slow tide.

Voices start to thin as attendants shepherd the last of the guests toward carriage doors and lantern-lit porches. You slip away while the hall still burns with leftover laughter, moving like water through people who have already been taught to ignore you.

On the way to the northern wing you remove only what you must. Two guards on the corridor are knocked into a sleep that looks like drunkenness; another pair stationed near the service stairs are eased into a ditch with a careful twist of bones and knuckles. You take no liberties. You disable the ones who would block the route you’ve rehearsed a thousand times, leaving others intact so the palace won’t suspect a breach—just a small, plausible gap.

Approaching the emperor’s wing, you keep to the shadows. You know which torch sputters in the wind, which tiles throw back a footstep slower than the rest. You have walked this hall in daylight and darkness until every notch and groove in the wood has a name in your head.

You pause before the door you have passed a dozen times. It should be secured; it has always been. The palace keeps its crown wrapped in secrets like a sleeping thing. But you find that the latch is loose. When you press your palm to the wood it gives, just enough for your fingers to slip through.

A warning ticks somewhere in your chest. Kaiser is never careless. Guards do not forget their stations. The palace does not leave its emperor exposed. You’ve read men’s mistakes before, sensed the rotten joints in others’ plans, and you know attrition when you see it. But the gap is precisely the sort of impossible opening that has ended lives in other halls.

Without questioning it, you slip inside.

Darkness engulfs you immediately. The emperor’s private chamber is larger than the rooms you clean; softer light pools at the far end where a desk waits beneath a silvered mirror. A faint perfume hints someone has been here recently. You close the door behind you and let the latch fall, and the silence that lingers is absolute.

Now the real work begins: the waiting.

You sink into a shadow at the foot of a chaise, a dagger pressed flat along your thigh under your skirts. Time moves differently in such darkness. It lengthens and thins, becoming a private thing you can shape. You count heartbeats to keep from listening to your own thoughts. Ego taught you patience as well as knives; a blade is only useful when the hand that wields it is calm. You breathe slowly until your pulse is a metronome rather than a drum.

Minutes become hours. Your shoulders grow cramped. Your jaw aches from holding it closed. You thread your focus through a narrow hole: the sound of passing boots, the faint creak where a floorboard dips, and the echo of voices trickling down the corridor. You do not move. You will not move until the shape you are hunting returns.

At some point the conversation outside becomes closer, folding into the frame of the door. Ness’s voice bounces off the panels. Noa’s exasperation follows like an afternote. You press deeper into the shadows, willing your skin to cool, your breath to vanish.

“Kaiser,” Ness scolds. “You embarrassed us in more ways than one tonight. You need to control yourself better in public.”

A soft, bored laugh answers, the kind of sound that can come only from someone who has never truly feared consequences. “We all know that sad excuse of a banquet was all for show,” Kaiser scoffs. “Let them take offense. They needed reminding that the crown still has teeth.”

Ness’s reply is a sigh edged in warning. “Whatever you say, Your Highness. Good night.”

The door shuts with a soft, final click; you feel the exhale in your ribs. Footsteps fade, then the room's hush folds in on itself. A moment later, a lighter flicks by the desk; a candle flares, then another, the candelabra’s warm tongues spilling out to paint the room in slow gold. You watch the play of flames across the desk, cataloging reflections, rhythms, and the way his silhouette will read when he removes his outer layers.

His crown is tossed carelessly onto his desk, and you watch as his outer garments fall in silence, forming a pale scatter across the floor. The sight irons something taut inside you: a man who sheds splendor with the same ease he wears it. Just like those serpents who once hid within the reeds by the slums. Kaiser moves toward the vanity, strips his tunic, and for the first time you see the pale sweep of skin and ink.

The tattoo is a ribbon of a blue rose and thorned vines that begins at the hollow of his throat and winds down his arm in a dark, meticulous spray. The ink is beautiful, almost obsessive in its detail, curling into a tiny crown inscribed on the back of his hand. For the briefest moment, you pull yourself back: distraction is a luxury you cannot afford.

He sheds the last of his clothes and stands in the dim room, unadorned and very real. The only sounds are his measured breathing and the crackle of flames on the candelabra.

You rise quietly. The blade slips free in your hand. You close the gap in two feather-light movements, a hand on the small of his waist as you pass, the other bringing the cold bite of steel across his throat.

For a heartbeat, it is as practiced as every rehearsal you’ve ever done: steel to skin, the soft little staccato of a plan executed. Your breath fogs the skin at his neck. Your hand remembers the exact pressure that will cleave life from a human body.

But then your world tilts off its axis.

Kaiser is not slow. He is not unfamiliar with blades. His reflex arrives like a thought of its own. The hand that had been poised at the desk is suddenly at your wrist, his palm closing with the kind of strength you have only felt from men twice as broad. Before your dagger can find the cleanest arc, he has forced your back against the wall—your throat crushed in a grip that is casual in its brutality. The curtain to your demise starts to fall as he squeezes the air from your windpipe.

“Bold,” he murmurs. “So very bold.”

You have no room to answer. Your training, your breath control, the whole of your career—everything funnels into one narrow point: the knowledge that you almost had him and the shock of how completely fast he was.

You twist in his grip, trying to wrench him loose, and with your other leg, you drive your heel hard into his shin. Kaiser flinches, but only enough for a twitch; his smile stays, slow and smug, as if you are an amusing child poking at a caged beast.

Fear starts to slice through you, but you have always known how to anchor yourself in a moment when the body wants to panic. You breathe shallowly, count in your head, find the small, steady rhythm Ego had carved into you. Find a fulcrum. Find a micro-movement.

Break the pattern.

You drive your knee up again, harder. Something cracks under the contact—maybe a breath, maybe a rib; you don’t have the luxury to make sure. Kaiser hisses, and in that flicker of surprise you find your opening. You twist your wrist, drive the dagger into the soft joint at the base of his thumb where leather yields to flesh. He snarls, and his hold loosens just enough for you to wrench your arm out.

You shove with everything left in you to create space, trying to scramble back and draw the blade free. Momentum carries both of you off balance: he staggers, you pivot, and the two of you crash to the floor. But before you can leverage the tumble to your favor, his knee plants hard against your thigh, pinning you beneath him.

Kaiser’s lips then bow into a smirk. He leans in so close your breath fogs the skin of his jaw.

“Tell me, who sent you?” he murmurs. “Who thought the palace’s bedchambers were a suitable grave?”

Your vision is blurred at the edges; your heart slamming like an animal trying to escape its cage. Naming Ego would be death immediate and not the kind you can bargain with. Tasting bile in your mouth, it’s the first time in a long time you felt a child’s cold terror: the sort that had lived in the alleys, that had watched roofs fall and mothers die.

Kaiser’s fingers curl around your wrist, his weight pressing you down so you can’t rise. The self-satisfied smirk that curls across his lips tells you he has more to say, but something in his expression falters in the next second. You can feel the infinitesimal slack in his grip, the tiny unraveling of the moment you’d expected to be the end of everything.

His eyes are on the brass rose pendant on your throat.

Then he leans closer, and the cruelty you read in his gaze a heartbeat before blunts into something else you do not have a word for. Kaiser then whispers a name that has you unraveling at the seams in a mere second.

Memories unspool all at once: smoke-choked alleys, the hiss of reeds, a boy with hair like spun gold and eyes the color of deepwater glass. The face you kept in a pocket of your heart, the one you told yourself was nothing but ash after the slums burned—he stands before you, ringed in candlelight as he calls you by the name that belonged to a life that no longer exists.

No… It couldn’t be.

Mihya—your Mihya—could not be the man who wears the empire like a second skin. The boy you thought had been buried in the ruins of your home could not be breathing in front of you, laced with tattoos and iron and enthroned cruelty.

Shock is dangerous; you know that better than most. It steals momentum, it brings forth hesitation. But it also births an opportunity when the other is unready for the truth.

Kaiser’s eyes find yours again, and for the briefest instant they are not the cold, imperial blue you have catalogued from a distance but the same endless summer sky you remember from your childhood. Bewilderment flashes across his face, only barely masked by the careful stillness of his authority.

You use that moment to make your escape.

You shove him away, using the small burst of surprise like a lever. Your shoulder blasts his chest and he yields and stumbles too easily. You wrench free and snatch the dagger you planted at your hip. Kaiser recovers faster than you imagine, annoyingly so. His hand closes on your wrist with the old, iron certainty and in his eyes dance a million questions you do not know how to answer.

You do the one thing practice makes possible: you exploit chaos. You swipe the candelabra off his desk, sending flames skittering to the side, and in the flare of light you throw your weight toward the nearest window. It gives with a shriek, and you crash through it, as the shards split around you like rain.

The hedges you had once convinced the gardeners to plant for practicality’s sake take the brunt of your fall. Thorns snag your skirt; the soft earth breathes against your ribs. For a dizzy, glorious moment you taste freedom—dirt and rain and the cold rush of night air. Behind you, the sound of the chamber changes from a surprised shout to a single, furious curse.

You do not look back.

Your feet find familiar paths; you run through the western gardens where you have spent hours sweeping leaves and mapping escape routes. Lantern light fractures across hedgerows, and for a pulse you can see the palace receding. Your lungs burn. Your throat tastes like metal and smoke. You let the pendant swing against your breast; the brass rose is hot with your skin.

In the dark, it feels like the last honest thing you still own.

According to the man who took you in, the slums had been burned to the ground.

No one survived. No one except you.

He said it plainly, without cruelty or comfort, as though he was commenting about the weather. You sat there on the cold wooden floor of his study, legs drawn tight to your chest as you watched the dirt crumble from your fingernails. You had not spoken in days. When you tried, your throat still tasted of smoke.

The man—who you learned was called Ego—took you to the main district of the capital. Its air smelled of iron and rain, not rot and riverwater. People here did not shout to be heard. They spoke softly, as if the world always listened. You hated that quiet. It reminded you of the moment after the screaming stopped.

Ego did not ask for your name. He only gave you food and a cot in the corner, among shelves lined with glass and steel. At night, when sleep would not come, you watched him move about the room with measured hands, sharpening blades that reflected no light. The sound of metal against stone became your lullaby, your proof that you still existed.

Days passed before he finally spoke to you again.

“Do you remember what I called you the night I found you?” he asked, not looking up from his workbench.

You shook your head.

“A bird,” he said plainly. “A small, half-dead thing still trying to fly.”

You said nothing. You remembered the poor sparrow you found injured by the roadside. You remembered how you failed to save its life, and how you returned it to the earth with your own two hands. It made you wonder if this man was doing the same thing for you, too.

Ego finally turned to you, spectacles gleaming in the early morning light. “A name is only useful if it serves its purpose. The one you had before doesn’t anymore.”

A soft flutter intruded on the conversation.

Both of you turned as a sparrow had landed on the open windowsill. Its feathers were smudged with dust, its song thin and reedy as it tilted its head toward the two of you. You watched it hop closer along the frame, wings trembling as if uncertain whether to leave or stay.

Ego’s voice cut through the haze. “What name would you take, then?”

You hesitated. You didn’t know why he asked. Maybe it was a test; maybe it was mercy disguised as indifference. You looked at the bird again—at the way it tilted its head and let out one sharp chirp, like it had decided something for you.

“Sparrow.”

Ego studied you for a long moment, then gave a quiet hum of approval. The sparrow fluttered once, twice, then lifted back into the pale morning air—its shadow sweeping briefly across your face before it disappeared into the sky.

“Then Sparrow you shall be,” he said before turning back to scrape his blade against the whetting stone. “Let’s see if you can still learn to fly.”

That was the day your old name burned for good, carried away on wings wrought in ashes and the faint morning dew.

You did not know if you deserve it, but it was all you could hold on to.

✦ afterword. this was originally going to be written as a full oneshot, but the format of the storytelling kind of made me think that it would be better to section it into threes. (it kinda sounds silly in my head HAHA the sparrow, the snake, and the sun is giving: the lion, the witch, and the wardrobe LOL) that, and i really just needed to get this kaiser rabies out of my system before i go ahead and move on with my life for a few more days before i go back to the endless writing psychosis this man has put me in :/ not a lot of in-depth notes for this yet, i think everything is pretty straightforward so far. but i'd love to hear your thoughts for this piece anyway! i put soooo much thought into it like . against my will HAH. thank you for reading, and see you in part two!

✦ THE SPARROW ┊ THE SNAKE ┊ THE SUN

[rnikage]

⟢ OUROBOROS ┊ KAISER

✦ synopsis. the night you are to assassinate emperor michael kaiser, you do not expect to find the ghost of your childhood staring back. to the court, he is a savior. to the empire, he is a tyrant dressed in gold. but to you, he is still mihya—the one person your blade was never trained to kill.

✦ content. 11.8k words. michael kaiser x afab!reader. royalty au. monarch!kaiser x assassin!reader. childhood friends. enemies to lovers. implied/referenced abuse (both for kaiser n reader). implied sexual content. reader sleeps with other bllk men for the job's sake. lots of courtly politics going on. one (1) actual assassination attempt. angst. eventual smut.

✦ foreword. episode 2 of writing for characters i despise (affectionate) to bolster the rnikage audience /silly !!! writing this took way more effort than i was willing to shell out, but i'm nothing if not a sucker for a proper royal au. kaiser just happens to be the perfect muse for it <3 disclaimer that i have not fully read up on his backstory, so do with that information as you may lmfao

✦ THE SPARROW ┊ THE SNAKE ┊ THE SUN

On the night of the harvest moon, Aurelia’s imperial family was massacred.

The emperor, the empress, and the rest of their kin—each found in their chambers the same way: still and untouched by struggle, as if death had come to them in their sleep. Oddly enough, not a single guard posted outside their doors shared the same fate. They had all been found merely unconscious and slumped against their spears, unable to recall when they even closed their eyes.

No windows were broken. No locks were forced. Though the corridors smelled faintly of bitter herbs and steel. Whoever entered the palace that night had done so as though the shadows themselves had opened for them.

By midday, the word assassin swept through the capital like fire. Scholars and nobles called it impossible and blasphemy in the same breath. But the people whispered the truth no one dared to write: someone had toppled the empire in a single perfect breath, and got away with the crime.

By dusk, the banners of mourning unfurled above the palace. The empire’s sun had fallen, its blood still warm in the marble veins of each imperial bedchamber. Across the capital’s grand quadrangle, thousands gathered in reverent silence, grieving not only the fall of the imperial family but the shadow it left behind.

From the balconies and the cobbled streets below, the wails came dutifully—soft, practiced, almost ceremonial. The air was heavy with incense and dread, the kind that clings to the throat and does not let go. But beneath the solemnity, uncertainty simmered quietly.

The people did not know whether to weep or to wait.

The imperial family had ruled for centuries, but poorly in its last years. Crops had failed, taxes had risen, and the court had grown fat on borrowed time. Now that the dynasty was gone, what would follow? A savior? A tyrant? A hundred claimants tearing the empire apart?

But while the capital is engulfed in the last vestiges of imperial flames, a different kind of chaos exists quietly in a place untouched by the empire’s light.

Down where the river rots into mud and smoke, the slum district cannot hear the toll of the mourning bells. The air was heavy with heat and iron, and the faint tang of spoiled grain. Children chased stray dogs through puddles that never dry. Women scrubbed clothes in water that will never run clean. And you walked through it all, balancing a bundle of kindling against your chest, careful not to look too long at the soldiers passing by.

You were born in the gutter, and the gutter has rules: keep your head down, your pockets shut, your eyes on the ground.

Still, you always looked up.

The grasslands stretched just beyond the last shanty—wild, unkempt, and golden beneath the lowering sun. You cut through them every evening to shave a few minutes off the walk home. The stalks reached your knees, brushing against your skin with a soft hiss. Crickets sung. The world was quiet enough to pretend that it belonged to you.

But then you heard a quiet, inhuman hiss.

You froze. The grass parted just ahead, and the movement came in a quick ripple of scales and a glint of sharp fangs. You opened your mouth to scream, but before you could—

Someone slammed into you.

You hit the dirt and the air is torn from your lungs. A blur of pale gold and dust passed over you in a moment’s notice. The boy who appeared out of nowhere landed hard as he wrestled the snake off his arm. It coiled and snapped viciously, but by some miracle, his reflexes were faster. He grabbed it by the tail before flinging it into the weeds, where the serpent then vanished with a whisper.

Silence settled among the reeds yet again.

You pushed yourself upright. The boy righted himself a few paces away, breathing through his teeth and it gave you time to study him. His hair, a pale tangle of gold, glinted in the dying light like it’s been kissed by something the slums have never seen. His eyes were so blue, they don’t look real.

You’ve seen him before, darting between stalls and backstreets, the boy who moved like he’s always running away from something. Your mother had told you to stay away from him. That one’s cursed. Nothing good ever follows him.

But what do you do when the cursed boy saved your life?

For a moment, all you could hear was your own heartbeat. But then you caught the blood running down his arm, bright against his pale skin.

You took a step closer, eyes on the bite already turning dark. “You’re bleeding.”

He looked at his arm. “It’s fine.”

“Does it hurt?”

He smiled then—small and strange. “I’m used to it.”

You almost asked used to what? until you noticed the rest of his frail, scraggly body: the yellowed bruises on his arms, the fading welts on his legs, a thin scar curling along his jaw.

“What’s your name?” you whispered.

He hesitated for a moment, as if answering would cost something precious. In the end, he relented with the quietest of murmurs.

“Mihya.”

The boy’s grin remained, as if the pain doesn’t matter. As if saving you was worth it. Even as the blood dripped down his hand, at that moment, you thought he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

That was how you met the first friend you’ve ever made.

“Friends?”

You echo the word back at your companion, brows furrowing as you fasten the clasp of your belt. The room still smells faintly of incense, rain and wine spilled hours ago. Chigiri lounges against the headboard with a sort of lazy confidence, his crimson hair falling loosely across his bare shoulders. He isn’t usually one for small talk. But when he is, he always asks something strange.

“Yes,” he repeats plainly as he reaches for his tunic on the floor. “Do you not have other friends to do… this with? I didn’t peg you as the type to sleep with your informants.”

You glance at him over your shoulder. “Didn’t peg you as the type to sleep with your clients.”

He breathes out a quiet laugh. “Fair.”

You spot the rest of your clothes crumpled on the floor, still tacky with the stains of your last kill. You hadn’t even bothered to wash them—just came straight here, blood and all. With a sigh, you pull the fabric back over your skin and flick your hair out of the way.

“I didn’t come here for a lecture. You said you had something for me.”

Chigiri’s grin widens. “I did. But now I’m curious. What’s got you digging around imperial business all of a sudden?”

You meet his gaze in the cracked mirror across the room. The glass splits your reflection into fragments—eyes too cold, face too still, as if the years had carved you out of someone else. Around your throat, the faint gleam of brass rose catches the light. The pendant is old and worn, the only softness left on you.

“Just tell me what you know.”

Chigiri huffs, but relents like he always does.

“The new emperor’s consolidating power fast.” He stretches, slow and feline, the picture of unbothered ease. “After all those years spent grooming him into their perfect little sovereign, the council’s tripping over itself to parade him as Aurelia’s savior. Half of them already kneel. The rest are too afraid to breathe wrong in his presence. I heard Kaiser is a bit… callous.”

“Kaiser,” you murmur.

Chigiri hums affirmatively. “The late empress’ bastard son, dragged out of whatever hell he grew up in to play monarch. Took a while, but he’s finally been crowned emperor a few days ago.” His eyes then flick toward you, narrowing ever-so slightly. “Humor me. When did you get so ambitious? Don’t tell me you’re planning to recreate the massacre from ten years ago or something.”

“None of your business.” You click your tongue, reaching for your dagger on the bedside table to flick it across your fingers. “What else you got for me?”

“Nothing that’ll help you slit his throat unnoticed, if that’s what you’re after.” He exhales through his nose, languid as ever despite the outright rejection. “The council kept their little Kaiser project under wraps for years. Even my contacts in the imperial guard couldn’t dig up anything worth the trouble.”

For a moment, you two can only stare each other down in silence. Chigiri studies you from where he still lingers on the bed, the edge of a smile ghosting over his lips.

“I’d advise you to be careful,” he starts. “Men like him don’t die easily, birdie. Not after what happened ten years ago. Whoever unmade the empire in a single night set the bar high, and Kaiser doesn’t strike me as the type to fall to anyone less.”

Finally, you slide the dagger into its sheath, the soft click punctuating his words.

“Then I’ll just have to be better,” you tell him confidently, shrugging into your cloak as you move for the door. “Contact me if you’ve got anything more useful than the scraps you gave today. I’ll pay in advance.”

Chigiri laughs under his breath. “Noted. Gotta admit though, ambition looks good on you. Try not to die for it, will you? All my regulars keep getting killed by their own hubris.”

You don’t bother answering. The hefty bag of gold coins you toss onto the table should be enough. Cold air bites against your skin when you reemerge in the streets of the capital. Somewhere within its walls, the empire’s new sun has risen, but you know better than to fly too close too soon.

The wet cobblestones are still slick with last night’s rain, and the glow of lanterns catches in the puddles like fallen stars. You move through the alleys without a sound. This city never truly sleeps, but tonight, it dreams uneasily. You can feel it in the air—the tension coiled tight in the dark, the scent of smoke and steel carried by the wind.

Your hand brushes against the letter tucked in the pocket of your cloak, but you don’t need to read it again to know what it says.

When you finally reach the tavern, the familiar creak of its old wooden sign greets you—a faded serpent devouring its own tail, the paint chipped and weather-worn. The Ouroboros is quiet tonight, unusually so. There is no laughter spilling from the bar, no dice rolling in the corners or soft murmurs of bribery. Only the faint scratch of a broom sweeping somewhere in the back.

To the untrained eye, it’s a place of ale and cheap food, but to those who know—those who belong—it’s the heart of a network that breathes secrets. Every drunkard’s rambling, every whispered affair, every careless mention of coin or crown is sifted, stored, and sold. You learned early on that there’s no treasury richer than the words of the inebriated.

You push through the door, and the warm scent of oak and smoke washes over you as Anri looks up from behind the counter. Her vibrant hair is tied loosely with a ribbon today, and her eyes soften at the sight of you in the low light.

“Well, look who the wind dragged in,” she says, smiling faintly. “You look half-dead. Rough job?”

“Feels about right,” you mutter.

Anri tilts her head, studying you the way she always does—equal parts concern and curiosity. “Would you like a drink, then? It’s on the house.”

Brutally tempting, especially after the number Chigiri has done on your body, but the ache in your shoulders is heavier than your thirst. “Not tonight. I just need a bath and a bed.”

Her smile dips just slightly. She’s used to your refusals, but it never stops her from offering. “Fine, fine. Go on, then. I’ll have the kettle ready for the bathhouse.”

You nod in thanks and slink toward the back hallway. Your fingers are already undoing your cloak’s clasp when Anri’s voice suddenly calls after you again.

“Oh, wait!”

“…What is it?”

Her expression shifts, the warmth in her eyes replaced by something quieter.

“Ego’s looking for you.

You exhale through your nose. “Now?”

“Now,” she confirms, wincing in sympathy.

Well. There goes your bath.

You sigh, pushing the exhaustion back down where it belongs, and offer her a half-smile. “Guess he’ll have to settle for a half-dead sparrow, then.”

Anri chuckles softly, though her eyes linger on you a moment too long—like she wants to say be careful. You nod once in silent understanding before turning down the narrow corridor that leads deeper into the tavern. The noise fades behind you, replaced by the faint dripping of water through the gutters and the steady rhythm of your own heartbeat.

By the time you reach the old oak door at the end of the hall, your exhaustion has already hardened into something sharper.

You knock once.

“Enter,” comes the reply.

You push the door open, stepping into the dim light.

The air inside your master’s quarters is different—cool and sterile, thick with the scent of parchment, oil, and something metallic beneath. A single lantern burns low on the desk, its light catching on rows of knives and glass vials lined neatly along the wall.

He’s already there, sitting behind the desk, spectacles glinting faintly as he looks up from his papers. Ginpachi Ego has never looked particularly intimidating, but there’s something in the stillness of him that unsettles even the most hardened assassins. You’ve seen men who could kill a person before they blink, but none who could disassemble them word by word, thought by thought, until nothing was left like Ego does.

His gaze flicks up to meet yours, sharp and impersonal. “Sparrow.”

The name lands as coldly as it always does. A title. A leash.

“Master,” you reply, stepping closer. The dim light cuts across his face—sharp nose, sharper eyes, and a frown that never quite deepens nor fades. He looks like a man perpetually calculating odds only he can see.

He leans back in his chair with his fingers steepled. “How did the job go?”

“Completed. The client from Varen paid in full before I could even carry it out.”

He cocks a single brow in interest. “Varen. Foreign soil. You’ve been wandering far from home, little bird.”

“It was a profitable flight,” you answer evenly. “The target’s death stirred less noise than expected. You can say it was worth the distance.”

He does not respond right away. You learned long ago not to fill that space; silence here is a measuring stick. It tells you what he wants to know without his mouth moving.

It reminds you of other nights: nights when you were smaller, stripped of choices, taught to move like a shadow and to love nothing that asked for repayment. The slums burned ten years ago and it was Ego who picked you up from the ashes. He fed you. He broke you. He stitched you back into usefulness. You grew up faster than a child should, learning to count heartbeats in the dark and to read the slope of a person’s neck like a map of veins to cut.

“You missed the coronation,” he finally says, and relief threads through your chest in ribbons.

“So I’ve heard.”

“Then you already know about the new emperor.”

You incline your head, careful not to reveal more than necessary. “Word travels fast even beyond Aurelia’s borders. That, and I received my orders in the nick of time.”

The weight of the envelope still tucked in your cloak becomes more conspicuous. There is something almost obscene in how clear Ego’s letters are. Your orders were scribbled in four measly words: Kill Emperor Michael Kaiser. There’s no room to misunderstand that, no gray for doubt to seep through. A single sentence, as efficient as the blade he once placed in your small, trembling hands.

“I don’t have much to go on yet,” you add. “My informant’s come up empty. The coronation’s too recent, and Kaiser’s been hidden away for years. The council raised him to replace the dynasty that burned a decade ago, and now they’re guarding him like he’s all they have left.”

Ego hums. “Then take your time.”

That’s all he says, and the silence that follows stretches taut. It’s strange how this still unnerves you—the weight of him simply watching. You grew up under that stare, learned to breathe within its confines. But for all your posturing in Chigiri’s presence, you can’t quite silence the question that’s been festering since the moment you broke the seal of Ego’s letter. It slips out before you can stop yourself

“Why me?” you murmur, more to the space between you than to him. “There are better hands in Ouroboros for this. You could have picked anyone else.”

You already know the answer. Maybe it’s masochism that makes you want to hear it said aloud, to remind yourself that every breath you take is one he permitted. Ego never saved you out of kindness; he rebuilt you out of ambition, molding you into something sharp enough to be useful. A creature carved in his image, all precision and obedience. When he levels you with his calculating grin across the desk, you no longer shudder.

“Because they don’t owe me what you do.”

There’s no cruelty in his tone, only certainty—one that leaves no room for refusal.

You should be used to it by now. The way he reduces everything into transactions. Sometimes you wonder if he ever thinks of that day the way you do: smoke choking the air, your fingers bleeding from digging through wood and ash, and his voice being the first thing that cut through it. You mistook it for salvation once. Now, you know better. Now, you are nothing but a bird once plucked from the ruins, fed and warmed until its feathers grew back, then tethered to a string so it never flies too high. You’ve never cut the string.

Maybe you never will.

Thus, you bow your head before him without another word. It’s less reverence, and more acknowledgement of debts paid and still owing. You leave the room before the lantern can throw more of his shadow across your shoulders. The pendant on your throat feels heavier than usual—as if it remembers everything you had to lose just to wear it.

One day in the summer, you came across an injured sparrow.

It lay in the dust by the roadside, wings trembling like scraps of paper caught in the wind. When you bent to pick it up, its tiny heart beat so frantically against your palms that you were sure it would die before you reached home. But you ran anyway, clutching it as though the warmth of your hands alone could keep it tethered to life.

Your mother was sitting by the window when you burst in your old house.

“Can it be saved?” you asked, voice breaking as you held the bird out to her.

She looked at you for a long time before answering. Her hands were steady—the same hands that once mixed poultices and tinctures in the apothecary before the empire’s taxes turned medicine into luxury. She touched the sparrow gently to trace its broken wing with a thumb.

“We can try,” your mother said at last.

With what little you had left, you fed it crumbs from your own meals, ground herbs to ease its breathing, and sang to it softly at night in the corner of the room. The days passed in fragile hope, but by the end of the week, the sparrow laid deathly still.

That day, you cried until your throat burned and your eyes were swollen red. Your mother said nothing to comfort you, only gathered you close and waited for the storm to pass. When your sobs finally quieted, she pressed a hand to your hair and whispered, “Take it to the riverbank. Give it back to the world.”

So you did.

You dug a shallow grave beneath the reeds where the mud met the water and laid the sparrow down, covering it gently with your hands. The river lapped quietly at the shore, carrying away your reflection in small ripples as you quietly sniffled to yourself.

That was when you saw him again.

Mihya.

He was panting when he stumbled through the grass, dirt on his knees, clutching half a loaf of bread against his chest. For a moment, he looked like he might bolt again, but then his bright blue eyes found you, and they softened with recognition.

“You’re the girl who almost got bitten by a snake.”

“And you’re the boy who took the bite for me,” you murmured, eyeing the faint scar that altercation had left on his forearm.

Both of you laughed quietly—small and awkward, but genuine. The wind moved through the reeds, whistling soft and low, as though the river itself was trying to listen in on the conversation unfurling between you.

“What are you doing?” Mihya asked quietly.

You glanced down at the patch of earth by your knees. “Burying a sparrow.”

He was silent for a long while as he eyed the mound of dirt by your knees. Then, without a word, he tore the loaf in half and offered you a piece, making you flounder about in polite refusal.

“You don’t have to—”

“Take it,” he insisted anyway. “It’s better when it’s shared.”

You could tell he hadn’t eaten in days. It was obvious in in the hollows of his cheeks, the way his arms shook when he handed the bread over. That made you wonder if he was an oprhan, with how often he had to steal just to get by. So you took the bread anyway, because you worried that refusing would have hurt him more than hunger ever could.

After that, you started to see him more often.

You were never sure how Mihya figured out where you lived, but he somehow always found his way to your door. Your mother never truly turned him away, no matter how many times she warned you about the “cursed boy.” At first, she would scold him gently, shaking her head as he handed you a bruised apple or a trinket that clearly didn’t belong to him. But the reprimands never lasted long. Mihya just had that effect on people, you supposed.

He had the bluest eyes you’d ever seen, and a smile that made you forget the filth of the slums for a moment. It was hard to believe someone with such a big heart could exist in a place that devours kindness. Perhaps your mother felt that too because after a while, she stopped trying to chase him off.

Especially when he began showing up bloodied.

At first, it was just scrapes and bruises, the kind of marks all street urchins wore like second skin. But then came the split lip, the blackened eye, the torn shirt sticky with dried blood. He would never tell you where the wounds came from, only laughing it off with a sheepish grin and some flimsy excuse about falling over or fighting for food.

Your mother would sigh, usher him inside, and clean the wounds in silence. Her hands were steady as always, though her eyes betrayed the ache of helplessness. Sometimes she told him to stay for supper, to rest awhile, but Mihya always refused.

“I can’t,” he would say. “I have to go home.”

Home.

You never asked where that was. Maybe you were afraid to find out he didn’t have one.

This went on for months—him arriving and disappearing like the tide, always smiling, always pretending he wasn’t hurting. Until one day, he came back worse than you’d ever seen.

There was blood crusted along his temple, dirt smeared down his neck, his hands trembling as he clutched the doorway. Your mother rushed to fetch water and cloth, but you couldn’t move. You just stood there in quiet shock, your throat tight and burning.

When your mother left the room to boil water, the words broke out of you all at once.

“Why do you keep doing this?”

Mihya blinked. “Doing what?”

“This!” you cried, stepping forward, fists balled at your sides. “Coming here hurt, pretending you’re fine, and running back into whatever’s doing this to you!”

He stared at you, startled, unsure what to do with your tears. “I—”

“I don’t want to bury you too, Mihya.”

The room went very still. The sound of the boiling kettle seemed far away. For a moment, he just looked at you and something in him faltered. His mouth opened like he wanted to say something, but no words came. You could see the tremor in his jaw and the flicker of disbelief in his eyes. No one had ever said that to him before.

“You care that much?” he whispered.

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. “If we didn’t, we would’ve turned you away the first time you came here.”

He blinked fast, as if trying to hold something back but the tears fell anyway. You didn’t even realize you were crying too until your vision blurred, and the two of you stood there, sobbing in a quiet broken rhythm only children ever fall into.

When your mother came back and saw the state you were both in, she didn’t ask a single question. She only set the basin down, drew the two of you close, and wrapped her arms around you both. Her voice was soft, trembling slightly against your hair.

“Shhh. No more tears,” she murmured. “Promise me you’ll look out for each other from now on. The world takes enough from children like you. Don’t let it take this too.”

You nodded into her shoulder. Mihya did too, though his small hands were shaking.

The three of you stayed like that for a long time, until the light outside turned amber and the air smelled faintly of river reeds and herbal salve. Somewhere beyond the window, a sparrow called once before the dusk swallowed it whole.

Just like Ego said, you take your time.

Assassinations done too quickly tend to end badly, especially when the target is a crowned emperor hidden behind more layers of protocol and politics than armor. The usual channels of Ouroboros turn up little on the new sovereign. The council keeps news of their emperor sealed tight, and whispers travel slower when tongues are cut for carelessness.

So you bide your time.

The fastest way to the palace is always through its weakest gatekeeper. In this case, it happens to be the man who controls the employment registry: Oliver Aiku, Chief of Personnel.

You learn his habits before you ever learn his name; where he drinks, how long he stays, what kind of flattery he prefers. He’s handsome in that smug, seasoned way—an older man who knows the weight of his charm and wields it as leverage. He is the type of person who enjoys watching people squirm for his approval.

It doesn’t take much to make him notice you.

Ego once told you that your body was your most important tool. Weapons, poisons, disguises—they were all just extensions of it. It wasn’t a lesson you enjoyed learning, but you learned it well. Oliver doesn’t ask many questions. After a few nights and a few well-placed words, he’s already offering to “pull some strings.”

By the week’s end, you have forged documents, a name that isn’t yours, and a position among the palace’s housekeeping staff. Not glamorous, but perfect. Servants see more than courtiers do—they are ghosts in plain sight.

Your quarters lie in the southernmost wing, tucked behind the western gardens where the halls are wrought with the buzz of cicadas and secrets. Once you settle in, the days blur quickly into routine: scrubbing marble floors until your fingers ache, delivering fresh linens to the council chambers, serving tea to officials too self-important to meet your eyes.

You never see the emperor during that first month. Not once. There are no portraits of him hung in the gilded halls, no likeness displayed as the old dynasty once decreed. Yet you hear his name spoken often. Michael Kaiser—the last thread of imperial blood through his mother, the late empress.

Although his face remains unseen, you begin to learn him in fragments.

You learn that he dines alone even when the council gathers in full. That by sundown, every attendant is dismissed, and none are permitted beyond the doors of his chambers or study without summons. You learn that the guards outside his chambers rotate every two hours, and that his most trusted courtier, Alexis Ness, rarely strays more than a few paces from his side. You also learn that the emperor’s handwriting is precise and elegant, and that he always signs his decrees in blue ink.

None of these things are useful on their own, but they will be. Eventually. After all, information is like poison—it works best when it seeps in slow.

As always, you keep your distance and observe. The corridors are quiet, echoing with the faint rhythm of boots and the whisper of silk. You map the palace by memory: which doors creak, which staircases lead to dead-end halls, which corners stay cloaked in shadows long enough for a blade to disappear.

But whenever you pass the gilded mirrors in the eastern wing, you look away. You’ve long since despised reflective surfaces as each one always throws back a different face—a servant, a courtesan, a messenger, a ghost. You’ve worn too many names, slipped into too many borrowed skins, until even your own reflection feels like a lie you’ve repeated one time too many.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. At the end of the day, all of this is nothing more than the prelude to what you were tasked to do.

Oliver’s shadow crosses yours again a few weeks later.

You’ve taken to tending the gardens in your spare hours, pruning the hedges and sweeping the gravel paths long after the sun has set. It’s quieter here than anywhere else in the palace, and far more useful. Courtiers come to the gardens to breathe and gossip and scheme. The air here is thick with secrets looser than any tongue inside the marble halls.

Oliver likes the gardens, too. Or rather, he likes the people who haunt them. More often than not, you’ll glimpse him leaning against the fountain’s edge, smiling lazily as noblewomen sidle close, their laughter trickling softer than the water itself. Watching him, you often wonder how a man so transparently indulgent managed to earn such a post within the imperial ranks. But then, that same carelessness is what got you this far, so you can hardly fault him for it.

He spots you one evening after shaking off a persistent viscount’s daughter.

“Still working after dark?” Oliver drawls.

“The weeds don’t sleep,” you say, straightening from the bush you were trimming.

He grins at that. “Neither do you, apparently.”

You keep your eyes on your shears and go back to work. It’s easier that way. Oliver Aiku is a man who remembers more than is safe. The story you fed to him while warming his bed weeks ago was simple: you were a refugee from Varen, orphaned by border skirmishes, just looking for work. You’re not sure he believed any of it, but you know better than to let your guard down.

Yet since the first time, he’s grown quite… friendly.

He always asks how you’re settling in. If you were eating properly. If the other servants are treating you well—a strange question, since you’ve barely spoken to any of them. You keep to yourself for a reason because one careless word, one wrong glance, and everything could unravel before you ever lay eyes on the emperor’s face.

That is how you start using Oliver’s interest like any other small advantage.

When he drops by the gardens for small talk, you keep your answers light and let your hands do the work. Your questions about the palace come wrapped in harmless curiosity—old stories, and tall tales softened by time. He fills the silence with gossip and half-truths about ministers and marriages, embellishing as he goes. You let him. The lies are easy enough to sift from the useful fragments. And sometimes, when the mood strikes him, Oliver drifts toward things that actually matter.

“There’s going to be a banquet soon,” he says one evening, watching petals scatter across the path. “A grand one. Invitations were sent to every noble house worth mentioning, and a few that aren’t. The emperor’s first formal introduction since his coronation.”

You glance up, feigning curiosity. “I thought the coronation was the introduction.”

Oliver chuckles as if the thought itself is naive. “The coronation was for Aurelia’s citizens—to remind the people they still have a throne to kneel to. This,” he says, gesturing lazily with one gloved hand, “is for everyone else. A show of power, so the neighboring nations stop circling like vultures. A declaration that the empire still breathes, and that it will not be consumed.”

You nod along. “I see.”

The rest of the conversation, you let drift toward safer shores—menu speculation, décor, the petty vanities that seem to keep him entertained. By the time Oliver takes his leave, the only thing heavier than the dusk settling over the garden is the thought lodged quietly in your chest: a public gathering means a weakness somewhere.

By morning, you find the head servant, Mistress Celene hunched over her ledgers in the service hall, assigning shifts with the efficiency of a commander. You clear your throat and ask, careful to sound merely eager, not desperate.

“Do you need more hands for the banquet, ma’am?”

Her quill stills. “Yes. I was just about to call for help from the southern wing.” For a moment, that sharp gaze lingers on you. “The initiative is good. I’ll put you with the logistics team.”

You bow your head in thanks, concealing the relief that flickers sharp and bright behind your ribs. And this newfound goal is what keeps you up that night.

Nobles both foreign and Aurelian will gather under the crystal chandeliers of the ballroom. Dishes will steam, voices will clink against fine glass, and the hubbub of a hundred pretensions will create the one distraction you need. For the first time since you slipped into palace life, the emperor will be within reach.

You let yourself imagine the face you have only sketched in fragments: the solitary dinners, the blue-inked decrees, the man who refuses attendants after sundown. You temper the image quickly; anticipation is a blade that can cut both ways. There is a plan forming in the margins of your patience and you take your time pinning each detail in place. You trace the pendant at your throat and let your thoughts settle like a blade being sheathed.

In two weeks, you will finally see his face.

And if the gods are merciful, you will end his life that same night.

Mihya was hiding something.

You could tell because he no longer came by your house at the same hour every day. The rhythm you’d grown used to had become irregular and unpredictable. When he did appear, it was later than usual, and he always smelled faintly of flour and sugar left too long on the hearth. But you never really asked.

It was enough to see that he didn’t look perpetually half-starved anymore. The bruises had faded from his skin, the cuts on his arms had healed without new ones taking their place. The only scar that lingered was the pale crescent on his forearm—the mark of a snake’s fangs. You still thought of it fondly sometimes; it was the first thread that had tied your fates together.

You found out the truth by accident.

Your mother had sent you to the market one morning for herbs, and you nearly missed him entirely in the crowd. There were more guards than usual along the slum road, their helmets gleaming under the sun, and you kept your head down as you walked. Then, through the noise of the street, you caught sight of a familiar figure behind the bakery counter—a boy with pale hair and blue eyes, wiping flour from his hands as he handed a loaf to an elderly woman.

You stopped in your tracks.

So that’s where he’d been disappearing to.

You didn’t call out his name. You didn’t even linger long enough for him to notice. If Mihya wanted to keep it to himself, then you would let him have that secret. For someone like him, any moment of peace was worth protecting.

Days passed until one morning, a sharp rap at the door woke you before dawn. Your mother was still asleep, so you stumbled out of bed and opened it yourself.

Mihya stood there with tousled hair and shy eyes, holding something behind his back.

“What are you doing here so early?” you whispered.

He hesitated before bringing his hands forward. For a second, you had to rub away the leftover drowsiness in your eyes until you finally see what he’s holding. Dangling from Mihya’s fingers was a pendant—a small rose cast in dull brass, the chain thin but sturdy. It wasn’t new; the edges were slightly uneven and the metal was scuffed in places. But it caught the morning light like it was made of gold.

“I, uh… got you a gift,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

You just blinked at him. “A gift?”

He nodded quickly, the words tumbling over themselves. “I-I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking! I swear! The baker lets me help out sometimes and I saved up for it. You said you liked the roses in the flower shop, remember? So I thought…” His voice trailed off, color rising to his cheeks. “Anyway. It’s not fancy or anything, but I paid for it myself…”

For a moment, you couldn’t speak. You just stared at him—the boy who used to run from guards with stolen bread under his arm, now standing in front of you, flustered and proud and trying so hard to be honest. The weight of it all settled behind your ribs, swelling warm and sharp until your vision blurred.

“Mihya,” you managed, and then the tears broke loose.

“Hey, wait—why are you crying? Did I do something wrong?” he asked, panicking a little, half-reaching toward you and half-afraid to.

You shook your head and threw your arms around him before he could retreat. He froze, then awkwardly patted your back as if he wasn’t sure what to do with you. When you finally pulled away, your cheeks were wet and aching from smiling. Mihya cleared his throat before carefully fastening the pendant around your neck until the cool brass pressed softly against your skin.

You touched it gently, a soft smile creeping up on your face.

That morning, with the rising sun spilling through the cracks of your home and Mihya’s hands still trembling against your nape, you decided you liked roses even more than before.

When the day of the banquet comes, the ballroom gleams like the heart of a jewel—glass chandeliers spilling gold across polished marble, a thousand voices weaving into a tapestry of laughter, gossip, and feigned civility. Nobles from every province of Aurelia and beyond crowd beneath the vaulted ceilings, their silks and brocades flashing like a moving constellation.

You’ve seen gatherings like this before. Danced between them even, though not in the way the courtiers did. The last time you moved through a room this grand, you carried poison in a jeweled ring and a dagger hidden in your garter. You remember the feel of sweat slicking your palm as your target raised his goblet, and the quiet certainty that every toast ends the same way: with someone’s pulse going still.

Tonight, however, your hands are clean.

Or at least, they appear to be.

You glide through the sea of bodies with a silver tray balanced on one hand, refilling glasses, exchanging murmured pleasantries with people who’ll forget your face within the hour. The uniform makes it easy to disappear and so does practice. Weeks spent under the palace’s roof have honed your rhythm—one step, one glance, one smile at a time.

Still, it isn’t the nobles that hold your attention tonight.

The hour grows late enough that anticipation trembles through the hall. You feel it in the hush that falls when the orchestra fades, in the ripple of motion as everyone turns toward the grand staircase. The herald’s voice cuts clean through the murmur:

“Announcing His Imperial Majesty—Michael Kaiser of Aurelia.”

Eyes gravitate towards the center of the hall, murmurs of anticipation buzzing about in your ears. But despite weeks of tempering your expectations, the man who steps into the light is nothing like the phantom you’d pieced together in your mind.

He wears imperial regalia as if it were spun for him and him alone; white and gold trimmed with sapphire threads, a mantle of midnight velvet draped across one shoulder. The crown that glints atop his head is modest, yet it catches the light like frost, a cold gleam that seems more fitting than any jeweled diadem.

His hair is long, pale gold fading into deep royal blue at the ends—the colors merging like the last breath of daylight before dusk. When he turns his head, the movement reveals the ink that curls along the line of his throat: a single blue rose, delicate and intricate, blooming just above his pulse. It’s a striking mark against his fair skin, too deliberate to be anything but a declaration. Then there are his eyes; blue in a way that seems almost impossible. They carry the stillness of the sea before a storm, and a beauty so sharp it borders on cruel.

For a heartbeat, the room forgets how to breathe. But the applause starts to swell in rolling, deafening succession. Even the servants pause in their work to strike their palms together in reverence.

Beside him stands the imperial advisor, Noel Noa himself, a living legend of Aurelia’s court and the man responsible for reviving what once was a dead monarchy. Beside the emperor, he stands tall, broad-shouldered, and clearly exasperated. You can see it in the way his gaze flicks toward Kaiser with the weariness of a man who has given up trying to rein in a storm.

“Honored guests,” Kaiser drawls with a voice as smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. “How pleasant to see so many faces still eager to swear loyalty—to power, if not to the man wearing it. Whether it’s faith or fear that brings you here hardly matters. I’ll take both.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd.

The emperor’s grin is effortless, wicked in the way light plays along the angles of his face. “Eat well. Drink deeply,” he says imperiously. “After all, it would be a pity if all this beauty went to waste.”

The nobles laugh though it sounds as though uncertain whether they should. Still, the orchestra stirs again, violins rising like a breath released, and the illusion of merriment returns.

But not for you.

You stand there with a tray poised at your hip, watching him take his place among the council, and something twists beneath your ribs. That face of his, those eyes of endless blue… You’ve seen them before—or at least, something hauntingly close to it.

You blink, forcing yourself back to the present yet the thought lodges anyway.

Why does he look so familiar?

The emperor settles into the throne-like chair at the head of the council’s table, his posture so effortlessly regal that it almost feels mocking. Even seated, he commands the space. The nobles crowd around him like moths to a flame, vying for his attention, their laughter bright and hollow.

Kaiser gives them nothing.

When they speak, he listens the way a cat watches a bird—idly, with the sort of interest that makes you wonder whether it’s curiosity or hunger behind the gaze. Every word he utters lands heavily; every tilt of his head draws the entire room with it. But for all that effortless command, there’s something faintly detached in him, as if this grand spectacle were nothing more than a game he’s already grown tired of winning.

You drift along the outer ring of the ballroom, eyes lowered just enough to feign deference. But your mind is elsewhere—tracing the line of his shoulders, the gleam of his hair, the sharpness of his smile. You know little of the man beneath the crown. Rumors say Noel Noa scoured the empire’s edges to find the late empress’s lost bastard son. Others whisper that the boy had been hidden by loyalists, raised in secrecy until the time was right to reclaim the throne. None of it makes sense.

Yet there he sits, perfectly poised, like a lie that has learned to breathe.

You hate the way he unsettles you. You hate even more that he feels familiar. Somewhere in the back of your brain, the ghost of a memory stirs—half-formed and maddeningly out of reach. You try to wrap your mind around it, but it slips through your grasp like smoke.

But it hardly matters. Your mission remains the same.

You remind yourself that now is not the time to strike. Not in a hall so crowded and with half the empire watching. Even your usual methods are useless here—the champagne flutes are rimmed with alchemical glass, charmed to shimmer red at the faintest trace of poison. Whoever designed this banquet understood paranoia well.

So you lie in tireless wait.

All while you try not to think about how the candlelight glances off Kaiser’s jawline. Or how his derisive laughter carries like velvet drawn across a blade’s edge. From the snatches of conversation you catch as he mingles with other courtiers, you can tell he’s arrogant. But not the kind that comes from birthright or privilege. His is the arrogance of survival—the sort born in fire and sharpened on loss. He speaks like a man who’s seen death and learned how to make it listen.

You’re studying him so closely that you almost don’t notice the movement cutting across your path—until a firm shoulder clips yours, jolting the tray in your hands. The champagne flutes tremble, liquid catching the light before settling again.

“Ah, my apologies,” you murmur quickly.

The man you’ve collided with doesn’t step back. His deep brown hair fades into mauve at the tips, catching the light like bruised wine; his eyes at ease but assessing. Alexis Ness. You recognize him instantly.

“It’s quite all right,” he tells you with a soft smile. “You should be more careful, though. Wouldn’t want to draw unnecessary attention.”

You bow your head. “Of course, my lord.”

Ness doesn’t move. For a beat too long, his eyes hold yours in a way a nobleman has no business doing to some lowly servant. Before you can think much of it, he steps aside with a faint, courtly gesture that feels like dismissal.

You retreat with practiced ease, heart steady even as your thoughts twist tight. That wasn’t an accident. You know the rhythm of crowds, and the weight of movement all around you. Years of slipping through shadows have trained your senses to catch the smallest shifts, and you would have avoided him easily if he hadn’t meant for it to happen.

Alexis Ness. A new variable. A threat you’ll need to account for.

You return to the edges of the ballroom, slipping back into anonymity just as the orchestra swells again. The dance resumes. The laughter rises. But your gaze catches one last time on the figure once again seated at the head of the room.

Michael Kaiser leans back in his chair, the faintest smile playing at the corner of his mouth as though he knows something no one else does. For the briefest moment, before you force yourself to look away, you swear his eyes flicker toward you through the crowd.

Blue meeting yours.

As cold as a blade, and just as familiar.

Today was Mihya’s birthday.

You’ve been saving for weeks. Every spare coin from selling pressed flowers and ribbons at the market was tucked away. Every flash of his face when he sees the cake you’ll be giving haunted your thoughts. It wasn’t much, but it’s more than you’ve ever been able to give him before.

Your mother hummed by the stove as you tied your shawl around your shoulders, the room thick with the smell of stew and warm bread. She smiled hesitantly when you told her where you’re going, and reminded you to be careful. People from your part of town weren’t always welcome where the streets are clean.

The walk to the patisserie took you past the edge of the slums, where cobblestone replaced dirt and the air smelled faintly of lilacs instead of smoke. You half expected to be turned away at the door, to have the shopkeeper’s eyes flick down to your worn shoes and patched skirt before telling you they’re out of stock. But the woman behind the counter only greeted you with a gentle smile. She let you pick the smallest cake in the display—a single layer brushed with chocolate glaze and threw in a tiny blue candle with your purchase.

“Whoever it’s for,” she said as she wrapped the box in brown paper, “they must be someone very dear to you.”

You blushed, thinking of Mihya’s crooked grin, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about wanting to see the world beyond the slums. You paid with trembling fingers and thanked her before hurrying out, clutching the cake box close to your chest.

The streets grew rougher as you walked back home, the scent of lilacs fading into soot and rain. Still, your heart felt light. It will be the first of Mihya’s birthdays you’ll celebrate together, and you promised yourself it wouldn’t be the last.

You toyed with the small pendant he’d given you weeks ago, smiling to yourself as you turned the corner toward home—

—and that’s when you heard the first scream.

At first, it didn’t register. The market was always loud; vendors arguing, children running, carts clattering down uneven roads. But this sound was different. It tore through the air like metal splitting apart. Then came another scream, and another, until the noise rose into a chorus that turned your blood to ice.

You lifted your head. Smoke was already rising in the distance—dark and thick, curling against the pale morning sky. For a heartbeat you just stood there, frozen in the street as you clutched the cake box so tight the paper begins to crumple. But the instinct that something is dreadfully wrong takes over. You bolted before your mind could catch up.

The closer you got, the worse it became. People were shouting and shoving and spilling from the narrow alleys with soot on their faces. A mother stumbled past, dragging her child by the arm. A man was on his knees trying to smother a fire with his coat. The air reeked of burning wood and something else.

Your lungs seized with every breath.

By the time you reached your street, the world was already an inferno. Homes you’ve known your whole life were split open, flames climbing the walls faster than you can blink. Roofs caved in with groans that sounded like dying beasts. The sky was a furious red, and you dropped the cake without realizing it, the box tumbling into the dirt.

“Mother!” you called out, stumbling toward your door. It’s already burning.

You crashed through the threshold as your eyes stung and smoke clawed its way down your throat. The room glowed orange with heat, every surface alive and shuddering. “Mother!” you cry again, louder this time, until your voice broke with desperation.

There by the hearth, you caught a glimpse.

You saw her hand first, limp beneath the beam that’s fallen from the ceiling. For a moment, your mind refused to understand what your eyes were seeing. You crawled toward her to keep your head as low as possible, dragging yourself through the heat and smoke and ash.

“Mama—please, wake up,” you whispered as you gripped her arm to shake her awake but she wouldn’t move. She’s too still. Too heavy.

You tried to lift the beam, dug your nails into it until your hands bled, but it wouldn’t budge with your measly strength. The fire roared around you, greedy and endless as the smoke started to fill your lungs. Eventually, your body started to tremble from exhaustion. You couldn’t breathe. The heat bit at your skin, licking up your arms like it meant to swallow you whole. When you finally collapsed beside her, your tears evaporated before they could even fall.

Outside, the shouting started to fade into white noise. The world narrowed into the sound of your own breathing, ragged and uneven. With what little strength you could still muster, you reached for the pendant at your throat, clutching it as tightly as you could. Mihya’s face flickered in your mind—his sun-warmed hair, the easy smile that always reached his blue eyes. You wanted this day to be perfect for him.

You never even got to tell him happy birthday.

The simmering heat began to fold around you, lulling you into its encompassing embrace. Your eyes drifted shut. For a moment, you imagined Mihya standing in the sunlight, alive and untouched by the ruin spreading through your world.

When you opened them again, everything was quiet. The flames were gone. Smoke and ash curled through the air as it drifted over the blackened remains of your home.

A figure moved silently through the haze.

He stopped a few paces away, tall and straight-backed, his silhouette framed by the dying light. The glint of spectacles caught your eye first, then the faint reflection of firelight in his blank gaze. He studied you for a long time, his posture calm in a way that felt deeply unnerving.

“Still breathing,” he murmured. “What a fortunate little bird you are.”

You tried to speak—to ask who he was, what had happened—but the words caught in your throat. The edges of the world wavered. The smell of smoke began to fade. His shadow fell over your form before you felt the faint brush of a hand against your temple.

Your body seemed weightless and untethered, as though the ground had slipped away. For a brief, dizzy moment, you thought you were being lifted into the sky; ashes swirling around your limbs, the ruins of your home shrinking beneath you.

The darkness then claimed you in its quiet embrace, soft and absolute.

The banquet’s end is a slow tide.

Voices start to thin as attendants shepherd the last of the guests toward carriage doors and lantern-lit porches. You slip away while the hall still burns with leftover laughter, moving like water through people who have already been taught to ignore you.

On the way to the northern wing you remove only what you must. Two guards on the corridor are knocked into a sleep that looks like drunkenness; another pair stationed near the service stairs are eased into a ditch with a careful twist of bones and knuckles. You take no liberties. You disable the ones who would block the route you’ve rehearsed a thousand times, leaving others intact so the palace won’t suspect a breach—just a small, plausible gap.

Approaching the emperor’s wing, you keep to the shadows. You know which torch sputters in the wind, which tiles throw back a footstep slower than the rest. You have walked this hall in daylight and darkness until every notch and groove in the wood has a name in your head.

You pause before the door you have passed a dozen times. It should be secured; it has always been. The palace keeps its crown wrapped in secrets like a sleeping thing. But you find that the latch is loose. When you press your palm to the wood it gives, just enough for your fingers to slip through.

A warning ticks somewhere in your chest. Kaiser is never careless. Guards do not forget their stations. The palace does not leave its emperor exposed. You’ve read men’s mistakes before, sensed the rotten joints in others’ plans, and you know attrition when you see it. But the gap is precisely the sort of impossible opening that has ended lives in other halls.

Without questioning it, you slip inside.

Darkness engulfs you immediately. The emperor’s private chamber is larger than the rooms you clean; softer light pools at the far end where a desk waits beneath a silvered mirror. A faint perfume hints someone has been here recently. You close the door behind you and let the latch fall, and the silence that lingers is absolute.

Now the real work begins: the waiting.

You sink into a shadow at the foot of a chaise, a dagger pressed flat along your thigh under your skirts. Time moves differently in such darkness. It lengthens and thins, becoming a private thing you can shape. You count heartbeats to keep from listening to your own thoughts. Ego taught you patience as well as knives; a blade is only useful when the hand that wields it is calm. You breathe slowly until your pulse is a metronome rather than a drum.

Minutes become hours. Your shoulders grow cramped. Your jaw aches from holding it closed. You thread your focus through a narrow hole: the sound of passing boots, the faint creak where a floorboard dips, and the echo of voices trickling down the corridor. You do not move. You will not move until the shape you are hunting returns.

At some point the conversation outside becomes closer, folding into the frame of the door. Ness’s voice bounces off the panels. Noa’s exasperation follows like an afternote. You press deeper into the shadows, willing your skin to cool, your breath to vanish.

“Kaiser,” Ness scolds. “You embarrassed us in more ways than one tonight. You need to control yourself better in public.”

A soft, bored laugh answers, the kind of sound that can come only from someone who has never truly feared consequences. “We all know that sad excuse of a banquet was all for show,” Kaiser scoffs. “Let them take offense. They needed reminding that the crown still has teeth.”

Ness’s reply is a sigh edged in warning. “Whatever you say, Your Highness. Good night.”

The door shuts with a soft, final click; you feel the exhale in your ribs. Footsteps fade, then the room's hush folds in on itself. A moment later, a lighter flicks by the desk; a candle flares, then another, the candelabra’s warm tongues spilling out to paint the room in slow gold. You watch the play of flames across the desk, cataloging reflections, rhythms, and the way his silhouette will read when he removes his outer layers.

His crown is tossed carelessly onto his desk, and you watch as his outer garments fall in silence, forming a pale scatter across the floor. The sight irons something taut inside you: a man who sheds splendor with the same ease he wears it. Just like those serpents who once hid within the reeds by the slums. Kaiser moves toward the vanity, strips his tunic, and for the first time you see the pale sweep of skin and ink.

The tattoo is a ribbon of a blue rose and thorned vines that begins at the hollow of his throat and winds down his arm in a dark, meticulous spray. The ink is beautiful, almost obsessive in its detail, curling into a tiny crown inscribed on the back of his hand. For the briefest moment, you pull yourself back: distraction is a luxury you cannot afford.

He sheds the last of his clothes and stands in the dim room, unadorned and very real. The only sounds are his measured breathing and the crackle of flames on the candelabra.

You rise quietly. The blade slips free in your hand. You close the gap in two feather-light movements, a hand on the small of his waist as you pass, the other bringing the cold bite of steel across his throat.

For a heartbeat, it is as practiced as every rehearsal you’ve ever done: steel to skin, the soft little staccato of a plan executed. Your breath fogs the skin at his neck. Your hand remembers the exact pressure that will cleave life from a human body.

But then your world tilts off its axis.

Kaiser is not slow. He is not unfamiliar with blades. His reflex arrives like a thought of its own. The hand that had been poised at the desk is suddenly at your wrist, his palm closing with the kind of strength you have only felt from men twice as broad. Before your dagger can find the cleanest arc, he has forced your back against the wall—your throat crushed in a grip that is casual in its brutality. The curtain to your demise starts to fall as he squeezes the air from your windpipe.

“Bold,” he murmurs. “So very bold.”

You have no room to answer. Your training, your breath control, the whole of your career—everything funnels into one narrow point: the knowledge that you almost had him and the shock of how completely fast he was.

You twist in his grip, trying to wrench him loose, and with your other leg, you drive your heel hard into his shin. Kaiser flinches, but only enough for a twitch; his smile stays, slow and smug, as if you are an amusing child poking at a caged beast.

Fear starts to slice through you, but you have always known how to anchor yourself in a moment when the body wants to panic. You breathe shallowly, count in your head, find the small, steady rhythm Ego had carved into you. Find a fulcrum. Find a micro-movement.

Break the pattern.

You drive your knee up again, harder. Something cracks under the contact—maybe a breath, maybe a rib; you don’t have the luxury to make sure. Kaiser hisses, and in that flicker of surprise you find your opening. You twist your wrist, drive the dagger into the soft joint at the base of his thumb where leather yields to flesh. He snarls, and his hold loosens just enough for you to wrench your arm out.

You shove with everything left in you to create space, trying to scramble back and draw the blade free. Momentum carries both of you off balance: he staggers, you pivot, and the two of you crash to the floor. But before you can leverage the tumble to your favor, his knee plants hard against your thigh, pinning you beneath him.

Kaiser’s lips then bow into a smirk. He leans in so close your breath fogs the skin of his jaw.

“Tell me, who sent you?” he murmurs. “Who thought the palace’s bedchambers were a suitable grave?”

Your vision is blurred at the edges; your heart slamming like an animal trying to escape its cage. Naming Ego would be death immediate and not the kind you can bargain with. Tasting bile in your mouth, it’s the first time in a long time you felt a child’s cold terror: the sort that had lived in the alleys, that had watched roofs fall and mothers die.

Kaiser’s fingers curl around your wrist, his weight pressing you down so you can’t rise. The self-satisfied smirk that curls across his lips tells you he has more to say, but something in his expression falters in the next second. You can feel the infinitesimal slack in his grip, the tiny unraveling of the moment you’d expected to be the end of everything.

His eyes are on the brass rose pendant on your throat.

Then he leans closer, and the cruelty you read in his gaze a heartbeat before blunts into something else you do not have a word for. Kaiser then whispers a name that has you unraveling at the seams in a mere second.

Memories unspool all at once: smoke-choked alleys, the hiss of reeds, a boy with hair like spun gold and eyes the color of deepwater glass. The face you kept in a pocket of your heart, the one you told yourself was nothing but ash after the slums burned—he stands before you, ringed in candlelight as he calls you by the name that belonged to a life that no longer exists.

No… It couldn’t be.

Mihya—your Mihya—could not be the man who wears the empire like a second skin. The boy you thought had been buried in the ruins of your home could not be breathing in front of you, laced with tattoos and iron and enthroned cruelty.

Shock is dangerous; you know that better than most. It steals momentum, it brings forth hesitation. But it also births an opportunity when the other is unready for the truth.

Kaiser’s eyes find yours again, and for the briefest instant they are not the cold, imperial blue you have catalogued from a distance but the same endless summer sky you remember from your childhood. Bewilderment flashes across his face, only barely masked by the careful stillness of his authority.

You use that moment to make your escape.

You shove him away, using the small burst of surprise like a lever. Your shoulder blasts his chest and he yields and stumbles too easily. You wrench free and snatch the dagger you planted at your hip. Kaiser recovers faster than you imagine, annoyingly so. His hand closes on your wrist with the old, iron certainty and in his eyes dance a million questions you do not know how to answer.

You do the one thing practice makes possible: you exploit chaos. You swipe the candelabra off his desk, sending flames skittering to the side, and in the flare of light you throw your weight toward the nearest window. It gives with a shriek, and you crash through it, as the shards split around you like rain.

The hedges you had once convinced the gardeners to plant for practicality’s sake take the brunt of your fall. Thorns snag your skirt; the soft earth breathes against your ribs. For a dizzy, glorious moment you taste freedom—dirt and rain and the cold rush of night air. Behind you, the sound of the chamber changes from a surprised shout to a single, furious curse.

You do not look back.

Your feet find familiar paths; you run through the western gardens where you have spent hours sweeping leaves and mapping escape routes. Lantern light fractures across hedgerows, and for a pulse you can see the palace receding. Your lungs burn. Your throat tastes like metal and smoke. You let the pendant swing against your breast; the brass rose is hot with your skin.

In the dark, it feels like the last honest thing you still own.

According to the man who took you in, the slums had been burned to the ground.

No one survived. No one except you.

He said it plainly, without cruelty or comfort, as though he was commenting about the weather. You sat there on the cold wooden floor of his study, legs drawn tight to your chest as you watched the dirt crumble from your fingernails. You had not spoken in days. When you tried, your throat still tasted of smoke.

The man—who you learned was called Ego—took you to the main district of the capital. Its air smelled of iron and rain, not rot and riverwater. People here did not shout to be heard. They spoke softly, as if the world always listened. You hated that quiet. It reminded you of the moment after the screaming stopped.

Ego did not ask for your name. He only gave you food and a cot in the corner, among shelves lined with glass and steel. At night, when sleep would not come, you watched him move about the room with measured hands, sharpening blades that reflected no light. The sound of metal against stone became your lullaby, your proof that you still existed.

Days passed before he finally spoke to you again.

“Do you remember what I called you the night I found you?” he asked, not looking up from his workbench.

You shook your head.

“A bird,” he said plainly. “A small, half-dead thing still trying to fly.”

You said nothing. You remembered the poor sparrow you found injured by the roadside. You remembered how you failed to save its life, and how you returned it to the earth with your own two hands. It made you wonder if this man was doing the same thing for you, too.

Ego finally turned to you, spectacles gleaming in the early morning light. “A name is only useful if it serves its purpose. The one you had before doesn’t anymore.”

A soft flutter intruded on the conversation.

Both of you turned as a sparrow had landed on the open windowsill. Its feathers were smudged with dust, its song thin and reedy as it tilted its head toward the two of you. You watched it hop closer along the frame, wings trembling as if uncertain whether to leave or stay.

Ego’s voice cut through the haze. “What name would you take, then?”

You hesitated. You didn’t know why he asked. Maybe it was a test; maybe it was mercy disguised as indifference. You looked at the bird again—at the way it tilted its head and let out one sharp chirp, like it had decided something for you.

“Sparrow.”

Ego studied you for a long moment, then gave a quiet hum of approval. The sparrow fluttered once, twice, then lifted back into the pale morning air—its shadow sweeping briefly across your face before it disappeared into the sky.

“Then Sparrow you shall be,” he said before turning back to scrape his blade against the whetting stone. “Let’s see if you can still learn to fly.”

That was the day your old name burned for good, carried away on wings wrought in ashes and the faint morning dew.

You did not know if you deserve it, but it was all you could hold on to.

✦ afterword. this was originally going to be written as a full oneshot, but the format of the storytelling kind of made me think that it would be better to section it into threes. (it kinda sounds silly in my head HAHA the sparrow, the snake, and the sun is giving: the lion, the witch, and the wardrobe LOL) that, and i really just needed to get this kaiser rabies out of my system before i go ahead and move on with my life for a few more days before i go back to the endless writing psychosis this man has put me in :/ not a lot of in-depth notes for this yet, i think everything is pretty straightforward so far. but i'd love to hear your thoughts for this piece anyway! i put soooo much thought into it like . against my will HAH. thank you for reading, and see you in part two!

✦ THE SPARROW ┊ THE SNAKE ┊ THE SUN