The Weight I’ll Carry for You (Yaku x Reader)
Summary: From the bench, you’ve watched Yaku play with relentless energy, quietly nursing feelings you’ve never dared to confess. But when an injury threatens to pull him out of Nekoma’s biggest match, you make a choice — one you’ve been avoiding your whole life. A choice that leaves you aching in ways no one can see, and brings Yaku closer than you ever thought possible. In the quiet aftermath of victory, secrets begin to unravel, and you realize some bonds are forged in more than just shared wins.
Words: 9155
The squeak of sneakers echoed off the walls like a rhythm only volleyball players understood — fast, abrupt, sometimes chaotic.
You sat at the edge of the bench, knees together, elbows resting loosely on your thighs as your pen scratched against your notebook. It was a mechanical sort of movement. You barely had to think about it anymore. Notes on serves, formations, communication calls — your shorthand had become almost unreadable to anyone else but you.
You liked it that way.
Another spike. A whistle. A fast recovery from Kenma. You made a small mark in the corner of the page: “Positioning shifted late. Still recovered.”
From the outside, it looked like your focus was perfect. That you were calm, observant, composed.
But the truth was, your eyes flicked up too often to one player in particular.
Morisuke Yaku.
You tried to be subtle about it. After all, you were supposed to be watching everyone — managers were neutral ground, objective, eyes on the entire court. That was your job. That was the line you couldn’t cross.
But still.
Your gaze lingered a little longer when he was in motion.
He moved like he had something to prove — always just a little faster than he needed to be, always sharper, more precise. His posture never slouched, not even when he was tired, and his voice carried like a whip when he barked at Lev to get into place.
And yet, you knew how carefully he picked up the stray balls during warm-ups when no one else was paying attention. How he checked on the first-years after grueling practices even when he pretended not to care.
You flipped to a clean page. Wrote the date. Drew a neat line across the top.
Your heart ached quietly.
You were in love with him. Fully. Hopelessly.
Not the silly, dramatic kind of love that made you flustered or breathless every time he walked by — no, yours was a quieter kind of affection. The kind that built itself in layers. That grew from the little things.
The way he adjusted his knee pads three times before every match, always with the same rhythm. The way he muttered under his breath when a serve barely missed. The way he pressed his lips together in a tight line when he was trying not to yell.
You had memorized him.
Not intentionally. Not at first. But over time, he’d become the most familiar part of this team to you. Not because he tried to be — but because you had been watching. Always watching.
And he never noticed.
Or maybe he did. Maybe he just didn’t say anything. Which was worse, really.
You bit down lightly on your lip and looked back down at your notes, pretending to write something. Your pen hovered above the paper, idle.
You didn’t know when the shift had happened — when he’d stopped being “just another player.” Maybe it was back at the start of the season. Maybe it was that day when he helped you carry the ball cart up the stairs without asking. Maybe it was the first time he got injured and waved off your concern with a forced grin and trembling hands.
Or maybe it was even earlier than that.
You heard his voice then — not yelling this time, but calling a receive with urgency. You looked up just in time to see him dive for a difficult ball, arms outstretched, form perfect.
He didn’t get to it in time.
He rolled to his feet anyway, expression tense, lips pressed into that same thin line.
You didn’t need to write anything down. You already knew: he was blaming himself.
And even from across the court, you could feel it. The pressure he was putting on himself. The kind of pressure that could crack someone, if they weren’t careful.
Your hand curled tighter around your pen.
You’d seen a lot of pain since joining the team. Muscle strains, twisted ankles, bruised ribs. Some small, some worse. You always looked calm. Always stayed steady. No one knew the truth. No one knew what you could do.
And for Yaku’s sake... you prayed they never would.
__________________________________________________________________________________
Your fingers slowed their note-taking again.
Yaku’s voice echoed across the court — sharp, commanding. “Cross!” he called out, reading the opponent’s formation instantly. He moved like he already knew what was going to happen, positioning himself with the kind of grace and grit only experience could build.
He’s always watching, you thought.
He never let a single moment slide past him without analysis. Not a missed step. Not a bad toss. Not a flinch in the opponent’s defense. He had that kind of awareness — sharp, focused, all-consuming.
That’s why he made such a good libero. And that’s why no one noticed how tired he really got.
You could see it, though. In the tension in his shoulders. In how long it took for him to unlace his shoes after practice. He never let anyone else carry that weight for him. He didn’t know how to.
You would, if he let you. That thought slipped in quietly. You wouldn’t even hesitate.
You stared down at the edge of your notebook, thumb running lightly over a corner that had started to curl.
Most people didn’t really notice Yaku until he raised his voice — but you had noticed him from the moment you stepped into the gym that first day. Before the yelling. Before the title.
Before you even knew his name.
__________________________________________________________________________________
The first meeting.
The gym had felt too loud.
Your sneakers squeaked faintly as you stepped in, and you froze immediately when the slam of a volleyball echoed across the walls. A dozen red jerseys moved in rapid, chaotic harmony — sharp shouts and callouts bouncing from wall to wall. You clutched your notebook to your chest like it was armor.
The air smelled like sweat and floor polish. The sounds overwhelmed your ears for a second too long.
You had no idea where to stand.
You weren’t a player. Not even a second-string backup. You were just a new manager. An extra set of hands. A name that would probably be forgotten by the end of the day.
You almost turned around.
“Hey!”
You blinked, startled by the voice that cut through everything — not loud, but sharp. Focused. Coming closer.
“Are you just gonna hover by the door, or…?”
The boy who approached was shorter than most of the others, but he carried himself like someone twice his size. His light brown hair was swept back slightly with sweat, a towel slung over his shoulder, and his eyes were narrowed like he was trying to figure out whether you were a lost first-year or someone who walked into the wrong building.
“I—uh.” You straightened your grip on the notebook. “Sorry. I’m… the new manager. Coach Nekomata said I should come in today and—”
“Oh. Right.” His expression shifted slightly — not soft, but no longer suspicious either. “You’re not late. Just weirdly quiet.”
You flushed.
The boy didn’t seem to notice — or maybe he did and just didn’t care. He gestured loosely over his shoulder.
“I’m Yaku, by the way. Libero. If anyone gives you crap, tell them I said to shut it.”
He said it so casually, like it wasn’t a favor or a warning — just something that would be true from now on. Something decided.
“…Okay,” you said quietly. “Thank you.”
He gave you a crooked, lopsided grin. “Welcome to Nekoma.”
And just like that, he was gone — back to the court, calling out to Kai about his setting angle and barking at Lev for standing too close to the net again.
But you stood there for a second longer.
Still holding your notebook. Still blinking.
And just like that… it had begun.
___________________________________________________________________________
The first week was the hardest.
No one was unkind, but no one really knew what to do with you either. Volleyball teams had rhythms, and Nekoma’s rhythm was already strong — fast-paced, demanding, almost telepathic in how the players moved and spoke around each other. You were the outsider, learning to fit between the beats.
At first, you focused on the little things.
Keeping the water bottles filled. Making sure the towels were where they were supposed to be. Reorganizing the equipment room after practice without being asked. You took your notes with quiet precision, only offering input when the coach asked for it — even though, silently, you’d already memorized every player's weak spots.
You watched everything. You always had.
But it was Yaku you found yourself gravitating toward. Not just because he was the first to speak to you, but because he seemed to be the pulse of the team — not the captain, but the core. The anchor.
He was loud, sure, but only because he cared. He got frustrated when people didn’t try. He stayed late to drill first-years. He argued with Coach like he had every right to, because he refused to give less than everything.
You admired him. Fiercely.
And then, somehow, he started noticing you.
Not all at once — not in a dramatic way. It was in small moments, scattered like breadcrumbs.
One afternoon, you stayed behind to organize stats sheets from the last practice match. Everyone else had left. You hadn't realized Yaku was still there until he dropped a can of warm green tea on the floor beside you.
You looked up, startled. “Oh. I didn’t see you.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” he said, wiping sweat off his face with a towel. “You were muttering about spike trajectories like a crazy person.”
You flushed. “Sorry. I was—”
He cut you off, not unkindly. “You always stay this late?”
You hesitated. “…Sometimes.”
“Hm.” He didn’t press. Just sipped his own tea, leaning against the wall beside you. “Don’t burn yourself out. The guys are dumb, but they’d notice if you vanished.”
You didn't say anything, but your chest tightened — just a little.
Another time, you saw him limping after a long practice, brushing it off like it was nothing. You didn’t ask. You just walked beside him in silence and handed him an ice pack wrapped in a clean towel once he sat down.
He stared at it for a second.
“…You always carry those?”
You shrugged. “I like being prepared.”
“…Thanks.”
You nodded, pretending not to notice how long his hand lingered around the towel.
It became routine, somehow. He’d yell at Lev, then glance at you with a tired sigh. You’d silently hand him a water bottle. He’d mutter something about his knees, and you’d appear with tape before he even asked. When his voice went hoarse from shouting, you’d slip a honey cough drop into his palm, pretending not to see the way his ears turned pink.
You never asked for anything. Never expected anything back.
And maybe that was what made it dangerous.
Because slowly — quietly — you became the person he started looking for when practice ended. The person he trusted to be there, even if he never said it out loud.
And every time your name left his mouth, even if it was just a low “Hey, got a sec?” — your heart answered before your voice could.
________________________________________________________________________
It was late.
Practice had ended over an hour ago, but the echo of volleyballs still lingered in the gym like ghosts. The court lights buzzed faintly above, casting a golden hue over the scuffed floor. Most of the team had already filtered out — even Coach Nekomata had disappeared with a tired grumble about dinner and sore knees.
But Yaku stayed. And so did you.
You didn’t announce it. Didn’t say anything when you saw him alone, sitting at the base of the bleachers with his elbows resting on his knees and his towel draped loosely around his neck. His shirt clung to his back with sweat, and his expression was locked somewhere between exhaustion and quiet rage.
You knew that look.
You approached silently, careful not to startle him.
He didn’t look up. Just muttered, “If you’re here to tell me I played fine, don’t.”
You sat beside him anyway, crossing your arms on your knees. “I wasn’t going to.”
That got a reaction. He glanced at you, faintly surprised. “Really?”
You gave a small shrug. “You already know you didn’t play like yourself. You don’t need me to lie about it.”
He stared at you for a second longer, then let out a sharp exhale — not quite a laugh, but close. “Tch. Brutal.”
“I’m honest,” you said simply.
A long pause stretched between you. The gym hummed softly in the silence.
“I was off,” he finally admitted, voice lower now. “My footwork was a mess. I was reading their setter wrong the whole second set. I couldn’t keep up with the tempo—” He cut himself off, jaw clenching.
You didn’t interrupt.
“…They were counting on me,” he said, almost to himself. “And I couldn’t do it.”
You turned your head to look at him. His fists were clenched against his knees now, knuckles pale with tension.
“I’m the damn libero,” he muttered. “If I’m not reliable, what the hell am I even doing?”
The words hit something in you — that same heaviness he always carried. The pressure he wore like a second skin.
“…You don’t have to be perfect every time,” you said softly. “You’re allowed to be human, Yaku.”
His eyes flicked to you again, searching, like he wasn’t used to hearing that.
“You know,” you continued, voice quieter, “I’ve seen you play through things no one else even notices. Pulled muscles. Bruises. Your knees giving you hell after a triple practice week. But you never sit out. Never complain. You just… take it.”
You looked down at your hands. “That’s the kind of strength people forget to protect.”
Yaku didn’t respond right away. But the tension in his shoulders lessened — just slightly.
After a long moment, he said, “You always see too much.”
You smiled faintly. “Someone has to.”
Another silence. But this one felt different — not heavy. Just quiet.
Then, out of nowhere, he said, “You’re good at this.”
You blinked. “At what?”
“Knowing what to say. When to say nothing.” He paused. “Being here.”
Your breath caught for a second — but you played it off with a soft, “I’m just doing my job.”
He gave a small snort. “You could’ve left. Everyone else did.”
“…I didn’t want to.”
That got him. He looked at you fully this time — not just a glance. His eyes met yours, open and unguarded in a way they almost never were.
Something passed between you then. Unspoken. Unfinished. But real.
And maybe it didn’t change anything. But it felt like the beginning of something.
___________________________________________________________________________
The scoreboard blinked: 23–23.
Match point was creeping closer.
You gripped your pen tighter, but you’d stopped writing ten minutes ago. Notes wouldn’t help now. This was all instinct and grit and muscle memory — and Yaku was running on every ounce of all three.
His movements had gotten sharper, faster, more desperate. You knew that look in his eyes. You’d seen it before — the fire that came when he thought everything was on him to fix.
You wanted to call out to him. You didn’t.
Your heartbeat pounded with every serve. When Kenma launched the ball into the air, when Lev fumbled the spike, when the ball ricocheted too far back—
“Mine!”
Yaku’s voice sliced through the chaos.
He moved like lightning — too fast, too far.
You saw it before it happened.
He dived for the ball, twisting midair to angle the dig. It was a beautiful receive, textbook perfect, the ball arcing safely back toward the setter—
—but his foot landed wrong.
Right on the edge of the sideline. Or no— Someone's foot.
A spectator had stepped too close. You barely registered the figure retreating with an apologetic gasp before all your attention zeroed in on Yaku.
He went down hard. Not the kind of fall you bounce back from.
Your breath caught in your throat.
He tried to push himself up immediately — of course he did. But his face twisted, jaw clenched, and for a split second, you saw it.
Agony.
You were already moving.
You dropped your notebook and sprinted to him, heart slamming against your ribs. The whistle blew, calling for time-out. The referee's voice blurred into background noise as the crowd hushed and the other players paused.
Yaku was hunched over, teeth gritted, one hand bracing on the floor, the other gripping his ankle — no, his foot. His right foot was already starting to swell.
“Yaku.” You crouched beside him, steady hands reaching gently. “Don’t move. Let me see.”
“I’m fine.” His voice was tight, brittle. A lie so obvious it hurt. “I can— I just need—”
“You can’t put weight on it.”
“I have to play.”
Your eyes met his. He was frantic now — not just in pain, but spiraling. That same fire turning on him, burning through panic. You saw the fear there, the desperation — the knowledge that this might be it. That he couldn’t save them this time.
You swallowed hard. “Come with me. Just for a minute. Please.”
He hesitated. You gently looped your arm under his and helped him stand. He leaned against you, limping, face pale with pain.
Every step toward the infirmary felt heavier.
And in your chest, that familiar sensation bloomed — the slow, low pull of power just beneath your ribs. Your ability. Always quiet, always waiting.
You’d never used it on him. Never dared. But now—
Now, you weren’t sure if you could stand seeing him like this.
___________________________________________________________________________
You could feel his weight leaning harder into your side with every step, even though he was trying to hide it. Yaku’s pride was as sharp as his reflexes, and you knew how much it cost him to let you help — especially with the eyes of his team on him.
The court had gone quieter. Not silent, but not loud either. Concern hung heavy in the air, thick as humidity.
Kai was the first to approach, brows drawn tight with worry. “Yaku—what happened?”
“I’m fine,” Yaku snapped a little too quickly. “It’s just—” He winced again, voice catching as his foot gave slightly beneath him.
Lev started toward him next, face pale. “I didn’t see—I didn’t mean—was that my fault?! Did I push—”
“No,” Yaku said through gritted teeth. “It wasn’t you. Someone from the crowd stepped in too far. I didn’t see them.”
Coach Nekomata had already stepped forward, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. He didn’t speak right away — just scanned Yaku’s posture, your supportive grip on him, the way Yaku wouldn’t put any weight on his right foot.
He didn’t need to ask.
“Take him to the infirmary,” the coach said, looking directly at you. “Now.”
“But—” Yaku began.
“Now, Yaku.”
Yaku flinched slightly, the tone cutting through him deeper than he expected. Still, he didn’t argue again. Just nodded tightly.
“I’ll take him,” you said quietly, adjusting your hold on him as he shifted his arm over your shoulders again.
“Let me come too,” Kai offered, stepping forward—
“I’ve got it,” you interrupted softly, but firmly. “I’ll let you know what they say.”
Kai hesitated, looking between the two of you, but finally nodded. “Okay.”
Lev still looked like he might cry. Yaku waved him off with an awkward grunt and a muttered, “Don’t be dramatic, you giraffe.”
Even injured, he couldn’t help himself.
You managed to get him off the court, toward the hallway that led to the small infirmary room. The moment the gym doors closed behind you, the weight of it all came crashing down.
He was breathing hard. Still trying to hide it. But you could feel it in every slight tremble of his fingers where they gripped your shoulder. The sweat clinging to his forehead wasn’t just from the game anymore.
You glanced up at him.
“I really can’t walk on it,” he muttered, like admitting it cost him something. “I knew the second I landed. It’s bad, isn’t it?”
You didn’t answer right away.
The worst part was, you could already feel your ability stirring — like it knew his pain. Like it was ready.
But not yet.
First… you had to let him fall apart a little more. And be the one who stayed when he did.
__________________________________________________________________________________
The infirmary was cold.
Not freezing, but that sterile kind of chill that clung to the walls and crawled under your skin — especially when the adrenaline started to wear off. Yaku sat stiffly on the edge of the examination bed, his right shoe already removed, sock peeled back to reveal swelling that was visibly getting worse by the minute. You sat nearby on the little wheeled stool, fingers curled into your lap to keep them from shaking.
The school nurse hovered nearby, frowning deeply as she finished wrapping his foot in gauze and elastic bandages.
“It’s bad,” she said bluntly. “A pretty serious sprain, maybe worse. You’ll need imaging to be sure.”
Yaku didn’t speak. He stared straight ahead, eyes dark and unreadable.
“You can’t go back in,” she continued, as if he didn’t already know. “Even walking on it is a risk. You’re done for today, Yaku-san.”
Still, no reaction.
The nurse sighed softly and patted his shoulder. “Rest here a while. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
She left the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
Silence settled like dust.
You looked at him. Still not moving. Still staring. Like if he blinked, he might break.
Then—
“…They needed me.”
His voice cracked.
You felt your heart twist.
He still wasn’t looking at you — just at the floor, jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it hurt more than his foot. His hands were balled into fists beside him, nails digging into his palms. Every muscle in his body was tense, holding something back.
“I could’ve kept playing,” he said bitterly. “If I’d just landed a little to the left. Or if I’d seen that guy—if I’d just looked—”
“You couldn’t have known,” you said gently.
“I should have,” he snapped, sharper than intended. Then, quieter, “I always know. I always see it coming.”
You didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything you could say that would make this easier.
Yaku finally looked up, and the moment your eyes met, it was like something cracked open.
“I hate this,” he said, voice low and raw. “Sitting here while they’re out there. Helpless. Like I’m nothing. Like I—” He cut himself off, teeth grinding.
You could feel it, even from your seat across the room: his shame. His disappointment. His self-hatred.
And your chest burned.
Because you could take it.
You could take all of it.
Your power — that quiet, aching thing beneath your skin — pulsed like a heartbeat, waiting. It was always there, whispering behind your ribs. You’d kept it hidden, always. Used it only when you had to. Always in secret. Always with caution.
But now?
Now you weren’t sure if caution mattered anymore.
You looked at Yaku, and in that moment, all you saw was him. Not the libero. Not the perfectionist. Not the yelling, confident, unshakeable voice of Nekoma.
Just a boy.
A boy with a wrapped foot and too much pride and red eyes and a storm in his chest that no one else knew how to calm.
Your fingers curled into fists on your knees.
He looked at you, blinking back the emotion in his throat. “What am I supposed to do now?” he asked, voice so low it barely made it across the room. “Just sit here while they lose without me?”
You stared at him.
And something inside you said:
Fuck it.
You stood up slowly. Walked across the room.
“Hey,” you said softly.
Yaku looked up, eyes rimmed red, blinking like he wasn’t sure what you were doing.
You leaned in. Your heart pounded so hard it hurt.
“It’s going to be okay,” you whispered.
He frowned, confused. “How do you know?”
You leaned closer. “Because I’m not letting you sit here and think you’re broken.”
And then you kissed him.
Not long. Not deep. But it was real — your lips pressed against his with a trembling kind of urgency, your hand brushing gently against his cheek as your eyes slid shut.
And the pain hit you like a hammer.
Your breath caught.
It flooded in — white-hot and unbearable. Your foot screamed, the bones shifting, muscles spasming. You staggered back, gasping, your leg nearly giving out under you.
Yaku sat upright, shocked. “What the—?!” He moved—then paused.
His foot didn’t hurt.
He blinked. Flexed it. Pressed weight on it.
“…What the hell…?”
You sank into the nearby chair, shaking, face pale, sweat already forming on your forehead.
You looked up at him, breathless, gritting your teeth through the pain that now belonged to you.
And you said, voice tight with disbelief:
“Holy shit, how did you even walk on that?”
___________________________________________________________________________
Silence.
It stretched thick in the infirmary, settling over both of you like a blanket pulled too tight.
Yaku didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just stared.
At you — curled slightly in the chair across from him, one hand gripping the edge of the seat like you were anchoring yourself to stay upright. Sweat beading at your temple. Breaths short and uneven. Your right foot turned slightly outward, swelling already beginning to rise beneath your sock.
He looked at you, and his mind couldn’t keep up with what his body was telling him.
His foot didn’t hurt anymore. Yours did.
His pain was gone. You were shaking.
“…What did you do?” he asked softly, voice almost inaudible.
You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. The pain was still crashing through you in waves — not just physical, but heavy, dense, like your body hadn’t been built to hold it. Maybe it hadn’t.
But you’d do it again.
You blinked up at him slowly, lips parted, still panting slightly. You tried to give him a smile. It came out more like a grimace.
Yaku didn’t move.
His eyes dropped to your leg — to the way it twitched slightly, to the way your fingers hovered near it but didn’t touch. Like even brushing it might be too much.
Then back up to your face. Your eyes. Something in them had changed.
“…Tell me you didn’t,” he whispered.
Still, you didn’t speak.
Not yet.
Because how do you explain something like that? How do you explain that you chose this pain — that you took it from him — like it was the most natural thing in the world?
Because to you… it was.
You looked at him — really looked — and the expression on his face nearly undid you.
It wasn’t awe. It wasn’t relief.
It was horror.
Like he was watching something he didn’t understand. Like he was afraid — for you, maybe, or of what just happened. Maybe both.
His voice shook. “What’s wrong with you?”
You flinched.
Not because it was cruel — it wasn’t. It wasn’t even angry. It was scared.
And somehow, that made it worse.
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out at first. Your throat was dry, like something had stolen the words right out of you.
But eventually, you whispered:
“I didn’t want to see you in pain.”
Another silence.
Longer this time.
Yaku stared at you, and you watched the understanding slide into place — slowly, reluctantly, like it didn’t want to be believed. Like his brain was trying to reject what he already knew.
“You took it,” he said, almost in disbelief. “You took it from me.”
You nodded once. Small. Almost apologetic.
He ran a hand over his face, then through his hair, then just let it hang there — like the weight of this was too much to hold all at once.
“…Why?” he asked.
And god, the way he said it. Not accusing. Just… broken.
Why would you do this?
Why would anyone?
You looked down at your own leg.
Then up at him.
And this time, you told the truth.
“…Because I love you.”
___________________________________________________________________________
The words hung in the air like dust caught in sunlight.
“Because I love you.”
You hadn’t planned to say it. You hadn’t even realized it was ready to be said. But the moment it slipped out, you didn’t regret it. You couldn’t.
Not with the way Yaku looked at you now — like you’d just shattered the floor beneath his feet and he hadn’t landed yet.
He didn’t speak. Not right away.
He blinked, once. Twice. You could practically see the thoughts tumbling through his mind — sharp, spiraling, all colliding at once.
You shifted slightly, hissing when your foot flared with pain. That broke his daze.
“Don’t—” His voice cracked, and he suddenly moved forward, hands reaching out like he wanted to do something — fix something — but didn’t know where to start. He hovered awkwardly, unsure if he could even touch you.
“I didn’t ask you to do that,” he said, almost helplessly.
“I know.”
“I wouldn’t have asked.”
“I know, Yaku.”
“So why—?”
“Because you wouldn’t let me help any other way.”
That shut him up.
You leaned your head back against the infirmary wall, exhaling shakily. “You never let anyone carry the weight. You always take it. You yell at people, but you protect them. You keep everything running and never let it show when it gets too heavy. And today—”
You looked at him again, softer now. “Today you were going to break.”
Yaku’s jaw worked, like he was biting back every emotion all at once. He lowered his hands to his lap, gripping them tightly together. He looked wrecked.
“…You shouldn’t love someone like that,” he mumbled, almost too quiet to hear.
“What?”
“You shouldn’t love someone who hurts you. Who lets you hurt.”
“You didn’t let me,” you said. “I chose to.”
Another silence. But this one… felt different.
Yaku looked at you, and this time there wasn’t fear in his eyes. There was something else — something aching.
“You’re insane,” he whispered.
You gave a crooked smile. “A little.”
Then, slowly, carefully, he reached out.
His hand hovered over yours for a moment — still hesitant, still afraid — then settled gently atop your knuckles. Warm. Solid. Real.
“You’re also the bravest person I’ve ever met,” he said.
You looked down at his hand.
Back up at him.
His cheeks were flushed, but he didn’t look away this time.
“I don’t know what this is,” he continued quietly. “Or how any of this works. But if I’m being honest…” His voice softened. “I think I’ve been in love with you for a while too.”
Your breath hitched.
“You just—snuck up on me,” he said. “I didn’t even see it happening.”
Your eyes started to sting.
“Hey,” he added quickly, squeezing your hand just a little. “No crying. You already took my pain, remember?”
You laughed wetly, tears spilling anyway. “Too late.”
He smiled, and for once, it wasn’t guarded. It was warm. Honest.
“You’re an idiot,” he whispered, “but I think you’re my idiot now.”
___________________________________________________________________________
Yaku hadn’t let go of your hand.
Even as the pain dragged at your breath and your leg throbbed like a drumbeat under your skin, you could feel his grip anchoring you — firm, but careful. Like he wanted to ask a hundred questions and didn’t know where to begin.
And he was about to try.
“Can you explain what just happened?” he asked, voice low, but still urgent. “Like—how did you do that? Is it permanent? Does it get worse? Can you take it back? Is that why you’re always so tired after someone gets hurt—?”
“Yaku.” You cut him off gently.
He blinked. Mouth slightly open, brows furrowed.
You squeezed his hand. “You deserve answers. I promise I’ll give them to you. But not right now.”
His eyes searched your face, frustration warring with understanding. “But—”
“You still have a team waiting for you,” you said. “They need you out there. You’re okay now. Go.”
He hesitated. “What about you?”
“I’ll be fine.” You tried a small, reassuring smile. “I’ve been through worse. I’ll have the doc wrap it and rest. Just… don’t worry about me for once, okay?”
Yaku didn’t look convinced.
“Please,” you added, softer now.
Finally, he exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Alright. But how do we explain this?”
He gestured down at his previously-injured-now-perfectly-fine foot.
You stared at it, then gave a small shrug. “Keep the bandage on. Limp a little if you have to. We’ll just say it was a scare, and it’s not as bad as it looked.”
“And you? What are you going to say when they see your foot?”
You paused just long enough for it to matter.
“…I’ll say I went to get some water and tripped.”
Yaku gave you a flat look. “Seriously?”
You grinned. “Tragic, I know. But it’s simple. I’m clumsy. No one will be surprised.”
He snorted under his breath. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“And yet, it’s believable.”
Just then, the infirmary door creaked open again and the school nurse stepped in, clipboard in hand. Her brows shot up the moment she caught sight of you gripping the chair with a face like you’d just eaten glass.
“What happened to you?” she asked sharply.
You gave her the best wide-eyed expression you could manage. “I went to get some water and slipped. Might’ve twisted something.”
Her eyes narrowed — skeptical, maybe, or just tired of teens injuring themselves in mysterious ways.
Yaku cleared his throat and straightened slightly, putting the weight back onto his right foot with an exaggerated wince. “Still hurts like hell,” he muttered.
The nurse turned toward him quickly, hovering. “You shouldn’t be standing at all—”
“I’m not going back in,” Yaku said. “Coach’s orders. I just… didn’t want to lie down while she was in pain.”
You looked at him. His tone was convincing, but you could feel the lie beneath it — the way he said it not just for the nurse, but for you.
The nurse eventually sighed. “Alright. Sit down, both of you. Let me look at her foot.”
You endured the examination, teeth clenched. The nurse wrapped it carefully, muttering about ice and rest and “just what were you thinking?” but didn’t question it further. Not really. Not with the game still going and so many other things to manage.
Eventually, the nurse stood. “You’re benched for today, obviously. Stay off that foot.” She glanced at Yaku. “And you — if it swells up again, I want you back in here. Clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, bowing his head slightly.
Once she left again, the quiet returned.
You were about to stand, but Yaku was already crouched next to you, offering his hand.
“Let me help,” he said simply.
You took it, and he pulled you gently to your feet. You bit your lip as the pressure spiked — but before you could stumble, his arm was already around you, steadying, supporting.
This time… the weight was shared.
He didn’t say anything as he helped you out of the infirmary, walking slowly down the hall. And though he limped slightly for appearances, you noticed he barely winced.
When you neared the doors to the gym, you paused.
“You sure about this?” you asked quietly.
He looked down at you. Eyes steady.
“I’m sure about you.”
Your breath caught, but before you could reply, he added, “Now come on. We’ve got a team to get back to.”
Together, you pushed open the doors.
The gym buzzed with energy, still mid-game. No one noticed right away — but as the two of you approached the bench, Kai turned, eyes wide, and Lev nearly dropped a water bottle.
Yaku helped you sit gently, then straightened, turning back toward the court.
And for the first time in a long while… he looked ready.
___________________________________________________________________________
The questions started the moment they stepped back into the gym.
“What happened?” “Wait, Yaku, you’re playing? Wasn’t your foot—?” “___-san, what happened to you? Are you okay??”
It was a storm of voices — teammates, second-years, people from the stands — buzzing with concern and confusion. You were suddenly the center of it all, seated on the bench with your foot bandaged and elevated, and Yaku standing tall beside you with his usual determined scowl, his ankle wrapped but otherwise unbothered.
You straightened your spine, forcing a sheepish smile.
“Slipped,” you said, loud enough for the nearest few to hear. “Went to get water, tripped like a total idiot. Landed on my foot wrong.”
A few gasps. Lev shouted, “Wait, you got hurt?! That’s so rare for a manager!”
“I know,” you sighed dramatically. “Let me live in peace.”
Yaku, beside you, folded his arms across his chest and added, “My injury was a false alarm. Got it checked again — just a strain. Nothing serious.”
No one questioned it too hard. Not with the game still alive and nerves running high. Kai gave Yaku a brief look — one of those are you absolutely sure? glances — but Yaku nodded with that familiar spark in his eyes.
Coach turned toward him. “You in?”
Yaku’s gaze flicked briefly to you.
Your heart beat a little harder.
He nodded once. “Yes, sir.”
As he moved away, you caught his sleeve and he paused, crouching slightly beside you. The noise of the gym faded for a second, drowned by the space between you.
You leaned in and whispered, “Win for me.”
His breath caught.
You weren’t sure if it was the words or the way you said them — soft and sure and selfish all at once. But something shifted in his face. Just for a second.
“Got it,” he murmured back.
And then he was gone, stepping onto the court like nothing had happened — like he hadn’t had a nearly-broken foot ten minutes ago.
—
He played with a fire you hadn’t seen before.
Not reckless. Not showy. But sharp. Like every dive, every pivot, every save was made not just for Nekoma but for you.
And when the crowd cheered?
He didn’t look to the stands.
He looked at you.
Only for a second at a time. Quick glances between plays. But every one of them was loaded with something quiet and ferocious and real. He wasn’t playing for glory. Not tonight.
He was playing for the girl on the bench who limped instead of him.
The girl who smiled through pain and still told him to win.
And even though your ankle screamed and your throat ached from keeping quiet, you didn’t take your eyes off him.
Not once.
Because you knew what it cost him to keep moving.
And he knew what it cost you to let him.
___________________________________________________________________________
The gym was still humming, even though the final point had long since landed.
Nekoma had won.
The scoreboard blinked proudly overhead, the team buzzing with laughter, sweat, and shouts as they wrapped up the last of the high fives and backslaps. Coach Nekomata gave one of his grins — small but genuine — and muttered something about “well-fought” before retreating toward the hallway.
The world moved around you like a tide. But Yaku?
He moved straight toward you.
You hadn’t left the bench. Your foot throbbed like a live wire under the wrap, but you’d barely noticed it during the match. Your focus had been fixed on him — the way he moved, the fire in his eyes, the moments his gaze flicked to yours between volleys. And now…
Now he was walking straight to you, unbandaged foot planted firmly with every step, like the injury had never happened.
But only you knew the truth.
When he reached the bench, he didn’t say anything at first.
He just crouched in front of you again, the same way he had before the final set. This time, his hands hovered near your ankle — not touching, not yet — eyes searching your face.
“You didn’t tell anyone,” he said finally, voice low and rough with exhaustion.
You shook your head. “Neither did you.”
“I wanted to,” he admitted. “The second we won, I wanted to tell them why I could walk again. That it wasn’t some miracle or good tape job. That you… you did something impossible.”
You smiled gently. “But you didn’t.”
“No,” he breathed. “Because you said win for me. And I did.”
You held his gaze.
There was something in his eyes now that hadn’t been there before — or maybe had always been there, hiding. Something fragile, like guilt and awe and affection all tangled together.
“You shouldn’t have done it,” he said suddenly, voice tight. “You should’ve let me sit out. Let the team adjust. You didn’t need to—”
“Yes, I did,” you interrupted softly. “I knew what it would cost. And I’d still do it again.”
“Why?”
The question came out raw.
You didn’t answer immediately. You looked down at your ankle, then at his hands — scraped knuckles, tape-wrapped fingers, palms that caught every fall and never asked for thanks.
Finally, you met his eyes.
“Because I couldn’t stand seeing you in that much pain. Not just your foot. Your face. The way you looked when they told you that you might not get to play.”
He stared at you like you’d cracked something open in him.
You added, almost whispering, “I did it because I care about you. So much it scared me.”
Yaku exhaled, as if he’d been holding his breath the entire time. His hands finally moved — not to your ankle, but to your hands, cradling them between his.
“I don’t know what this means,” he murmured. “Or what to do with all of this. But I know one thing.”
“What?”
“I don’t want you to carry pain like that for me again,” he said. “Not alone. Not if I can help it.”
You smiled, a little sad. “I don’t think it works any other way.”
“I don’t care.” He leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently to yours. “Then I’ll sit with you while you hurt. Even if I can’t take it from you.”
The air between you stilled.
And for once, there was nothing left to hide.
Just a boy and a girl on the bench after a victory hard-won — hearts bruised, bodies aching, but finally, finally understood.
_________________________________________________________________________
The sky had deepened into a velvet blue by the time everything was said and done.
Nekoma had won, and the gym was buzzing as the team started to wind down. You stayed by the exit, helping gather some stray gear and waving off teammates who were still hyped and full of energy.
Kenma appeared beside you first, headset in hand, eyes tired but thoughtful. “You okay?” he asked quietly, glancing at your wrapped foot.
“Just fine,” you said with a smile. “A little sore.”
He gave you a small nod, then Kuroo swaggered up with a grin, tossing a water bottle between his hands.
“Don’t let Lev hear about your injury, or he’ll never stop fussing,” Kuroo teased, elbowing Kenma.
Kenma didn’t answer, just gave you a look that said take care of yourself, before heading off to check on the rest of the team.
As the last of the group started drifting away, Yaku came up beside you.
“Come on,” he said simply, nodding toward the gate. “I’m walking you home.”
You hesitated. “You don’t have to—”
“I know. I’m doing it anyway.”
Kenma glanced your way and gave a small thumbs-up. Kuroo smirked and called out, “Good call, Yaku! You’re finally doing something right!”
You rolled your eyes but smiled.
The street was calm — city lights humming in the distance, the occasional buzz of a vending machine cutting through the quiet. You limped slowly beside Yaku, your foot still wrapped, each step tender. But you didn’t feel like a burden.
Yaku walked at your pace without a word of complaint.
Every now and then, when you stumbled a little harder than usual, his hand would hover — not quite touching, but ready.
“Thanks,” you muttered after the third time.
“You really suck at faking that you’re fine,” he said.
“I’ve had a long day.”
“Yeah,” he said dryly. “So did I. Broke my foot. Got healed. Had to pretend I didn’t. Played a full game on no injury while pretending I had one. You?”
You huffed a laugh. “Carried your agony. Lied to a medical professional. Twisted my ankle in the world’s dumbest fake accident. Also, I think Lev might cry if he finds out.”
“…Yeah, he definitely would.”
Another moment passed. Your steps were slow but steady. You didn’t rush.
Yaku broke the silence again, voice quieter this time. “You’ve really done this before? Taken on someone else’s pain?”
You nodded, gaze on the sidewalk. “A few times. Small things mostly. But never like today. Never… something so bad.”
“Why me?”
The question wasn’t accusatory.
It was soft.
Curious.
You answered without needing to think.
“Because it was you.”
Yaku looked at you.
You didn’t look away this time.
“I already told you, because I care about you,” you said. “I’ve cared for a while now. And I knew how much this match meant to you. How much it would destroy you not to be out there. So I did the only thing I could do.”
He swallowed hard. His jaw worked a little like he was biting back about five different emotions.
“…You’re kind of a disaster,” he said eventually. “But also the bravest person I’ve ever met.”
You smiled, eyes soft.
“I’ll take that.”
For a moment, he walked in silence again.
Then—his hand brushed yours. Not accidental this time. His pinky looped gently around yours. Just a little.
You didn’t pull away.
“I’m going to carry your stuff for the rest of the week,” he said.
“That’s not necessary.”
“I’m also going to make you sit down every five minutes.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“And I’m bringing you snacks.”
“…Okay, fine. I’ll allow the snacks.”
Yaku gave a quiet laugh — the kind that settled somewhere in your chest and stayed warm.
When your street came into view, he finally slowed and turned toward you.
“This thing between us,” he said. “I don’t know where it’s going.”
You nodded. “Me neither.”
“But I want to find out.”
You looked up at him. “Together?”
His eyes were steady, warm. “Yeah. Together.”
You didn’t kiss.
Not yet.
But the weight of everything you’d been through was there — in the space between you, in the way his fingers gently squeezed yours, in the way you finally let yourself lean just a little into him as he walked you to your door.
Some beginnings don’t start with fireworks.
Some start with shared pain, quiet steps, and a boy who stays beside you even when the crowd is gone.
___________________________________________________________________________
The next day at practice, Yaku was unusually quiet — or maybe just quieter than usual.
Kenma sat beside him on the bench, scrolling through his phone but clearly watching.
“So,” Kenma said without looking up, “I hear you’ve been walking [Y/N] home lately.”
Yaku’s eyes flicked up, a bit guarded. “It’s… nothing.”
Kuroo appeared then, a mischievous grin plastered across his face. “Nothing? You? Walking someone home? Since when did Yaku ‘I-only-complain’ Morisuke become such a caring boyfriend material?”
Yaku flushed, looking anywhere but at them.
Kenma smirked. “It suits you. You looked less like you were about to be in a volleyball match and more like you were trying not to mess it up.”
Kuroo chuckled. “Don’t worry, Yaku. We’ll hold your hand through it. Just don’t trip over your own feet.”
Yaku groaned, but a small smile tugged at his lips.
“You’re terrible,” he muttered.
“But you’re adorable,” Kenma said.
Kuroo gave a dramatic bow. “So, what’s next? Candlelight dinners? Sharing snacks during practice?”
Yaku’s eyes narrowed, but the smile stayed.
“Maybe,” he said quietly.
___________________________________________________________________________
Maybe was an understatement.
For the last half an hour, Yaku had pressed his lips onto yours with a quiet intensity that made your whole world shrink until there was only him — the soft warmth of his mouth, the gentle pressure of his hands, and the steady rhythm of your shared breaths.
You sat side-by-side on his bed, the thin mattress dipping slightly under your weight. The soft glow from the desk lamp spilled across the room, casting warm golden pools of light that flickered gently as the breeze teased the curtains.
Your injured foot rested carefully on a pillow Yaku had fetched without a word. It was wrapped neatly in bandages, and he had even taken the trouble to arrange it so it wasn’t touching anything hard or sharp. The sight of your foot there made his jaw tighten — you were so brave, but he hated seeing you hurt.
His hands were cautious — one cradling your cheek with featherlight touches, the other resting on your thigh, fingers barely grazing your skin as if afraid to disturb you. Every movement was slow and deliberate, like he was learning how to hold something precious and fragile.
The kiss deepened gently, never rushed. His lips moved against yours with a softness that was almost reverent, as if he was memorizing the feel of you, trying to hold onto the moment before it slipped away.
You could feel the faint heat of his breath mingling with yours, the slight tremble of his hands, the steady thump of his heart beneath his chest. Your own heart was pounding so loudly you thought he might hear it.
When he finally pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, they were bright and shimmering with something fierce and tender all at once — a mixture of awe, relief, and something unspoken but powerful.
“Are you okay?” he murmured, voice low and rough with emotion.
You swallowed the lump in your throat and nodded, breathless. “Better. With you.”
He smiled softly, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear with a fingertip. His touch sent a warm shiver down your spine.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he confessed, eyes darkening with concern.
“You’re not,” you assured him, reaching up to cup his cheek with your good hand, your thumb tracing the edge of his jaw. “I trust you.”
For a long moment, you just looked at each other — no words, just the quiet beating of your hearts, the gentle rise and fall of your chests, and the soft glow of the lamp casting halos around you.
Then, slowly, he leaned in again — this time even more deliberate, as if savoring every second. His lips brushed against yours in featherlight kisses, barely touching, before settling into a slow, heavy press.
Your breath hitched, and you leaned into him, feeling safe and cherished in the warmth of his embrace. The ache in your foot dulled, replaced by a tender heat spreading through your body.
The world outside the room fell away.
No pain.
No fear.
Just you and Yaku, tangled in a quiet moment that said everything without needing words.
You rested your forehead against his, your hearts beating together in a fragile harmony.
“This… this feels like the start of something,” he whispered.
You smiled, eyes half-closed, letting yourself believe it.
“Yes. The start.”
___________________________________________________________________________
The silence between you thickened, not uncomfortable but full—like the pause before something precious unfolds.
Yaku’s hands, still gentle, moved with a newfound confidence. His fingers traced the line of your jaw, then slid down to rest at the nape of your neck, the warmth of his palm grounding you.
You leaned into him without hesitation, the softness of his touch coaxing you closer.
His lips left yours only briefly, just enough to brush along your cheek, your temple, before returning with a slow, lingering kiss that left your senses spinning.
Every breath you took was shared — soft sighs and quiet whispers mingling in the space between.
He shifted slightly, careful not to put weight on your injured foot, and you mirrored him, your body molding gently against his side. His heartbeat was steady, a calming rhythm against your own fluttering pulse.
“You don’t have to hold back,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “I trust you.”
He paused, his breath warm on your skin as he searched your eyes.
“Promise?” he asked, voice low and trembling with emotion.
You smiled softly. “Promise.”
With that, the tension between you melted further. His hands slid around your waist, pulling you gently closer. You felt the heat radiating from him, a contrast to the cool evening air slipping through the slightly open window.
His kisses deepened, slow and reverent, like each one was a vow — careful not to rush, but full of everything he couldn’t yet say out loud.
Your fingers found his hair, threading through the soft strands, anchoring yourself to the moment, to him.
Time seemed to stretch, bending around you both as the outside world faded away.
You weren’t just two people anymore.
You were something fragile and real, held together by trust, quiet affection, and a shared understanding of pain and care.
And as his lips brushed your forehead in a tender goodbye for now, you knew this was only the beginning.
__________________________________________________________________________
The room was dim, bathed only in the soft glow of the streetlights filtering through the curtains.
You lay back on Yaku’s bed, your injured foot still carefully propped on the pillow beside you. The bandages were clean, and though the ache lingered, it was softened by the comfort of being here with him.
Yaku sat beside you, close enough to feel the heat of his body but careful not to crowd you. His hand found yours, fingers intertwining easily.
Neither of you spoke for a long time — words felt unnecessary.
Instead, you listened to the quiet rhythm of the night: the distant hum of cars, the soft rustle of leaves outside, and the steady beat of Yaku’s heart beneath his chest.
“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” he said quietly, his voice low and steady.
You squeezed his hand gently, feeling the weight of his care. “I don’t want to be.”
His eyes met yours, warm and sincere. “Good. Because I’m here. For all of it — the pain, the doubts, everything.”
A small smile tugged at your lips. “Thank you. For today. For everything.”
He brushed your hair back from your face, his fingers lingering on your skin.
“We’ll get through this,” he promised softly. “Together.”
You rested your head against his shoulder, letting yourself finally relax.
Here, in this quiet night, surrounded by the calm and the warmth of his presence, you felt safe.
And for the first time in a long while, the pain didn’t feel so heavy.
