Iwaizumi Hajime— Caught in the Storm
(rain-soaked romance abroad | teammates meddling | soft kiss + confession) │ some storms don’t scatter people — they pull them in.
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you’ve been abroad with team japan for almost a week now, and the city feels like a warm dream — narrow cobblestone streets, glowing lampposts, shopfronts tucked into alleys like secrets. the schedule is packed, but tonight the staff and players were finally allowed a few free hours to relax.
you end up with a small group: bokuto, aran, hinata, sakusa, and iwaizumi, wandering through streets that look like postcards. dinner is loud and chaotic — bokuto drops his fork twice, hinata tries to order something he absolutely cannot pronounce, sakusa refuses to sit near the door because it’s “too drafty,” and iwaizumi… well, he’s quiet, but he’s always quiet.
you always walk a little closer to him without meaning to.
the night is warm, the air soft, the group cheerful — until bokuto, in an act of misguided chivalry, chirps:
“hey! let me hold your bag for you! i got it, i’m a gentleman!”
you laugh and hand it over. you should not have.
your phone is in that bag. iwaizumi’s phone is too — he dropped his earlier, and he asked you to hold onto it until after dinner. so it went straight into your purse.
bokuto throws your bag over his shoulder with pride. “see? safe with me!”
minutes later, someone shouts that a dessert shop around the corner is giving out free samples, and bokuto takes off like a fired bullet — with your bag — and the rest of the group instinctively runs after him.
you and iwaizumi are still trying to close your umbrellas when you realize the stampede is already three blocks away.
“wait—hey! bokuto! you’ve got—!”
too late. they’re gone.
iwaizumi stares down the empty street, jaw tight. “…did they seriously just—?”
“with my phone,” you whisper.
“with my phone,” he mutters.
you both look at each other.
then the sky cracks open.
it doesn’t just rain — it pours.
within seconds, you’re both soaked. the kind of soaked that feels like someone dumped a bucket over your head. the kind of soaked that steals your breath and clings to every inch of your clothes.
“shit—this wasn’t in the damn forecast—” iwaizumi mutters, shielding your head with his hand as water splashes down your face.
you look around wildly. “we don’t have maps. or directions. or anything.”
he exhales hard, blinking rain from his lashes. “okay. we’ll walk. figure it out.”
you want to panic — being stranded in a foreign city at night, in a storm, with no phone and no idea how to get back — but one look at iwaizumi, calm even while dripping wet, grounds you.
“come on,” he says, fingers brushing your wrist. “this way.”
you start running.
the rain turns the cobblestones slick, and twice you almost slip, but his hand is there every time — a steadying grip at your elbow, the warm pressure of his palm against yours. the first shelter you find is a tiny café awning, light flickering above it, raindrops slamming the pavement like bullets.
you’re both laughing as you stumble under it, breathless, soaked to your bones.
iwaizumi pushes his wet hair back, shaking droplets from his temples. you look at him — really look — and something in your chest lurches.
the way the rain glistens on his cheeks. the way his shirt clings to his shoulders. the way he glances at you like he’s afraid to stare too long.
“you cold?” he asks, voice rougher than usual.
“a little,” you admit.
he immediately shrugs off his jacket — uselessly soaked — and drapes it over your shoulders anyway. it smells like him. warm, clean, familiar.
your heart thuds.
“thanks,” you whisper.
he nods, eyes lingering on your face in a way that steals your breath.
the rain intensifies again — sheets of water blurring the street — and you huddle under the awning shoulder to shoulder. people rush past, glancing at you two with soft smiles. an elderly couple shelters beside you briefly, chuckling fondly as you and iwaizumi stand too close, both flushed and pretending not to notice.
he brushes a strand of wet hair from your cheek. slowly. gently. like he can’t help himself.
you freeze. he does too.
“you had… something there,” he murmurs.
“rain?” you whisper.
“…yeah,” he says, not sounding very convincing.
then — as the rain eases slightly — he glances at the street, then at you, then back at the street.
“ready to run for the next one?” he asks.
your eyes sparkle. “count us off.”
he grins. actually grins.
“three… two… one—go!”
you break into a sprint, shoes splashing, laughter echoing against storefronts, and he grabs your hand like it was instinct. like he’s been waiting to do it forever. his grip is warm and secure, fingers threading between yours as he pulls you through the storm.
you reach another awning — this one larger — and stumble under it, gasping for breath.
you don’t let go. he doesn’t either.
your chest presses against his arm with every breath. his thumb brushes the back of your hand slowly, absentmindedly.
his gaze flicks to your lips.
you see it. you feel it.
“we’re… almost there,” he murmurs, though he hasn’t even looked around to check.
you smile. “you have no idea where we are, do you?”
he huffs a quiet laugh. “not a clue.”
you laugh too, soft and breathless, and he watches you like it’s the only sound he wants to hear tonight. rain drips from the awning edge, catching little sparks of light. the city feels smaller. warmer. somehow just made for you two.
iwaizumi looks down at your intertwined hands, then up at you, eyes darker than the storm around you.
“you okay?” he asks softly.
your heart pounds. “yeah. are you?”
he swallows. “…yeah. i’m—” he hesitates. “i’m good.”
you think he might say more — something real, something that’s been building between you for days, maybe weeks — but the rain softens again, giving you another chance to run.
“one more?” he asks.
you nod.
this time, he doesn’t count. he just squeezes your hand and you go.
when you reach the hotel — soaked, panting, laughing — the lobby lights turn everything golden. water pools around your feet, and the concierge stares at you both with amusement.
you’re shivering. iwaizumi immediately wraps his arms around you from behind to warm you. the gesture is instinctual. natural. intimate.
when you turn to look at him, his hands stay on your waist.
neither of you break the contact.
“thank you,” you whisper. “for… all of that.”
he shakes his head. “don’t thank me. i didn’t want you walking alone.”
“you didn’t have to stay with me.”
his voice drops.
“i wanted to.”
your heart stutters.
he steps closer — so close the heat of him cuts through every soaked layer.
his hand rises, slow and deliberate, brushing a wet strand of hair behind your ear. his thumb grazes your cheek, lingering there, warm and trembling just slightly.
you look up at him. you’ve looked at him a thousand times before. but never like this.
“hajime,” you whisper.
he exhales shakily — the kind of breath someone releases when they’ve been holding something in for far too long.
“i think I—” he starts, voice cracking. “i think I’ve been falling for you for a while now.”
your chest tightens. “you have?”
he nods once, barely, eyes flicking to your lips.
“yeah,” he whispers. “i think this whole damn week just… pushed it out of me.”
you don’t speak. you don’t have to.
he leans in — slow, giving you room to pull away.
you don’t.
you tilt your face up.
and he kisses you.
softly. carefully. like you’re something gentle he wants to protect with both hands.
rain still clings to your hair, your clothes, your lashes — but his lips are warm, steady, certain. one of his hands cradles your jaw; the other stays at your waist, pulling you closer with a quiet exhale he can’t hold back.
you kiss him back with all the emotion you couldn’t put into words — all the laughter, all the fear, all the warmth from the storm.
when you pull apart, he rests his forehead against yours, breathing you in.
“guess getting lost wasn’t so bad,” he murmurs, voice low and honest.
you smile.
“guess not.”
he intertwines your fingers again — not because he has to, not out of necessity, but because he wants to.
“come on,” he says softly. “let’s go get dry.”
and as he walks you toward the elevator, hand still firmly in yours, you can’t help thinking:
some storms don’t scatter people. they pull them together.
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requested by anonymous
