super graphic ultra modern girl... miya atsumu x reader
masterlist <3 synopsis: you built an empire—Hibi.co, a global brand rooted in community, creativity, and empowerment. you’ve been on billboards, podcasts, magazine covers. but this? this program for young female athletes? this is the most personal thing you’ve ever done. with the biggest stage of your career just around the corner and Japan watching, you don’t have time for distractions. especially not a certain golden-haired volleyball star who suddenly won’t stop showing up… tags: timeskip!haikyuu , swearing , ceo!mc, chappell roan coded, ROMCOM! word count: 9800~
a/n: Hey loves so in an ideal world everything lines up but unfortunately i wanted to make this fic in this day and age, lets say like, characters like mc, atsumu, sakusa, everyone who was originally born in 1996 is now born in 1998. And in 2025 they’re now 27 years old. That being said the current roster for both alders AND jackals are the rosters from 2018-2019.
The screen of her watch read 8:12 a.m.
More precisely: Monday, May 14th, 2022, 8:12 a.m.
Just beneath it, a soft buzz lit up the sleek company-issued display:
MEETING: 8:20 A.M. HIBI-SAN WILL BE ATTENDING.
Her stomach dropped so hard it bounced off her ankles.
The train lurched into Harajuku Station, its doors gliding open with all the calm detachment of someone not about to lose their job. She moved on reflex, shouldering past the suited salaryman beside her and launching herself onto the platform. Her tote bag caught mid-swing on someone’s elbow, nearly slinging her sideways, but she untangled herself with a breathless apology and bolted.
She didn’t need caffeine. Her pulse was already singing in her ears. Because Hibi-san was going to be in the meeting, and she was going to walk in looking like a gremlin pulled from a drip coffee machine.
She sprinted through the station, weaving through half-asleep commuters and dodging a delivery cart with a tray of steaming bread. Her shirt stuck to her back, humid heat already curling through the fabric—and as if that wasn’t enough, the top half of the button-up was still visibly stained from the oat milk latte she’d exploded across herself at 7:03 a.m.
Of course, on any other day, it wouldn’t matter.
Hibi-san was the kind of CEO who encouraged people to dress how they wanted. Patterns. Colors. Texture. Self-expression over polish. One of her most-quoted lines from an old podcast episode was: “No one thinks clearly when they’re dressed like someone they’re not.”
She’d once seen someone wear a silk dress and cowboy boots to a planning session. Nobody blinked.
But even in that freedom, there were rules. And rule number one?
Don’t be late. Especially not when Hibi-san is on the call.
Hibi HQ came into view just as her legs started to ache. The building looked less like a tech campus and more like something out of a luxury design magazine—five stories of curved glass and pale concrete, bathed in soft light that always seemed to hit just right. There were vines hanging artfully down the corners, planters spilling lavender and white moss, and the smell of fresh jasmine wafting from somewhere near the base.
This month’s front display was already swarmed with tourists:
The HIBI logo, sculpted entirely from fresh-cut seasonal florals—peach ranunculus, soft garden roses, pale blue delphiniums—wrapped around a holographic butterfly projection that flitted through petals like some enchanted breeze.
She barely looked at it.
The only thing she could focus on was how badly she was going to stick out in a room full of stylists, editors, and strategists wearing soft linen blazers and custom heels.
Inside, the building smelled like cedarwood and cooled marble.
The floor plan opened like a daydream: wide archways, curved walls, digital art that shifted slowly along the corridor walls. Floor-to-ceiling windows cast golden light across the room. Overhead, matte brass light panels glowed in a shade specifically calibrated to mimic 9 a.m. sun. Everything felt intentional. Calming. Elegant.
She took the elevator alone. Finally, a moment to breathe.
As the doors slid shut, she adjusted her collar, trying and failing to fold it over the oat milk stain.
8:17 a.m.
God, please let her be late too, she thought.
Of course, she wouldn’t be. Hibi-san was never late.
The elevator glided upward with a soft hum. She tried to distract herself by looking at her own reflection in the brushed panelling, but it only made her stress worse. Her hair was frizzy. Her tote bag had left a red dent on her shoulder. Her lip tint was uneven.
And on top of all that, she was about to sit in a room with a woman who’d built a literal empire from scratch before the age of thirty.
No one really knew everything about Hibi-san—she was private. Composed. Classy. She’d only done a handful of interviews in the early years, and even those were legendary. Her voice was soft, clear, and a little playful. She made offhand jokes that somehow ended up quoted on Pinterest moodboards for years. Someone once said if she hadn’t built an empire, she could’ve been a comedian or a cult leader.
She had three degrees and a PhD. Business, computer science, and cognitive science—or something like that. Nobody could ever agree on which came first.
And yet, she wasn’t intimidating until she wanted to be. That was the scariest part.
She was... effortless. Like she knew what someone was thinking before they did. Like she didn’t need to raise her voice to make anyone want to be better.
As a completely irrelevant assistant, she’d only spoken to Hibi-san three times since getting hired eight months ago—and each time felt like she was being granted an audience with royalty. Not that she acted like royalty. No. She remembered names. She laughed. She asked if your little sister liked the internship you helped her apply for. She’d once complimented this random girl’s earrings, and she’d gone home and cried.
Because even with her success—even with her global press, speaking engagements, and full control of a top-tier company—Hibi-san was kind.
And that kindness was why being late felt like betrayal.
8:19 a.m.
The elevator doors opened onto the fifth floor. She walked out into the soft hush of high-end silence. The hallway stretched forward in muted champagne tones and warm wood flooring, with frosted glass panels catching glimmers of morning light.
She turned left, pushed through the doors of Meeting Room A—
And instantly felt sixteen pairs of eyes lock onto her like lasers.
She smiled. Weakly. She did not slow down. Her shoes clicked across the floor as she hurried to the side of the room, where a second assistant had already laid out the prep documents.
The coffee stain felt like it had grown. The inside of her shirt collar was damp with sweat. Someone from HR made a small, pointed noise. Another exec raised a brow and looked at the wall clock, as if to say, Really? Again?
She ducked her head and opened her tablet, syncing to the presentation.
This room wasn’t cold or intimidating. It was filled with hand-painted mugs, pastel laptops, scattered matcha bottles, cold brews and colour-coded notebooks. The art on the walls was rotated monthly, chosen from submissions across the company's global employees. There were plants. Real ones. Growing in geometric terrariums that hung from the ceiling like soft, slow chandeliers.
But all of that still disappeared when she arrived.
8:20 a.m.
The wall screen flickered on with a single, crisp chime. The room slipped into an instant hush. Chairs straightened. A quiet murmur of, “Here we go,” rippled through the air.
The screen brightened—soft white bleeding into warm cream—before the logo appeared. HIBI. Calm. Controlled. Effortlessly poised, as if it held all the time in the world.
Then: A voice. Smooth. Confident. Familiar.
Your voice.
“Good morning, I hope you’re all doing well” you said, the corners of your lips lifting into a smile—the very woman everyone here would follow into battle without hesitation. “As of today, HIBI.co will be starting a new project.”
Two years later.
At 6:30 a.m., the sun started to slowly bleed into the night’s blanket of blue. It was that fragile moment—the edge between yesterday’s accomplishments and the quiet hope of a new day. This was your favourite time for morning jogs, when the world still felt soft and untouched. The streets were almost empty, save for a few early risers and the birds waking up to the first warm light. A lone squirrel darted across the sidewalk, and the cool air smelled faintly of jasmine and fresh earth.
You inhaled deeply, savouring the calm, your footsteps light against the pavement. It was a moment of peace, a rare bubble of stillness before the noise of the day took hold.
But, as always, that peace was shattered about thirty minutes in, right when your phone buzzed with that all-too-familiar ring.
The voice on the other end was sharp, impatient—a slick marketing exec who never seemed to tire of doubting your vision.
“Look, I don’t see how this is going to work without more concrete data,” he barked, immediately pulling you from the sunrise calm. No greeting, no respect, just an angry old man who couldn’t see anything past his own ego. “You can’t just throw money at ‘good intentions’ and expect investors to keep buying in.”
Your pace faltered for a split second, but you caught yourself. “Good morning to you as well, Kaito-san.” Your voice was laced with a thick layer of condensation. “I believe we’ve talked about this already. We’ve already shown growth. Hundreds of women were impacted. Events. A TEDx talk. Do you want the reports, or do you want me to remind you why this matters?”
His sigh was heavy, dismissive. “You’re passionate, sure. But passion doesn’t pay the bills.”
You clenched your jaw, the serenity of earlier already bleeding from your chest like the night sky had from the horizon.
“Passion drives change. That’s the whole point.”
You turned a corner onto the narrow street that led to your building. The sunrise had officially traded in its softness for something warmer, now brighter, almost sharp. The kind of light that left long gold streaks on car windows and turned the sidewalk into a low, simmering stove beneath your shoes.
The air was still cool in the shade, but your skin had started to gather a slick sheen of sweat. You reached up, pulled your cap off, and shook out your hair, fingertips pressing into your scalp, trying to will the frustration out before it stuck to your spine.
Your feet hit the pavement with rhythmic slaps—faster now, more impatient. The cement still held the chill of night in some places, but patches of it were already warming beneath the early sun. A stray cicada buzzed from somewhere in the bushes.
And then Kaito-san kept talking.
“With this new camp, or workshop, or... whatever playdate you’re calling it,” he said, voice smirking, “the investors aren’t going to be thrilled unless there’s at least one male athlete involved. Ideally two. Balanced optics: two women, two men.”
You stopped walking.
Not because you were shocked—he’d pulled this kind of nonsense before—but because you needed a second to exhale. To let the heat from your body settle instead of spike.
“It’s not a playdate,” you said, voice steady and flat. “It’s a professionally structured, research-backed workshop designed by athletes, for athletes.”
“That may be,” he said, with the easy smugness of someone who’d never had to second-guess his own authority, “but the demographic data shows—”
“The data you’re referencing is outdated and doesn’t apply to the target audience,” you cut in.
You stepped back into motion, the gravel under your running shoes crunching lightly as you moved.
“This is a female-led initiative. It’s meant to create space in an industry where women are still routinely talked over, ignored, or… shoved aside for optics.”
You reached the front of your building just as the sunlight crested fully over the rooftops, bathed in warm gold, sharp light bouncing off the glass like a flashbulb.
“We are not going to dilute that mission for a sense of performative balance,” you said. “If we do bring in male athletes, it’ll be because they understand what the space is for—not to appease people who think inclusion means equality at the cost of intention.”
He made a noise like he was gearing up to argue again, but you’d already keyed in the security code.
The building door clicked open, the cool blast of air conditioning rushing to greet your overheated skin like a sigh of relief.
You stepped inside. Closed the door behind you.
“Now, Kaito-san,” you said, calm and final. “If you'd like those reports, I’ll have Akaashi send them over this afternoon. Otherwise, I suggest you catch up.”
And before he could say a word, you ended the call.
You stared at the black screen of your phone for a long second.
Kaito’s voice still lingered somewhere in your head, oily and loud and always so sure of itself. The kind of man who never reads your proposals but still has critiques. The kind of man who’d never started a damn thing in his life but somehow thought he was qualified to question yours.
You took a slow breath.
No. You weren’t going to let a greasy old executive with too much cologne and too little vision ruin your morning.
You were a Hibiya for fuck’s sake .
You built a global brand with your own two hands. Graduated with three degrees before the age of twenty-five. And somewhere in between building a company, speaking at conferences, designing tech systems for communication, and running leadership seminars, you’d somehow managed to earn a PhD in Human Interactions and Strategic Design—because if there was one thing you understood better than any of them, it was people.
And more importantly: how to build something that actually mattered to them.
You exhaled, the tension in your spine easing just a fraction as the elevator doors slid open in front of you. You pressed the button for your floor and leaned against the side panel, letting your head rest back against the cool brushed metal.
This month—this month —you were about to launch the most personal, most ambitious part of the entire Hibi initiative:
An in-person training camp and workshop for young female athletes.
Not just a one-day event. Not just a donation and a social media post.
An immersive, multi-week experience. A space with real mentorship, physical and emotional training, guest speakers, recovery specialists, financial coaching, and even psychological prep for competing under pressure. The kind of thing you never got to see growing up, not once.
A space where girls could learn how to win—and what it meant to win on their own terms.
You’d been planning it for two years and dreaming about it since you were 15. Pulling resources. Building partnerships. Studying athlete burnout and dropout rates across different prefectures. Even the location had been chosen with care: accessible, safe, community-centred.
It wasn’t just a workshop. It was infrastructure. Something that might outlive you.
The elevator chimed softly as it reached your floor.
You stepped out, unlocked the door to your apartment, and let it close behind you with a dull click.
And then—without bothering to kick off your shoes—you let your bag drop and slowly lowered yourself to the floor.
The hardwood was cool against your back, the only thing not warm and spinning.
You stared at the ceiling, arms splayed out, phone still clutched loosely in one hand.
God. You were exhausted.
Not from the run. Not even from Kaito, really.
But from the everything of it. The constant push. The need to prove this thing you were building wasn’t just about your name or your face, but about creating something that would still be standing long after you stopped showing up in meetings.
And the part that got to you?
You were actually doing it.
Every single day, you were doing it.
You stayed on the floor longer than you meant to.
The smooth hardwood was cool against the overheated skin on the back of your arms. Your ponytail was starting to stick to your neck. One shoe had half-fallen off. You were still holding your phone in your right hand, like you might toss it across the room if Kaito’s voice echoed in your head again.
And then— click, click, click.
Small footsteps. Then a pause. Then, heavier, deliberate ones behind them.
You didn’t even lift your head. Just closed your eyes.
Dango got to you first.
You felt the warmth of her fur before you heard her huff, that familiar breathy uff she made whenever she found you lying down like this. Her massive Samoyed body plopped down beside you, shaking the floor ever so slightly. A puff of her snowy coat spread across your chest as she nudged her nose into your jaw and exhaled like she understood everything.
You smiled weakly. “Hi, baby.”
A second later, the sharper, quicker taps of claws on wood returned.
Maru.
All black. All attitude. She skidded a little as she reached your side and didn’t hesitate—she climbed right up onto your chest like a queen scaling a defeated enemy. Her tiny, warm body settled on your sternum, tail flicking once, then curling around herself.
She let out one short bark. Not concerned. Just as annoyed as a weiner dog could be.
You didn’t even open your eyes. “Love you too, Maru.”
And then—
A soft, unimpressed meow.
You cracked one eye open and tilted your head just enough to see the kitchen counter.
There she was.
Winnie. Or, more often, Poo.
Her light brown fur shimmered gold in the sun filtering through the east-facing window, and her soft folded ears made her wide eyes look even rounder than usual. She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared, like she was judging your entire existence from atop the marble.
She didn’t come closer. She never did when Dango was lying down—she knew she’d be smothered by love and fluff within seconds, and she acted like she was above said act. Instead, she tucked her paws under her belly with the elegance of a well-fed shrine cat and blinked slowly at you, her tail thudding lazily against the counter behind her.
You were surrounded by warmth. Alive. Safe. Loved.
And still… there was something pulling at you. Not bad. Not empty. Just… heavy.
Your muscles had long since cooled down from your jog. You could still taste the last of the sports drink on your tongue, could feel where the edge of your waistband was digging into your hip. The adrenaline from the call had drained completely, leaving you in the shape of yourself but just slightly too tired to move.
And yet.
Even here, even like this—you knew it was worth it.
You’d built this. All of it. From scratch.
At twenty-four, you’d walked across a stage in heels that didn’t fit and accepted your third degree.
At twenty-six, your brand exploded into global markets.
At twenty-eight, you were about to launch the single most meaningful program of your life.
An in-person training camp and workshop for young female athletes.
Not a half-baked brand partnership or a glorified ad campaign. A real thing. Designed for growth. Made for girls who needed guidance, training, rest, and confidence. Girls who deserved more than what you’d had at their age.
You’d pulled in data from dropout rates and injury recovery timelines. You’d studied the mental health impact of competitive environments and built a curriculum that wasn’t just about performance, but about staying whole while doing it.
This was what you wanted since you played in that old run-down court. Since you first learned how to set a ball in the non-profit club your dad founded.
And this was what you got.
And still…
A small ache pressed at the back of your ribs, quiet but persistent.
You thought about your best friend since undergrad. Always calm, always two steps ahead, always knowing when to check in and when to give you space. All those qualities that lead you to hire him as your manager.
Akaashi had finally made it official with his boyfriend.
They’d been together almost two years. Quietly, then openly. You were happy for them. You were. Truly.
But a few weeks ago, he’d sent you a picture from some beachside restaurant in Okinawa—chopsticks in one hand, cocktail in the other. The corner of the photo had caught his boyfriend’s hand on his wrist. Just a thumb, a little curved smile, a casual touch.
And something about it had hit you in the gut. Not jealousy, you gave him the vacation for their anniversary. Not even envy, you wished Akaashi all the best in life, he deserved it..
Just… the feeling.
That tiny, lingering question: Is this all I get?
Because you had love. You had people who admired you. A national team. Respect. Purpose. You had dogs who followed you from room to room. A cat who sat in judgment and still chose you every night.
But sometimes—when the work ended and the sun came up and there was no one to eat breakfast with— You wondered.
Was this the life you were supposed to want? Or just the one you knew how to build?
Maru shifted on your chest, letting out a tiny grunt. Dango sighed, rolling into your side and tucking her chin over your shoulder like a bear.
Winnie blinked again from the counter.
You stared up at the ceiling.
And slowly— very slowly—you let your free hand drift up to rest on Maru’s warm little back. Your fingers curled into her fur as your eyelids fluttered closed again.You were here. You were tired. And still—
You weren’t done yet. And when your phone buzzed in your hand, screen lighting up with a familiar name, you didn’t even lift your head.
Maru’s butt was firmly pressed into your cheek. She had jumped up with all the grace of a sack of flour and miscalculated her angle, which led to the unfortunate reality of her bak end planted directly on your face. You tried to nudge her gently, but she only grumbled, circled once like she owned the place (she did), and settled on your sternum like a princess atop her throne.
Meanwhile, Dango—who had approximately the spatial awareness of a couch cushion—had decided your body made a perfectly acceptable dog bed. You could still breathe, barely. Her full weight stretched across your torso like a warm, fluffy avalanche. Her snout rested on your collarbone. She sighed, deeply, and drooled a little.
You gave up. One hand reached upward from the chaos and tapped the green button.
“Morning, Keiji,” you said, voice muffled by fur and defeat.
“Morning,” came Akaashi’s voice—smooth, even, unmistakably polished. You could hear the faint clack of keys in the background, the signature rhythm of him working. He was probably already seated at his favourite café with his laptop open, headphones in, doing three things at once.
“You sound like you’ve been steamrolled,” he added.
“I was,” you mumbled. “By Dango. And misogyny.”
“Ah,” he said without missing a beat. “Two sides of the same coin.”
You sighed through your nose. Dango shifted slightly and tucked her head deeper into the crook of your neck, clearly intent on making this a long-term stay. Maru, for her part, had begun to twitch in her sleep, one paw jerking every few seconds against your ribs. You were 85% sure she was dreaming of fighting god.
“Anyway,” Akaashi continued, casually over the sound of more typing, “I was going over the meeting notes and something interesting came up. Do you remember that random assistant girl? The one who always had a new coffee stain every time she walked into a room?”
You blinked at the ceiling. Winnie, from her perch on the kitchen counter, stared back at you with those folded Scottish Fold ears and an expression of withering judgment. She flicked her tail once. She knew better than to get close when Dango was in full-body cling mode.
“Oh my god,” you said slowly. “Yeah. Wait—what was her name…”
A pause.
“…Suzuki Ayame,” you said finally, pushing yourself up halfway. Dango let out a groan but didn’t move. You wiggled your hips, and Maru slid to the side with an offended grunt. “She had that cat with the permanent angry face. You remember? The one she brought to Zoom once by accident?”
“She named it after her ex,” Akaashi said calmly. “Which is probably why it had that face.”
You snorted. “Right. What about her?”
“She just sent over a document and a pitch deck. Potential athlete profiles for the training camp. Notes from yesterday’s meeting, with expanded logistics for invite criteria. It’s good. Like, scary good. It’s structured like something you’d make.”
That snapped you out of your fog.
“She did that?” you asked, propping yourself on your elbows now. “I knew she had potential. That’s amazing.”
“She also colour-coded the whole thing,” Akaashi added. “Which is how I know she’s a little unwell.”
You hummed. “Our kind of unwell.”
The warmth only lasted a moment. The earlier phone call leaked back into your chest like a draft under a locked door.
You rubbed your face with one hand and let the other stroke Dango’s soft fur. “Well. We might need her deck more than we thought. I just got off the phone with the greasy fuck—”
“Saito-san?” Akaashi guessed instantly.
“Bingo,” you muttered. “He wants ‘balanced optics.’ Two women, two men. Said no one’s going to fund a ‘female-led fantasy’ unless we make room for the men.”
There was a pause on the other end.
Then: “Does he know the name of the program is literally HER Game Plan ?”
You groaned. “I said passion drives change, and he said passion doesn’t pay bills. So, no. He’s never known anything in his life.”
Akaashi sighed like someone who had been carrying the weight of the patriarchy since birth. “I guess we’re going to need a new strategy. I’ll be at yours in an hour. We’ll go through Suzuki’s list and see if we can keep the integrity intact and satisfy the misogyny.”
You let your head fall back onto the floor with a low thud. Above you, Winnie blinked slowly, like she couldn’t believe she shared a home with you.
“I’ll shower,” you mumbled.
“Please do,” Akaashi said. “Respectfully.”
You rolled your eyes. “Okay, now fuck off before I fire you..”
“Too late,” he said, the faint sound of a screenshot clicking in the background. “I already quit when you threw your popcorn at me last Friday.”
The line went dead.
You let your arm flop to the floor and stared up at the ceiling.
“Okay,” you whispered. “Shower. Then fuck them all up.”
Dango finally rolled off you with a satisfied groan, plopping to the side like a weighted blanket sliding off a bed.
Maru stretched, sneezed dramatically, and hopped down with a little thud-thud-thud of toenails on the wood floor.
Winnie remained on the counter, tail flicking, judgment absolute.
You pushed yourself up, slow but determined.
Time to rise. Time to fight.
Time to fix the world you loved and hated.
By the time you emerged from the bathroom, skin fresh and glowing from a quick rinse and a mint-scented mask, Akaashi was already seated on your couch like he owned the place.
Pooh—Winnie, but only when she felt like listening—was curled comfortably in his lap, tail tucked around her paws like royalty. Akaashi hadn’t moved an inch. One arm rested along the back of the couch, the other held your iPad with surgical precision. He looked like a man casually solving world peace before 10 AM.
You blinked. “What did you bribe my cat with?”
He didn’t even look up. “Nothing. She just respects me.”
“She doesn’t respect anyone.”
“She respects herself. And by extension, me.”
You sighed, padding back into the bathroom. “You’re getting a face mask.”
“Can I have the cucumber one—”
“Yeah, hold on. I’m not used to being the assistant here.”
You returned with the container and slapped it gently into his palm. He took it with the resigned grace of a man who knew resistance was futile.
Ten minutes later, you were both seated at the kitchen island, iced coffee in hand and matching green face masks on like a two-person spa summit. A document was open on the screen between you, color-coded, terrifyingly efficient.
“She sent this just now?” you asked, scrolling through Suzuki Ayame’s newly expanded pitch deck.
Akaashi nodded. “I told her about the investor issue. She had the draft done in ten minutes. Sorted by sport, availability, social relevance. Agent contacts included. Media-friendly profiles are marked in blue.”
You blinked. “Remind me to give her a raise. And a coffee. And possibly my job.”
“She’s your child,” Akaashi said. “Emotionally speaking.”
You smiled but didn’t answer, already drawn in.
You’d already chosen your female athletes. Amanai Kanoka had been a no-brainer. Beloved, outspoken, consistent. The second—Shōko Hirugami, an up-and-coming libero—was lesser-known, but fierce. You remembered reading her open letter about league harassment late one night and knowing immediately: Her. She’s ready.
Now came the hard part.
You scrolled past swimmers, track stars, a fencer with 2.5 million followers and a glossy PR team. Then—
Motoya Komori. Libero. EJP Raijin.
You paused.
“I know that name,” you murmured.
Akaashi leaned slightly toward the screen. “EJP. He’s their libero. Underrated, but solid.”
You nodded slowly. “No, I mean—I know of it. The team.”
Akaashi’s fingers stilled on his mug. “Probably because he plays with Suna Rintarou.”
That name lodged itself into the moment.
Your old neighbor.
You hadn’t thought about Suna in—god, how long? Not since your move to Tokyo. Not since he helped carry your final box to the cab the summer before university. You weren’t close—not close enough to call, or text, or update. But there’d been familiarity. Years of growing up across the street, grabbing each other’s takeout by accident, being stuck on the same train platform in the middle of a snowstorm once, silent except for the way your shivers matched.
Just enough to know him. Just enough to still keep tabs on what people from high school were doing.
You always did. Not because you missed them, necessarily. But because it helped to know where you came from. You knew exactly who worked where. Who got married. Who moved abroad. Who quit volleyball. You were sure they knew about you , too.
Still, that didn’t mean you were going to start calling people out of the blue.
You had a schedule. You had a company. You had, arguably, too many pets.
And yet… your eyes lingered on Komori’s profile a second longer than they needed to.
Just long enough to wonder what it would feel like to bring a piece of “then” into “now.”
By now, you and Akaashi are still seated at the kitchen island. Your coffee’s watered down with melted ice, Winnie’s tail is flicking across your screen, and Maru is chewing on the corner of a pen you’re absolutely going to forget was in her mouth.
You’ve already skimmed through Suzuki’s athlete list. Rejected every name. You’re not ready to compromise—not yet.
So instead, you pivot.
“Let’s move on,” you say, rubbing under your eye where the last bit of mask has flaked. “Show me the press kits.”
Akaashi’s already on it. He pulls up the media folder Suzuki compiled for the HER Game Plan rollout.
There are mockups for digital billboards. Sneaker collabs. Quotes overlaid in soft color gradients. A tagline in Hiragana that melts your heart because it’s from your first-ever pitch deck. The one you made in a café at 2am on a rainy Thursday night.
You smile. Quietly.
“She really did all this overnight?”
“She’s terrifying,” Akaashi says again, nodding with affection. “I might leave you for her.”
“Good. Maybe she’ll listen when I say I want more peach in the gradient.”
You both scroll in silence for a beat. Then, something new catches your eye: a press lineup sheet—simple, clean, marked “ENDORSEMENTS / MEDIA PARTNERSHIPS – TENTATIVE.”
“Oh,” Akaashi says. “That one came from our PR team. They’re working with the campaign photographers. Thought it might help get more traction if we had a few male athletes publicly supporting the program. Non-participant features only.”
You nod. Makes sense. Visibility was always part of the strategy. You skim the list.
Keita Yamamoto – Olympic gold swimmer
Hiro Akiyama – F1 racer
Ryusei Shurou – Track + Field champion
Atsumu Miya – Pro volleyball setter, MSBY Jackals
You blinked.
Then swiped past.
“Anyone confirmed yet?” you ask, like the name meant nothing .
Akaashi doesn’t even look up. “Just the swimmer. Everyone else is still in talks. They’re filming something low-stakes. B-roll. Interviews in support of the program. No one’s joining the team.”
“Right.” You nod again.
You don’t ask about the last name on the list.
You don’t mention that it’s been years.
You don’t say you’d seen his face a few months ago—on a poster, outside a gym, while you were walking your dogs.
You don’t say he hasn’t crossed your mind since.
You really don’t say that, because it might not be true.
So you say nothing.
And swipe to the next page.
A week and a bit later.
The morning air was crisp but soft, the kind of early spring light that made the city feel like it was holding its breath before the day fully woke up. A faint breeze kissed the edges of your cheeks, carrying the smell of early blossoms, clean concrete, and a hint of roasted beans from the café three blocks back. Osaka in the morning had always felt different—quieter than Tokyo, softer at the edges. Familiar. Grounding.
You looped the leash around your wrist and guided Dango and Maru down the quiet sidewalk, sneakers tapping against the smooth pavement. The leash tugged once as Dango stopped to sniff a pole, her thick fur catching the sunlight like powdered sugar. Her tongue lolled out of her mouth in lazy contentment, the picture of joy. Maru, by contrast, was chaos in a compact frame—her black coat sleek against the cool air, stubby legs moving at double speed as she darted ahead and circled back like a tiny, chaotic moon orbiting her favourite planet.
The city was still rubbing the sleep out of its eyes. A jogger passed on the opposite side of the street. A delivery truck unloaded boxes into a bakery. A sleepy businessman yawned from behind the wheel of his parked car.
You reached the corner where the traffic light hung lazily overhead, its red glow spreading across the pavement in a warm wash of colour. The three of you stopped. Maru sat with exaggerated patience. Dango panted quietly beside you, her eyes half-lidded in bliss. You shoved your hands into the pockets of your windbreaker and tilted your chin up, watching a bird trace invisible arcs across the sky.
That’s when you heard the hiss of the bus brakes behind you.
You turned your head.
A bus rumbled to a stop just across the intersection, the side panel glinting in the light. And there it was.
Your face.
Clean, calm, smiling in that way you’d perfected—not performative, just true. You were dressed in a soft white blazer, the peach-and-rose Hibi logo embroidered at the collar like a quiet badge of pride. Below it, in flowing type:
HER game plan: Empowering Japan’s Next Generation of Female Athletes
You stared at it for a long moment. Not with shock or disbelief—you’d approved this very campaign a month ago—but with that quiet sort of awe that always caught you off guard when you saw the thing you built existing without you. Still moving. Still spreading. Still working.
It felt like being seen and held, all at once.
You smiled. A breath of pride uncoiled gently in your chest. It wasn’t the kind of pride that puffed you up—it was quieter than that. Warmer. Like looking at something that had once only lived in your head, and now lived out here, on metal panels and crosswalk signs and the side of a city bus.
Your phone buzzed softly in your pocket. You didn’t even need to check it—your notifications had been nonstop since dawn. Another retweet of the workshop announcement. Another article pinged to your press folder. Another message from a mom in Fukuoka thanking you for helping her daughter find her confidence again.
You let the bus pull away, its wheels echoing through the narrow street. The advertisement blurred into the backdrop of morning, but it didn’t really leave. Not emotionally. Not for you.
Because lots of things had been leading up to this moment.
HGP wasn’t just a side project anymore. It wasn’t a sweet little initiative your brand took on for good PR. It was a full arm of your company now. A movement. A promise. A living, breathing ecosystem built around belief— your belief that every girl deserved a space to play, grow, and lead.
From the outside, people saw a well-oiled machine: Posters in public transit hubs and parks. Sponsored subway ads. Carefully curated social campaigns. Short-form videos with athletes sharing why it mattered. Billboards beside the highway into Tokyo. A pop-up installation in Shibuya that played voice memos from girls who had attended last year’s mini camps.
And through all of it, your face. Your voice. Calm. Welcoming. Determined.
Clips played one after another like a documentary waiting to happen.
“Hibi-san’s initiative has already reached over 10,000 participants nationwide,” said a news anchor from a popular NHK broadcast. “And with the training camp launching this month, expectations are high for a new era of female athletes to emerge.”
“The camp isn’t just about physical training,” another podcast host said, voice animated with excitement. “It’s mentorship. Leadership. Self-worth. It’s building communities. And let’s be honest—it’s setting a precedent."
“There’s nothing like it, at least not in Japan,” said a teenage girl in a TikTok with over 3 million views. “It’s not a program, it’s a reminder. That we matter. If I could give Hibi-san a kiss on the mouth, I totally would!”
And then came the real numbers.
You’d already confirmed your final two female athletes: two volleyball stars who shattered scoring records, one a libero, one an outside hitter. Together, they represented resilience and power in its most human form.
The workshop was being held in Osaka, yes—but you were covering all travel costs. Planes, trains, buses. Whatever it took to get them there. Meals were covered. Accommodations provided. Mental health professionals and career mentors were on standby.
The entry? Donation-based only. Whatever participants could afford.
And any profit you did make?
100% going back to the same communities that raised these girls in the first place.
You kept walking.
Dango pressed against your leg. Maru trotted ahead with her tail held high.
As you reached the edge of the block, a little girl passed with her mother. She glanced up, looked at you, and then looked back at the poster on the telephone pole she’d just passed.
Her eyes widened slightly.
You gave her a small smile.
She grinned.
A moment later, your phone rang again.
It was almost time.
The press conference was later that afternoon.
Lights. Cameras. Questions.
The moment where your final vision would meet the world’s scrutiny.
And you were ready.
You rarely got nervous anymore.
Not after years of boardrooms and keynote stages, not after shaking hands with sponsors in glass buildings or locking eyes with critics who underestimated you. Not even after launching HGP and watching it morph into something real—something loud and living and too big to contain.
But today felt different.
This wasn’t your first time speaking in front of a crowd. It wasn’t even your fiftieth. But it was the first time every thread of your work, your vision, and your heart had been stitched into one clear, singular thing.
You stood near the side of the stage—out of spotlight, but very much seen. The room buzzed with movement and chatter, velvet-roped and softly lit by overhead rigs. Investors in pressed suits moved beside teen athletes in their best sneakers. Sponsors in pencil skirts stood beside university students in hoodies. Reporters shifted with pens hovering, but none of them were writing yet. Everyone was simply orbiting.
Orbiting you .
This wasn’t a press conference. Not yet.
It felt like Barbie Land. But the kind you’d always imagined growing up: all women, all energy, all style. Everyone here had something different in their hands—a mic, a camera, a water bottle, a clipboard—but the thing in their eyes was the same: belief.
You glanced down at your heels—yes, those heels. The soft blush Louboutins you’d worn so many times they’d finally started to mold to your feet. It was a quiet power, walking into a room in stilettos that had survived both a TEDx stage and a coffee spill in front of the Minister of Culture. They didn’t hurt anymore. Not because they were soft, but because you weren’t.
Today, you wore an ivory-toned pantsuit with double-breasted buttons and subtle embroidered detailing at the cuff. It was something between a blazer and a cape—the kind of silhouette that moved when you walked. Underneath, a thin peach blouse made of the softest silk you could find. Your earrings were gold, shaped like little abstract flames, and your hair was twisted up with an effortless, lived-in polish. A look that said: I built this. Ask me how.
Akaashi stood beside you, wearing a dark slate blazer, soft white shirt unbuttoned just enough to whisper expensive taste, and navy tailored slacks. He looked like he belonged in an editorial spread and a budget meeting at the same time. His left hand held a tablet displaying the event itinerary. His right—currently wrapped around your spare lip balm—tapped lightly against the screen as he scanned notes.
Reporters floated in and out of the conversation bubbles forming around you. A woman in red lipstick and an HBCU sweatshirt shook your hand and told you her niece cried when she got accepted into the program. A man from Tokyo University asked if he could schedule a lecture with you next semester. A teenage volleyball player asked if she could hug you. You said yes.
And still, the room kept folding in around you. So many faces. So many women. For a moment, you felt like the air itself was holding its breath.
A familiar voice cut through the soft chatter like a warm blade.
“Oi.”
You turned just in time to see a tall figure stride into your corner of the room like he owned the air. Black dress shirt, sleeves rolled, pants pressed, lanyard slung around his neck like an afterthought. That signature shock of dark, wild hair was unmistakable.
Kuroo Tetsurō.
His grin stretched just before he slung one arm around Akaashi’s shoulders in a casual, practiced motion.
“Keiji. Still not tired of saving the world one agenda at a time?”
Akaashi let out a small laugh, the kind that lived somewhere between fond and exasperated. “Somebody has to. Good to see you.”
“You too,” Kuroo said, giving him a quick once-over. “You look like a CEO’s right hand.”
Akaashi arched a brow. “I am.”
Kuroo gave a low whistle of approval, then turned to you with that same easy charm. You extended your hand and offered a polite smile.
“Kuroo-san. Good to see you again. Thank you for all your help.”
He took your hand with a firm, respectful shake. “Please. Just Kuroo. You’re the one doing the heavy lifting. I’m just here to smile for the cameras and talk about how much I care.”
You smiled. “You do it well.”
Kuroo gave a small bow of acknowledgment. “I do love pretending to be important.”
Then he glanced sideways at Akaashi. “How’s Kotarou?”
The change in Akaashi was instant.
His posture remained straight, but the faintest pink bloomed at the tips of his ears. He adjusted his sleeve like it owed him something.
“He’s well,” he said simply.
Kuroo grinned wider, catching the shift immediately. “Still yelling about protein powder and jumping off things he shouldn’t?”
Akaashi paused. “...Probably.”
“Oh—” Kuroo snapped his fingers like he’d just remembered. “When can I come around to test out the new bouncy castle? Bo just said he got one last week and I’m dying to try it.”
You blinked.
Akaashi turned his entire head. “Sorry, he did what ?”
“Yeah. Said it was ‘for recovery.’ And also because the parkour video he saw made it look fun.”
Akaashi closed his eyes for a long, pained beat. “He’s going to break his ankle again.”
Kuroo shrugged. “I told him I’d supervise. Which really just means I’m gonna record it.”
Akaashi muttered something that sounded a lot like “I’m dating an idiot” under his breath.
Kuroo just laughed and clapped him on the back. “You love it.”
Your smile widened. “I’m assuming this is normal?”
Akaashi sighed. “Unfortunately.”
“Bokuto’s got the energy of a golden retriever in a monster truck,” Kuroo added. “But he means well. And he’s been talking about your program nonstop since he saw the flyers. He keeps trying to convince me to apply with him.”
You tilted your head. “He knows it’s for young girls , right?”
Kuroo grinned. “Doesn’t matter. Said he wants to ‘cheer everyone on from the sidelines like a motivational tree.’”
You blinked. “...A motivational tree.”
Akaashi just sighed again, quieter this time. “That tracks.”
Kuroo chuckled and glanced down at his watch. “Speaking of motivational trees—I’ve got to go say a few things into a microphone. See you out there.”
He gave you a parting nod and headed toward the stage, clipboard now tucked under one arm.
You watched him disappear into the wings.
The hum of the room returned. The weight of it. The eyes. The stage lights beginning to flicker into position.
Akaashi turned to you just as Kuroo disappeared into the wings.
Without a word, he pulled your favorite lip gloss from the inner pocket of his jacket and handed it to you like it was a ritual. Familiar. Unspoken.
You blinked at it, then him.
“You’re terrifying,” he said quietly. “In the best way. Now go fuck them up.”
A laugh escaped you—small but genuine. The gloss clicked shut as you passed it back, your smile painted sharp.
“I will.”
He gave a little bow, hand over heart. “I never doubted it.”
Then you stepped away, your heels moving silently over the velvet flooring toward the side of the stage. You could feel the gravity shift. That particular stillness before being seen.
Beyond the curtain, Kuroo’s voice carried into the room, smooth and confident as ever.
“Good afternoon, everyone. Thank you for being here on behalf of the Japan Volleyball Association, and most importantly—thank you for showing up for our girls. For the future of sport in this country.”
A brief pause. Some cheers. Scattered applause.
“We’ve had the privilege of partnering with one of the most innovative and impactful minds in community development—someone whose vision has redefined what it means to empower the next generation, not just through sport, but through structure, education, and belonging.”
You could feel your breath slow. Shoulders draw back. Not from nerves, but from intention.
“HER Game Plan has already made waves across the country,” Kuroo continued. “And what you’ll hear today is just the beginning.”
He glanced to the wings. Right at you.
“So without further ado—please welcome the founder and CEO of Hibi, the architect of HGP, and someone who makes us all believe a little more in what’s possible—Hibiya-san.”
Applause thundered through the hall.
The lights came up.
You stepped forward into the spotlight, the soft murmur of the crowd settling into an expectant silence. Your heels clicked steadily, grounding you in the moment. The lights warmed your skin, and the energy in the room thrummed like a pulse.
You smiled gently and began.
“Not many people know this, but I grew up playing volleyball—not with the powerhouse schools at nationals, but with backyard nonprofit clubs. Places where kids learned the game because someone cared enough to teach them. Where passion had to fill in for resources we didn’t have.”
The screens behind you flickered to life, showing grainy footage of kids practicing on cracked courts, coaches shouting encouragement, and laughter echoing under fading sunsets.
“I always wished for more. More access. More opportunities. More belief that girls like me could belong in sports without having to fight every inch of the way.”
You paused, letting the weight of that wish settle in the room.
“After years of study, struggle, and building Hibi, I finally have the resources—and the community—to complete that dream. HGP isn’t just a program. It’s a movement born from those early courts, from every girl who ever wanted to play but didn’t know if she could.”
The screen shifted to photos of the program’s early days—community workshops, smiling girls in bright jerseys, volunteers high-fiving.
“This past year, we’ve touched the lives of over ten thousand girls across Japan, from rural towns to bustling cities. We’ve provided training clinics, mentorship sessions, leadership development, and most importantly, a sense of belonging.”
You stepped to the side as the next slide appeared—a detailed graphic of the upcoming training camp’s layout.
“This training camp, launching next month in Osaka, will be the largest and most comprehensive part of HGP so far. It will be a week-long, multi-sport event designed not only to improve athletic skill but to foster leadership, confidence, and resilience.”
Another slide showed maps and schedules.
“We are covering transportation, accommodation, meals, and all necessary materials for every participant. No girl will be turned away for financial reasons.”
Your voice softened with conviction.
“We want every participant to feel safe and supported. That’s why we’ve partnered with security professionals and local authorities to create a secure environment. Medical staff will be onsite 24/7, and every athlete will have access to mental health resources and counseling.”
The crowd nodded appreciatively, some taking notes.
“We are planning for this to be an annual event, with hopes to expand to other regions next year. Our ultimate goal is a nationwide network where girls can come together, train, and uplift each other year-round.”
You paused, scanning the sea of faces, then smiled brighter.
“This is more than a camp. It’s a home. A foundation for a future where girls don’t just participate, but lead. Where they rewrite the rules of the game—not just on the court but in every aspect of their lives.”
The room fell into a hush, breath held.
“And that future starts here. It starts now.”
Applause swelled, growing louder and more fervent.
You nodded gratefully, a quiet pride warming your chest.
You took a small step back from the podium and offered a composed smile.
“Thank you all for your attention. Now, if you’d like to ask any questions, the floor is yours.”
The moderator—your usual clipboard-wielding gatekeeper—stepped forward near the side of the stage. Her eyes scanned the crowd quickly, poised to select who would get the microphone.
The room hummed with murmurs, the shuffle of feet, and the low buzz of eager reporters and camera crews inching forward, ready to capture every word.
The moderator’s voice cut through clearly and politely:
“Let’s start with the gentleman in the navy blazer, third row.”
A tall man with sharp glasses rose and adjusted his mic.
“Ms. Hibiya, how do you plan to measure the long-term impact of HGP? With so many programs addressing similar issues, what makes yours sustainable?”
You nodded, steady and warm.
“We’re using a comprehensive tracking system that follows participants beyond the camp—monitoring their academic, athletic, and personal growth. Partnering with schools and community groups builds ongoing support. Sustainability is about relationships, not just numbers.”
The man nodded, jotting notes.
The moderator moved on:
“The woman in the red scarf, back of the room.”
A reporter smiled sharply.
“Some critics say programs like this exclude male athletes and deepen gender divides. Your thoughts?”
You inhaled smoothly.
“HGP addresses historical inequities, creating space for girls to lead and thrive. It’s about equity, not exclusion, and part of a broader vision for inclusive sports.”
Murmurs of approval rippled through the room.
The next question came from a younger man near the front:
“How is this program funded long-term? How do you keep it accessible?”
You smiled proudly.
“All participation is by donation. Every cent goes back to the program. We’re growing sponsorships and revenue streams—like merchandise—to sustain it without burdening participants.”
Then the tone began to shift.
A middle-aged man with a smug grin stood, the microphone passed to him.
“Ms. Hibiya, this focus on women’s sports is admirable, but what do you say to concerns that it undermines traditional team dynamics? Aren’t some of these ideals a bit… radical?”
You met his gaze evenly.
“Progress often feels uncomfortable until it becomes the new normal. Our goal is to expand opportunities, not divide.”
Another voice, a woman this time, chipped in with a skeptical edge:
“Do you think girls need special programs? Isn’t sport about merit and skill, regardless of gender?”
You nodded thoughtfully.
“Merit and skill are crucial, yes—but access and encouragement are just as important. HER Game Plan fills gaps where girls have historically been discouraged or overlooked.”
A younger reporter, voice dripping with condescension, asked:
“With all this responsibility, how do you balance your personal life? Surely, success in business and leadership means sacrifices?”
Your smile tightened but remained professional.
“Balance is personal and unique. What matters is commitment to the mission. I believe passion and purpose fuel success, regardless of the sacrifices.”
The room’s energy thickened, a few whispers fluttered.
Finally, a man in the back, voice loud enough for all to hear, leaned into the mic:
“Ms. Hibiya—when do you plan to marry? Surely all this work will have to wait for settling down and starting a family?”
The room shifted. A few startled gasps, a nervous laugh or two.
You lifted your chin, eyes sharp and calm, voice firm but polite:
“If you’d please respect the reason why we’re all here today and only ask questions relating to the current project and the betterment of Japan’s female youth, we’d have a much more productive conversation.”
A ripple of murmurs followed, some nods, and a few sheepish glances as the moderator stepped forward to steer the session back on course.
You inhaled deeply, the spotlight warming your face, the weight of the room pressing in—but you were steady, unshaken.
The room’s atmosphere softened in the wake of your firm rebuke, the tension melting away like a slow, steady exhale. The moderator’s eyes swept the crowd with new intention, as if catching the unspoken shift in the room’s energy.
A small hand hesitated, then rose near the front. The girl looked barely sixteen, her cheeks tinged with the delicate flush of nerves and hope. When the microphone was handed to her, her voice emerged quiet but clear, steady despite the weight of the moment.
“Last question for today,” the moderator announced, her tone gentle, inviting calm over the restless murmurs.
The girl took a breath. “Ms. Hibiya, thank you for creating this program. My name is Aiko, I’m training to be a volleyball player, but sometimes it feels like I don’t belong—that I’m too small, or… not good enough. Do you really think programs like this can help girls like me?”
Your chest tightened in a way that was equal parts warmth and fierce determination. This was why you poured everything into HGP—because of moments like this, where a girl dared to hope.
You smiled softly, stepping down from the podium and leaning in slightly, lowering yourself to her level. The spotlight’s harsh glow softened here, the distant murmur of the crowd dimming to a comforting hum.
“Absolutely,” you said, your voice gentle but unwavering. “This program is for girls just like you. Size doesn’t matter, experience doesn’t matter. What matters is belief in yourself, in your dreams, and in the community around you. You belong here. We’re here to build that space where every girl can grow, learn, and find her strength.”
A ripple of applause spread through the room, and you caught glimpses of nodding heads, smiling faces—some young, some old—touched by your words.
Straightening, you turned back toward the microphone. The warmth from the audience wrapped around you like a steady fire, energizing and grounding.
“Thank you all for your thoughtful questions and for sharing this time with me today. HER Game Plan is more than a program—it’s a promise to build a stronger, fairer sports community for women across Japan. I am deeply honored to take this journey with you.”
As you stepped away, the room’s buzz slowly returned—cameras flashing, whispers turning into conversation—but you were already moving toward the wings.
Backstage, Akaashi waited quietly, calm and steady as always. When your eyes met, a small, proud smile curved his lips. Without hesitation, you crossed the short distance and wrapped your arms around him, the tight embrace full of relief, gratitude, and shared triumph.
“Thank you,” you murmured into his shoulder. “For everything.”
He squeezed you gently, voice low and sure. “You carried this. I’m just here to remind you how brilliant you are.”
The faint scent of his cologne mixed with the warmth of the moment, and for the first time in days, you allowed yourself a breath—a pause in the storm.
Today was just one victory in a long journey. But it was yours.
It was the fifth video sent to the group chat since the press conference aired. Atsumu hadn’t even opened the last three. The TV played some half-watched documentary in the background, but his phone wouldn’t shut up.
Kou-kou [9:41 PM]: LOOOK AT KEIJI OMG 😭😭😭
Kou-kou[9:42 PM]: also the camp is literally PERFECT for us
Chibi [9:42 PM]: RIGHT?? i was watching it live!! her speech?? Unreal
Kou-kou [9:42 PM]: shoyo we HAVE to go
Omi [9:43 PM]: Please don’t go.
Chibi [9:43 PM]: why not?? it’s for a good cause
Kou-kou [9:43 PM]: cause you’re scared of strong women
Omi [9:44 PM]: Because it’s for YOUNG GIRLS. Unless you’ve been deceiving us this whole time, I’m sure you two aren’t the target audience.
Kou-kou [9:44 PM]: okay real but we should still go
Hinata [9:44 PM]: fr atsumu say something!! get us an invite!!
Bokuto [9:45 PM]: TSUMU WAKE UPPPP
Bokuto [9:45 PM]: keiji says omis right and it is for girls but i thik he just wants to be surprised!!!1!11
Omi [9:45 PM]: I don’t think Akaashi-kun would appreciate this surprise.
Atsumu finally let his head fall back against the couch cushion, a long sigh dragging out of his chest.
They weren’t going to stop.
He glanced down at the latest attachment.
A still of the press conference— You, standing at the podium. Confident. Poised. That same determined look he remembered from that one time in high school… just a lot more polished now.
He hadn’t even realized you were the face behind the whole thing. He wasn’t sure how he felt about realizing it now.
His thumb hovered over the screen.
And for some reason, he played the video.
a/n: hey its also been a WHILE. sorry, uni prep is kicking my ass i'm so scared but whatever. as always hope you enjoyed and love you all so much <333