Welcome To My Blog ㋛

REQUESTS ARE OPEN | 18 + | Minors DNI You can call me hannah | she/her | 22

[thicchaikyuuboys]

NAVIGATION & MASTERLISTS

Hey, it’s hannah & welcome to my blog! I took a very long but very much needed break for about two years, but I AM SO BACK YOU GUYS OMG. I missed you divas so much and I’m so excited to be back! 🤍🤍🤍

Please read my rules before requesting!

CURRENT WORK:

Haikyuu Main Masterlists

Haikyuu Smau! Masterlist (coming soon)

★ JUJUTSU KAISEN BLOG

CURRENT WORKS: “CONFESSIONS GONE WRONG | gojo x reader”

[thicchaikyuuboys]

They probably think ur using ai js cuz u use an em dash which is stupid bro 💀

Are people seriously that fucking stupid they think an EM DASH…is indicative of ai? Do y’all read BOOKS? I mean like real literature…?

At least I use em dashes correctly ☝🏻🤓

[thicchaikyuuboys]

Lol the way ur hella aggressive about being accused of using ai is very telling - that you do use it😩😩 idk ur work is sorta bland and lacks that authors touch/flare that other writers have on this app. I’ll continue to follow and support your work but take this as constructive criticism and not an attack, girly! 😘 all luv no hate x

This is absolutely rage bait. I’m allowed to be angry at someone saying this to me and accusing me of using platforms that I morally disagree with.

If you have more to say, don’t hide behind your anonymity. And like I said, GO FUCK YOURSELF AND GET OFF MY PAGE. I’m very confident that my work is done well—I know for a fact that it is. If it wasn’t, I would have over 7k people following this account, all of which I’m very grateful for. Don’t continue to support me if you aren’t going to contribute to my community in a positive way—this isn’t constructive criticism, this is blatant criticism that’s meant to piss me off and I’m glad I could help you get off!

Kisses to you 💋💋💋💋💋💋

[thicchaikyuuboys]

Imma be fr, your writing sounds hella ai😭 im reading that yandere headcanon and it sounds like chatgtp had a hayday LMAO all love though❤️ good stuff

That’s fucked up and I’m not taking that as a compliment. Go fuck yourself. There’s not all love here and no tolerance for that.

SIDE NOTE: Yk what? No, I’m getting up on here AGAIN to say how DARE YOU act like this on my page? There’s NO room for that shit here. You like my work? That’s great, I’m genuinely glad to see the support. But to insult my writing and the creative space in which I choose to share that, is fucking asinine. It takes me WEEKS, sometimes months to produce fanfic that I think is WORTHY of someone’s time to read. I refuse to have my integrity and writing ability be questioned by AN ANON. Fuck you, I could give two fucks if this ruins your day. Don’t insult me and expect me to not be a cunt back LMAO.

I’m a very, very nice person—but I’m not tolerant of this shit or ANY of this behavior. You came and fucked with the wrong bitch. I’m TIRED, GOODNIGHT.

[hinamie]

episode so good it reaffirms your choice in fav character

[thicchaikyuuboys]

HAIKYUU!! BOYS SEEING THEIR EX AFTER A BREAKUP

Includes: Kuroo Tetsuro, Miya Atsumu, Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Osamu, Iwaizumi Hahime, Oikawa Tooru, Bokuto Koutaro

TW: slightest bit of angst

Author’s note: certain songs inspired me to write, so the titles of each one shot correlate with parts of my playlist. I highly suggest you listen to them lol.

★ KUROO TETSURO — “Amsterdam by Gregory Alan Isakov.”

Winter arrives quietly, the way it always does when you’re not paying attention.

Snow drifts down in a thin, deliberate flurry, catching in the winter breeze. You cradle your coffee between both hands, fingers stiff despite the comforting warmth, coat buttoned all the way up, and your wool scarf wrapped around high enough to hide your flushed cheeks. The city hums around you—cars hissing against wet pavement, footsteps crunching faintly through the snow covered streets—but everything feels slightly muted, as if the winter brought a moment of silence with it—the whole world around you somehow muted.

You make it out of the train station just in time for the morning rush, slipping through bodies and briefcases, dodging umbrellas, heart still racing from the sprint it took to get here. By the time you reach the office, your shoulders ache with the effort of holding yourself together.

Stepping into the lobby, you breathe a sigh of relief at the instant warmth that welcomes you. The fluorescents, the ones reflecting off of the polished floors, are much too bright as you blink away the sudden glare in your vision. You pause just inside the revolving doors, tugging at your scarf before adjusting your grip on the cup. It’s another days’ work, in the same office, with the same people—except today is a different kind of day—one that bears the same promise of a paycheck but from an entirely different department.

It’s your first day on the job. Position? Sports Promotor & Marketing Manager.

You pull your scarf free, tucking it over your arm when you feel someone pass behind you.

Close enough that the air around you suddenly shifts. Close enough that you feel it before you understand it — a strange, fleeting pull in your chest, like missing a step you didn’t see. You don’t look up in time.

Neither of you do.

He keeps walking. You turn toward the elevators, heels clicking against the polished floors as you press the silver button, waiting patiently.

Two separate doors slide open on opposite sides of the lobby. You step into one without thinking, shoulders relaxing as the doors close. Somewhere across the space, another elevator does the same.

Parallel paths. Same direction. No awareness.

The ride up is quiet, your reflection staring back at you from the brushed metal walls. You tap your foot, the sound echoing around you. You smooth down your coat, exhale slowly, and remind yourself that today is just a transition. Same company, same routine, same work. Just a new floor, a new role, and a step towards success.

You watch as each floor passes, the buttons lighting up, then fading. Then you see the eighteenth floor.

The elevator dings softly, a melodic tune, and then the doors open.

You step out at the same time someone else does—just far enough away that you don’t acknowledge each other, just close enough that fate could almost be laughing. You turn left. He turns right. The hallway swallows you both whole.

You don’t know yet that you’ve already missed him.

Your heels click against the floor with each step you take down the hall, shoulders back in confidence, a polite smile on your face as your coworker passes you. A gentle “good morning” leaves your lips as your greet your boss’s secretary before she pages him, his phone buzzing from inside his office.

She nods, smiling as you knock lightly before entering. Your boss’s office smells faintly of coffee and freshly printed paper—comforting, overly familiar. He greets you warmly, shaking your hand with an ease that immediately settles your nerves.

“Ah, there you are! Cold this morning, isn’t it?”

“Oh, don’t even get me started. The walk here had me rethinking my entire wardrobe. Think I need to invest in a warmer coat.” You chuckle warmly, shrugging off your coat, draping it over the back of the chair, and unwinding your scarf. The room feels too warm now, like you’ve been holding your breath for too long.

“Ain’t that the truth.” Your boss chuckles as he stakes a sip from his coffee. “You know, it’s good to have you on this floor,” he says, smiling. “You’re not new to us, obviously—but this position comes with its own territory. I think you’ll do well given your last position.”

“Thank you, sir.” You nod, return the smile, say all the right things. “I’m ready to play with the big dice.” You’re ready. You’ve always been good at this part—always confident, always self assured. You’ve worked your way to the top, that’s something to be proud of.

“Oh—there’s just one more thing,” he adds, clearing his throat, standing as he adjusts his suit jacket. “You’ll be training directly under our head of marketing. He’ll walk you through everything—you know, processes, expectations, the finer details.”

You nod, your pulse beginning to race just slightly. You smooth over your black slacks before your hands find your hair, fixing any loose strand that may have caught.

“He’s great, shouldn’t have to worry about anything with this guy—great at his job, professional, I’m sure you’ll get along just fine.” He moves toward the door, hand resting on the handle. “Actually, come to think of it, you guys have a lot in common—“ he opens the door, and gestures for you to step out first.

And you do.

Laughter spills through the hallway —easy, unguarded. Someone is leaning against a desk just outside the office, tall frame relaxed, messy black hair falling into familiar disarray. He’s mid-sentence when he shoves a donut into his mouth, taking a bite, eyes crinkled with amusement as his coworkers listen.

Then your boss clears his throat.

The sound cuts through the moment like a blade.

The man turns with a playful smile, still laughing at the conversation.

And the world around you stops.

For a split second, neither of you move. His smile falters—not slowly, not gracefully, but all at once, like it’s been smacked off his face. The donut he’d taken a bite of is forgotten in his hand that now hands at his side in disbelief. His eyes widen, just barely, but you see it. You always did.

You recognize him immediately. There’s no room for doubt—not with the way his expression falters, not with the way your body reacts before you can stop it. Your chest tightens first, sharp and sudden, as if some part of you never forgot how to find him.

Kuroo Tetsurou.

He looks…older. Sharper around the edges. Tired in a way that suits him too well. Still tall. Still unmistakably himself in appearance. And for a moment—a terrible, fragile moment—you’re not in an office hallway at all. You’re somewhere else. Somewhere softer. Somewhere you thought you’d left behind.

Your breath catches in an instant before you can speak.

His does too.

“Good morning, everyone.” your boss says pleasantly, oblivious. “This is perfect timing. I’d like you to meet (y/n), some of you might recognize her from the sports broadcasting department.” He gestures to you, wide eyed and face riddled with something between shock snd sheer confusion. “Kuroo—this is the transfer I mentioned. You’ll be overseeing her training for the next few weeks.”

Kuroo swallows. You watch his throat bob, the way his jaw tightens like he’s bracing for impact. His gaze flickers over you — your posture, the way you stand like you don’t know what to do with your hands. Everything about you is familiar yet untouchable, as if reaching for you would make you vanish.

He says your name.

Just once.

“Nice to meet you, (y/n).”

It sounds wrong in his mouth now. Too careful. Like he’s afraid it might hurt you both.

The silence stretches. His coworkers glance between you, sensing something they can’t place. You force your shoulders to relax, your expression to soften into something neutral, something professional.

You extend your hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, Kuroo. I look forward to working with you.” you say, because you’re good at pretending. Because you have always been. Because now you have to pretend, now you have to hide every ounce of emotion that threatens to burst into flames and burn down the whole office.

Kuroo stares at your hand for half a second too long before taking it. His grip is warm. Familiar. Unfairly steady and gentle like he might hurt you.

“Yeah,” he manages, voice lower than you remember. “Nice to…meet you.”

Your boss smiles, satisfied. “What I’d tell you? You two will get along just fine, I’m sure of it.” Your boss leans over your coworkers desk, snatching a donut and taking a bite before spinning on his heel, “Well, I’ll leave you to it! Welcome to big leagues, (y/n).”

The door to his office closes behind him with a soft click and you can hear his secretary typing away on her keyboard.

And just like that, there’s no avoiding this anymore. There’s no hiding from the truth, no hiding from reality.

Kuroo releases your hand slowly, like he doesn’t quite trust himself to let go. You both stand there, the weight of everything unsaid pressing in from all sides, snow still falling somewhere far below the windows.

After all this time — after all the distance — this is how you find each other again. And neither of you knows yet whether it’s a mistake, divine cruelty… or the beginning of something you never truly finished.

⸻

★ ATSUMU MIYA — “Wonderwall & Champaign Supernova by Oasis.”

The city lights twinkled beneath the night sky. Snow drifted softly in the wind through the crowded streets as people moved in quiet streams—shopping bags swinging at their sides, cups of coffee cradled between their icy fingers, breath blooming white in the cold—while headlights blurred past in a steady rush of downtown traffic.

Nestled in the center of the city is a refined steakhouse—one that’s lavish, luxurious, too luxurious some might say. But tonight, the restaurant is intimate, bathed in warm golden light, each chandelier throwing a soft glow across polished tables and flickering candle light. A jazz piano hummed softly in the background, blending with the clink of wine glasses and the faint murmur of conversation from patrons.

There’s a table seated for two just beyond the lavish entrance of the restaurant, tucked near the bar where a bartender slides a glass of whiskey to a gentleman. And sat across from his date is Atsumu Miya, nodding politely, listening to her, every word she speaks slipping past him without a second thought.

He wasn’t interested, hadn’t been for the last ten minutes. The woman in front of him had charm, sure, and she was beautiful no doubt—but charm alone couldn’t fix the way his leg bounced under the table, impatient, restless. He had no intention of seeing her again and he knew that.

Just another date, another hollow attempt at reaching for something meaningful—something that might quiet the ache settled deep in his chest.

He reached for his glass of whisky, swirling the amber liquid around before he brought the glass to his lips, swallowing the rest of its contents. He cleared his throat, setting the glass down and adjusting himself in his seat, leg still bouncing with anticipation—hopeful that maybe the date somehow would be cut short.

That was when his gaze drifted—anywhere but the woman seated across from him. He could still see her mouth moving at the edge of his vision, words spilling out unheard, when his attention caught on someone just three tables away. Something about her made his focus stall, a pull he couldn’t name, a familiarity that settled deep in his chest before he could make sense of it.

He watched as she turned toward the waiter, angling her body ever so slightly, and asked for another bottle of wine. The smile she offered was effortless—warm, genuine, the kind that lingered a second too long. It was the sort of smile that could have undone any man foolish enough to believe it was meant for him.

It wasn’t a casual glance. It was the moment recognition struck—sudden and unforgiving. The familiar pull sharpened all at once, crashing into clarity, and his breath caught as her face fully registered. She’s three tables away, sitting across from another man—a man that’s not him.

The world seemed to constrict around him as his chest tightened, fingers curling against the edge of the table like he needed something solid to hold onto. He tugged at the collar of his black button up shirt, a sharp, instinctive motion, sitting up straighter as the air around him grew thick and suffocating.

Every movement drew him in—the subtle flick of her hand around the stem of her glass, the slight tilt of her head when she listened, the quiet laugh that slipped from her lips without effort. The soft jazz dulled to a distant hum, the low murmur of conversation dissolving into nothing. Golden light pooled around her, catching in her hair and along the line of her shoulders, and for a moment she felt impossibly separate from the rest of the room—untouchable, unreal, and utterly impossible to look away from.

She had grown. Older now than when they first met, sharper, radiating something entirely her own. His chest tightened in a familiar way, chaotic and electric. He could feel the pull toward her, a sudden reckless urge that made him want to close the distance immediately. His gaze drank in her movements, the curve of her neck, the sweep of her hair, the subtle flare of her shoulders each time she laughed. Every detail ignited something in him that had never fully gone away.

And she felt it before it happened.

A subtle shift in the air, a weight settling between her shoulders, the unmistakable sensation of being watched. Her laughter faltered mid-breath. Slowly—hesitantly—she turned her head, eyes drifting away from the man seated across from her.

And then she saw him.

The world collapsed into silence.

Sound drained from the room as if someone had reached up and turned a dial, leaving only the dull rush of blood in Atsumu’s ears. His heart slammed violently against his ribs, too fast, too loud, and for a fleeting second he wondered if it showed—if she could see it in the tightness of his jaw, the way his chest barely seemed to rise.

Her eyes widened, recognition flickered across her face in real time, raw and unguarded. Her lips parted on a soft, breathless gasp, fingers tightening instinctively around her wine glass as though she needed the grounding. For a moment, she didn’t look away.

Neither did he.

Golden light caught in her eyes, reflecting something fragile and electric—shock giving way to something deeper, something that made his throat tighten painfully. He saw it there, clear as day: her disbelief, the memories, the longing he always held onto. The past rushed in all at once, vivid and merciless, crashing through him with the force of everything he’d never said, never finished, never let go of.

The room blurred around them, faces and tables dissolving into nothing more than vague shapes. It felt as though they were suspended in a separate space entirely, tethered by nothing but that look. His fingers curled tighter against the table. He swallowed hard, pulse roaring in his ears.

She blinked once—twice—as if testing whether this was real. Her gaze dropped briefly, lashes casting shadows against her cheeks, before lifting again. Still there. Still him.

Atsumu’s breath hitched.

He knew that look. The hesitation. The way her shoulders stiffened, the way she seemed to brace herself as though the moment itself might knock her off balance. It was the same look she used to give him when things felt too intense, too close to the truth.

The flame sparked instantly—small but ferocious—curling low in his chest and spreading fast. It was yearning and regret and want all tangled together, burning brighter with every second she held his gaze.

For that moment, nothing else existed.

His leg bounced beneath the table, the movement restless, involuntary. Fingers drummed against the polished wood, too fast, too uneven, as if his body had decided to betray him before his mind could catch up. A sharp breath slipped past his lips—quiet, fractured—lost beneath the hum of the restaurant.

His date stopped speaking.

She noticed it then, the way his focus had drifted somewhere far beyond her reach. She leaned forward, following the line of his stare, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Who are you looking at?” she asked, tone light but edged, already bracing for an answer she wouldn’t like.

When she turned around and saw you, a woman so impossibly beautiful you could liken her to an angel, she scowled. Her recognition sparked into something uglier. A scoff left her lips as she turned back to Atsumu, a humorless laugh curling through her words.

“What—do you know her or something?”

Atsumu didn’t look away from you—he couldn’t. His eyes were entirely fixated on you, on the way you leaned in to listen, the way your fingers curled around the stem of your glass like it belonged there.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low, distant. “I know her.”

Her jaw tightened. She watched him for a moment longer, then let out a sharp breath through her nose.

“Okay—what, is she your ex or something? Because I don’t understand what’s happening right now.” she asked, jealousy bleeding through the sarcasm she tried—and failed—to hide.

“Yeah.”

The word left him simply. Honestly. It felt heavier than it should have, settling deep in his chest like a truth he’d never fully buried. His heart ached with it, with the unbearable pull to stand, to cross the distance, to hear your voice again—even just once.

His date stared at him, incredulous, nostrils flared. Then she huffed, snatched her napkin from her lap, and tossed it down onto the table.

“You’re unbelievable.”

She stood from the table then, not even bothering to look at Atsumu, and walked away without another word. That was the first time all night that she’d stopped talking.

Atsumu barely registered it. The chair scraping against the floor, the way heads turned from the sudden outburst, the space across from him suddenly empty—it all meant nothing to him. He didn’t care.

He only knew one thing with devastating clarity—and it hollowed him out. He needed to see you. To talk to you. To remind himself that you were real—and that this wasn’t just another ghost haunting him in the low glow of candlelight.

⸻

★ SAKUSA KIYOOMI—“Moon by Daniel Caesar & Wild Horses by The Sundays.”

The bookstore hummed quietly, warm light spilling across rows of stacked paperbacks and hardcover spines. Footsteps whispered against the polished floor, the faint scent of coffee mingling with the crisp smell of fresh paper. Sakusa wandered past aisles of fiction, a paper bag in one hand, the other tucked under his folded arms, his expression carefully neutral. He had made a purchase—a few novels he’d been meaning to revisit—and now his path led toward the small café tucked into the corner of the shop.

He ordered a drink, the usual, and gave a curt, polite thanks before stepping aside near the counter, waiting for it. Arms folded, shoulders squared, he leaned slightly against the edge, letting his gaze wander almost subconsciously.

And then he saw her.

It was only the corner of his eye at first, a shape and a motion that seemed… impossibly familiar. He didn’t look directly, didn’t let himself, and yet somehow his whole body stiffened, heartbeat stuttering as recognition hit with the force of a shutter closing over his chest. She was there, seated at a small table near the window, fingers flying over her laptop keys, completely absorbed in her work.

His chest tightened. His eyes drank her in without permission. The tilt of her head, the soft line of her jaw illuminated by the golden light of the café, the effortless way she seemed to belong to the air around her—every detail, impossibly sharp.

“(Y/n).”

Her head snapped up, eyes wide, breath catching in her throat. The soft hum of the café dissolved around them, leaving only the startling, unsteady recognition that hung between them. She blinked, tilting the screen of her laptop slightly, focus sharpening on him as if trying to make sense of the impossible sight before her.

“Kiyoomi?”

Her voice, caught between disbelief and something unspoken, reverberated in the tight space between them. He nodded once, almost imperceptibly, the world narrowing down to her alone. The bag in his hand felt suddenly heavy, as though all the air had condensed around the table she occupied.

She swallowed softly, heart hammering. His presence was as imposing as it had always been—calm, impossibly still, and yet somehow dangerous in the intensity of it. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t panicking, but the silence he carried pressed against her chest like the pause before a storm breaks.

Her coffee steamed, forgotten, and for a brief moment, he didn’t notice the barista calling his name. She gestured, an almost imperceptible tilt of her head, silently offering him the seat across from her.

She let out a short, sharp breath and finally gestured toward the chair across from her. “You can sit if you’d like,” she said, almost shy and laced with a nervous undertone.

It was only then he moved, carefully, folding the paper bag under his arm and settling into the chair across from her, still staring as if he might never take his eyes off her. The table between them felt impossibly small, a fragile barrier that seemed to shrink under the weight of everything unspoken, almost laughably insignificant compared to the storm of memory and longing crackling in the air.

The world around them continued, customers murmuring, the hiss of the espresso machine punctuating the quiet moments—but they were suspended in time, the air around them stretching thin with each breath.

Sakusa’s lips parted slightly, the words he wanted to say were caught somewhere between formality and confession, but none came immediately. He simply stared, the intensity in his gaze impossible to ignore. The flame sparked instantly—small, restrained, but fierce—buried deep in his chest, threatening to light a fire that neither of them knew if they could contain.

She pushed her chair back slightly, reaching for her laptop and tucking it into her tote bag to allow for more space. Every subtle movement—the brush of her hair from her face as she reached down to her bag, the careful adjustment of her sleeve, the way she reached for her coffee cup with both hands for comfort—everything was amplified, her movements, her face—everything far too familiar.

Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet, almost cautious.

“I…didn’t expect to see you here,” she said finally, voice measured, steady on the surface but carrying that undertone of disbelief, of a heart suddenly racing too fast.

He nodded once, slow, deliberate, the kind of nod that carried weight without any words. The flame in his chest grew, low and consuming, an ache that made his stomach twist in anticipation and something closer to fear.

“Neither did I,” he admitted, words low, almost a growl, as if speaking louder might shatter the fragile moment. His hands rested on the table now, one brushing lightly against the edge as though grounding himself. “It’s been a while.”

Her eyes softened, but only slightly, and for a brief second the tension between them shifted—an unspoken history pressed into every glance, every breath, every pause. She swallowed. “Yeah… it has.”

The silence stretched, heavy and fragile, broken only by the faint hiss of steaming milk from the barista’s wand and the distant shuffle of feet on polished floorboards. He wanted to speak, to ask a hundred questions, but every time his mouth opened, he swallowed, letting the tension linger, letting the room compress around just the two of them.

“You…you look…different,” she finally said, words trailing off at the end, careful not to admit how much she noticed, how much she’d remembered.

“Older?” he asked, voice neutral, almost dismissive, but the sharp intake of his breath betrayed the ache behind it. “That’s to be expected.” He looked over you once, eyes slowly tracing the curve of your jaw, the way your hair framed your face, everything. “You look…good.”

Her lips curved slightly, a small, fleeting smile, but her eyes never left his. That spark—the one that had been lit between them for what seems like decades ago, lingered in memories they hadn’t shared out loud—flickered again. She leaned forward just a little, her hands clasped loosely around her coffee cup, and for a moment, neither of them moved, neither spoke, the air between them tense and expectant.

And then, as if pulled by the invisible thread of recognition and longing, he reached out just a fraction—hand hovering above the table, not yet touching, as though testing whether this moment was real or a fragile illusion.

Neither of them spoke for a long, suspended moment. They simply stared, two people caught in a current of something too deep, too powerful to name yet, both wondering how to bridge the impossible distance between them.

And just as he was about to close that distance—about to speak, to reach, to ignite the flame into something undeniable—the barista called out another order, the sound slicing through the bubble of their attention.

They blinked, just briefly, but long enough for the moment to hover, unfinished, unresolved, as if the universe itself had paused to take a breath.

“You should get your coffee, Kiyoomi.” She said, a soft smile on her lips as she spoke. “You wouldn’t want it to get cold.”

Nothing had changed, yet everything had. She was still the same person he knew, only older, more beautiful than he remembered. But she had the same smile he remembered, the one he knew was still reserved for him—even after three years of not knowing what happened to her, what went wrong, why he couldn’t love her the way he should’ve.

He shook his head slightly, just barely, his eyes never leaving hers. “I don’t mind it getting cold,” he said quietly, voice low, measured, carrying that familiar weight of someone used to holding himself together—but failing, somehow, in this moment. His fingers flexed against the edge of the table, tightening as though grounding himself. “Not if it means I can stay here…with you.”

And neither of them could ignore the pull between them—the story that hadn’t ended, the conversation that had been left unsaid, the want that lingered quietly but fiercely in the space between heartbeats.

⸻

★ OSAMU MIYA—“Helpless by Suki Waterhouse & Common Burn by Mazzy Star.”

The door chimed softly as Osamu stepped out of Onigiri Miya, the sound sharp in the quiet stretch between songs spilling from the bar across the street. He paused just long enough for the door to swing shut behind him, the warmth of the shop bleeding out into the damp night before disappearing entirely.

The rain had been falling all day. The asphalt beneath his shoes was slick and dark, reflecting the neon signs overhead in warped streaks of pinks and blues. The entertainment district was alive in that familiar late-night way—music thumping from the bars lining the alleyways, laughter spilling into the street, engines rushing past as cars cut through traffic in a blur of headlights and motion. Friday night. End of the week. The city is alive and well in the late hours of the evening.

Osamu adjusted his grip on the trash bags in his hands and turned toward the alley beside the shop, his shoes splashing lightly against shallow puddles. The smell of rain clung to the air, mixing with cigarette smoke and fried food drifting from somewhere down the block.

Then he heard it.

Laughter—bright, unrestrained, cutting clean through all the noise.

His steps faltered.

It wasn’t just any laugh. It never had been—it was unmistakably familiar.

His hand tightened instinctively around the trash bag as his body reacted before his mind could catch up, heart giving a sharp, traitorous thud against his ribs. He knew that sound the way one knows a favorite song—by feel, by memory, by something deeper than logic. He’d heard it in crowded kitchens and quiet mornings, in moments of exhaustion and joy, in times when the world felt impossibly heavy and when it felt light enough to carry.

Almost five years, and it hadn’t changed.

Osamu reached the dumpster, one hand lifting the heavy lid as he leaned forward, almost unconsciously craning his neck toward the street. For a split second, he wondered if exhaustion was playing tricks on him—if his mind had finally decided to be cruel.

But there she was.

Across the street, just beyond the glow of the bar’s neon sign, three women stumbled out onto the sidewalk, arms looped together to keep steady, laughter spilling freely between them. And in the center of it all was you.

The girl he never stopped loving.

You were dressed for the night—dark straight legged denim jeans, heeled brown boots splashed with rain, hair slightly wild from the humidity and movement, cheeks flushed pink from alcohol and laughter. You threw your head back as you cackled, hand gripping one of your friend’s sleeves to steady yourself, and for a moment it felt like the world tilted on its axis.

Osamu froze.

The dumpster lid hovered in his grip, trash bag forgotten at his side. His chest tightened in that slow, familiar way—like something heavy settling in place, pressing down gently but relentlessly. You looked older. Not by much. Five years, give or take. But there was a confidence to you now, something settled and sure in the way you moved, the way you laughed like you belonged exactly where you were.

More beautiful than he remembered.

He swallowed hard and forced himself to move, tossing the trash into the dumpster and letting the lid fall shut with a dull clang. The sound echoed too loudly in his ears. He wiped his hands against his apron, fingers lingering there longer than necessary, and adjusted the brim of his cap low over his eyes—an old habit, instinctive, like he could hide the way he stared if he just angled it right.

You and your friends were still laughing, voices overlapping as they talked about everything and nothing. One of them nearly stumbled off the curb, and you caught her without thinking, laughing hysterically, but steadying her with a practiced ease that twisted something deep in his chest.

He’d always loved that about you. The way you took care of people without even realizing it.

Osamu stepped out of the alley, leaning back against the brick wall beside the shop. He folded his arms across his chest, posture casual if anyone were looking—but his gaze never left you. Couldn’t. His eyes traced every movement like committing you to memory all over again. The curve of your smile. The way your shoulders shook when you laughed. The sound of your voice—slurred just enough to betray the drinks, but unmistakably yours.

Oh how he’d missed it, how he’d missed you.

Just shy of five years. No contact. No closure. Just the quiet absence that never quite healed, no matter how busy life got, no matter how many days passed without him thinking of you—until moments like this, when everything came rushing back at once.

Across the street, one of your friends pointed suddenly, eyes lighting up as she spotted the familiar storefront.

“Oh my god—onigiri,” she slurred, tugging at your arm. “Guys please. I need food or I think I might actually die.”

You laughed again, nodding, and Osamu’s heart stuttered as the three of you turned—toward his shop.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, grounding himself. He wasn’t ready for this. Wasn’t ready to meet your eyes again, wasn’t ready to stand in front of you and pretend he didn’t still carry you with him in every quiet moment.

But panic never came. He didn’t let it.

Instead, he straightened, pushing off the wall just as the three of you approached the door. Your friends reached for the handle, only to pause when they noticed the lights dimmed inside, the neon “OPEN” sign dark.

“Aw, you’re kidding,” one of them groaned. “They’re closed.”

You tilted your head, peering through the glass, disappointment flickering briefly across your face before you shrugged. “I guess we’ll just have to find something else. C’mon, let’s go.”

Osamu moved before he could talk himself out of it.

“I don’t mind,” he said, voice steady, carrying easily across the small distance. “I can still serve you,“

All three of you turned at once.

And that’s when your eyes met his.

The effect was immediate.

Your expression shifted—laughter fading, eyes sharpening, breath catching as recognition bloomed across your face in real time. The alcohol haze seemed to burn away in an instant, replaced by something raw and stunned. Your lips parted, a soft sound leaving you before you could stop it.

Osamu held the door open, fingers wrapped around the handle, his gaze gentle and unguarded. There was no surprise in his eyes—only warmth, familiarity, and something aching just beneath the surface.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

Your friends, oblivious, burst into drunken gratitude, stumbling past him with slurred thank-yous and laughter as they stepped inside, immediately distracted by the menu board. But you didn’t move.

You stood there, just outside the threshold, rain-damp pavement beneath your boots, cheeks flushed, breathing a little harder than before. Your eyes never left his.

“Hi,” you replied, soft. Almost shy.

Osamu smiled then—small, warm, unmistakably his.

“Been a long time, (Y/n).”

Your lashes fluttered as you blinked, emotion threatening to spill over. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it wasn’t. Your throat worked as you swallowed, nodding once.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “It has, hasn’t it.”

He smiled gently, almost sweetly, something you’d always missed, tried to hold onto for as long as you could remember. He tipped his head toward the door, still holding it open for you. “Come on,” he said gently. “I’ll get you somethin’ to eat.”

You hesitated just a second longer—then stepped inside.

Osamu followed, letting the door close behind him, the chime ringing softly through the shop as the night—and five years of silence—finally gave way.

⸻

★ IWAIZUMI HAJIME — “ Run to You by Bryan Adam & Is This Love? by Whitesnake”

The city was barely awake.

The sky sat low and pale over the buildings, washed in soft gray-blue, the kind of morning that felt unfinished. Fog settled over the skyline, misty and beautiful as streetlights glowed faintly, the reflection stretching across damp pavement where last night’s rain hadn’t fully dried. Traffic was sparse, the city quieter than it ever let itself be, save for the hum of distant engines and the rhythmic slap of sneakers against concrete.

Iwaizumi Hajime rounded a corner, jogging down the sidewalk past his apartment. It was always the same route. Same pace. Same time. Six in the morning, every morning—no excuses. His breath came steady through his nose, controlled, measured. Headphones snug over his ears, bass thudding low and constant, grounding him. The world narrowed to the cadence of his stride, the tension in his calves, the burn in his lungs that reminded him he was alive and moving and not thinking.

That was the point.

Running kept his head clear. It kept everything where it belonged—tucked away, compartmentalized, buried beneath muscle memory and a strict routine. No room for ghosts when your body demanded focus, demanded structure, discipline.

He rounded another corner without slowing, eyes forward, mind distant from the world around him—

And then—Impact.

Hard. Fast. Barely a moment to register what happened.

A solid force collided with his chest, knocking the breath straight out of him. His feet skidded on the slick pavement as instinct took over, hands shooting out to catch what he’d just run into before it could hit the ground.

“Shit—! I’m so sorry—are you okay?”

His voice came out fast, rough, breathless. He barely registered the heat against his hands, the sudden jolt of warmth soaking through fabric. The scent hit him next— roasted coffee, rich and bitter, sharp in the cool morning air.

A cup shattered at their feet, splashing its contents across the pavement.

“God—ugh—my sweater—” she gasped in shock, stumbling back half a step, clearly startled. “No—I just—! I literally just bought this—”

Her voice cut off abruptly. So did his breathing.

Iwaizumi froze.

His hands were still on her shoulders, holding her with a softness reserved for a lover, grounding her even if she didn’t ask. His grasp was solid, warm, familiar. Too familiar.

For half a second, his mind refused to connect the dots—refused to name what his body already knew. He pulled one headphone down, as if the music was the problem, heart suddenly hammering too hard against his ribs.

Then she lifted her sunglasses, pushed them up into her hair, and looked at him.

“Hajime?”

Oh—fuck.

The world tilted.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet and devastating, the kind of realization that hollowed you out from the inside. His fingers released her shoulders instantly, like he’d been burned, dropping back to his sides as if distance alone might save him.

Staring was easier than speaking. God—she was right there, standing in front of him. Older. Only by a year, but enough to see it in the lines of her face, the way she carried herself now. Her hair was pulled back loosely, strands already slipping free and free falling around her face. A soft cashmere sweater clung to her frame—ruined now, stained dark where coffee had spilled—and she looked…real.

Too real and too perfect—even given the current circumstances.

“I—” His throat tightened. He swallowed hard, chest rising and falling too fast from the run, from the shock. “Hey. I—sorry. I didn’t see you.”

The apology felt stupid the second it left his mouth. He hadn’t meant just the collision. He knew that. She probably did too.

She was still staring at him, eyes wide, searching for something, like she wasn’t sure if he’d disappear if she blinked too long. Her breath came shallow, uneven, fingers curling instinctively into the fabric of her ruined sweater.

“It’s fine,” she said, but it wasn’t — not really. Her voice wavered just enough to give her away. “I wasn’t looking either.”

They stood there, suspended in the quiet aftermath of impact.

The coffee shop door behind her chimed softly as someone else stepped out, warm air spilling briefly into the morning before the door shut again. The smell of espresso lingered between them, mixing with rain and asphalt and something far more familiar—something he’d never been able to forget.

Iwaizumi dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply, contemplating what to say, what to do. His heart wouldn’t slow down. Didn’t want to.

A year. A full year since he’d last seen her. No texts. No calls. No accidental run-ins. He’d told himself it was better that way. It was easier this way.

He’d been lying. Not that he’d ever admit to that.

“You—uh,” he started, then stopped. Useless. Everything he wanted to say tangled in his chest, pressing hard against his ribs. He glanced down at the mess at their feet—shattered cup, coffee bleeding into the cracks of the sidewalk. “I’ll…I can pay for your sweater. Or—the coffee. Both. If that’s fine.”

She let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so tight. “You don’t have to.” She shook her head, trying to look away from him. From everything that was rushing back to her.

“I want to,” he said immediately, too fast, too firm. Typical. His jaw clenched. “I mean—it’s my fault your sweater is ruined.”

Her gaze softened just a fraction, something complicated flickering there—recognition, memory, restraint. The same look she used to give him when he tried too hard to fix things that weren’t broken. Or things that were, and couldn’t be undone.

She nodded once. “Fine. Just this once.”

Silence stretched again.

Uncomfortable. Heavy.

This wasn’t like the others. There was no distance to soften the blow, no time to prepare. Love hadn’t whispered—it had slammed into them at full speed, forced them to feel everything they’d worked so hard to bury.

Iwaizumi shifted his weight, restless, the urge to reach out battling hard against the instinct to keep his hands to himself. He looked at her face again — really looked — and felt the truth hit him all over again.

She was the one that got away. Not because she wanted to. Because he’d let her.

“You uh…live around here?” he asked finally, voice low, careful, like he was stepping onto thin ice.

She hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Just a few blocks.”

Of course she did.

His chest tightened painfully. He nodded too, lips pressing into a thin line as he looked away briefly, gathering himself. The city felt too small suddenly. Too intimate.

“I run here every morning,” he said, not sure why he felt the need to explain. Maybe because part of him wanted her to know this wasn’t coincidence—or maybe because he needed to hear himself say it out loud. “Guess I should watch where I’m going.”

Her mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Guess so.”

They stood there, two people who knew each other too well pretending not to. The past hung between them, thick and unspoken, every memory pressing in from all sides.

Neither of them said I missed you.

Neither of them said I still love you.

But it was there—in the way his gaze lingered too long, in the way her shoulders remained angled toward him like she wasn’t ready to walk away. Love, undeniable and inconvenient, standing right in front of them with nowhere to hide.

The city continued waking around them. Cars passed. Someone laughed down the block. Morning marched on, indifferent.

Iwaizumi took a slow breath, steadying himself, knowing—with painful clarity—that this moment would stay with him long after the run was over.

Love hadn’t faded.It had just been waiting.And now it had caught up to him.

Hard.

⸻

★ OIKAWA TOORU — “Heaven Up There by Palace & Caribbean Blue by Enya.”

The stadium roared long before the match was set to begin.

Thousands of voices rose and fell in waves, a living thing that pressed in from all sides, vibrating through the court beneath their feet. Bright lights hung overhead, harsh and unyielding, bleaching the polished floor until it gleamed. Cameras rolled endlessly—sweeping shots of the crowd, close-ups of athletes stretching, adjusting jerseys, laughing with teammates. The Olympics thrummed with spectacle, with expectation, with the weight of eyes that never blinked.

Oikawa Tooru stood near the net, hands braced on his hips as he caught his breath.

Sweat clung to his temples, darkening the edge of his hairline. His chest rose and fell steadily, controlled, as a ball sailed over the net and he received it cleanly, sending it back with practiced precision. Another drill. Another rotation. His body moved on instinct now, muscle memory carrying him through each step as if he’d been born to this court.

Japan’s colors felt heavy on his shoulders.

Not burdensome—never that—but significant. Every movement mattered. Every expression would be scrutinized. He rolled his shoulders once, exhaling through his nose, eyes lifting briefly toward the stands as his team reset.

That was when he heard it.

A voice—clear, professional, steady—cutting clean through the noise.

“And just behind me, you can see the Japanese men’s volleyball team warming up ahead of tonight’s match—”

His body reacted before his mind did.

Oikawa’s hands dropped from his hips. His spine stiffened, the breath leaving his lungs in a quiet, startled exhale that bordered on a scoff—more disbelief than amusement.

No. There’s no way.

He turned his head slowly, almost unwillingly, eyes tracking toward the source of the sound near the bleachers. A camera crew stood just off the court, wires trailing across the floor, a cameraman adjusting his angle as the woman beside him spoke fluidly into a wired microphone.

All black. Tailored suit. Professional to the bone. And her. The world narrowed in an instant.

She stood tall, poised, completely in her element—hair blown out perfectly, makeup done for the unforgiving glare of stadium lights. She gestured subtly as she spoke, confidence woven into every movement, every word. A sports journalist through and through. Grounded. Polished. Untouchable.

His chest sank.

“O—oh,” he muttered under his breath, the sound lost beneath the roar of the crowd. His lips parted slightly, then pressed together as he breathed out again, longer this time, tension bleeding into the exhale. His heart had started racing in a way that had nothing to do with warm-ups.

You.

Here.

Of all places.

Of all times.

He hadn’t seen you in years—not really. Not like this. Not standing in the open, real and radiant, not a ghost conjured up in the quiet moments between matches and flights and sleepless nights.

Oikawa’s posture shifted unconsciously, shoulders squaring, jaw tightening. He was suddenly acutely aware of himself—of the sweat on his skin, the way his jersey clung to his back, the fact that he’d been laughing with his teammates just seconds ago. His confidence wavered, just a fraction, replaced by something sharper.

Nerves.

He watched you from across the court, unable to tear his gaze away. Even when someone called his name—when a teammate clapped him on the shoulder and said something he didn’t quite register—his eyes stayed locked on you.

“Damn,” someone muttered nearby, low and impressed. “She’s hot.”

Oikawa’s jaw clenched.

Another teammate snorted. “Might ask her out after the game. I mean, it’s the Olympics. Why not?”

Something ugly and instinctive curled in his chest.

Jealousy—irrational, unearned, and immediate.

His fingers flexed at his sides, nails biting into his palms as he forced himself to breathe. She wasn’t his. Hadn’t been for years. He had no claim, no right to feel that flare of protectiveness, that quiet urge to step in front of her like he used to.

But knowing that didn’t stop it.

Across the court, you turned, directing your cameraman’s attention toward the players as you prepared for interviews. Your professionalism never faltered—until your eyes lifted.

Until you saw him. The change was instantaneous.

Your breath caught, the words dying on your tongue as your gaze collided with his. Panic flickered there—raw and unfiltered—before you could mask it. Not for the camera. Just for him.

Oikawa’s heart dropped straight into his stomach.

Oh—fuck.

He wanted to move. To say something. To do anything that might ease the sudden tension pulling tight between you. To tell you it was okay. That you didn’t have to worry. That he could handle this—just like he always pretended he could.

But he stayed where he was.

And you did too.

The moment passed, fragile and fleeting, swallowed by the demands of the broadcast. You inhaled, composure snapping back into place like armor as you turned to interview another player. Oikawa forced himself to focus, to stretch, to nod along when spoken to, but his attention never truly left you.

Each interview brought you closer.

Each step felt inevitable.

When it was finally his turn, the camera swung toward him, the red recording light blinking to life. He stepped forward automatically, shoulders back, smile slipping into place with practiced ease.

“Oikawa Tooru,” you said smoothly, microphone raised as you faced him. “Setter for the Japanese national team.”

Your voice was steady. Professional.

But your eyes betrayed you—flickering briefly, nervously, as if you were bracing for impact.

“So,” you continued, turning slightly toward the camera, “how does it feel to represent Japan on a stage like this?”

For the first time in a long while, Oikawa almost faltered.

His throat tightened. The words lodged somewhere deep in his chest, tangled up with everything he couldn’t say. He smiled wider, leaned into the performance, letting confidence carry him where honesty threatened to undo him.

“It’s an honor,” he said, voice smooth, warm. “Something I’ve worked toward my whole life.”

The cameras ate it up.

You nodded, asking another question, then another. He answered them all flawlessly—charming, articulate, composed. Anyone watching would’ve seen nothing out of the ordinary.

No one noticed the way your fingers tightened around the microphone.

No one noticed the faint flush creeping up your neck.

No one noticed the way his gaze softened every time he looked at you.

When it was over, you lowered the microphone and smiled.

“Thank you for your time,” you said, extending your hand. “And good luck.”

Oikawa took it.

And didn’t let go.

Not right away.

His grip was firm, grounding, holding on just a second longer than necessary. The contact sent a quiet shock through him, through you—something familiar and devastating and alive.

Your smile shifted, softening in a way meant only for him. The kind of smile you used to give him when no one else was looking.

“It’s…nice to see you, Tooru.” you said quietly.

His lips curved into a knowing smile of his own, eyes warm despite everything. “It’s nice to see you too, (y/n),” he murmured. “I mean it.”

The look you exchanged said everything neither of you could afford to voice.

Then the cameras moved on.

The crowd roared. The moment slipped back into the noise.

But the damage was done.

Love hadn’t waited for permission. It never did.

And as Oikawa returned to the court, heart pounding harder than any match could demand, he knew—without question—that this was a moment neither of you would ever forget.

Not because it changed everything.

But because it reminded you of what never really had.

⸻

★ BOKUTO KOUTARU — “The Scientist by Coldplay & Rabbit by The Neighbourhood.”

The airport was loud in the way only airports ever were—constant but impersonal. Rolling suitcases rattled across tiled floors, boarding announcements echoed overhead, voices overlapped and dissolved into white noise. Everything smelled faintly of coffee and recycled air, a sterile kind of exhaustion clinging to the space. Travelers hustled past with rolling bags, laptops under arms, travel mugs in hands. Somewhere nearby, a child cried briefly before being shushed, laughter erupted from a group of teenagers waiting for a gate. Life went on in sharp, relentless motion.

Bokuto dragged his duffel bag behind him, shoulders heavy, steps slower than usual. He looked tired—really tired. The kind that sleep didn’t fix. Hoodie pulled up over his head, hair flattened instead of wild, shadows sitting deep beneath his eyes. Six months hadn’t dulled the ache the way everyone said it would. If anything, it had only taught him how to carry it.

Today, the team was flying to the U.S. for an exhibition match—a pre-Olympics promotional tour. Press obligations, fan events, and a handful of scrimmages awaited. His teammates were buzzing with excitement, joking about the hotel, the food, sightseeing, selfies with fans. But Bokuto barely registered it. Their chatter felt distant, like muffled echoes underwater.

He dropped the bag between his feet and collapsed into the stiff plastic seat with a quiet huff, arms folding over his chest, legs stretched out wide. Atsumu was bouncing around nearby, checking his phone, talking too loudly. Hinata kicked the bottom of the chair in front of him, his voice high and relentless. Bokuto didn’t hear, didn’t respond. His thoughts were elsewhere. Always were, lately.

Incomplete.

That was the word that fit best. Like something essential had been carved out of him and left behind.

He could still see her sometimes, in flashes—the way she laughed over coffee, the subtle tilt of her head when she was amused, the soft brushing of her fingers across his hand without thinking. He’d tried. He’d tried to bury it, distract himself with gym sessions, video games, team duties. He even tried to bury himself in training, forcing himself to focus on spikes, blocks, and jump counts—but the void never filled. Six months of absence and the ache had not lessened.

Across the terminal, someone turned a page.

He didn’t notice at first.

Atsumu leaned in, nudging his shoulder. “Oi, Bo.”

Bokuto barely reacted. “Hm?”

Atsumu pointed, chin jutting toward the seating across from them. “Isn’t that your ex?”

The word hit him like a misstep, cold and immediate.

“What?” Bokuto frowned, sitting up slightly. “No way.”

He followed Atsumu’s line of sight without thinking—lazy, half-interested—and froze.

Across from him, just a few rows away, sat a woman with her face buried in a book. Legs crossed neatly. A sweater draped over her frame that he recognized immediately. Too immediately. Soft knit, slightly oversized, the exact one he’d bought her on a cold afternoon when she’d said she was “fine” even though she wasn’t.

The world seemed to slow.

The distant echo of a boarding announcement reached him but sounded hollow. The rolling of luggage, the conversations, the clatter of the coffee cart—they all dulled to a muted hum. His chest tightened, stomach turning, a cold pit opening that made his hands tingle.

No. No, no, no.

His heart slammed violently against his ribs as denial surged first, instinctive and desperate. It couldn’t be you. He couldn’t handle it being you. Not here. Not like this. Not after six months of trying to pretend he didn’t still miss you.

But then—You lowered the book.

Just slightly. Enough to turn the page. Enough for your eyes to lift without intention—and meet his.

The world cracked open.

Everything else fell away. The announcements. The chatter. The movement of bodies around them. All of it dissolved into nothing but the space between your eyes and his, heavy and unbearable.

Oh.

Fuck.

Your expression shifted instantly—shock flooding in first, then something softer, sadder, far more dangerous. Your lips parted like you wanted to speak but didn’t know how. Bokuto felt like the air had been punched out of his lungs. He sat up too fast, spine snapping straight, hands gripping the edge of his seat as his heart raced wildly, out of control.

He couldn’t breathe.

God—you looked tired. Not travel-tired. Something deeper. Something familiar. Something that made his chest ache in a way he hadn’t allowed himself in months. You were wearing the necklace too—the one with both your birthstones, resting right where his thumb used to trace absentminded circles when you lay against him.

Six months.

Only six months.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

The pain hit him all over again, sudden and ruthless, like he was back in that moment when everything had ended quietly, painfully, without raised voices or slammed doors. Just heartbreak. The worst kind.

He saw it in your eyes too. The same devastation mirrored back at him. The same disbelief. The same “why does it still hurt this much?”

Someone laughed nearby. A suitcase tipped over. Life kept moving.

Bokuto didn’t.

He felt a lump in his throat, a cold heaviness settle in his stomach. His hands rested against his thighs, flexing, gripping fabric he barely felt. He wanted to stand. He wanted to cross the distance. He wanted to say your name like it might stitch something back together.

Instead, he watched.

You stood abruptly, movements careful but rushed, like staying still hurt too much. You slid your book into your tote, fingers trembling just enough to betray the subtle panic in your motions. You didn’t look at him again—not because you didn’t want to, but because you couldn’t.

And that was it.

That was the moment it shattered him all over again.

You were right there. Close enough to touch. Close enough to say something—anything—and he’d frozen. Let you walk away without a word. Without a fight. Just like before.

Bokuto slumped back into his seat, chest aching, eyes fixed on the space you’d occupied seconds earlier. His shoulders sagged, hands running over his face in a mix of shame, humiliation, and grief. Hair tugged in frustration, jaw tight. His stomach twisted with the almost instinctive urge to jump up, call your name, run after you—but he stopped himself.

He let the weight of six months of longing crash over him all at once, hollow and raw. The dull roar of the terminal slowly crept back in, but it couldn’t reach him. He was trapped in the echo of your presence, the brush of the sweater he’d picked out for you, the memory of a love that had once been steady and real.

All he could think was that love hadn’t left him.

It had just been sitting there, across from him, wearing his sweater and breaking his heart all over again.

And this time—

he hadn’t even tried to stop it.

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

Happy new year to everyone who reads my page!!! You guys, I’m so happy to be back to writing! I had a very busy holiday and I absolutely needed to be present and live in the moment with my loved ones. I hope you all are doing amazing! Comment down below which one-shot was your favorite, which one made you cry, everything! MUAH 💋

[thicchaikyuuboys]

I feel the need to post this bc I’ve gotten a handful of messages asking why I haven’t been posting content:

Life for a lot of people in the United States right now is falling apart—but it’s not just the United States—it’s other countries as well. We’ve began to witnesses the collapse of the United States Government, The Iranian government, etc. There are wars happening in every corner of the earth, genocides from Gaza, to Sudan, etc.

There are families being ripped apart, kidnapped, and put into institutions where they are never seen again. The United States is not safe for anyone—not for women, not for people of color, and not for immigrants. The United States Government is abducting people off of the streets without due process and this administration is operating like the Nazi party in 1930s Germany. Somehow there are people that believe this is acceptable, that this is what people deserve. People have been missing for months, never to be seen again, never to be heard from again and their families have no answers for how to find them. History IS repeating and it WILL get worse—across the globe, not just in the U.S.

It’s been very difficult for me to continue my day-to-day life without thinking about the hundreds and thousands of people who have been kidnapped and abducted and taken away, or shot and killed in the street, simply for protesting and protecting people from ICE. It feels wrong trying to be in a creative space without saying anything. In my personal life, I’m a very political person and politics are often a talking point between myself and my husband. I am freshly 23, married, and I currently live in Germany. It is the most gutwrenching, dystopian thing to witness your government collapsing and people being executed while you’re living your life in another country.

I cannot put myself in a proper frame of mind to come onto this app, or onto any app, without posting something political or making a statement about how horrific everything is and what people might be able to do to contribute to helping others in need. It’s incredibly difficult for me to find the words to explain how I feel, or to explain the magnitude in which this is affecting, not only myself, but the people around me. And I know that I’m not the only one who is feeling this way, I’m not the only person who has to witness this from my phone, put it down, and resume my day-to-day life.

I don’t know when I will return to this app to be able to post lighthearted content for people who are looking to escape into a world that doesn’t exist. I wish I could use escapism as a route to ease my anxiety and to ease my stress, but I live in a reality that is very harsh. I’m trying to tackle my everyday stress, my interpersonal issues, on top of witnessing the world that I have known for years, collapse and fall apart around me. 

I am very grateful to be part of this app, to be able to create a space for those of you who loved to read. I love the community I have built for myself, and I love seeing your comments and your support. I love seeing the messages in my inbox of people who want to message me, and talk about anything and everything. I will come back to this app, like I always have, and create more content for you when the time is right. It’s a privilege to say that I feel overwhelmed by everything going on in the world— my life has not been directly affected by this physically—and my heart aches for everyone that HAS been affected by the events currently happening around the world, not just in my home country.

Fuck ICE. Fuck Trump. And the biggest FUCK YOU to the people in my country who voted for that son of a bitch.

[thicchaikyuuboys]

happy upcoming/past birthday love! thank you for what you do :)

-mut <3<3

Sweetest message I’ve gotten in so long bae! Thank you so much for the birthday wishes and for being here with me! It means so much to see comments like this! ❤️‍🔥💋

[thicchaikyuuboys]

HAIKYUU!! BOYS SEEING THEIR EX AFTER A BREAKUP

Includes: Kuroo Tetsuro, Miya Atsumu, Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Osamu, Iwaizumi Hahime, Oikawa Tooru, Bokuto Koutaro

TW: slightest bit of angst

Author’s note: certain songs inspired me to write, so the titles of each one shot correlate with parts of my playlist. I highly suggest you listen to them lol.

★ KUROO TETSURO — “Amsterdam by Gregory Alan Isakov.”

Winter arrives quietly, the way it always does when you’re not paying attention.

Snow drifts down in a thin, deliberate flurry, catching in the winter breeze. You cradle your coffee between both hands, fingers stiff despite the comforting warmth, coat buttoned all the way up, and your wool scarf wrapped around high enough to hide your flushed cheeks. The city hums around you—cars hissing against wet pavement, footsteps crunching faintly through the snow covered streets—but everything feels slightly muted, as if the winter brought a moment of silence with it—the whole world around you somehow muted.

You make it out of the train station just in time for the morning rush, slipping through bodies and briefcases, dodging umbrellas, heart still racing from the sprint it took to get here. By the time you reach the office, your shoulders ache with the effort of holding yourself together.

Stepping into the lobby, you breathe a sigh of relief at the instant warmth that welcomes you. The fluorescents, the ones reflecting off of the polished floors, are much too bright as you blink away the sudden glare in your vision. You pause just inside the revolving doors, tugging at your scarf before adjusting your grip on the cup. It’s another days’ work, in the same office, with the same people—except today is a different kind of day—one that bears the same promise of a paycheck but from an entirely different department.

It’s your first day on the job. Position? Sports Promotor & Marketing Manager.

You pull your scarf free, tucking it over your arm when you feel someone pass behind you.

Close enough that the air around you suddenly shifts. Close enough that you feel it before you understand it — a strange, fleeting pull in your chest, like missing a step you didn’t see. You don’t look up in time.

Neither of you do.

He keeps walking. You turn toward the elevators, heels clicking against the polished floors as you press the silver button, waiting patiently.

Two separate doors slide open on opposite sides of the lobby. You step into one without thinking, shoulders relaxing as the doors close. Somewhere across the space, another elevator does the same.

Parallel paths. Same direction. No awareness.

The ride up is quiet, your reflection staring back at you from the brushed metal walls. You tap your foot, the sound echoing around you. You smooth down your coat, exhale slowly, and remind yourself that today is just a transition. Same company, same routine, same work. Just a new floor, a new role, and a step towards success.

You watch as each floor passes, the buttons lighting up, then fading. Then you see the eighteenth floor.

The elevator dings softly, a melodic tune, and then the doors open.

You step out at the same time someone else does—just far enough away that you don’t acknowledge each other, just close enough that fate could almost be laughing. You turn left. He turns right. The hallway swallows you both whole.

You don’t know yet that you’ve already missed him.

Your heels click against the floor with each step you take down the hall, shoulders back in confidence, a polite smile on your face as your coworker passes you. A gentle “good morning” leaves your lips as your greet your boss’s secretary before she pages him, his phone buzzing from inside his office.

She nods, smiling as you knock lightly before entering. Your boss’s office smells faintly of coffee and freshly printed paper—comforting, overly familiar. He greets you warmly, shaking your hand with an ease that immediately settles your nerves.

“Ah, there you are! Cold this morning, isn’t it?”

“Oh, don’t even get me started. The walk here had me rethinking my entire wardrobe. Think I need to invest in a warmer coat.” You chuckle warmly, shrugging off your coat, draping it over the back of the chair, and unwinding your scarf. The room feels too warm now, like you’ve been holding your breath for too long.

“Ain’t that the truth.” Your boss chuckles as he stakes a sip from his coffee. “You know, it’s good to have you on this floor,” he says, smiling. “You’re not new to us, obviously—but this position comes with its own territory. I think you’ll do well given your last position.”

“Thank you, sir.” You nod, return the smile, say all the right things. “I’m ready to play with the big dice.” You’re ready. You’ve always been good at this part—always confident, always self assured. You’ve worked your way to the top, that’s something to be proud of.

“Oh—there’s just one more thing,” he adds, clearing his throat, standing as he adjusts his suit jacket. “You’ll be training directly under our head of marketing. He’ll walk you through everything—you know, processes, expectations, the finer details.”

You nod, your pulse beginning to race just slightly. You smooth over your black slacks before your hands find your hair, fixing any loose strand that may have caught.

“He’s great, shouldn’t have to worry about anything with this guy—great at his job, professional, I’m sure you’ll get along just fine.” He moves toward the door, hand resting on the handle. “Actually, come to think of it, you guys have a lot in common—“ he opens the door, and gestures for you to step out first.

And you do.

Laughter spills through the hallway —easy, unguarded. Someone is leaning against a desk just outside the office, tall frame relaxed, messy black hair falling into familiar disarray. He’s mid-sentence when he shoves a donut into his mouth, taking a bite, eyes crinkled with amusement as his coworkers listen.

Then your boss clears his throat.

The sound cuts through the moment like a blade.

The man turns with a playful smile, still laughing at the conversation.

And the world around you stops.

For a split second, neither of you move. His smile falters—not slowly, not gracefully, but all at once, like it’s been smacked off his face. The donut he’d taken a bite of is forgotten in his hand that now hands at his side in disbelief. His eyes widen, just barely, but you see it. You always did.

You recognize him immediately. There’s no room for doubt—not with the way his expression falters, not with the way your body reacts before you can stop it. Your chest tightens first, sharp and sudden, as if some part of you never forgot how to find him.

Kuroo Tetsurou.

He looks…older. Sharper around the edges. Tired in a way that suits him too well. Still tall. Still unmistakably himself in appearance. And for a moment—a terrible, fragile moment—you’re not in an office hallway at all. You’re somewhere else. Somewhere softer. Somewhere you thought you’d left behind.

Your breath catches in an instant before you can speak.

His does too.

“Good morning, everyone.” your boss says pleasantly, oblivious. “This is perfect timing. I’d like you to meet (y/n), some of you might recognize her from the sports broadcasting department.” He gestures to you, wide eyed and face riddled with something between shock snd sheer confusion. “Kuroo—this is the transfer I mentioned. You’ll be overseeing her training for the next few weeks.”

Kuroo swallows. You watch his throat bob, the way his jaw tightens like he’s bracing for impact. His gaze flickers over you — your posture, the way you stand like you don’t know what to do with your hands. Everything about you is familiar yet untouchable, as if reaching for you would make you vanish.

He says your name.

Just once.

“Nice to meet you, (y/n).”

It sounds wrong in his mouth now. Too careful. Like he’s afraid it might hurt you both.

The silence stretches. His coworkers glance between you, sensing something they can’t place. You force your shoulders to relax, your expression to soften into something neutral, something professional.

You extend your hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, Kuroo. I look forward to working with you.” you say, because you’re good at pretending. Because you have always been. Because now you have to pretend, now you have to hide every ounce of emotion that threatens to burst into flames and burn down the whole office.

Kuroo stares at your hand for half a second too long before taking it. His grip is warm. Familiar. Unfairly steady and gentle like he might hurt you.

“Yeah,” he manages, voice lower than you remember. “Nice to…meet you.”

Your boss smiles, satisfied. “What I’d tell you? You two will get along just fine, I’m sure of it.” Your boss leans over your coworkers desk, snatching a donut and taking a bite before spinning on his heel, “Well, I’ll leave you to it! Welcome to big leagues, (y/n).”

The door to his office closes behind him with a soft click and you can hear his secretary typing away on her keyboard.

And just like that, there’s no avoiding this anymore. There’s no hiding from the truth, no hiding from reality.

Kuroo releases your hand slowly, like he doesn’t quite trust himself to let go. You both stand there, the weight of everything unsaid pressing in from all sides, snow still falling somewhere far below the windows.

After all this time — after all the distance — this is how you find each other again. And neither of you knows yet whether it’s a mistake, divine cruelty… or the beginning of something you never truly finished.

⸻

★ ATSUMU MIYA — “Wonderwall & Champaign Supernova by Oasis.”

The city lights twinkled beneath the night sky. Snow drifted softly in the wind through the crowded streets as people moved in quiet streams—shopping bags swinging at their sides, cups of coffee cradled between their icy fingers, breath blooming white in the cold—while headlights blurred past in a steady rush of downtown traffic.

Nestled in the center of the city is a refined steakhouse—one that’s lavish, luxurious, too luxurious some might say. But tonight, the restaurant is intimate, bathed in warm golden light, each chandelier throwing a soft glow across polished tables and flickering candle light. A jazz piano hummed softly in the background, blending with the clink of wine glasses and the faint murmur of conversation from patrons.

There’s a table seated for two just beyond the lavish entrance of the restaurant, tucked near the bar where a bartender slides a glass of whiskey to a gentleman. And sat across from his date is Atsumu Miya, nodding politely, listening to her, every word she speaks slipping past him without a second thought.

He wasn’t interested, hadn’t been for the last ten minutes. The woman in front of him had charm, sure, and she was beautiful no doubt—but charm alone couldn’t fix the way his leg bounced under the table, impatient, restless. He had no intention of seeing her again and he knew that.

Just another date, another hollow attempt at reaching for something meaningful—something that might quiet the ache settled deep in his chest.

He reached for his glass of whisky, swirling the amber liquid around before he brought the glass to his lips, swallowing the rest of its contents. He cleared his throat, setting the glass down and adjusting himself in his seat, leg still bouncing with anticipation—hopeful that maybe the date somehow would be cut short.

That was when his gaze drifted—anywhere but the woman seated across from him. He could still see her mouth moving at the edge of his vision, words spilling out unheard, when his attention caught on someone just three tables away. Something about her made his focus stall, a pull he couldn’t name, a familiarity that settled deep in his chest before he could make sense of it.

He watched as she turned toward the waiter, angling her body ever so slightly, and asked for another bottle of wine. The smile she offered was effortless—warm, genuine, the kind that lingered a second too long. It was the sort of smile that could have undone any man foolish enough to believe it was meant for him.

It wasn’t a casual glance. It was the moment recognition struck—sudden and unforgiving. The familiar pull sharpened all at once, crashing into clarity, and his breath caught as her face fully registered. She’s three tables away, sitting across from another man—a man that’s not him.

The world seemed to constrict around him as his chest tightened, fingers curling against the edge of the table like he needed something solid to hold onto. He tugged at the collar of his black button up shirt, a sharp, instinctive motion, sitting up straighter as the air around him grew thick and suffocating.

Every movement drew him in—the subtle flick of her hand around the stem of her glass, the slight tilt of her head when she listened, the quiet laugh that slipped from her lips without effort. The soft jazz dulled to a distant hum, the low murmur of conversation dissolving into nothing. Golden light pooled around her, catching in her hair and along the line of her shoulders, and for a moment she felt impossibly separate from the rest of the room—untouchable, unreal, and utterly impossible to look away from.

She had grown. Older now than when they first met, sharper, radiating something entirely her own. His chest tightened in a familiar way, chaotic and electric. He could feel the pull toward her, a sudden reckless urge that made him want to close the distance immediately. His gaze drank in her movements, the curve of her neck, the sweep of her hair, the subtle flare of her shoulders each time she laughed. Every detail ignited something in him that had never fully gone away.

And she felt it before it happened.

A subtle shift in the air, a weight settling between her shoulders, the unmistakable sensation of being watched. Her laughter faltered mid-breath. Slowly—hesitantly—she turned her head, eyes drifting away from the man seated across from her.

And then she saw him.

The world collapsed into silence.

Sound drained from the room as if someone had reached up and turned a dial, leaving only the dull rush of blood in Atsumu’s ears. His heart slammed violently against his ribs, too fast, too loud, and for a fleeting second he wondered if it showed—if she could see it in the tightness of his jaw, the way his chest barely seemed to rise.

Her eyes widened, recognition flickered across her face in real time, raw and unguarded. Her lips parted on a soft, breathless gasp, fingers tightening instinctively around her wine glass as though she needed the grounding. For a moment, she didn’t look away.

Neither did he.

Golden light caught in her eyes, reflecting something fragile and electric—shock giving way to something deeper, something that made his throat tighten painfully. He saw it there, clear as day: her disbelief, the memories, the longing he always held onto. The past rushed in all at once, vivid and merciless, crashing through him with the force of everything he’d never said, never finished, never let go of.

The room blurred around them, faces and tables dissolving into nothing more than vague shapes. It felt as though they were suspended in a separate space entirely, tethered by nothing but that look. His fingers curled tighter against the table. He swallowed hard, pulse roaring in his ears.

She blinked once—twice—as if testing whether this was real. Her gaze dropped briefly, lashes casting shadows against her cheeks, before lifting again. Still there. Still him.

Atsumu’s breath hitched.

He knew that look. The hesitation. The way her shoulders stiffened, the way she seemed to brace herself as though the moment itself might knock her off balance. It was the same look she used to give him when things felt too intense, too close to the truth.

The flame sparked instantly—small but ferocious—curling low in his chest and spreading fast. It was yearning and regret and want all tangled together, burning brighter with every second she held his gaze.

For that moment, nothing else existed.

His leg bounced beneath the table, the movement restless, involuntary. Fingers drummed against the polished wood, too fast, too uneven, as if his body had decided to betray him before his mind could catch up. A sharp breath slipped past his lips—quiet, fractured—lost beneath the hum of the restaurant.

His date stopped speaking.

She noticed it then, the way his focus had drifted somewhere far beyond her reach. She leaned forward, following the line of his stare, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Who are you looking at?” she asked, tone light but edged, already bracing for an answer she wouldn’t like.

When she turned around and saw you, a woman so impossibly beautiful you could liken her to an angel, she scowled. Her recognition sparked into something uglier. A scoff left her lips as she turned back to Atsumu, a humorless laugh curling through her words.

“What—do you know her or something?”

Atsumu didn’t look away from you—he couldn’t. His eyes were entirely fixated on you, on the way you leaned in to listen, the way your fingers curled around the stem of your glass like it belonged there.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low, distant. “I know her.”

Her jaw tightened. She watched him for a moment longer, then let out a sharp breath through her nose.

“Okay—what, is she your ex or something? Because I don’t understand what’s happening right now.” she asked, jealousy bleeding through the sarcasm she tried—and failed—to hide.

“Yeah.”

The word left him simply. Honestly. It felt heavier than it should have, settling deep in his chest like a truth he’d never fully buried. His heart ached with it, with the unbearable pull to stand, to cross the distance, to hear your voice again—even just once.

His date stared at him, incredulous, nostrils flared. Then she huffed, snatched her napkin from her lap, and tossed it down onto the table.

“You’re unbelievable.”

She stood from the table then, not even bothering to look at Atsumu, and walked away without another word. That was the first time all night that she’d stopped talking.

Atsumu barely registered it. The chair scraping against the floor, the way heads turned from the sudden outburst, the space across from him suddenly empty—it all meant nothing to him. He didn’t care.

He only knew one thing with devastating clarity—and it hollowed him out. He needed to see you. To talk to you. To remind himself that you were real—and that this wasn’t just another ghost haunting him in the low glow of candlelight.

⸻

★ SAKUSA KIYOOMI—“Moon by Daniel Caesar & Wild Horses by The Sundays.”

The bookstore hummed quietly, warm light spilling across rows of stacked paperbacks and hardcover spines. Footsteps whispered against the polished floor, the faint scent of coffee mingling with the crisp smell of fresh paper. Sakusa wandered past aisles of fiction, a paper bag in one hand, the other tucked under his folded arms, his expression carefully neutral. He had made a purchase—a few novels he’d been meaning to revisit—and now his path led toward the small café tucked into the corner of the shop.

He ordered a drink, the usual, and gave a curt, polite thanks before stepping aside near the counter, waiting for it. Arms folded, shoulders squared, he leaned slightly against the edge, letting his gaze wander almost subconsciously.

And then he saw her.

It was only the corner of his eye at first, a shape and a motion that seemed… impossibly familiar. He didn’t look directly, didn’t let himself, and yet somehow his whole body stiffened, heartbeat stuttering as recognition hit with the force of a shutter closing over his chest. She was there, seated at a small table near the window, fingers flying over her laptop keys, completely absorbed in her work.

His chest tightened. His eyes drank her in without permission. The tilt of her head, the soft line of her jaw illuminated by the golden light of the café, the effortless way she seemed to belong to the air around her—every detail, impossibly sharp.

“(Y/n).”

Her head snapped up, eyes wide, breath catching in her throat. The soft hum of the café dissolved around them, leaving only the startling, unsteady recognition that hung between them. She blinked, tilting the screen of her laptop slightly, focus sharpening on him as if trying to make sense of the impossible sight before her.

“Kiyoomi?”

Her voice, caught between disbelief and something unspoken, reverberated in the tight space between them. He nodded once, almost imperceptibly, the world narrowing down to her alone. The bag in his hand felt suddenly heavy, as though all the air had condensed around the table she occupied.

She swallowed softly, heart hammering. His presence was as imposing as it had always been—calm, impossibly still, and yet somehow dangerous in the intensity of it. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t panicking, but the silence he carried pressed against her chest like the pause before a storm breaks.

Her coffee steamed, forgotten, and for a brief moment, he didn’t notice the barista calling his name. She gestured, an almost imperceptible tilt of her head, silently offering him the seat across from her.

She let out a short, sharp breath and finally gestured toward the chair across from her. “You can sit if you’d like,” she said, almost shy and laced with a nervous undertone.

It was only then he moved, carefully, folding the paper bag under his arm and settling into the chair across from her, still staring as if he might never take his eyes off her. The table between them felt impossibly small, a fragile barrier that seemed to shrink under the weight of everything unspoken, almost laughably insignificant compared to the storm of memory and longing crackling in the air.

The world around them continued, customers murmuring, the hiss of the espresso machine punctuating the quiet moments—but they were suspended in time, the air around them stretching thin with each breath.

Sakusa’s lips parted slightly, the words he wanted to say were caught somewhere between formality and confession, but none came immediately. He simply stared, the intensity in his gaze impossible to ignore. The flame sparked instantly—small, restrained, but fierce—buried deep in his chest, threatening to light a fire that neither of them knew if they could contain.

She pushed her chair back slightly, reaching for her laptop and tucking it into her tote bag to allow for more space. Every subtle movement—the brush of her hair from her face as she reached down to her bag, the careful adjustment of her sleeve, the way she reached for her coffee cup with both hands for comfort—everything was amplified, her movements, her face—everything far too familiar.

Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet, almost cautious.

“I…didn’t expect to see you here,” she said finally, voice measured, steady on the surface but carrying that undertone of disbelief, of a heart suddenly racing too fast.

He nodded once, slow, deliberate, the kind of nod that carried weight without any words. The flame in his chest grew, low and consuming, an ache that made his stomach twist in anticipation and something closer to fear.

“Neither did I,” he admitted, words low, almost a growl, as if speaking louder might shatter the fragile moment. His hands rested on the table now, one brushing lightly against the edge as though grounding himself. “It’s been a while.”

Her eyes softened, but only slightly, and for a brief second the tension between them shifted—an unspoken history pressed into every glance, every breath, every pause. She swallowed. “Yeah… it has.”

The silence stretched, heavy and fragile, broken only by the faint hiss of steaming milk from the barista’s wand and the distant shuffle of feet on polished floorboards. He wanted to speak, to ask a hundred questions, but every time his mouth opened, he swallowed, letting the tension linger, letting the room compress around just the two of them.

“You…you look…different,” she finally said, words trailing off at the end, careful not to admit how much she noticed, how much she’d remembered.

“Older?” he asked, voice neutral, almost dismissive, but the sharp intake of his breath betrayed the ache behind it. “That’s to be expected.” He looked over you once, eyes slowly tracing the curve of your jaw, the way your hair framed your face, everything. “You look…good.”

Her lips curved slightly, a small, fleeting smile, but her eyes never left his. That spark—the one that had been lit between them for what seems like decades ago, lingered in memories they hadn’t shared out loud—flickered again. She leaned forward just a little, her hands clasped loosely around her coffee cup, and for a moment, neither of them moved, neither spoke, the air between them tense and expectant.

And then, as if pulled by the invisible thread of recognition and longing, he reached out just a fraction—hand hovering above the table, not yet touching, as though testing whether this moment was real or a fragile illusion.

Neither of them spoke for a long, suspended moment. They simply stared, two people caught in a current of something too deep, too powerful to name yet, both wondering how to bridge the impossible distance between them.

And just as he was about to close that distance—about to speak, to reach, to ignite the flame into something undeniable—the barista called out another order, the sound slicing through the bubble of their attention.

They blinked, just briefly, but long enough for the moment to hover, unfinished, unresolved, as if the universe itself had paused to take a breath.

“You should get your coffee, Kiyoomi.” She said, a soft smile on her lips as she spoke. “You wouldn’t want it to get cold.”

Nothing had changed, yet everything had. She was still the same person he knew, only older, more beautiful than he remembered. But she had the same smile he remembered, the one he knew was still reserved for him—even after three years of not knowing what happened to her, what went wrong, why he couldn’t love her the way he should’ve.

He shook his head slightly, just barely, his eyes never leaving hers. “I don’t mind it getting cold,” he said quietly, voice low, measured, carrying that familiar weight of someone used to holding himself together—but failing, somehow, in this moment. His fingers flexed against the edge of the table, tightening as though grounding himself. “Not if it means I can stay here…with you.”

And neither of them could ignore the pull between them—the story that hadn’t ended, the conversation that had been left unsaid, the want that lingered quietly but fiercely in the space between heartbeats.

⸻

★ OSAMU MIYA—“Helpless by Suki Waterhouse & Common Burn by Mazzy Star.”

The door chimed softly as Osamu stepped out of Onigiri Miya, the sound sharp in the quiet stretch between songs spilling from the bar across the street. He paused just long enough for the door to swing shut behind him, the warmth of the shop bleeding out into the damp night before disappearing entirely.

The rain had been falling all day. The asphalt beneath his shoes was slick and dark, reflecting the neon signs overhead in warped streaks of pinks and blues. The entertainment district was alive in that familiar late-night way—music thumping from the bars lining the alleyways, laughter spilling into the street, engines rushing past as cars cut through traffic in a blur of headlights and motion. Friday night. End of the week. The city is alive and well in the late hours of the evening.

Osamu adjusted his grip on the trash bags in his hands and turned toward the alley beside the shop, his shoes splashing lightly against shallow puddles. The smell of rain clung to the air, mixing with cigarette smoke and fried food drifting from somewhere down the block.

Then he heard it.

Laughter—bright, unrestrained, cutting clean through all the noise.

His steps faltered.

It wasn’t just any laugh. It never had been—it was unmistakably familiar.

His hand tightened instinctively around the trash bag as his body reacted before his mind could catch up, heart giving a sharp, traitorous thud against his ribs. He knew that sound the way one knows a favorite song—by feel, by memory, by something deeper than logic. He’d heard it in crowded kitchens and quiet mornings, in moments of exhaustion and joy, in times when the world felt impossibly heavy and when it felt light enough to carry.

Almost five years, and it hadn’t changed.

Osamu reached the dumpster, one hand lifting the heavy lid as he leaned forward, almost unconsciously craning his neck toward the street. For a split second, he wondered if exhaustion was playing tricks on him—if his mind had finally decided to be cruel.

But there she was.

Across the street, just beyond the glow of the bar’s neon sign, three women stumbled out onto the sidewalk, arms looped together to keep steady, laughter spilling freely between them. And in the center of it all was you.

The girl he never stopped loving.

You were dressed for the night—dark straight legged denim jeans, heeled brown boots splashed with rain, hair slightly wild from the humidity and movement, cheeks flushed pink from alcohol and laughter. You threw your head back as you cackled, hand gripping one of your friend’s sleeves to steady yourself, and for a moment it felt like the world tilted on its axis.

Osamu froze.

The dumpster lid hovered in his grip, trash bag forgotten at his side. His chest tightened in that slow, familiar way—like something heavy settling in place, pressing down gently but relentlessly. You looked older. Not by much. Five years, give or take. But there was a confidence to you now, something settled and sure in the way you moved, the way you laughed like you belonged exactly where you were.

More beautiful than he remembered.

He swallowed hard and forced himself to move, tossing the trash into the dumpster and letting the lid fall shut with a dull clang. The sound echoed too loudly in his ears. He wiped his hands against his apron, fingers lingering there longer than necessary, and adjusted the brim of his cap low over his eyes—an old habit, instinctive, like he could hide the way he stared if he just angled it right.

You and your friends were still laughing, voices overlapping as they talked about everything and nothing. One of them nearly stumbled off the curb, and you caught her without thinking, laughing hysterically, but steadying her with a practiced ease that twisted something deep in his chest.

He’d always loved that about you. The way you took care of people without even realizing it.

Osamu stepped out of the alley, leaning back against the brick wall beside the shop. He folded his arms across his chest, posture casual if anyone were looking—but his gaze never left you. Couldn’t. His eyes traced every movement like committing you to memory all over again. The curve of your smile. The way your shoulders shook when you laughed. The sound of your voice—slurred just enough to betray the drinks, but unmistakably yours.

Oh how he’d missed it, how he’d missed you.

Just shy of five years. No contact. No closure. Just the quiet absence that never quite healed, no matter how busy life got, no matter how many days passed without him thinking of you—until moments like this, when everything came rushing back at once.

Across the street, one of your friends pointed suddenly, eyes lighting up as she spotted the familiar storefront.

“Oh my god—onigiri,” she slurred, tugging at your arm. “Guys please. I need food or I think I might actually die.”

You laughed again, nodding, and Osamu’s heart stuttered as the three of you turned—toward his shop.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, grounding himself. He wasn’t ready for this. Wasn’t ready to meet your eyes again, wasn’t ready to stand in front of you and pretend he didn’t still carry you with him in every quiet moment.

But panic never came. He didn’t let it.

Instead, he straightened, pushing off the wall just as the three of you approached the door. Your friends reached for the handle, only to pause when they noticed the lights dimmed inside, the neon “OPEN” sign dark.

“Aw, you’re kidding,” one of them groaned. “They’re closed.”

You tilted your head, peering through the glass, disappointment flickering briefly across your face before you shrugged. “I guess we’ll just have to find something else. C’mon, let’s go.”

Osamu moved before he could talk himself out of it.

“I don’t mind,” he said, voice steady, carrying easily across the small distance. “I can still serve you,“

All three of you turned at once.

And that’s when your eyes met his.

The effect was immediate.

Your expression shifted—laughter fading, eyes sharpening, breath catching as recognition bloomed across your face in real time. The alcohol haze seemed to burn away in an instant, replaced by something raw and stunned. Your lips parted, a soft sound leaving you before you could stop it.

Osamu held the door open, fingers wrapped around the handle, his gaze gentle and unguarded. There was no surprise in his eyes—only warmth, familiarity, and something aching just beneath the surface.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

Your friends, oblivious, burst into drunken gratitude, stumbling past him with slurred thank-yous and laughter as they stepped inside, immediately distracted by the menu board. But you didn’t move.

You stood there, just outside the threshold, rain-damp pavement beneath your boots, cheeks flushed, breathing a little harder than before. Your eyes never left his.

“Hi,” you replied, soft. Almost shy.

Osamu smiled then—small, warm, unmistakably his.

“Been a long time, (Y/n).”

Your lashes fluttered as you blinked, emotion threatening to spill over. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it wasn’t. Your throat worked as you swallowed, nodding once.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “It has, hasn’t it.”

He smiled gently, almost sweetly, something you’d always missed, tried to hold onto for as long as you could remember. He tipped his head toward the door, still holding it open for you. “Come on,” he said gently. “I’ll get you somethin’ to eat.”

You hesitated just a second longer—then stepped inside.

Osamu followed, letting the door close behind him, the chime ringing softly through the shop as the night—and five years of silence—finally gave way.

⸻

★ IWAIZUMI HAJIME — “ Run to You by Bryan Adam & Is This Love? by Whitesnake”

The city was barely awake.

The sky sat low and pale over the buildings, washed in soft gray-blue, the kind of morning that felt unfinished. Fog settled over the skyline, misty and beautiful as streetlights glowed faintly, the reflection stretching across damp pavement where last night’s rain hadn’t fully dried. Traffic was sparse, the city quieter than it ever let itself be, save for the hum of distant engines and the rhythmic slap of sneakers against concrete.

Iwaizumi Hajime rounded a corner, jogging down the sidewalk past his apartment. It was always the same route. Same pace. Same time. Six in the morning, every morning—no excuses. His breath came steady through his nose, controlled, measured. Headphones snug over his ears, bass thudding low and constant, grounding him. The world narrowed to the cadence of his stride, the tension in his calves, the burn in his lungs that reminded him he was alive and moving and not thinking.

That was the point.

Running kept his head clear. It kept everything where it belonged—tucked away, compartmentalized, buried beneath muscle memory and a strict routine. No room for ghosts when your body demanded focus, demanded structure, discipline.

He rounded another corner without slowing, eyes forward, mind distant from the world around him—

And then—Impact.

Hard. Fast. Barely a moment to register what happened.

A solid force collided with his chest, knocking the breath straight out of him. His feet skidded on the slick pavement as instinct took over, hands shooting out to catch what he’d just run into before it could hit the ground.

“Shit—! I’m so sorry—are you okay?”

His voice came out fast, rough, breathless. He barely registered the heat against his hands, the sudden jolt of warmth soaking through fabric. The scent hit him next— roasted coffee, rich and bitter, sharp in the cool morning air.

A cup shattered at their feet, splashing its contents across the pavement.

“God—ugh—my sweater—” she gasped in shock, stumbling back half a step, clearly startled. “No—I just—! I literally just bought this—”

Her voice cut off abruptly. So did his breathing.

Iwaizumi froze.

His hands were still on her shoulders, holding her with a softness reserved for a lover, grounding her even if she didn’t ask. His grasp was solid, warm, familiar. Too familiar.

For half a second, his mind refused to connect the dots—refused to name what his body already knew. He pulled one headphone down, as if the music was the problem, heart suddenly hammering too hard against his ribs.

Then she lifted her sunglasses, pushed them up into her hair, and looked at him.

“Hajime?”

Oh—fuck.

The world tilted.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet and devastating, the kind of realization that hollowed you out from the inside. His fingers released her shoulders instantly, like he’d been burned, dropping back to his sides as if distance alone might save him.

Staring was easier than speaking. God—she was right there, standing in front of him. Older. Only by a year, but enough to see it in the lines of her face, the way she carried herself now. Her hair was pulled back loosely, strands already slipping free and free falling around her face. A soft cashmere sweater clung to her frame—ruined now, stained dark where coffee had spilled—and she looked…real.

Too real and too perfect—even given the current circumstances.

“I—” His throat tightened. He swallowed hard, chest rising and falling too fast from the run, from the shock. “Hey. I—sorry. I didn’t see you.”

The apology felt stupid the second it left his mouth. He hadn’t meant just the collision. He knew that. She probably did too.

She was still staring at him, eyes wide, searching for something, like she wasn’t sure if he’d disappear if she blinked too long. Her breath came shallow, uneven, fingers curling instinctively into the fabric of her ruined sweater.

“It’s fine,” she said, but it wasn’t — not really. Her voice wavered just enough to give her away. “I wasn’t looking either.”

They stood there, suspended in the quiet aftermath of impact.

The coffee shop door behind her chimed softly as someone else stepped out, warm air spilling briefly into the morning before the door shut again. The smell of espresso lingered between them, mixing with rain and asphalt and something far more familiar—something he’d never been able to forget.

Iwaizumi dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply, contemplating what to say, what to do. His heart wouldn’t slow down. Didn’t want to.

A year. A full year since he’d last seen her. No texts. No calls. No accidental run-ins. He’d told himself it was better that way. It was easier this way.

He’d been lying. Not that he’d ever admit to that.

“You—uh,” he started, then stopped. Useless. Everything he wanted to say tangled in his chest, pressing hard against his ribs. He glanced down at the mess at their feet—shattered cup, coffee bleeding into the cracks of the sidewalk. “I’ll…I can pay for your sweater. Or—the coffee. Both. If that’s fine.”

She let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so tight. “You don’t have to.” She shook her head, trying to look away from him. From everything that was rushing back to her.

“I want to,” he said immediately, too fast, too firm. Typical. His jaw clenched. “I mean—it’s my fault your sweater is ruined.”

Her gaze softened just a fraction, something complicated flickering there—recognition, memory, restraint. The same look she used to give him when he tried too hard to fix things that weren’t broken. Or things that were, and couldn’t be undone.

She nodded once. “Fine. Just this once.”

Silence stretched again.

Uncomfortable. Heavy.

This wasn’t like the others. There was no distance to soften the blow, no time to prepare. Love hadn’t whispered—it had slammed into them at full speed, forced them to feel everything they’d worked so hard to bury.

Iwaizumi shifted his weight, restless, the urge to reach out battling hard against the instinct to keep his hands to himself. He looked at her face again — really looked — and felt the truth hit him all over again.

She was the one that got away. Not because she wanted to. Because he’d let her.

“You uh…live around here?” he asked finally, voice low, careful, like he was stepping onto thin ice.

She hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Just a few blocks.”

Of course she did.

His chest tightened painfully. He nodded too, lips pressing into a thin line as he looked away briefly, gathering himself. The city felt too small suddenly. Too intimate.

“I run here every morning,” he said, not sure why he felt the need to explain. Maybe because part of him wanted her to know this wasn’t coincidence—or maybe because he needed to hear himself say it out loud. “Guess I should watch where I’m going.”

Her mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Guess so.”

They stood there, two people who knew each other too well pretending not to. The past hung between them, thick and unspoken, every memory pressing in from all sides.

Neither of them said I missed you.

Neither of them said I still love you.

But it was there—in the way his gaze lingered too long, in the way her shoulders remained angled toward him like she wasn’t ready to walk away. Love, undeniable and inconvenient, standing right in front of them with nowhere to hide.

The city continued waking around them. Cars passed. Someone laughed down the block. Morning marched on, indifferent.

Iwaizumi took a slow breath, steadying himself, knowing—with painful clarity—that this moment would stay with him long after the run was over.

Love hadn’t faded.It had just been waiting.And now it had caught up to him.

Hard.

⸻

★ OIKAWA TOORU — “Heaven Up There by Palace & Caribbean Blue by Enya.”

The stadium roared long before the match was set to begin.

Thousands of voices rose and fell in waves, a living thing that pressed in from all sides, vibrating through the court beneath their feet. Bright lights hung overhead, harsh and unyielding, bleaching the polished floor until it gleamed. Cameras rolled endlessly—sweeping shots of the crowd, close-ups of athletes stretching, adjusting jerseys, laughing with teammates. The Olympics thrummed with spectacle, with expectation, with the weight of eyes that never blinked.

Oikawa Tooru stood near the net, hands braced on his hips as he caught his breath.

Sweat clung to his temples, darkening the edge of his hairline. His chest rose and fell steadily, controlled, as a ball sailed over the net and he received it cleanly, sending it back with practiced precision. Another drill. Another rotation. His body moved on instinct now, muscle memory carrying him through each step as if he’d been born to this court.

Japan’s colors felt heavy on his shoulders.

Not burdensome—never that—but significant. Every movement mattered. Every expression would be scrutinized. He rolled his shoulders once, exhaling through his nose, eyes lifting briefly toward the stands as his team reset.

That was when he heard it.

A voice—clear, professional, steady—cutting clean through the noise.

“And just behind me, you can see the Japanese men’s volleyball team warming up ahead of tonight’s match—”

His body reacted before his mind did.

Oikawa’s hands dropped from his hips. His spine stiffened, the breath leaving his lungs in a quiet, startled exhale that bordered on a scoff—more disbelief than amusement.

No. There’s no way.

He turned his head slowly, almost unwillingly, eyes tracking toward the source of the sound near the bleachers. A camera crew stood just off the court, wires trailing across the floor, a cameraman adjusting his angle as the woman beside him spoke fluidly into a wired microphone.

All black. Tailored suit. Professional to the bone. And her. The world narrowed in an instant.

She stood tall, poised, completely in her element—hair blown out perfectly, makeup done for the unforgiving glare of stadium lights. She gestured subtly as she spoke, confidence woven into every movement, every word. A sports journalist through and through. Grounded. Polished. Untouchable.

His chest sank.

“O—oh,” he muttered under his breath, the sound lost beneath the roar of the crowd. His lips parted slightly, then pressed together as he breathed out again, longer this time, tension bleeding into the exhale. His heart had started racing in a way that had nothing to do with warm-ups.

You.

Here.

Of all places.

Of all times.

He hadn’t seen you in years—not really. Not like this. Not standing in the open, real and radiant, not a ghost conjured up in the quiet moments between matches and flights and sleepless nights.

Oikawa’s posture shifted unconsciously, shoulders squaring, jaw tightening. He was suddenly acutely aware of himself—of the sweat on his skin, the way his jersey clung to his back, the fact that he’d been laughing with his teammates just seconds ago. His confidence wavered, just a fraction, replaced by something sharper.

Nerves.

He watched you from across the court, unable to tear his gaze away. Even when someone called his name—when a teammate clapped him on the shoulder and said something he didn’t quite register—his eyes stayed locked on you.

“Damn,” someone muttered nearby, low and impressed. “She’s hot.”

Oikawa’s jaw clenched.

Another teammate snorted. “Might ask her out after the game. I mean, it’s the Olympics. Why not?”

Something ugly and instinctive curled in his chest.

Jealousy—irrational, unearned, and immediate.

His fingers flexed at his sides, nails biting into his palms as he forced himself to breathe. She wasn’t his. Hadn’t been for years. He had no claim, no right to feel that flare of protectiveness, that quiet urge to step in front of her like he used to.

But knowing that didn’t stop it.

Across the court, you turned, directing your cameraman’s attention toward the players as you prepared for interviews. Your professionalism never faltered—until your eyes lifted.

Until you saw him. The change was instantaneous.

Your breath caught, the words dying on your tongue as your gaze collided with his. Panic flickered there—raw and unfiltered—before you could mask it. Not for the camera. Just for him.

Oikawa’s heart dropped straight into his stomach.

Oh—fuck.

He wanted to move. To say something. To do anything that might ease the sudden tension pulling tight between you. To tell you it was okay. That you didn’t have to worry. That he could handle this—just like he always pretended he could.

But he stayed where he was.

And you did too.

The moment passed, fragile and fleeting, swallowed by the demands of the broadcast. You inhaled, composure snapping back into place like armor as you turned to interview another player. Oikawa forced himself to focus, to stretch, to nod along when spoken to, but his attention never truly left you.

Each interview brought you closer.

Each step felt inevitable.

When it was finally his turn, the camera swung toward him, the red recording light blinking to life. He stepped forward automatically, shoulders back, smile slipping into place with practiced ease.

“Oikawa Tooru,” you said smoothly, microphone raised as you faced him. “Setter for the Japanese national team.”

Your voice was steady. Professional.

But your eyes betrayed you—flickering briefly, nervously, as if you were bracing for impact.

“So,” you continued, turning slightly toward the camera, “how does it feel to represent Japan on a stage like this?”

For the first time in a long while, Oikawa almost faltered.

His throat tightened. The words lodged somewhere deep in his chest, tangled up with everything he couldn’t say. He smiled wider, leaned into the performance, letting confidence carry him where honesty threatened to undo him.

“It’s an honor,” he said, voice smooth, warm. “Something I’ve worked toward my whole life.”

The cameras ate it up.

You nodded, asking another question, then another. He answered them all flawlessly—charming, articulate, composed. Anyone watching would’ve seen nothing out of the ordinary.

No one noticed the way your fingers tightened around the microphone.

No one noticed the faint flush creeping up your neck.

No one noticed the way his gaze softened every time he looked at you.

When it was over, you lowered the microphone and smiled.

“Thank you for your time,” you said, extending your hand. “And good luck.”

Oikawa took it.

And didn’t let go.

Not right away.

His grip was firm, grounding, holding on just a second longer than necessary. The contact sent a quiet shock through him, through you—something familiar and devastating and alive.

Your smile shifted, softening in a way meant only for him. The kind of smile you used to give him when no one else was looking.

“It’s…nice to see you, Tooru.” you said quietly.

His lips curved into a knowing smile of his own, eyes warm despite everything. “It’s nice to see you too, (y/n),” he murmured. “I mean it.”

The look you exchanged said everything neither of you could afford to voice.

Then the cameras moved on.

The crowd roared. The moment slipped back into the noise.

But the damage was done.

Love hadn’t waited for permission. It never did.

And as Oikawa returned to the court, heart pounding harder than any match could demand, he knew—without question—that this was a moment neither of you would ever forget.

Not because it changed everything.

But because it reminded you of what never really had.

⸻

★ BOKUTO KOUTARU — “The Scientist by Coldplay & Rabbit by The Neighbourhood.”

The airport was loud in the way only airports ever were—constant but impersonal. Rolling suitcases rattled across tiled floors, boarding announcements echoed overhead, voices overlapped and dissolved into white noise. Everything smelled faintly of coffee and recycled air, a sterile kind of exhaustion clinging to the space. Travelers hustled past with rolling bags, laptops under arms, travel mugs in hands. Somewhere nearby, a child cried briefly before being shushed, laughter erupted from a group of teenagers waiting for a gate. Life went on in sharp, relentless motion.

Bokuto dragged his duffel bag behind him, shoulders heavy, steps slower than usual. He looked tired—really tired. The kind that sleep didn’t fix. Hoodie pulled up over his head, hair flattened instead of wild, shadows sitting deep beneath his eyes. Six months hadn’t dulled the ache the way everyone said it would. If anything, it had only taught him how to carry it.

Today, the team was flying to the U.S. for an exhibition match—a pre-Olympics promotional tour. Press obligations, fan events, and a handful of scrimmages awaited. His teammates were buzzing with excitement, joking about the hotel, the food, sightseeing, selfies with fans. But Bokuto barely registered it. Their chatter felt distant, like muffled echoes underwater.

He dropped the bag between his feet and collapsed into the stiff plastic seat with a quiet huff, arms folding over his chest, legs stretched out wide. Atsumu was bouncing around nearby, checking his phone, talking too loudly. Hinata kicked the bottom of the chair in front of him, his voice high and relentless. Bokuto didn’t hear, didn’t respond. His thoughts were elsewhere. Always were, lately.

Incomplete.

That was the word that fit best. Like something essential had been carved out of him and left behind.

He could still see her sometimes, in flashes—the way she laughed over coffee, the subtle tilt of her head when she was amused, the soft brushing of her fingers across his hand without thinking. He’d tried. He’d tried to bury it, distract himself with gym sessions, video games, team duties. He even tried to bury himself in training, forcing himself to focus on spikes, blocks, and jump counts—but the void never filled. Six months of absence and the ache had not lessened.

Across the terminal, someone turned a page.

He didn’t notice at first.

Atsumu leaned in, nudging his shoulder. “Oi, Bo.”

Bokuto barely reacted. “Hm?”

Atsumu pointed, chin jutting toward the seating across from them. “Isn’t that your ex?”

The word hit him like a misstep, cold and immediate.

“What?” Bokuto frowned, sitting up slightly. “No way.”

He followed Atsumu’s line of sight without thinking—lazy, half-interested—and froze.

Across from him, just a few rows away, sat a woman with her face buried in a book. Legs crossed neatly. A sweater draped over her frame that he recognized immediately. Too immediately. Soft knit, slightly oversized, the exact one he’d bought her on a cold afternoon when she’d said she was “fine” even though she wasn’t.

The world seemed to slow.

The distant echo of a boarding announcement reached him but sounded hollow. The rolling of luggage, the conversations, the clatter of the coffee cart—they all dulled to a muted hum. His chest tightened, stomach turning, a cold pit opening that made his hands tingle.

No. No, no, no.

His heart slammed violently against his ribs as denial surged first, instinctive and desperate. It couldn’t be you. He couldn’t handle it being you. Not here. Not like this. Not after six months of trying to pretend he didn’t still miss you.

But then—You lowered the book.

Just slightly. Enough to turn the page. Enough for your eyes to lift without intention—and meet his.

The world cracked open.

Everything else fell away. The announcements. The chatter. The movement of bodies around them. All of it dissolved into nothing but the space between your eyes and his, heavy and unbearable.

Oh.

Fuck.

Your expression shifted instantly—shock flooding in first, then something softer, sadder, far more dangerous. Your lips parted like you wanted to speak but didn’t know how. Bokuto felt like the air had been punched out of his lungs. He sat up too fast, spine snapping straight, hands gripping the edge of his seat as his heart raced wildly, out of control.

He couldn’t breathe.

God—you looked tired. Not travel-tired. Something deeper. Something familiar. Something that made his chest ache in a way he hadn’t allowed himself in months. You were wearing the necklace too—the one with both your birthstones, resting right where his thumb used to trace absentminded circles when you lay against him.

Six months.

Only six months.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

The pain hit him all over again, sudden and ruthless, like he was back in that moment when everything had ended quietly, painfully, without raised voices or slammed doors. Just heartbreak. The worst kind.

He saw it in your eyes too. The same devastation mirrored back at him. The same disbelief. The same “why does it still hurt this much?”

Someone laughed nearby. A suitcase tipped over. Life kept moving.

Bokuto didn’t.

He felt a lump in his throat, a cold heaviness settle in his stomach. His hands rested against his thighs, flexing, gripping fabric he barely felt. He wanted to stand. He wanted to cross the distance. He wanted to say your name like it might stitch something back together.

Instead, he watched.

You stood abruptly, movements careful but rushed, like staying still hurt too much. You slid your book into your tote, fingers trembling just enough to betray the subtle panic in your motions. You didn’t look at him again—not because you didn’t want to, but because you couldn’t.

And that was it.

That was the moment it shattered him all over again.

You were right there. Close enough to touch. Close enough to say something—anything—and he’d frozen. Let you walk away without a word. Without a fight. Just like before.

Bokuto slumped back into his seat, chest aching, eyes fixed on the space you’d occupied seconds earlier. His shoulders sagged, hands running over his face in a mix of shame, humiliation, and grief. Hair tugged in frustration, jaw tight. His stomach twisted with the almost instinctive urge to jump up, call your name, run after you—but he stopped himself.

He let the weight of six months of longing crash over him all at once, hollow and raw. The dull roar of the terminal slowly crept back in, but it couldn’t reach him. He was trapped in the echo of your presence, the brush of the sweater he’d picked out for you, the memory of a love that had once been steady and real.

All he could think was that love hadn’t left him.

It had just been sitting there, across from him, wearing his sweater and breaking his heart all over again.

And this time—

he hadn’t even tried to stop it.

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

Happy new year to everyone who reads my page!!! You guys, I’m so happy to be back to writing! I had a very busy holiday and I absolutely needed to be present and live in the moment with my loved ones. I hope you all are doing amazing! Comment down below which one-shot was your favorite, which one made you cry, everything! MUAH 💋

[thicchaikyuuboys]

i thought your scratch marks post was about stretch marks u_u

No diva. I fear that post is also outdated in terms of my literary skills. Shall I make another version 🥳🥳🥳

[thicchaikyuuboys]

HAIKYUU!! BOYS SEEING THEIR EX AFTER A BREAKUP

Includes: Kuroo Tetsuro, Miya Atsumu, Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Osamu, Iwaizumi Hahime, Oikawa Tooru, Bokuto Koutaro

TW: slightest bit of angst

Author’s note: certain songs inspired me to write, so the titles of each one shot correlate with parts of my playlist. I highly suggest you listen to them lol.

★ KUROO TETSURO — “Amsterdam by Gregory Alan Isakov.”

Winter arrives quietly, the way it always does when you’re not paying attention.

Snow drifts down in a thin, deliberate flurry, catching in the winter breeze. You cradle your coffee between both hands, fingers stiff despite the comforting warmth, coat buttoned all the way up, and your wool scarf wrapped around high enough to hide your flushed cheeks. The city hums around you—cars hissing against wet pavement, footsteps crunching faintly through the snow covered streets—but everything feels slightly muted, as if the winter brought a moment of silence with it—the whole world around you somehow muted.

You make it out of the train station just in time for the morning rush, slipping through bodies and briefcases, dodging umbrellas, heart still racing from the sprint it took to get here. By the time you reach the office, your shoulders ache with the effort of holding yourself together.

Stepping into the lobby, you breathe a sigh of relief at the instant warmth that welcomes you. The fluorescents, the ones reflecting off of the polished floors, are much too bright as you blink away the sudden glare in your vision. You pause just inside the revolving doors, tugging at your scarf before adjusting your grip on the cup. It’s another days’ work, in the same office, with the same people—except today is a different kind of day—one that bears the same promise of a paycheck but from an entirely different department.

It’s your first day on the job. Position? Sports Promotor & Marketing Manager.

You pull your scarf free, tucking it over your arm when you feel someone pass behind you.

Close enough that the air around you suddenly shifts. Close enough that you feel it before you understand it — a strange, fleeting pull in your chest, like missing a step you didn’t see. You don’t look up in time.

Neither of you do.

He keeps walking. You turn toward the elevators, heels clicking against the polished floors as you press the silver button, waiting patiently.

Two separate doors slide open on opposite sides of the lobby. You step into one without thinking, shoulders relaxing as the doors close. Somewhere across the space, another elevator does the same.

Parallel paths. Same direction. No awareness.

The ride up is quiet, your reflection staring back at you from the brushed metal walls. You tap your foot, the sound echoing around you. You smooth down your coat, exhale slowly, and remind yourself that today is just a transition. Same company, same routine, same work. Just a new floor, a new role, and a step towards success.

You watch as each floor passes, the buttons lighting up, then fading. Then you see the eighteenth floor.

The elevator dings softly, a melodic tune, and then the doors open.

You step out at the same time someone else does—just far enough away that you don’t acknowledge each other, just close enough that fate could almost be laughing. You turn left. He turns right. The hallway swallows you both whole.

You don’t know yet that you’ve already missed him.

Your heels click against the floor with each step you take down the hall, shoulders back in confidence, a polite smile on your face as your coworker passes you. A gentle “good morning” leaves your lips as your greet your boss’s secretary before she pages him, his phone buzzing from inside his office.

She nods, smiling as you knock lightly before entering. Your boss’s office smells faintly of coffee and freshly printed paper—comforting, overly familiar. He greets you warmly, shaking your hand with an ease that immediately settles your nerves.

“Ah, there you are! Cold this morning, isn’t it?”

“Oh, don’t even get me started. The walk here had me rethinking my entire wardrobe. Think I need to invest in a warmer coat.” You chuckle warmly, shrugging off your coat, draping it over the back of the chair, and unwinding your scarf. The room feels too warm now, like you’ve been holding your breath for too long.

“Ain’t that the truth.” Your boss chuckles as he stakes a sip from his coffee. “You know, it’s good to have you on this floor,” he says, smiling. “You’re not new to us, obviously—but this position comes with its own territory. I think you’ll do well given your last position.”

“Thank you, sir.” You nod, return the smile, say all the right things. “I’m ready to play with the big dice.” You’re ready. You’ve always been good at this part—always confident, always self assured. You’ve worked your way to the top, that’s something to be proud of.

“Oh—there’s just one more thing,” he adds, clearing his throat, standing as he adjusts his suit jacket. “You’ll be training directly under our head of marketing. He’ll walk you through everything—you know, processes, expectations, the finer details.”

You nod, your pulse beginning to race just slightly. You smooth over your black slacks before your hands find your hair, fixing any loose strand that may have caught.

“He’s great, shouldn’t have to worry about anything with this guy—great at his job, professional, I’m sure you’ll get along just fine.” He moves toward the door, hand resting on the handle. “Actually, come to think of it, you guys have a lot in common—“ he opens the door, and gestures for you to step out first.

And you do.

Laughter spills through the hallway —easy, unguarded. Someone is leaning against a desk just outside the office, tall frame relaxed, messy black hair falling into familiar disarray. He’s mid-sentence when he shoves a donut into his mouth, taking a bite, eyes crinkled with amusement as his coworkers listen.

Then your boss clears his throat.

The sound cuts through the moment like a blade.

The man turns with a playful smile, still laughing at the conversation.

And the world around you stops.

For a split second, neither of you move. His smile falters—not slowly, not gracefully, but all at once, like it’s been smacked off his face. The donut he’d taken a bite of is forgotten in his hand that now hands at his side in disbelief. His eyes widen, just barely, but you see it. You always did.

You recognize him immediately. There’s no room for doubt—not with the way his expression falters, not with the way your body reacts before you can stop it. Your chest tightens first, sharp and sudden, as if some part of you never forgot how to find him.

Kuroo Tetsurou.

He looks…older. Sharper around the edges. Tired in a way that suits him too well. Still tall. Still unmistakably himself in appearance. And for a moment—a terrible, fragile moment—you’re not in an office hallway at all. You’re somewhere else. Somewhere softer. Somewhere you thought you’d left behind.

Your breath catches in an instant before you can speak.

His does too.

“Good morning, everyone.” your boss says pleasantly, oblivious. “This is perfect timing. I’d like you to meet (y/n), some of you might recognize her from the sports broadcasting department.” He gestures to you, wide eyed and face riddled with something between shock snd sheer confusion. “Kuroo—this is the transfer I mentioned. You’ll be overseeing her training for the next few weeks.”

Kuroo swallows. You watch his throat bob, the way his jaw tightens like he’s bracing for impact. His gaze flickers over you — your posture, the way you stand like you don’t know what to do with your hands. Everything about you is familiar yet untouchable, as if reaching for you would make you vanish.

He says your name.

Just once.

“Nice to meet you, (y/n).”

It sounds wrong in his mouth now. Too careful. Like he’s afraid it might hurt you both.

The silence stretches. His coworkers glance between you, sensing something they can’t place. You force your shoulders to relax, your expression to soften into something neutral, something professional.

You extend your hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, Kuroo. I look forward to working with you.” you say, because you’re good at pretending. Because you have always been. Because now you have to pretend, now you have to hide every ounce of emotion that threatens to burst into flames and burn down the whole office.

Kuroo stares at your hand for half a second too long before taking it. His grip is warm. Familiar. Unfairly steady and gentle like he might hurt you.

“Yeah,” he manages, voice lower than you remember. “Nice to…meet you.”

Your boss smiles, satisfied. “What I’d tell you? You two will get along just fine, I’m sure of it.” Your boss leans over your coworkers desk, snatching a donut and taking a bite before spinning on his heel, “Well, I’ll leave you to it! Welcome to big leagues, (y/n).”

The door to his office closes behind him with a soft click and you can hear his secretary typing away on her keyboard.

And just like that, there’s no avoiding this anymore. There’s no hiding from the truth, no hiding from reality.

Kuroo releases your hand slowly, like he doesn’t quite trust himself to let go. You both stand there, the weight of everything unsaid pressing in from all sides, snow still falling somewhere far below the windows.

After all this time — after all the distance — this is how you find each other again. And neither of you knows yet whether it’s a mistake, divine cruelty… or the beginning of something you never truly finished.

⸻

★ ATSUMU MIYA — “Wonderwall & Champaign Supernova by Oasis.”

The city lights twinkled beneath the night sky. Snow drifted softly in the wind through the crowded streets as people moved in quiet streams—shopping bags swinging at their sides, cups of coffee cradled between their icy fingers, breath blooming white in the cold—while headlights blurred past in a steady rush of downtown traffic.

Nestled in the center of the city is a refined steakhouse—one that’s lavish, luxurious, too luxurious some might say. But tonight, the restaurant is intimate, bathed in warm golden light, each chandelier throwing a soft glow across polished tables and flickering candle light. A jazz piano hummed softly in the background, blending with the clink of wine glasses and the faint murmur of conversation from patrons.

There’s a table seated for two just beyond the lavish entrance of the restaurant, tucked near the bar where a bartender slides a glass of whiskey to a gentleman. And sat across from his date is Atsumu Miya, nodding politely, listening to her, every word she speaks slipping past him without a second thought.

He wasn’t interested, hadn’t been for the last ten minutes. The woman in front of him had charm, sure, and she was beautiful no doubt—but charm alone couldn’t fix the way his leg bounced under the table, impatient, restless. He had no intention of seeing her again and he knew that.

Just another date, another hollow attempt at reaching for something meaningful—something that might quiet the ache settled deep in his chest.

He reached for his glass of whisky, swirling the amber liquid around before he brought the glass to his lips, swallowing the rest of its contents. He cleared his throat, setting the glass down and adjusting himself in his seat, leg still bouncing with anticipation—hopeful that maybe the date somehow would be cut short.

That was when his gaze drifted—anywhere but the woman seated across from him. He could still see her mouth moving at the edge of his vision, words spilling out unheard, when his attention caught on someone just three tables away. Something about her made his focus stall, a pull he couldn’t name, a familiarity that settled deep in his chest before he could make sense of it.

He watched as she turned toward the waiter, angling her body ever so slightly, and asked for another bottle of wine. The smile she offered was effortless—warm, genuine, the kind that lingered a second too long. It was the sort of smile that could have undone any man foolish enough to believe it was meant for him.

It wasn’t a casual glance. It was the moment recognition struck—sudden and unforgiving. The familiar pull sharpened all at once, crashing into clarity, and his breath caught as her face fully registered. She’s three tables away, sitting across from another man—a man that’s not him.

The world seemed to constrict around him as his chest tightened, fingers curling against the edge of the table like he needed something solid to hold onto. He tugged at the collar of his black button up shirt, a sharp, instinctive motion, sitting up straighter as the air around him grew thick and suffocating.

Every movement drew him in—the subtle flick of her hand around the stem of her glass, the slight tilt of her head when she listened, the quiet laugh that slipped from her lips without effort. The soft jazz dulled to a distant hum, the low murmur of conversation dissolving into nothing. Golden light pooled around her, catching in her hair and along the line of her shoulders, and for a moment she felt impossibly separate from the rest of the room—untouchable, unreal, and utterly impossible to look away from.

She had grown. Older now than when they first met, sharper, radiating something entirely her own. His chest tightened in a familiar way, chaotic and electric. He could feel the pull toward her, a sudden reckless urge that made him want to close the distance immediately. His gaze drank in her movements, the curve of her neck, the sweep of her hair, the subtle flare of her shoulders each time she laughed. Every detail ignited something in him that had never fully gone away.

And she felt it before it happened.

A subtle shift in the air, a weight settling between her shoulders, the unmistakable sensation of being watched. Her laughter faltered mid-breath. Slowly—hesitantly—she turned her head, eyes drifting away from the man seated across from her.

And then she saw him.

The world collapsed into silence.

Sound drained from the room as if someone had reached up and turned a dial, leaving only the dull rush of blood in Atsumu’s ears. His heart slammed violently against his ribs, too fast, too loud, and for a fleeting second he wondered if it showed—if she could see it in the tightness of his jaw, the way his chest barely seemed to rise.

Her eyes widened, recognition flickered across her face in real time, raw and unguarded. Her lips parted on a soft, breathless gasp, fingers tightening instinctively around her wine glass as though she needed the grounding. For a moment, she didn’t look away.

Neither did he.

Golden light caught in her eyes, reflecting something fragile and electric—shock giving way to something deeper, something that made his throat tighten painfully. He saw it there, clear as day: her disbelief, the memories, the longing he always held onto. The past rushed in all at once, vivid and merciless, crashing through him with the force of everything he’d never said, never finished, never let go of.

The room blurred around them, faces and tables dissolving into nothing more than vague shapes. It felt as though they were suspended in a separate space entirely, tethered by nothing but that look. His fingers curled tighter against the table. He swallowed hard, pulse roaring in his ears.

She blinked once—twice—as if testing whether this was real. Her gaze dropped briefly, lashes casting shadows against her cheeks, before lifting again. Still there. Still him.

Atsumu’s breath hitched.

He knew that look. The hesitation. The way her shoulders stiffened, the way she seemed to brace herself as though the moment itself might knock her off balance. It was the same look she used to give him when things felt too intense, too close to the truth.

The flame sparked instantly—small but ferocious—curling low in his chest and spreading fast. It was yearning and regret and want all tangled together, burning brighter with every second she held his gaze.

For that moment, nothing else existed.

His leg bounced beneath the table, the movement restless, involuntary. Fingers drummed against the polished wood, too fast, too uneven, as if his body had decided to betray him before his mind could catch up. A sharp breath slipped past his lips—quiet, fractured—lost beneath the hum of the restaurant.

His date stopped speaking.

She noticed it then, the way his focus had drifted somewhere far beyond her reach. She leaned forward, following the line of his stare, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Who are you looking at?” she asked, tone light but edged, already bracing for an answer she wouldn’t like.

When she turned around and saw you, a woman so impossibly beautiful you could liken her to an angel, she scowled. Her recognition sparked into something uglier. A scoff left her lips as she turned back to Atsumu, a humorless laugh curling through her words.

“What—do you know her or something?”

Atsumu didn’t look away from you—he couldn’t. His eyes were entirely fixated on you, on the way you leaned in to listen, the way your fingers curled around the stem of your glass like it belonged there.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low, distant. “I know her.”

Her jaw tightened. She watched him for a moment longer, then let out a sharp breath through her nose.

“Okay—what, is she your ex or something? Because I don’t understand what’s happening right now.” she asked, jealousy bleeding through the sarcasm she tried—and failed—to hide.

“Yeah.”

The word left him simply. Honestly. It felt heavier than it should have, settling deep in his chest like a truth he’d never fully buried. His heart ached with it, with the unbearable pull to stand, to cross the distance, to hear your voice again—even just once.

His date stared at him, incredulous, nostrils flared. Then she huffed, snatched her napkin from her lap, and tossed it down onto the table.

“You’re unbelievable.”

She stood from the table then, not even bothering to look at Atsumu, and walked away without another word. That was the first time all night that she’d stopped talking.

Atsumu barely registered it. The chair scraping against the floor, the way heads turned from the sudden outburst, the space across from him suddenly empty—it all meant nothing to him. He didn’t care.

He only knew one thing with devastating clarity—and it hollowed him out. He needed to see you. To talk to you. To remind himself that you were real—and that this wasn’t just another ghost haunting him in the low glow of candlelight.

⸻

★ SAKUSA KIYOOMI—“Moon by Daniel Caesar & Wild Horses by The Sundays.”

The bookstore hummed quietly, warm light spilling across rows of stacked paperbacks and hardcover spines. Footsteps whispered against the polished floor, the faint scent of coffee mingling with the crisp smell of fresh paper. Sakusa wandered past aisles of fiction, a paper bag in one hand, the other tucked under his folded arms, his expression carefully neutral. He had made a purchase—a few novels he’d been meaning to revisit—and now his path led toward the small café tucked into the corner of the shop.

He ordered a drink, the usual, and gave a curt, polite thanks before stepping aside near the counter, waiting for it. Arms folded, shoulders squared, he leaned slightly against the edge, letting his gaze wander almost subconsciously.

And then he saw her.

It was only the corner of his eye at first, a shape and a motion that seemed… impossibly familiar. He didn’t look directly, didn’t let himself, and yet somehow his whole body stiffened, heartbeat stuttering as recognition hit with the force of a shutter closing over his chest. She was there, seated at a small table near the window, fingers flying over her laptop keys, completely absorbed in her work.

His chest tightened. His eyes drank her in without permission. The tilt of her head, the soft line of her jaw illuminated by the golden light of the café, the effortless way she seemed to belong to the air around her—every detail, impossibly sharp.

“(Y/n).”

Her head snapped up, eyes wide, breath catching in her throat. The soft hum of the café dissolved around them, leaving only the startling, unsteady recognition that hung between them. She blinked, tilting the screen of her laptop slightly, focus sharpening on him as if trying to make sense of the impossible sight before her.

“Kiyoomi?”

Her voice, caught between disbelief and something unspoken, reverberated in the tight space between them. He nodded once, almost imperceptibly, the world narrowing down to her alone. The bag in his hand felt suddenly heavy, as though all the air had condensed around the table she occupied.

She swallowed softly, heart hammering. His presence was as imposing as it had always been—calm, impossibly still, and yet somehow dangerous in the intensity of it. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t panicking, but the silence he carried pressed against her chest like the pause before a storm breaks.

Her coffee steamed, forgotten, and for a brief moment, he didn’t notice the barista calling his name. She gestured, an almost imperceptible tilt of her head, silently offering him the seat across from her.

She let out a short, sharp breath and finally gestured toward the chair across from her. “You can sit if you’d like,” she said, almost shy and laced with a nervous undertone.

It was only then he moved, carefully, folding the paper bag under his arm and settling into the chair across from her, still staring as if he might never take his eyes off her. The table between them felt impossibly small, a fragile barrier that seemed to shrink under the weight of everything unspoken, almost laughably insignificant compared to the storm of memory and longing crackling in the air.

The world around them continued, customers murmuring, the hiss of the espresso machine punctuating the quiet moments—but they were suspended in time, the air around them stretching thin with each breath.

Sakusa’s lips parted slightly, the words he wanted to say were caught somewhere between formality and confession, but none came immediately. He simply stared, the intensity in his gaze impossible to ignore. The flame sparked instantly—small, restrained, but fierce—buried deep in his chest, threatening to light a fire that neither of them knew if they could contain.

She pushed her chair back slightly, reaching for her laptop and tucking it into her tote bag to allow for more space. Every subtle movement—the brush of her hair from her face as she reached down to her bag, the careful adjustment of her sleeve, the way she reached for her coffee cup with both hands for comfort—everything was amplified, her movements, her face—everything far too familiar.

Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet, almost cautious.

“I…didn’t expect to see you here,” she said finally, voice measured, steady on the surface but carrying that undertone of disbelief, of a heart suddenly racing too fast.

He nodded once, slow, deliberate, the kind of nod that carried weight without any words. The flame in his chest grew, low and consuming, an ache that made his stomach twist in anticipation and something closer to fear.

“Neither did I,” he admitted, words low, almost a growl, as if speaking louder might shatter the fragile moment. His hands rested on the table now, one brushing lightly against the edge as though grounding himself. “It’s been a while.”

Her eyes softened, but only slightly, and for a brief second the tension between them shifted—an unspoken history pressed into every glance, every breath, every pause. She swallowed. “Yeah… it has.”

The silence stretched, heavy and fragile, broken only by the faint hiss of steaming milk from the barista’s wand and the distant shuffle of feet on polished floorboards. He wanted to speak, to ask a hundred questions, but every time his mouth opened, he swallowed, letting the tension linger, letting the room compress around just the two of them.

“You…you look…different,” she finally said, words trailing off at the end, careful not to admit how much she noticed, how much she’d remembered.

“Older?” he asked, voice neutral, almost dismissive, but the sharp intake of his breath betrayed the ache behind it. “That’s to be expected.” He looked over you once, eyes slowly tracing the curve of your jaw, the way your hair framed your face, everything. “You look…good.”

Her lips curved slightly, a small, fleeting smile, but her eyes never left his. That spark—the one that had been lit between them for what seems like decades ago, lingered in memories they hadn’t shared out loud—flickered again. She leaned forward just a little, her hands clasped loosely around her coffee cup, and for a moment, neither of them moved, neither spoke, the air between them tense and expectant.

And then, as if pulled by the invisible thread of recognition and longing, he reached out just a fraction—hand hovering above the table, not yet touching, as though testing whether this moment was real or a fragile illusion.

Neither of them spoke for a long, suspended moment. They simply stared, two people caught in a current of something too deep, too powerful to name yet, both wondering how to bridge the impossible distance between them.

And just as he was about to close that distance—about to speak, to reach, to ignite the flame into something undeniable—the barista called out another order, the sound slicing through the bubble of their attention.

They blinked, just briefly, but long enough for the moment to hover, unfinished, unresolved, as if the universe itself had paused to take a breath.

“You should get your coffee, Kiyoomi.” She said, a soft smile on her lips as she spoke. “You wouldn’t want it to get cold.”

Nothing had changed, yet everything had. She was still the same person he knew, only older, more beautiful than he remembered. But she had the same smile he remembered, the one he knew was still reserved for him—even after three years of not knowing what happened to her, what went wrong, why he couldn’t love her the way he should’ve.

He shook his head slightly, just barely, his eyes never leaving hers. “I don’t mind it getting cold,” he said quietly, voice low, measured, carrying that familiar weight of someone used to holding himself together—but failing, somehow, in this moment. His fingers flexed against the edge of the table, tightening as though grounding himself. “Not if it means I can stay here…with you.”

And neither of them could ignore the pull between them—the story that hadn’t ended, the conversation that had been left unsaid, the want that lingered quietly but fiercely in the space between heartbeats.

⸻

★ OSAMU MIYA—“Helpless by Suki Waterhouse & Common Burn by Mazzy Star.”

The door chimed softly as Osamu stepped out of Onigiri Miya, the sound sharp in the quiet stretch between songs spilling from the bar across the street. He paused just long enough for the door to swing shut behind him, the warmth of the shop bleeding out into the damp night before disappearing entirely.

The rain had been falling all day. The asphalt beneath his shoes was slick and dark, reflecting the neon signs overhead in warped streaks of pinks and blues. The entertainment district was alive in that familiar late-night way—music thumping from the bars lining the alleyways, laughter spilling into the street, engines rushing past as cars cut through traffic in a blur of headlights and motion. Friday night. End of the week. The city is alive and well in the late hours of the evening.

Osamu adjusted his grip on the trash bags in his hands and turned toward the alley beside the shop, his shoes splashing lightly against shallow puddles. The smell of rain clung to the air, mixing with cigarette smoke and fried food drifting from somewhere down the block.

Then he heard it.

Laughter—bright, unrestrained, cutting clean through all the noise.

His steps faltered.

It wasn’t just any laugh. It never had been—it was unmistakably familiar.

His hand tightened instinctively around the trash bag as his body reacted before his mind could catch up, heart giving a sharp, traitorous thud against his ribs. He knew that sound the way one knows a favorite song—by feel, by memory, by something deeper than logic. He’d heard it in crowded kitchens and quiet mornings, in moments of exhaustion and joy, in times when the world felt impossibly heavy and when it felt light enough to carry.

Almost five years, and it hadn’t changed.

Osamu reached the dumpster, one hand lifting the heavy lid as he leaned forward, almost unconsciously craning his neck toward the street. For a split second, he wondered if exhaustion was playing tricks on him—if his mind had finally decided to be cruel.

But there she was.

Across the street, just beyond the glow of the bar’s neon sign, three women stumbled out onto the sidewalk, arms looped together to keep steady, laughter spilling freely between them. And in the center of it all was you.

The girl he never stopped loving.

You were dressed for the night—dark straight legged denim jeans, heeled brown boots splashed with rain, hair slightly wild from the humidity and movement, cheeks flushed pink from alcohol and laughter. You threw your head back as you cackled, hand gripping one of your friend’s sleeves to steady yourself, and for a moment it felt like the world tilted on its axis.

Osamu froze.

The dumpster lid hovered in his grip, trash bag forgotten at his side. His chest tightened in that slow, familiar way—like something heavy settling in place, pressing down gently but relentlessly. You looked older. Not by much. Five years, give or take. But there was a confidence to you now, something settled and sure in the way you moved, the way you laughed like you belonged exactly where you were.

More beautiful than he remembered.

He swallowed hard and forced himself to move, tossing the trash into the dumpster and letting the lid fall shut with a dull clang. The sound echoed too loudly in his ears. He wiped his hands against his apron, fingers lingering there longer than necessary, and adjusted the brim of his cap low over his eyes—an old habit, instinctive, like he could hide the way he stared if he just angled it right.

You and your friends were still laughing, voices overlapping as they talked about everything and nothing. One of them nearly stumbled off the curb, and you caught her without thinking, laughing hysterically, but steadying her with a practiced ease that twisted something deep in his chest.

He’d always loved that about you. The way you took care of people without even realizing it.

Osamu stepped out of the alley, leaning back against the brick wall beside the shop. He folded his arms across his chest, posture casual if anyone were looking—but his gaze never left you. Couldn’t. His eyes traced every movement like committing you to memory all over again. The curve of your smile. The way your shoulders shook when you laughed. The sound of your voice—slurred just enough to betray the drinks, but unmistakably yours.

Oh how he’d missed it, how he’d missed you.

Just shy of five years. No contact. No closure. Just the quiet absence that never quite healed, no matter how busy life got, no matter how many days passed without him thinking of you—until moments like this, when everything came rushing back at once.

Across the street, one of your friends pointed suddenly, eyes lighting up as she spotted the familiar storefront.

“Oh my god—onigiri,” she slurred, tugging at your arm. “Guys please. I need food or I think I might actually die.”

You laughed again, nodding, and Osamu’s heart stuttered as the three of you turned—toward his shop.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, grounding himself. He wasn’t ready for this. Wasn’t ready to meet your eyes again, wasn’t ready to stand in front of you and pretend he didn’t still carry you with him in every quiet moment.

But panic never came. He didn’t let it.

Instead, he straightened, pushing off the wall just as the three of you approached the door. Your friends reached for the handle, only to pause when they noticed the lights dimmed inside, the neon “OPEN” sign dark.

“Aw, you’re kidding,” one of them groaned. “They’re closed.”

You tilted your head, peering through the glass, disappointment flickering briefly across your face before you shrugged. “I guess we’ll just have to find something else. C’mon, let’s go.”

Osamu moved before he could talk himself out of it.

“I don’t mind,” he said, voice steady, carrying easily across the small distance. “I can still serve you,“

All three of you turned at once.

And that’s when your eyes met his.

The effect was immediate.

Your expression shifted—laughter fading, eyes sharpening, breath catching as recognition bloomed across your face in real time. The alcohol haze seemed to burn away in an instant, replaced by something raw and stunned. Your lips parted, a soft sound leaving you before you could stop it.

Osamu held the door open, fingers wrapped around the handle, his gaze gentle and unguarded. There was no surprise in his eyes—only warmth, familiarity, and something aching just beneath the surface.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

Your friends, oblivious, burst into drunken gratitude, stumbling past him with slurred thank-yous and laughter as they stepped inside, immediately distracted by the menu board. But you didn’t move.

You stood there, just outside the threshold, rain-damp pavement beneath your boots, cheeks flushed, breathing a little harder than before. Your eyes never left his.

“Hi,” you replied, soft. Almost shy.

Osamu smiled then—small, warm, unmistakably his.

“Been a long time, (Y/n).”

Your lashes fluttered as you blinked, emotion threatening to spill over. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it wasn’t. Your throat worked as you swallowed, nodding once.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “It has, hasn’t it.”

He smiled gently, almost sweetly, something you’d always missed, tried to hold onto for as long as you could remember. He tipped his head toward the door, still holding it open for you. “Come on,” he said gently. “I’ll get you somethin’ to eat.”

You hesitated just a second longer—then stepped inside.

Osamu followed, letting the door close behind him, the chime ringing softly through the shop as the night—and five years of silence—finally gave way.

⸻

★ IWAIZUMI HAJIME — “ Run to You by Bryan Adam & Is This Love? by Whitesnake”

The city was barely awake.

The sky sat low and pale over the buildings, washed in soft gray-blue, the kind of morning that felt unfinished. Fog settled over the skyline, misty and beautiful as streetlights glowed faintly, the reflection stretching across damp pavement where last night’s rain hadn’t fully dried. Traffic was sparse, the city quieter than it ever let itself be, save for the hum of distant engines and the rhythmic slap of sneakers against concrete.

Iwaizumi Hajime rounded a corner, jogging down the sidewalk past his apartment. It was always the same route. Same pace. Same time. Six in the morning, every morning—no excuses. His breath came steady through his nose, controlled, measured. Headphones snug over his ears, bass thudding low and constant, grounding him. The world narrowed to the cadence of his stride, the tension in his calves, the burn in his lungs that reminded him he was alive and moving and not thinking.

That was the point.

Running kept his head clear. It kept everything where it belonged—tucked away, compartmentalized, buried beneath muscle memory and a strict routine. No room for ghosts when your body demanded focus, demanded structure, discipline.

He rounded another corner without slowing, eyes forward, mind distant from the world around him—

And then—Impact.

Hard. Fast. Barely a moment to register what happened.

A solid force collided with his chest, knocking the breath straight out of him. His feet skidded on the slick pavement as instinct took over, hands shooting out to catch what he’d just run into before it could hit the ground.

“Shit—! I’m so sorry—are you okay?”

His voice came out fast, rough, breathless. He barely registered the heat against his hands, the sudden jolt of warmth soaking through fabric. The scent hit him next— roasted coffee, rich and bitter, sharp in the cool morning air.

A cup shattered at their feet, splashing its contents across the pavement.

“God—ugh—my sweater—” she gasped in shock, stumbling back half a step, clearly startled. “No—I just—! I literally just bought this—”

Her voice cut off abruptly. So did his breathing.

Iwaizumi froze.

His hands were still on her shoulders, holding her with a softness reserved for a lover, grounding her even if she didn’t ask. His grasp was solid, warm, familiar. Too familiar.

For half a second, his mind refused to connect the dots—refused to name what his body already knew. He pulled one headphone down, as if the music was the problem, heart suddenly hammering too hard against his ribs.

Then she lifted her sunglasses, pushed them up into her hair, and looked at him.

“Hajime?”

Oh—fuck.

The world tilted.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet and devastating, the kind of realization that hollowed you out from the inside. His fingers released her shoulders instantly, like he’d been burned, dropping back to his sides as if distance alone might save him.

Staring was easier than speaking. God—she was right there, standing in front of him. Older. Only by a year, but enough to see it in the lines of her face, the way she carried herself now. Her hair was pulled back loosely, strands already slipping free and free falling around her face. A soft cashmere sweater clung to her frame—ruined now, stained dark where coffee had spilled—and she looked…real.

Too real and too perfect—even given the current circumstances.

“I—” His throat tightened. He swallowed hard, chest rising and falling too fast from the run, from the shock. “Hey. I—sorry. I didn’t see you.”

The apology felt stupid the second it left his mouth. He hadn’t meant just the collision. He knew that. She probably did too.

She was still staring at him, eyes wide, searching for something, like she wasn’t sure if he’d disappear if she blinked too long. Her breath came shallow, uneven, fingers curling instinctively into the fabric of her ruined sweater.

“It’s fine,” she said, but it wasn’t — not really. Her voice wavered just enough to give her away. “I wasn’t looking either.”

They stood there, suspended in the quiet aftermath of impact.

The coffee shop door behind her chimed softly as someone else stepped out, warm air spilling briefly into the morning before the door shut again. The smell of espresso lingered between them, mixing with rain and asphalt and something far more familiar—something he’d never been able to forget.

Iwaizumi dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply, contemplating what to say, what to do. His heart wouldn’t slow down. Didn’t want to.

A year. A full year since he’d last seen her. No texts. No calls. No accidental run-ins. He’d told himself it was better that way. It was easier this way.

He’d been lying. Not that he’d ever admit to that.

“You—uh,” he started, then stopped. Useless. Everything he wanted to say tangled in his chest, pressing hard against his ribs. He glanced down at the mess at their feet—shattered cup, coffee bleeding into the cracks of the sidewalk. “I’ll…I can pay for your sweater. Or—the coffee. Both. If that’s fine.”

She let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so tight. “You don’t have to.” She shook her head, trying to look away from him. From everything that was rushing back to her.

“I want to,” he said immediately, too fast, too firm. Typical. His jaw clenched. “I mean—it’s my fault your sweater is ruined.”

Her gaze softened just a fraction, something complicated flickering there—recognition, memory, restraint. The same look she used to give him when he tried too hard to fix things that weren’t broken. Or things that were, and couldn’t be undone.

She nodded once. “Fine. Just this once.”

Silence stretched again.

Uncomfortable. Heavy.

This wasn’t like the others. There was no distance to soften the blow, no time to prepare. Love hadn’t whispered—it had slammed into them at full speed, forced them to feel everything they’d worked so hard to bury.

Iwaizumi shifted his weight, restless, the urge to reach out battling hard against the instinct to keep his hands to himself. He looked at her face again — really looked — and felt the truth hit him all over again.

She was the one that got away. Not because she wanted to. Because he’d let her.

“You uh…live around here?” he asked finally, voice low, careful, like he was stepping onto thin ice.

She hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Just a few blocks.”

Of course she did.

His chest tightened painfully. He nodded too, lips pressing into a thin line as he looked away briefly, gathering himself. The city felt too small suddenly. Too intimate.

“I run here every morning,” he said, not sure why he felt the need to explain. Maybe because part of him wanted her to know this wasn’t coincidence—or maybe because he needed to hear himself say it out loud. “Guess I should watch where I’m going.”

Her mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Guess so.”

They stood there, two people who knew each other too well pretending not to. The past hung between them, thick and unspoken, every memory pressing in from all sides.

Neither of them said I missed you.

Neither of them said I still love you.

But it was there—in the way his gaze lingered too long, in the way her shoulders remained angled toward him like she wasn’t ready to walk away. Love, undeniable and inconvenient, standing right in front of them with nowhere to hide.

The city continued waking around them. Cars passed. Someone laughed down the block. Morning marched on, indifferent.

Iwaizumi took a slow breath, steadying himself, knowing—with painful clarity—that this moment would stay with him long after the run was over.

Love hadn’t faded.It had just been waiting.And now it had caught up to him.

Hard.

⸻

★ OIKAWA TOORU — “Heaven Up There by Palace & Caribbean Blue by Enya.”

The stadium roared long before the match was set to begin.

Thousands of voices rose and fell in waves, a living thing that pressed in from all sides, vibrating through the court beneath their feet. Bright lights hung overhead, harsh and unyielding, bleaching the polished floor until it gleamed. Cameras rolled endlessly—sweeping shots of the crowd, close-ups of athletes stretching, adjusting jerseys, laughing with teammates. The Olympics thrummed with spectacle, with expectation, with the weight of eyes that never blinked.

Oikawa Tooru stood near the net, hands braced on his hips as he caught his breath.

Sweat clung to his temples, darkening the edge of his hairline. His chest rose and fell steadily, controlled, as a ball sailed over the net and he received it cleanly, sending it back with practiced precision. Another drill. Another rotation. His body moved on instinct now, muscle memory carrying him through each step as if he’d been born to this court.

Japan’s colors felt heavy on his shoulders.

Not burdensome—never that—but significant. Every movement mattered. Every expression would be scrutinized. He rolled his shoulders once, exhaling through his nose, eyes lifting briefly toward the stands as his team reset.

That was when he heard it.

A voice—clear, professional, steady—cutting clean through the noise.

“And just behind me, you can see the Japanese men’s volleyball team warming up ahead of tonight’s match—”

His body reacted before his mind did.

Oikawa’s hands dropped from his hips. His spine stiffened, the breath leaving his lungs in a quiet, startled exhale that bordered on a scoff—more disbelief than amusement.

No. There’s no way.

He turned his head slowly, almost unwillingly, eyes tracking toward the source of the sound near the bleachers. A camera crew stood just off the court, wires trailing across the floor, a cameraman adjusting his angle as the woman beside him spoke fluidly into a wired microphone.

All black. Tailored suit. Professional to the bone. And her. The world narrowed in an instant.

She stood tall, poised, completely in her element—hair blown out perfectly, makeup done for the unforgiving glare of stadium lights. She gestured subtly as she spoke, confidence woven into every movement, every word. A sports journalist through and through. Grounded. Polished. Untouchable.

His chest sank.

“O—oh,” he muttered under his breath, the sound lost beneath the roar of the crowd. His lips parted slightly, then pressed together as he breathed out again, longer this time, tension bleeding into the exhale. His heart had started racing in a way that had nothing to do with warm-ups.

You.

Here.

Of all places.

Of all times.

He hadn’t seen you in years—not really. Not like this. Not standing in the open, real and radiant, not a ghost conjured up in the quiet moments between matches and flights and sleepless nights.

Oikawa’s posture shifted unconsciously, shoulders squaring, jaw tightening. He was suddenly acutely aware of himself—of the sweat on his skin, the way his jersey clung to his back, the fact that he’d been laughing with his teammates just seconds ago. His confidence wavered, just a fraction, replaced by something sharper.

Nerves.

He watched you from across the court, unable to tear his gaze away. Even when someone called his name—when a teammate clapped him on the shoulder and said something he didn’t quite register—his eyes stayed locked on you.

“Damn,” someone muttered nearby, low and impressed. “She’s hot.”

Oikawa’s jaw clenched.

Another teammate snorted. “Might ask her out after the game. I mean, it’s the Olympics. Why not?”

Something ugly and instinctive curled in his chest.

Jealousy—irrational, unearned, and immediate.

His fingers flexed at his sides, nails biting into his palms as he forced himself to breathe. She wasn’t his. Hadn’t been for years. He had no claim, no right to feel that flare of protectiveness, that quiet urge to step in front of her like he used to.

But knowing that didn’t stop it.

Across the court, you turned, directing your cameraman’s attention toward the players as you prepared for interviews. Your professionalism never faltered—until your eyes lifted.

Until you saw him. The change was instantaneous.

Your breath caught, the words dying on your tongue as your gaze collided with his. Panic flickered there—raw and unfiltered—before you could mask it. Not for the camera. Just for him.

Oikawa’s heart dropped straight into his stomach.

Oh—fuck.

He wanted to move. To say something. To do anything that might ease the sudden tension pulling tight between you. To tell you it was okay. That you didn’t have to worry. That he could handle this—just like he always pretended he could.

But he stayed where he was.

And you did too.

The moment passed, fragile and fleeting, swallowed by the demands of the broadcast. You inhaled, composure snapping back into place like armor as you turned to interview another player. Oikawa forced himself to focus, to stretch, to nod along when spoken to, but his attention never truly left you.

Each interview brought you closer.

Each step felt inevitable.

When it was finally his turn, the camera swung toward him, the red recording light blinking to life. He stepped forward automatically, shoulders back, smile slipping into place with practiced ease.

“Oikawa Tooru,” you said smoothly, microphone raised as you faced him. “Setter for the Japanese national team.”

Your voice was steady. Professional.

But your eyes betrayed you—flickering briefly, nervously, as if you were bracing for impact.

“So,” you continued, turning slightly toward the camera, “how does it feel to represent Japan on a stage like this?”

For the first time in a long while, Oikawa almost faltered.

His throat tightened. The words lodged somewhere deep in his chest, tangled up with everything he couldn’t say. He smiled wider, leaned into the performance, letting confidence carry him where honesty threatened to undo him.

“It’s an honor,” he said, voice smooth, warm. “Something I’ve worked toward my whole life.”

The cameras ate it up.

You nodded, asking another question, then another. He answered them all flawlessly—charming, articulate, composed. Anyone watching would’ve seen nothing out of the ordinary.

No one noticed the way your fingers tightened around the microphone.

No one noticed the faint flush creeping up your neck.

No one noticed the way his gaze softened every time he looked at you.

When it was over, you lowered the microphone and smiled.

“Thank you for your time,” you said, extending your hand. “And good luck.”

Oikawa took it.

And didn’t let go.

Not right away.

His grip was firm, grounding, holding on just a second longer than necessary. The contact sent a quiet shock through him, through you—something familiar and devastating and alive.

Your smile shifted, softening in a way meant only for him. The kind of smile you used to give him when no one else was looking.

“It’s…nice to see you, Tooru.” you said quietly.

His lips curved into a knowing smile of his own, eyes warm despite everything. “It’s nice to see you too, (y/n),” he murmured. “I mean it.”

The look you exchanged said everything neither of you could afford to voice.

Then the cameras moved on.

The crowd roared. The moment slipped back into the noise.

But the damage was done.

Love hadn’t waited for permission. It never did.

And as Oikawa returned to the court, heart pounding harder than any match could demand, he knew—without question—that this was a moment neither of you would ever forget.

Not because it changed everything.

But because it reminded you of what never really had.

⸻

★ BOKUTO KOUTARU — “The Scientist by Coldplay & Rabbit by The Neighbourhood.”

The airport was loud in the way only airports ever were—constant but impersonal. Rolling suitcases rattled across tiled floors, boarding announcements echoed overhead, voices overlapped and dissolved into white noise. Everything smelled faintly of coffee and recycled air, a sterile kind of exhaustion clinging to the space. Travelers hustled past with rolling bags, laptops under arms, travel mugs in hands. Somewhere nearby, a child cried briefly before being shushed, laughter erupted from a group of teenagers waiting for a gate. Life went on in sharp, relentless motion.

Bokuto dragged his duffel bag behind him, shoulders heavy, steps slower than usual. He looked tired—really tired. The kind that sleep didn’t fix. Hoodie pulled up over his head, hair flattened instead of wild, shadows sitting deep beneath his eyes. Six months hadn’t dulled the ache the way everyone said it would. If anything, it had only taught him how to carry it.

Today, the team was flying to the U.S. for an exhibition match—a pre-Olympics promotional tour. Press obligations, fan events, and a handful of scrimmages awaited. His teammates were buzzing with excitement, joking about the hotel, the food, sightseeing, selfies with fans. But Bokuto barely registered it. Their chatter felt distant, like muffled echoes underwater.

He dropped the bag between his feet and collapsed into the stiff plastic seat with a quiet huff, arms folding over his chest, legs stretched out wide. Atsumu was bouncing around nearby, checking his phone, talking too loudly. Hinata kicked the bottom of the chair in front of him, his voice high and relentless. Bokuto didn’t hear, didn’t respond. His thoughts were elsewhere. Always were, lately.

Incomplete.

That was the word that fit best. Like something essential had been carved out of him and left behind.

He could still see her sometimes, in flashes—the way she laughed over coffee, the subtle tilt of her head when she was amused, the soft brushing of her fingers across his hand without thinking. He’d tried. He’d tried to bury it, distract himself with gym sessions, video games, team duties. He even tried to bury himself in training, forcing himself to focus on spikes, blocks, and jump counts—but the void never filled. Six months of absence and the ache had not lessened.

Across the terminal, someone turned a page.

He didn’t notice at first.

Atsumu leaned in, nudging his shoulder. “Oi, Bo.”

Bokuto barely reacted. “Hm?”

Atsumu pointed, chin jutting toward the seating across from them. “Isn’t that your ex?”

The word hit him like a misstep, cold and immediate.

“What?” Bokuto frowned, sitting up slightly. “No way.”

He followed Atsumu’s line of sight without thinking—lazy, half-interested—and froze.

Across from him, just a few rows away, sat a woman with her face buried in a book. Legs crossed neatly. A sweater draped over her frame that he recognized immediately. Too immediately. Soft knit, slightly oversized, the exact one he’d bought her on a cold afternoon when she’d said she was “fine” even though she wasn’t.

The world seemed to slow.

The distant echo of a boarding announcement reached him but sounded hollow. The rolling of luggage, the conversations, the clatter of the coffee cart—they all dulled to a muted hum. His chest tightened, stomach turning, a cold pit opening that made his hands tingle.

No. No, no, no.

His heart slammed violently against his ribs as denial surged first, instinctive and desperate. It couldn’t be you. He couldn’t handle it being you. Not here. Not like this. Not after six months of trying to pretend he didn’t still miss you.

But then—You lowered the book.

Just slightly. Enough to turn the page. Enough for your eyes to lift without intention—and meet his.

The world cracked open.

Everything else fell away. The announcements. The chatter. The movement of bodies around them. All of it dissolved into nothing but the space between your eyes and his, heavy and unbearable.

Oh.

Fuck.

Your expression shifted instantly—shock flooding in first, then something softer, sadder, far more dangerous. Your lips parted like you wanted to speak but didn’t know how. Bokuto felt like the air had been punched out of his lungs. He sat up too fast, spine snapping straight, hands gripping the edge of his seat as his heart raced wildly, out of control.

He couldn’t breathe.

God—you looked tired. Not travel-tired. Something deeper. Something familiar. Something that made his chest ache in a way he hadn’t allowed himself in months. You were wearing the necklace too—the one with both your birthstones, resting right where his thumb used to trace absentminded circles when you lay against him.

Six months.

Only six months.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

The pain hit him all over again, sudden and ruthless, like he was back in that moment when everything had ended quietly, painfully, without raised voices or slammed doors. Just heartbreak. The worst kind.

He saw it in your eyes too. The same devastation mirrored back at him. The same disbelief. The same “why does it still hurt this much?”

Someone laughed nearby. A suitcase tipped over. Life kept moving.

Bokuto didn’t.

He felt a lump in his throat, a cold heaviness settle in his stomach. His hands rested against his thighs, flexing, gripping fabric he barely felt. He wanted to stand. He wanted to cross the distance. He wanted to say your name like it might stitch something back together.

Instead, he watched.

You stood abruptly, movements careful but rushed, like staying still hurt too much. You slid your book into your tote, fingers trembling just enough to betray the subtle panic in your motions. You didn’t look at him again—not because you didn’t want to, but because you couldn’t.

And that was it.

That was the moment it shattered him all over again.

You were right there. Close enough to touch. Close enough to say something—anything—and he’d frozen. Let you walk away without a word. Without a fight. Just like before.

Bokuto slumped back into his seat, chest aching, eyes fixed on the space you’d occupied seconds earlier. His shoulders sagged, hands running over his face in a mix of shame, humiliation, and grief. Hair tugged in frustration, jaw tight. His stomach twisted with the almost instinctive urge to jump up, call your name, run after you—but he stopped himself.

He let the weight of six months of longing crash over him all at once, hollow and raw. The dull roar of the terminal slowly crept back in, but it couldn’t reach him. He was trapped in the echo of your presence, the brush of the sweater he’d picked out for you, the memory of a love that had once been steady and real.

All he could think was that love hadn’t left him.

It had just been sitting there, across from him, wearing his sweater and breaking his heart all over again.

And this time—

he hadn’t even tried to stop it.

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

Happy new year to everyone who reads my page!!! You guys, I’m so happy to be back to writing! I had a very busy holiday and I absolutely needed to be present and live in the moment with my loved ones. I hope you all are doing amazing! Comment down below which one-shot was your favorite, which one made you cry, everything! MUAH 💋

[thicchaikyuuboys]

YOU GUYSSSS…

It’s been such a busy holiday season for me, I’ve been spending time with family, getting in the holiday spirit, keeping my home bakery business alive, and touring Europe! It’s been a very busy, rewarding, and wonderful month of taking time away from writing and spending time with the people in my life!

Thank you for keeping this page alive, I love seeing your comments, inboxes, etc. happy holidays and merry Christmas from me to all of you wonderful people.

It’s almost my birthday, so after January, I’ll hopefully be back to writing!

[thicchaikyuuboys]

I’m so sorry for not posting frequently omg. It’s holiday season in Europe rn and we’ve been traveling SO MUCH. Thanksgiving weekend is also kicking me in the ASS. I’m writing behind the scenes but haven’t finished anything, PROMISE ILL BE BACK AFTER NEXT WEEK!

[jujutsu-kaisen-after-dark]

JJK BOYS DRUNK CONFESSIONS | AU!

Includes: Gojo Satoru, Geto Suguru, Sukuna Ryoumen, Itadori Yuji, Fushiguro Megumi

Tw: mentions of alcohol, mention of slight nudity

★ SATORU GOJO — “You Have No Idea What You Do to Me”

The music was loud enough to rattle the windows.

A frat house kind of loud—bass thrumming through the floorboards, lights spinning red and violet, the smell of spilled beer and sugary sweet perfume weaving through the air. It was late, the kind of late where the air outside was damp and cool, and the crowd inside had tipped over from fun to messy.

Gojo had been leaning against the wall near the kitchen, one hand shoved in the pocket of his jeans, the other holding a red cup. He brought the rim of the cup to his lips, taking a drink, the taste bitter and burning as it slid down his throat. His sunglasses sat low on his nose even though it was nearly midnight, blue eyes peering over the rim in search of someone. He’d been laughing with a couple of his frat brothers, but then his gaze found you across the room—and the noise in his head changed.

You were standing against a wall, red cup in hand, half-smiling at something some guy was saying to you. The guy leaned in closer, too close, and when his hand reached out to touch your arm, something in Gojo’s chest snapped.

It was a raw, sharp twist that didn’t make sense. His chest felt right, like the air had suddenly been ripped out of his lungs.

He was supposed to be the flirty one, the one who teased everyone for being too serious. He was supposed to be the one who touched you like that—not some fucking loser you barely knew. But right now, all he could feel was the heat crawling up his neck, his pulse beating in time with the sound of the bass.

“Be back in a sec,” he muttered to no one, pushing off the wall.

The crowd parted around him, a blur of laughter over the music, shoulders colliding as he shoved people out of his way. He ignored when someone snapped at him over the music, his ears ringing and head full of static. He didn’t even think about it; he was standing in front of you now, eyes locked onto yours before you could even blink. His face twisted with something akin to jealousy as he wrapped his fingers around your wrist, and said “C’mere.”

You blinked up at him, startled, half amused by his antics. “Satoru? What—”

He didn’t even let you finish. He pulled you towards him, guiding you through the crowd toward the hallway, somewhere quieter on the opposite side of the house, away from the music. The sound dimmed to a low throb behind the walls, voices dwindled to bubbling laughter and mumbled words. There was a narrow alcove near the stairs where the light flickered gold and warm. He stopped there, hand still around your wrist, eyes hidden from view behind his sunglasses.

“Satoru,” you said again, soft, almost a laugh. “What are you—are you okay?”

He exhaled through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Not really.”

The words were blunt, stripped of his usual playfulness. He lifted his head then, pushed the glasses up onto his hair. His eyes were bright even in the dim light, like a storm about to break.

“I can’t stand watching you with anyone else,” he said. “It makes me feel—god, I don’t even know. Makes me feel stupid. Sick to my stomach. Like I’m about to explode.”

You blinked, the pulse in your throat jumping. “I think you’re just drunk.” He huffed out a sigh, nostrils flaring. “I think you just drank too much—“

He gave a low laugh, one that didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe I am drunk, so what? It doesn’t make what I’m saying any less true.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The muffled music pressed at the walls, someone shouted from the kitchen, but it felt far away, so out of reach from everything.

He stepped closer to you, his breath mingling with yours, white hair brushing your forehead as he leaned over you. “I keep telling myself that it’s just a crush, that this is nothing. But then you smile at me, and I forget how to breathe. And when you talk to someone else—someone who’s not me…” He trailed off, scoffing at his own confession.

“God—why am I even saying this shit?” He shook his head, rolling his eyes and turned away from your forehead a moment, the movement slow and helpless like he was about to get his heart broken.

You swallowed hard, hand accidentally brushing his arm. “Satoru—”

He snapped his attention toward you, hand reaching up to your face like he couldn’t help himself. His fingers trembled, brushing along your jaw, calloused thumb tracing the edge of your cheekbone. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered. “And I really can’t stand watching you laugh with someone who isn’t me.”

You could smell the faint sweetness of alcohol on his breath, the clean note of his cologne underneath. He was close enough that you could feel his heartbeat, feel the way his body craved yours with every deliberate step he took towards you.

“Say something,” he murmured. “Anything. Just don’t break my heart—at least not now.”

You laughed softly, nervous, unsure of what to do, but you still leaned into his touch. “I think when you wake up tomorrow morning, you’re going to regret saying all of this.”

He smiled—really smiled then, small and honest. “I don’t think I will.” He tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, eyes locked into yours like he could unravel you right here, right now. “I could never regret this.”

And then he leaned in, just enough for his lips to find yours. The kiss was soft, tentative, warm—like the world had suddenly narrowed to the small space between you. He pulled back only an inch, forehead resting against yours, his hand still cupping your face.

“Believe me now?” he said quietly. “I wasn’t messing around—not this time.”

The music swelled again somewhere behind you, but for that heartbeat it felt like everything else had fallen away—just the two of you, a red cup forgotten on the floor, his laughter low and breathless against your skin.

⸻

★ SUGURU GETO — “Everything I Don’t Say”

The night air had that chilly autumn edge to it: cool enough to bite, damp enough to cling.

The campus had thinned out hours ago, the buzz of parties scattered somewhere off in the distance. You could still hear one faintly—bass rolling over the lawn, the clatter of beer pong, laughter drifting through the trees—but most of the world had gone quiet.

Somewhere in that quiet, Suguru Geto was losing his balance, head spinning like his world was about to collapse.

It had started as a competition—of course it had. Gojo, all grin and ego, lining up shot glasses on the table like trophies. The two of them trading swigs, jeers, and the kind of laughter

that drew a crowd. Geto had lasted longer—he usually did. But when Gojo finally threw in the towel, sprawling across the couch with a dramatic groan, hiccuping, head spinning, Suguru realized he wasn’t exactly sober either.

He’d stepped outside with the cool night pressing against his skin, entirely too drunk and grinning. The laughter from inside the house faded behind him, and for a moment he thought maybe he’d just walk the campus until the world stopped spinning.

He made it three blocks, just past the campus park before his thoughts began to wander.

And they wandered straight to you.

They always did.

The sound of your voice—more specifically the way his name sounded on your tongue—the way you tilted your head when you listened to him, the way your hair fell in front of your face when you leaned close—it all flickered through his head in broken pieces. He laughed under his breath, the sound quiet and a hopeless. He was utterly infatuated.

By the time he reached for his phone in his pocket, he’d already argued with himself not to. Then the screen lit up, your name was right there, and his thumb betrayed him.

The line clicked after the third ring.

“Hello?”

He stopped walking, standing in the pool of a streetlamp. “Hey. It’s me.”

There was a pause, the faint sound of your TV in the background. “Suguru? It’s so late. Is everything okay?”

He smiled to himself. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Just—needed to hear your voice.”

“You sound drunk.” You giggled and his heart felt like it was about to explode.

He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, little bit. Gojo started it.”

“Of course he did.”

He could almost see you rolling your eyes. The thought made something warm curl in his chest. “What are you doing right now?”

“Just watching my show. Why?” Of course you were, on a night like this, anyone would want to stay cozied up.

He hesitated, his breath fogging the air. “You mind if I come over? I just…I need to see you.”

There was a rustle on your end, the sound of a remote being set down. “Oh. No, I-I don’t mind at all.”

“Yeah?” He smiled.

“Yeah. You know you’re always welcome here.”

He smiled, a small, unsteady thing. “Okay. I’ll be there in a minute.”

By the time he reached your dorm, the cold had sobered him just enough to make his heart race. The walk had cleared his head, but not his nerves—that was a fire that could never be put out. The building was quiet, lights low, the hall smelling faintly of detergent and rain.

He knocked on your door once, already hearing your footsteps approaching. The door opened almost immediately.

“Hey,” his heart was pounding.

There you stood, hair thrown up into a messy bun, sweatshirt entirely too big. The sight of you made something inside him come undone all at once.

“Hey you,” you said softly. “I’m surprised you made it.” He didn’t just sound drunk, he looked it.

He leaned against the frame, smiling, cheeks flushed from the cold and the sake. “Told you I would.”

“Get in here, it’s cold in the hall.”

He stepped inside, the warmth of your room wrapping around him. Everything smelled like vanilla and your perfume—so sweet and soft. He kicked off his shoes and followed you toward the bed, where you sat down, cross–legged, tucking your legs under the blanket

For a minute, he just looked at you, admiring your face and daydreaming about what sleeping next to you would feel like.

“What?” you asked, a little laugh in your voice. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

He shrugged, lowering himself to the floor beside you, back against the bedframe. “You’re just…you’re so real. I’m so happy that you’re real.”

You tilted your head. “Suguru, what’s going on?”

He sighed, tipping his head back against the wood. “I think I’m just tired of pretending.”

“Pretending what?”

“That I don’t think about you all the time.”

The room went still. The TV murmured quietly, forgotten. He kept talking, voice low, words loose from the alcohol but honest all the same.

“Every time I close my eyes, you’re all I see. When I walk across campus, I look for you. You’ve been in my head since the day we met, and I’ve been trying to act normal, but it’s useless.”

You didn’t say anything, just listened. He could feel you watching him, the soft weight of your attention making his chest ache.

“I know I sound like an idiot,” he went on, a small smile tugging at his lips. “But you’re the only person who makes me feel like this.”

You slid down from the bed, sitting beside him on the floor. The blanket pooled around your knees.

“I don’t think you sound like an idiot,” you said quietly.

He turned his head toward you, eyes dark and glassy. “No?”

You shook your head. “No, I think you sound like someone who means what he says.”

For a moment neither of you moved. Then his hand found yours—hesitant, warm. “I mean everything I said. I really do.”

You could smell the faint spice of his cologne, the sake on his breath, the rain on his jacket. The world felt soft around the edges.

He leaned in slowly, giving you time to stop him if you wanted. When you didn’t, his lips brushed yours in a kiss that was more confession than question—gentle, unhurried, tasting faintly of honesty and sheer relief.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for months,” he whispered. “Sorry it took me so long”.

You smiled. “You could’ve just told me that you felt this way.”

He laughed under his breath, eyes closing. “Yeah, well. Guess I needed the alcohol as a kick in the ass.” He laughed, leaning in again and kissing you again with confidence, pressing against you until he could feel the heat of your body against his.

The room was quiet again, save for the hum of the heater and the rain starting against the window. You stayed there, wrapped in each other’s embrace, lips pressed together in hot kisses between muffled, soft moans, the air between you warm and easy like it always should’ve been.

⸻

★ RYOMEN SUKUNA — “Nothing But Noise”

Friday nights at the bar always looked the same from behind the counter. Blue light washing over glass bottles, a steady hum of voices, music that vibrated through the crowd like a riptide. Sukuna liked the routine of it: pour a round, shaker bottle in hand, towel slung over his shoulder, all on repeat. He didn’t mind the noise, didn’t mind the bass pounding through his chest—he could disappear into it, drown out his thoughts and forget about everything.

Tonight, though, he was on the other side of the counter for once—his sleeves were rolled, tattoos catching the light whenever he leaned forward to take a shot with a pool cue in hand, a half-empty beer sweating on the table beside him. The rhythm of the music sat heavy in his chest, the bass thumping in tune with his heart, and the alcohol pumping through his veins.

His frat had taken over half the place after a football game, the air thick with cologne and victory. Gojo had dragged Sukuna to the game, saying it was the last game of the season and they had make it to the pregame. The rest of the frat followed, loud and grinning, slapping Sukuna on the back and handing him shot after shot until the sharp edge of liquor hummed beneath his skin.

He wasn’t supposed to be drinking this much. He rarely did. But Gojo kept feeding everyone round after round, and Sukuna wasn’t about to back down from a challenge.

He bent over the pool table, eyeing the angle of the next shot, the thud of music syncing with the rhythm in his head. A toothpick was caught between his teeth, tugging on his bottom lip as he focused, eyes narrowing slightly on his target. Then a ripple passed through the room—just a flicker at the edge of his attention—and when he cocked his head, looking up for a second, his heart damn near stopped.

You had walked in.

And suddenly, everything else was just static.

It wasn’t subtle, the way the world shifted. The moment you stepped through the door, the rest of the bar blurred. His grip on the cue stilled, his smirk fading into something unreadable. You looked different than the last time he’d seen you—your hair was longer and you weren’t wearing nearly enough clothing for a night like this. Two of your friends followed behind you, laughing, weaving through the crowd.

He’d told himself he was done thinking about you months ago. That whatever almost happened between you was better left alone. But one look, and every lie he’d told himself burned away.

He caught himself staring before he could stop.

Gojo’s voice cut through the hum, lazy and amused. “You seeing what I’m seeing?” He leaned against the pool table, sunglasses clinging to the bridge of his nose, eyes tracking your every move.

Sukuna didn’t answer.

Gojo’s grin widened, a laugh bubbling out of his throat. “Man, you’ve got it bad. You gonna stand there glaring at her or actually talk to her this time?”

“Drop it,” Sukuna muttered.

“Sure,” Gojo said, tone teasing. “But she’s heading straight for the bar. Ten bucks says Satoru Junior over there gets to her before you do.”

Sukuna’s jaw flexed. He didn’t need to look to know which brother Gojo was talking about—the loud one who thought charm was all bark and no bite.

He tried to line up his next shot, but his eyes flicked up again. He watched you drift toward the bar, watched one of his frat brothers slide up beside you, all swagger and too-loud laughter. You were laughing politely at something he said, the kind of laugh that was more habit than humor. Sukuna’s fingers tightened around the pool cue until his knuckles went white. The wood creaked.

Gojo whistled low. “You’re gonna snap that thing in half.”

Sukuna exhaled hard and set the cue down. “Watch my drink,” he muttered, already moving.

He crossed the room in long, unhurried strides, but every step felt like something winding tighter inside him. The music pulsed through his ribs, lights flashing in pink and amber across his face.

When he reached the bar, the other guy was mid-sentence—something about buying you another drink—one that you would never order. And suddenly he was behind you, close enough to feel the warmth of your skin. You didn’t notice him behind you until his voice cut through.

“That’s not what she orders.”

The words came out low, steady, but the look he gave the guy was sharp enough to end the conversation.

You turned, startled. “Ryomen?”

A shiver climbed up his spine when he heard you say his name, his heartbeat faltering for a moment.

The frat brother raised his hands, backing away with a mischievous, knowing grin. “My bad, didn’t know she had a boyfriend—“ his grin deepened, one that told Sukuna that this was a scheme. “oh wait, forgot you guys aren’t dating. My bad.”

Sukuna’s jaw clenched, teeth grinding, staring him down with a look that told him to bounce.

“I’ll leave you two alone.”

Sukuna nodded once, sliding into the empty space beside you. “Sorry ‘bout him.” He cleared his throat, avoiding your gaze. “Looked like he was wasting your time anyway.”

“I can handle myself,” you said, though there was a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

“Never said you couldn’t.” He leaned an elbow on the bar, eyes flicking toward the bartender and leaning across the bar. “Her usual, and rim the glass with sugar, yeah?” he said simply, then finally looked to you, “Didn’t think I’d see you here again.”

You took the drink when it came, turning the glass between your hands with a soft smile. “It’s been a while. Guess I just missed the noise.”

He snorted softly. “You always did like chaos.” The bartender slid him a glass of whiskey, nodding before slinging a towel over his shoulder.

You looked up at him then, something knowing in your gaze. “And you always liked pretending that you didn’t.”

That hit deeper than he expected. You two had been something undefined once—long nights spent studying in his dorm when you should’ve gone home, the kind of almost-touches that made his skin buzz, the night where you’d accidentally fallen asleep in his bed, bodies pressed together in a warm embrace that startled even him when you both woke up.

That moment had stuck with him, replayed in his mind ever since you drifted apart. The confession he never managed to say haunted him. He’d blown it—every opportunity he had to tell you he cared about you—was thrown away. He was too proud, too arrogant to admit what he wanted.

Now, being around you again, he felt every inch of that mistake. He hated to admit it, but it hurt seeing you with someone else—didn’t matter who it was.

“You look good,” he said finally, voice quieter than before.

“Thank you,” you answered sweetly, eyes lingering on the faint pink at the tip of his nose. “I think you’re just drunk.”

“Little bit.” He smirked, eyes locked on yours as he sipped from his glass. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t mean it. This isn’t the alcohol talking.”

You laughed, shaking your head, trying to hide the blush creeping on your cheeks. “You’re so impossible.”

“Yeah, maybe.” he said, his grin softening. “Only around you.”

The pause stretched, comfortable and electric all at once. The air between you thickened; your knees brushed for a moment, and neither of you moved away.

He reached for his pack of cigarettes in his jeans, thumb flicking the corner of the box open, pulling out a cigarette and a lighter. “Wanna get some air?”

You nodded, watching as he stood with a grunt, holding his hand out for you to take. You looked up at him with a smile, giggling softly before taking his hand, a smirk playing on his lips as he guided you through the crowd out the back door.

The alley behind the bar was quieter than it had any right to be. The cold air smelled of rain and smoke, the sky a wash of deep navy above the glow of the streetlights. Sukuna lit the cigarette, the flame painting his features gold for a second before he exhaled, a soft cloud curling into the dark.

He handed it to you. “Still smoke too much,” you said, echoing some old conversation between you.

He gave a low chuckle. “You still remember that?”

“Oh, I remember everything,” you said, voice small.

That stopped him. He turned fully toward you, eyes searching your face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He took the cigarette back, flicked it aside, and stepped closer. “Everything huh?” You could feel the heat of him, the mix of whiskey and something cleaner—cedar and spice.

“I messed everything up before,” he said. “Didn’t say what I should’ve said. Thought if I waited, maybe it’d go away and I wouldn’t have to deal with it.”

“And?”

His laugh was quiet, breathless. “Didn’t. I’m still dealing with it.”

You were already leaning back against the brick wall before he realized he’d moved closer to you. His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from your face, fingertips tracing the line of your jaw.

“You drive me crazy,” he murmured, looking at your face with a softened in his eyes. “Every damn time you walk into this place, it’s like the whole world falls apart. You’re all I can think about and, it pisses me off.”

“I think about you all the time. it’s hard not to.” You met his gaze slowly, eyes flickering to his lips once, your pulse loud in your ears. “Why did you push me away…did I do something—”

That was all it took for him to snap. He couldn’t let you blame yourself for his mistake. All he wanted was you, that’s all he ever wanted.

He kissed you, and it was nothing like the way he looked—sharp edges and undeniable swagger—it was soft, slow, deliberate, like he was afraid to break you, afraid to let you go. He pressed you further into the brick wall, his hand warm against your face, bringing you impossibly closer to him. “Shut up,” he said inbetween a kiss that almost swallowed you whole. When he pulled back, he tilted his head up, inhaling a breath of relief before looking back to you, his hair brushing yours, breath mingling in the cold air.

“Been wanting to do that for a long time,” he whispered against your lips, teasing another kiss.

“I know,” you said, smiling against his mouth. “Took you long enough.”

He laughed quietly, the sound rough and low. “Yeah. Not making that mistake again.”

He pressed one last kiss to your lips, then one to your temple, then leaned beside you against the wall.

The night hummed around you—burning with the spark of an old flame, music distant, the two of you folded into a small pocket of quiet that felt like the start of something new.

⸻

★ YUJI ITADORI — “A Little Too Honest”

The house was already alive when you got there. There was a game of beer pong going in the front yard, red solo cups littered the lawn, music spilling out into the streets.

Someone had turned every light down low except for the neon beer sign in the kitchen and the string of fairy lights taped along the ceiling. The smell of pizza and cheap liquor hung thick in the air. Laughter spilled down the hallway, the kind that comes from people already past the point of caring who hears them.

Your girlfriends dragged you out of your dorm for the night, promising you a night filled with boys, bad decisions, and even worse alcohol. It’s not like you wanted to join them, but after the week you had? It would’ve been a stupid to say no.

He was leaned against a wall, laughing with one of his frat brothers, red solo cup in hand, cheeks pink, hair messy from someone stealing his backwards hat. His grin was wide and easy—until he spotted you almost immediately.

He was leaned against a wall, red solo cup in hand, cheeks pink, hair messy from someone stealing his backwards hat. His grin was wide and easy—until he saw you. For a second, he forgot to breathe.

You were laughing with someone b some guy, eyes catching the dim glow of the lights. He’d been half-drunk for the last hour, but seeing you felt like being hit with the world’s strongest shot of clarity and adrenaline all at once.

Gojo elbowed him with a smirk. “You gonna keep staring, lover boy, or are you gonna say hi?”

Yuji rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath, but he couldn’t stop himself from moving. He crossed the room, weaving through clusters of people until you finally turned to him—your expression lighting up in that way that always hit him like a punch to the gut.

“Yuji!” you said, voice soft and bright. “Oh my god, I didn’t think you’d actually be here tonight.” You looked so happy to see him, your face lit up in a way that almost put him on his knees.

“Yeah, well,” he grinned, scratching at the back of his neck. “Gojo said I needed to socialize more. So here I am. Socializing.”

You laughed, that same laugh that used to echo through his dorm last semester when you’d stay up way too late studying together, half the time ending up talking about everything but class. Back when things were easy. Before people started whispering about the two of you, before his friends teased him for being “so obviously whipped,” before the tension built so quietly he barely noticed until it was too much.

“I’m just happy to see you,” you said, smile soft and sweet. “It’s always nice to see you.” You giggled at him from over the rim of your cup, taking a sip and watching the way he looked away from you for a moment, a breathless, almost shy laugh leaving his lips.

The guy you were talking to rolled his eyes, walking away from the two of you. It’s not like either of you noticed though, the world around you had gone quiet the moment you’d locked eyes.

“C’mon,” he said suddenly, eyes sparkling, “they’re starting a game upstairs. Truth or strip—something like that. You in?” He smirked, a teasing tone laced in his voice.

You raised a brow. “You’re kidding, truth or strip? You mean truth or dare, but with like, what—blackmail potential?”

“Yeah pretty much,” he said, laughing. “C’mon, I promise I’ll make it fun.”

Gojo’s voice called from somewhere behind him. “Yeah, she’ll have a good time alright!”

Yuji flipped him off without looking back, his ears burning hot and red as he tried to hide the smile creeping on his lips. You giggled, shaking your head as he offered his hand to you, “c’mon,” he giggled, and you followed him up the stairs without hesitation.

The room upstairs was dim, packed with half a dozen people sitting in a loose circle on the carpet. Bottles, shot glasses, and scattered cards littered the middle. The air was heavy with laughter and something just shy of chaos.

“Alright,” Gojo announced grandly, holding up a nearly empty bottle. “Rules are simple: tell the truth or forfeit and—well, you know what that means.”

You took the shot someone handed you, the liquor burning warm down your throat. Yuji sat across from you, watching your every move with a glint in his eye, laughing at the way your face scrunched when you threw back another shot. The night had already turned fuzzy around the edges, the kind of tipsy where everything felt a little funnier, a little louder.

“Ladies first,” Gojo said, pointing at you with a grin.

“Me?!” A laugh burst from within your chest, and you looked at Gojo wide eyed and shocked. “Why me!”

“You’re a lady, aren’t you?” he snickered, teasing you, but not before he looked at Yuji with a sly, mischievous grin. “Plus, I’m tryna see what’s under that top you got on,”

Yuji’s grin almost faltered, eye twitching at Gojo’s comment. He knew Gojo was just trying to rile him up, it was nothing new.

“Anyway, If you had to kiss anyone here, who would it be?” Gojo leaned back, sunglasses tilted just so he could see you.

You nearly choked on your drink, a hand raising to cup your mouth, laughing. “You’re serious. What kind of question is that?”

It was juvenile, that’s what it was.

“Just answer it!” someone jeered.

You rolled your eyes, cheeks warming. “I mean, probably Yuji,” you said finally, still laughing. “We’re friends, so I feel like it wouldn’t be that weird.”

Friends.

That word hit him harder than any shot he’d taken tonight.

Gojo gasped in a fake mockery “You wouldn’t kiss me?!”

You tossed your head back with an obnoxious laugh, practically snorting. “Absolutely the fuck not—I’d kiss Yuji over any of you.”

The boys whooped, cheering, slapping his back, and Gojo’s grin turned downright evil. “Alright then—new question! Be honest, would you let Yuji hit?”

You sputtered. “Hey, that’s not fair! You already asked me one!”

The group erupted into laughter, moving on before you could even answer, but Yuji couldn’t ignore the way your face had gone pink, the way you couldn’t quite look at him after that.

The game spiraled from there—ridiculous questions, loud laughter, empty bottles. Gojo, predictably, was the loudest, the first to start losing layers of clothing to forfeits. Clothing was shed left and right, tossed into the air and left thrown across the room.

Your top was tossed behind you, leaving you in your bra, jeans still hugging your hips for dear life. Yuji just sat cross-legged on the floor, hoodie tossed behind him, jeans abandoned somewhere, leaning back against the couch, his gaze occasionally drifting toward you.

He couldn’t help it. Every time you laughed, his chest tightened. Every time you looked away, it hurt him in a way that even he couldn’t comprehend.

Then came his turn.

Gojo, grinning like a devil, leaned forward. “Alright, Yuji. Be honest. If you could hook up with anyone here, who would it be?”

The room went still.

Yuji’s laugh died halfway through. His gaze flicked instinctively to you—and stayed there.

For a heartbeat, everything fell away. The noise, the lights, the crowd—it all blurred. All he could see was you.

You blinked, lips parting like you meant to say something, but you didn’t. The look on his face said enough. Your chest felt tight, heartbeat ringing in your ears.

The spell broke with Gojo’s obnoxious cackle. “Ohhh, I fucking knew it!”

Yuji groaned, wiping a hand over his face. “You guys are the worst.”

The laughter covered for him, but you saw everything. The way his ears were burning. The way he couldn’t bring himself to even meet your eyes.

He smiled through it, laughed when everyone else did, took another drink—a long one—just to keep up appearances. Then, quietly, he stood and muttered, “Gonna get a refill. Be right back.”

You watched him stand up, pulling his hoodie over his head with a sigh, not even bothering to find his jeans before he disappeared down the stairs.

You blinked, humming when Gojo asked you something that you couldn’t quite hear. You stood up quickly, putting your clothes back on and followed after him.

You found him sitting on the back steps of the house, the porch light buzzing overhead, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. It took you asking anyone and everyone just to find him, and you breathed a sigh of relief once you did. The cool night air brushed your skin, sending a chill down your spine, the music still thumping faintly from inside.

“Yuji?” You said softly.

He looked up, startled, then laughed under his breath. “Man, you move quiet.”

You sat beside him, leaving just enough space to be polite. “Is everything okay? I mean—you just kinda bailed.”

“Yeah. I’m good.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, eyes fixed on the yard. “Didn’t mean to kill the mood. I just—yeah.”

“You just what?”

He sighed, a long, shaky sound. “I think I embarrassed myself in there.”

“I don’t think you embarrassed yourself.”

He huffed a laugh. “C’mon. You saw how long I looked at you when Gojo asked that. Everybody did.”

You didn’t answer right away, just watched him from the corner of your eye. His shoulders were slumped, the energy that usually made him feel so bright dimmed to something smaller, rawer.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, words tumbling out. “I mean I did—but it’s more than that. I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable or anything, I swear. It’s just—” He broke off, raking a hand through his hair. “I’ve hard to be around you. You make it so hard to not like you.” He shook his head with a sigh, hand slapped over his eyes. “And I keep trying to play it cool, but I’m a terrible liar when I drink.”

The quiet stretched between you, filled only by the chirp of crickets and the distant hum of music through the house.

He laughed weakly. “I probably should’ve just said ‘no one’ and taken my punishment, huh?” He looked up at the night sky, taking a deep breath. “Would’ve rather stripped naked than have to deal with this.”

You smiled a little. “If you lied, then I wouldn’t have known.” You leaned closer to him.

He turned toward you, eyes wide, uncertain. “Known what?”

“That you like me,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “I always wondered if you felt the same way.”

For the first time all night, he didn’t look nervous. Just…relieved. He smiled, small and real, that soft kind of smile that makes everything in you unclench.

“I guess honesty’s not so bad,” he murmured. “Well—in this case at least.”

You leaned closer. your shoulder pressed against his. “I guess not.”

The door opened behind you then, laughter spilling out again, but neither of you moved. The light above flickered, and Yuji’s fingers brushed yours, tentative, warm, like a question he didn’t need to say out loud.

You didn’t pull away.

Neither of you wanted to.

⸻

★ MEGUMI FUSHIGURO — “Quiet Confessions”

The dorm was quiet, the usual hum of campus nightlife softened to a distant buzz through the cracked-open window. The overhead light was off; the only illumination came from a single desk lamp casting a warm pool of light across the room. The faint scent of old books mixed with the lingering aroma of takeout.

Megumi sat cross-legged on the floor, a half-empty bottle of beer beside him, and a glass in his hand. His hoodie was pushed back on his shoulders, sleeves rolled up, hair messy enough to suggest he hadn’t cared about it for hours. He hadn’t planned on staying up this late, not with exams and training stacked on top of each other—but when you had shown up with that crooked smile and an easy laugh, he hadn’t wanted the night to end.

You were perched on the edge of his bed, legs tucked beneath you, sipping from a bottle of your own. The warmth of the alcohol made your cheeks glow, and the dim light caught your hair in soft highlights.

“You’ve gotten really quiet tonight,” you said, voice soft, teasing, but with a weight to it. “Usually you’d be muttering about how terrible my pouring skills are or criticizing me for picking the wrong beer.”

Megumi let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, well… you’re not really giving me much to complain about.” His dark eyes lingered on yours a little longer than usual. A half-smile tugged at his lips, easy but not careless.

“You’ve got that look again,” you said, eyebrow raised. “The one where you’re thinking about something and it’s probably too complicated to tell me.”

He didn’t answer immediately, only taking a slow sip of his beer. The quiet stretched between you, comfortable but charged, until he shifted closer, his knee brushing against yours. It was a small touch, almost accidental, but it made your stomach flutter.

“Remember last week?” he finally said, voice low, deliberate. “We stayed up until three, just… talking. You fell asleep halfway through, and I didn’t want to wake you. I couldn’t bring myself to leave.”

You smiled faintly, remembering. “No yeah, I remember. I didn’t want to leave either.”

Megumi’s gaze softened, but there was a flicker in his eyes now—something heavier, something deeper. “I keep thinking about that night… and a lot of nights before. All the times we’re just… like this.” His hand hovered near yours, fingers twitching. “And I’ve been an idiot for not saying anything.”

You leaned a little closer without thinking, drawn by the shift in him, the weight of his words. “Megumi… what do you mean?”

He swallowed, voice dipping lower, a touch husky, his eyes dark and fixed on yours. “I mean… I like you. A lot. More than I probably should. I’ve liked you for a while. And I’ve been… pretending it doesn’t matter, pretending I can be just your friend. But I can’t anymore.”

Your heart stuttered, and the room seemed to shrink around you. Every sound, every flicker of the lamp, every breath he took felt magnified. You could feel the pull of him, close but restrained, as if he was afraid one wrong move could shatter the fragile moment between you.

“I… I didn’t want to make things weird either,” he added quickly, voice rough with unspoken tension. “I don’t want… I don’t want just a fling, or some stupid drunk confession. I mean it. You’re important to me. Always have been.”

You reached out, letting your fingers brush his hand. It was tentative, testing, but the connection was electric. “Megumi… I didn’t think you felt—”

He shook his head, cutting you off gently. “I do. And I’ve been scared. Scared that if I said anything, I’d ruin this—us. But I can’t keep pretending anymore.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “You’re not ruining anything. You’re… finally being honest. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Megumi’s lips quirked into the faintest smile, but his eyes were intense, sultry even, dark and serious and full of something that made your chest ache. Slowly, he leaned in, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him, your breaths mingling, the quiet hum of the city outside your window the only sound.

Neither of you moved away, letting the tension linger, letting the confession settle between you. His hand found yours properly now, thumb brushing the back of your hand, slow, deliberate. You felt it, deep in your chest, a promise without words.

And in that quiet, dimly lit room, surrounded by the soft shadows of late night, you both knew: this wasn’t just a fleeting feeling, or a moment sparked by alcohol. It was real.

The night stretched on around you, unspoken and infinite, a slow-burning connection that didn’t need to be labeled yet. You leaned a little closer, his shoulder brushing yours, and for once, the world outside could wait.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Got really drunk the other night during a paint and sip and an idea popped in my head haha. I hope you liked this, this was really fun for me to write.

[thicchaikyuuboys]

Reblogging my own work from @jujutsu-kaisen-after-dark

[thicchaikyuuboys]

DRUNK CONFESSIONS & OBSESSIONS!

Incudes: Atsumu Miya, Sakusa Kiyoomi, Bokuto Koutaro, Oikawa Tooru, Iwaizumi Hajime, Kuroo Tetsuro, Osamu Miya.

TW: mentions of alcohol, I also wrote this drunk off my ass actually. Hope it’s good!

★ ATSUMU MIYA— “Too Honest for My Own Good”

The ballroom glows gold.

MSBY’s sponsor gala hums with music and money—executives shaking hands, champagne bubbling, photographers flashing. You’ve spent the evening juggling press schedules, media briefings, and the occasional “Atsumu, please don’t make faces in the team photo.”

You spot him across the room—bow tie undone, champagne flute in hand, cheeks tinged pink from too many refills. Atsumu Miya, setter and chaos incarnate, grinning like he just got away with something.

When he catches your eye, he lights up. “There’s my favorite person in the whole damn room.”

You sigh, amused. “I think you’re just drunk, Miya.”

“Atsumu.” He corrects, slurring slightly. “And maybe. But ya gotta admit, I look real good in a tux.”

He’s not wrong. The black suit fits him unfairly well, all sharp lines and messy charm. You cross your arms, trying to maintain the professionalism you’re known for. “You were supposed to stay near the sponsors, remember?

He hums, stepping closer. “Yeah, well. Sponsors don’t laugh at my jokes like you do.”

The air shifts. The playful edge in his voice falters into something quieter, rawer. His gaze drops to your lips, then back up again—like he’s fighting with himself.

“I shouldn’t say this,” he murmurs.

You tilt your head. “Say what?”

He licks his lips, breath hitching. “That every time ya walk by in those heels and that perfume, I forget what I’m supposed to be doin’. That I think about ya when I’m servin’, when I’m runnin’ drills, when I close my damn eyes at night.”

Your heart stumbles. “Atsumu—”

“—and I know I’m drunk,” he cuts in, voice low, “but that don’t mean it ain’t true.”

The music swells, laughter echoing from across the room, but it all fades around you. He takes another half-step closer until you can smell the warmth of his cologne and champagne on his breath.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he whispers.

And before you can think, he leans in. His lips find yours—soft, eager, tasting of sugar and something dangerously honest. You freeze for a heartbeat before melting into him, his hand curving around your waist as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It’s not frantic; it’s slow, dizzy, filled with every unspoken word he’s been holding back. When you finally pull away, your lipstick is smudged, and his grin is boyish and unguarded.

“See?” he says, breathless. “Told ya. Too honest for my own good.”

You exhale a shaky laugh, cheeks burning. “You’re going to regret this tomorrow.”

He shakes his head, smile softening. “Not a fuckin’ chance.”

⸻

★ SAKUSA KIYOOMI — “The Things I Shouldn’t Say Out Loud”

The night hums with elegance.

Strings play softly from the stage, champagne flutes clink, and every inch of the ballroom glows with luxury. The MSBY Black Tie Charity Gala—an event meant to impress sponsors and donors—has everyone dressed to kill.

You’ve never seen the team like this before. Bokuto with a bow tie, Atsumu actually behaving (for now), and Sakusa—

Sakusa looks devastating.

Black suit tailored within an inch of perfection, crisp shirt open just enough at the collar to reveal a line of warm skin, curls perfectly in place. He’s talking to a sponsor, expression polite and unreadable, but his gaze keeps flicking to you across the room.

You feel it every time.

You’re wearing a floor-length satin gown that hugs you in all the right places. The color catches the light like liquid fire, and when you laugh at something a coworker says, Sakusa nearly drops his drink.

He’s been careful all night. Careful not to linger. Careful not to stare too long. But a few glasses of champagne have chipped away at his restraint, and when he sees you slip out toward the balcony for a breath of fresh air, he follows without thinking.

You’re standing there, the city glittering below, cool air brushing your shoulders.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he says quietly.

You turn, surprised but smiling. “Didn’t think I’d find you leaving the safety of indoor air conditioning, Sakusa.”

“I made an exception.” His voice is low, rougher than usual.

You raise an eyebrow. “An exception? For what?”

His jaw flexes. “For you.”

You laugh softly. “You’re drunk.”

“Tipsy.” He corrects automatically, but his eyes are softer than you’ve ever seen them. “And I don’t usually do this.”

“Do what?”

He takes a slow step closer. “Say too much.”

The words slip out before he can stop them, his fingers twitching against the railing like he needs something to hold onto. “You looked—when you walked in tonight—I forgot how to breathe for a second.”

Your pulse jumps. “You did?”

He nods once, gaze tracing the line of your collarbone like he’s memorizing it. “You’re just…you’re always put-together, but tonight you look—” He breaks off with a small, helpless laugh. “It’s ridiculous how beautiful you are.”

You blink, stunned. “Sakusa—”

“I know. I shouldn’t be saying this here. Not like this.” He rubs the back of his neck, a rare flush creeping up his throat. “But I can’t—every time we talk, you get stuck in my head. I notice when you’re not in meetings. I notice when you are. I shouldn’t, but I do.”

There’s a long silence. Only the hum of the city and the faint buzz of champagne between you.

“You’re going to regret this tomorrow,” you whisper.

He shakes his head, stepping in until you can feel his breath against your cheek. “No, I’ve regretted not saying it for too long.”

You don’t even remember who moves first. One heartbeat, you’re staring at him; the next, his hand is cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing your lower lip like he’s asking for permission he doesn’t need. The kiss that follows is soft at first—hesitant, testing. But then he deepens it, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

When you finally pull away, he exhales, forehead resting against yours.

“I don’t do this,” he murmurs, voice barely there. “But for you…I think I’d make the exception.”

Your laugh is breathless. “You already did.”

He smiles then—small, real, and so heartbreakingly human.

⸻

★ BOKUTO KOUTARO — “You Make Me Feel Like Electricity”

It’s supposed to be a simple team dinner.

No press, no formalities—just MSBY sprawled across a long table at a cozy restaurant downtown. Plates of grilled meat, laughter bouncing between walls, Atsumu halfway to drunk already and Hinata trying to outdrink him (bad idea).

You’re sitting at the end of the table, nursing a cocktail and laughing at Bokuto’s dramatic retelling of a match from three years ago. He’s animated, gestures huge, eyes shining. His voice cuts through the noise like sunlight.

Bokuto when he’s happy is infectious. But Bokuto when he’s tipsy?

He’s dangerous.

He’s looser—his smile a little too bright, his hands a little too touchy. His arm drapes across the back of your chair like it belongs there, and every time you lean in to say something, his breath catches like it’s the first time he’s ever heard you speak.

By the time dessert plates hit the table, you can feel his gaze like a pulse.

“Hey,” he murmurs, leaning close enough that his voice hums against your ear, “you wanna get some air?”

You glance at him, heart jumping at the look in his eyes—mischief laced with something molten. “You okay?”

He grins. “Better now.”

You roll your eyes, but follow him out anyway. The air outside is cooler, quieter. The restaurant’s back patio is dimly lit and mostly empty. Music hums faintly through the glass.

He runs a hand through his silver-streaked hair, exhaling a laugh that’s just a little too nervous. “You look really, really pretty tonight.”

“Bokuto—”

“No, wait, lemme finish.” He steps closer, eyes locked on yours. “I’ve been trying so hard not to say anything ‘cause you’re—you know—you’re you, and I’m me, and we work together, and it’s messy and I didn’t wanna mess it up. But—”

He stops, chest rising fast, lips curling into a crooked smile.

“—I’m fucking obsessed with you.”

Your breath catches. “What?”

He laughs again, low this time, voice thick with something that feels like confession and surrender all at once. “You make me feel like electricity, like every time you walk into the room, the world gets louder. I can’t focus, I can’t think straight, and I don’t even wanna try anymore.”

“Bokuto, you’re drunk—”

“Maybe,” he admits, stepping into your space until his chest nearly brushes yours. “But drunk me’s just honest me without the brakes.”

He’s close enough now that you can see the faint gold flecks in his eyes, the way they dart to your lips before flicking back up. His hand finds your hip, fingers curling like he’s trying to hold onto something real.

You should stop this. You both know that. But when he murmurs, “Tell me you don’t feel this too,” your resolve cracks.

You don’t answer with words.

You grab his jacket, tug him down, and his mouth crashes into yours—warm, hungry, sweet. The world blurs out. Just the scrape of his stubble against your skin, the low sound he makes when you kiss him back.

When you break apart, both of you are breathless, laughing quietly like you’ve just done something terribly wonderful.

Inside, the team’s laughter is muffled behind the wall. You can still hear Atsumu yelling about dessert.

Bokuto brushes his thumb across your cheek, grin softening.

“Think anyone saw?”

You shake your head. “Not unless they have x-ray vision.”

He laughs, pressing a quick, lingering kiss to your forehead. “Good. ‘Cause I wanna keep this part just for me—at least for tonight.”

And under the amber glow of the patio lights, with the sound of distant laughter and the faint taste of whiskey between you, it feels like a promise neither of you are quite ready to let go of.

⸻

★ OIKAWA TOORU— “When the World Finally Goes Quiet”

The bar has long since blurred into noise.

His teammates are still there somewhere—laughter, clinking glasses, the faint thud of music through the floor—but Oikawa’s half-slouched in the corner booth, collar undone, eyes glassy from too many drinks and not enough victories.

It had been a bad game.

Every missed serve, every bad set still sits heavy in his stomach. He hates losing more than anything; it feels like failure and all the noise that comes after.

His phone is in his hand before he really thinks about it. Your name glows on the screen—saved with a little star next to it. He stares at it for a long time before hitting call.

You answer on the third ring, voice soft and surprised.

“Oikawa? Is everything alright? Are you okay?”

He exhales a laugh that sounds a little broken. “You always answer like that. So responsible.”

“…are you—you sound drunk.”

“Mm. Maybe just a little.” His voice wobbles between playful and tired. “The guys thought I needed cheering up. But now the room won’t stop spinning, and all I can think about is you.”

There’s a pause. “Oikawa…”

“I know, I know. You’re the team manager, and I’m supposed to keep things professional, but you’re the only one who ever really listens when I fall apart.” His words start tumbling, softer now, like he’s afraid they’ll dissolve if he stops. “You remember last week? You handed me water after practice and told me to breathe? I didn’t tell you, but you saved me a little that day.”

You can hear him smile faintly through the receiver.

“I shouldn’t say this. You’ll think I’m pathetic.”

“I don’t.”

He goes quiet for a moment. The sound of a car horn echoes in the distance, the low buzz of the bar behind him.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he finally says. It’s almost a whisper, almost lost in the static. “And I hate that I’m saying it like this—half drunk, probably slurring—but I am. I love how you look when you’re trying not to laugh at my jokes. I love that you never treat me like I’m some stupid celebrity. I love that you make me feel like I can still be someone good.”

You don’t speak. You can hear his shaky breath, the quiet clink of his glass being set down.

“I’ll regret this tomorrow,” he murmurs. “But tonight…it feels good to tell the truth.”

Your voice is soft. “Then sleep, Tōru. We can talk when the sun’s up.”

He chuckles, warm and low. “You called me by my name.”

You smile despite yourself. “Yeah. Go home, okay?”

“I will. But just so you know—when I win again, you’re the first person I’m taking to dinner.”

He hangs up before you can answer.

And when you put your phone down, there’s a lingering warmth in your chest—like his words are still echoing there, suspended between confession and promise.

⸻

★ IWAIZUMI HAJIME — “The Things I Can’t Keep Quiet”

The night should’ve been perfect.

The bar’s low-lit, the laughter steady, his friends are celebrating a hard-won victory, and he’s finally had time to breathe. The music’s good, the drinks are strong, and he’s even smiling—until he glances toward the door.

You walk in.

You’re dressed up—nicer than he’s used to seeing you at the training facility—and there’s a man beside you. His hand is hovering just a little too close to yours, and it makes Iwaizumi’s jaw tighten before he even realizes it.

He shouldn’t care. You’re a coworker, a friend. You handle the team’s athletic program, and he’s supposed to be focused on recovery schedules and game prep, not on how your laugh slides under his skin.

But then he hears the guy order for you, and something in him snaps.

He doesn’t even think. He’s on his feet, weaving through the crowd, the buzz of whiskey pushing him forward until he’s standing right at your table.

You blink up at him, startled. “Iwa? What are you—”

“Hey,” he cuts in, voice rougher than he means it to be. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

Your date frowns. “We were—”

“It’ll only take a minute.” There’s steel in his tone, the kind that doesn’t invite argument.

You shoot an apologetic glance to the guy before letting Iwaizumi lead you toward the back hallway, away from the noise. He stops under a flickering light, running a hand through his hair, trying to catch his breath.

You cross your arms. “You wanna tell me what that was about?”

He exhales, shoulders still tense. “Didn’t like the look of that guy.”

You stare. “You don’t even know him.”

“I don’t need to.” His eyes finally meet yours, dark and unsteady. “I just—couldn’t sit there and watch you with him.”

You take a step back, heart pounding. “You’re drunk.”

“Little bit,” he admits, mouth twisting into something like a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Makes it harder to shut up about the things I usually keep down.”

“Iwa—”

He steps closer. The hallway’s narrow; you can smell the faint spice of his cologne, the warmth of whiskey on his breath.

“I see you every damn day,” he says quietly. “And I tell myself it’s fine, that we’re coworkers, that I shouldn’t cross that line. But then I see you laughing with some guy who doesn’t even know you the way I do, and I—” His voice cracks; he huffs out a humorless laugh. “I just lose it.”

Your pulse skips. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” His hand lifts like he might touch your face, then stops halfway. “You drive me crazy. The way you care about the team, the way you yell at me to rest, the way you look when you’re trying not to smile— I’ve been holding it in for months.”

The words hang there between you, warm and raw and a little bit terrifying.

You swallow. “What if I was happy with him?”

He shakes his head. “Then I’d still have to tell you. At least once. Just so you’d know.”

For a second, neither of you move. The only sound is the faint hum of the bar beyond the wall.

Then, softly, you say, “You’re an idiot.”

He laughs under his breath, eyes flicking down to your lips. “Yeah. Yours, though?”

You don’t even answer. You just grab the front of his shirt and pull him down. His mouth finds yours—rough, desperate, honest. The kind of kiss that leaves no room for words. When you finally pull back, you’re both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.

“You’re gonna regret interrupting my date,” you murmur.

“Maybe,” he says, thumb brushing your cheek. “But I’m not gonna regret this.”

⸻

★ KUROO TETSURO — “Something I Shouldn’t Say Out Loud”

The party’s half-over when he finally finds you again.

It’s one of those post-match celebrations that’s somehow gotten bigger than anyone planned. The music’s loud, the lights are low, and Kuroo’s been everywhere—talking, laughing, clinking glasses. He’s magnetic in a suit: hair messier than usual, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie long gone.

You’ve been keeping yourself busy—networking, pretending not to notice the way his eyes keep finding you through the crowd

He corners you near the drink table.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he drawls, leaning against the counter beside you. His grin is crooked, his eyes warm with that familiar spark. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Avoiding you would mean you weren’t following me around, Kuroo.”

He pretends to be wounded. “Ah, ouch. You wound me.”

“You’re drunk,” you tease.

He tilts his head, smirking. “Tipsy. There’s a difference. I’m still charming, just… with fewer filters.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “That sounds dangerous.”

“It is,” he says softly, the playfulness fading a little. “Because then I end up saying things I’ve been trying not to.”

Something shifts in the air—lightness fading into quiet tension. The noise of the room seems to fade behind him.

He sets his drink down, eyes searching yours. “You know I joke around a lot, right?”

“That’s an understatement.”

“Yeah, but I mean it when I say you make it hard to focus. You walk into a room and I forget what I was talking about. You smile, and I—” he laughs under his breath, rubbing at the back of his neck, “I just lose the thread completely.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Kuroo…”

“I like you,” he says simply. “There. Said it.” His grin is small now, almost shy. “Been trying to keep it to myself because I didn’t want to make things weird. But maybe I’m a little too drunk to keep pretending I don’t think about you all the damn time.”

You can feel your heart stutter. “You’re serious?”

He shrugs, stepping closer until the heat of him wraps around you. “Dead serious.”

For a second, you can’t breathe. He’s watching you—really watching—like he’s memorizing every reaction.

“Say something,” he murmurs.

You manage a whisper. “You’re trouble.”

His grin widens, slow and knowing. “Maybe. You look like you don’t mind.”

He’s close enough now that his breath brushes your cheek. You should step back. You don’t.

When he finally kisses you, it’s careful at first—his hand sliding up your arm, his mouth moving against yours with the kind of restraint that feels like he’s been holding this in for too long. It deepens by degrees until you’re both smiling against each other, laughing into the kiss like you can’t quite believe it’s happening.

He pulls back, forehead resting against yours. “Told you it was dangerous.”

You laugh, breathless. “You’ll blame the drinks tomorrow.”

He shakes his head, that lazy grin returning. “Nah. I’ll thank them.”

⸻

★ OSAMU MIYA — “Spilling What I Keep to Myself”

The restaurant’s closed, but the lights over the counter are still on.

He’s sitting there with a half-empty glass of sake, sleeves rolled, apron still tied around his waist. You’ve stayed behind to help him lock up, laughing through the last of the night’s work, stacking chairs and wiping down tables.

It’s quiet now. The kind of quiet that hums.

He’s watching you as you count out the register. You can feel it—the weight of his gaze, steady and unhurried. When you look up, he doesn’t look away.

“What?” you ask, smiling.

He shakes his head, a small smile ghosting across his mouth. “Nothin’. Just thinkin’.”

“About?”

He hesitates, swirling the liquid in his glass. “How you make this place feel warmer. Even on nights like this.”

You laugh softly. “That’s the sake talking.”

“Maybe,” he admits, eyes dropping to his drink. “But maybe it’s just the truth I don’t usually say out loud.”

You set the cash drawer aside, leaning on the counter. “You’re full of those tonight, huh?”

He huffs out a laugh. “Guess I am.” He’s quiet for a beat, then glances up at you again. “You know, I see people come in and out every day. Different faces, same stories. But you—” He stops, searching for the right words. “You’re the one I look for. Every time the door opens.”

Your chest tightens. “Osamu…”

He shrugs, looking suddenly shy, the tips of his ears going pink. “Didn’t mean to make it weird. I just—had a bit too much, I guess. Makes me honest.”

You come around the counter, taking the stool next to him. The smell of rice and smoke lingers in the air, mixed with the faint sweetness of sake.

“You really mean that?” you ask quietly.

He turns his head toward you, eyes soft but steady. “Yeah. I mean it.”

You don’t know who moves first, only that he’s suddenly closer, his hand finding yours on the counter. His thumb traces the edge of your palm, slow and sure. “You’re trouble, y’know that?” he murmurs, voice low and rough.

You smile. “So I’ve heard.”

When he kisses you, it’s unhurried—just a warm press of lips that tastes faintly of sake and something steady underneath. He pulls back barely an inch, forehead against yours, smiling in that quiet, certain way of his.

“Guess I’m glad I said it out loud,” he whispers.

“Guess I am too.”

The lights hum overhead, the city soft outside the window. The world feels smaller, safer—just the two of you and the faint clink of empty glasses.

⸻

[thicchaikyuuboys]

DRUNK CONFESSIONS & OBSESSIONS!

Incudes: Atsumu Miya, Sakusa Kiyoomi, Bokuto Koutaro, Oikawa Tooru, Iwaizumi Hajime, Kuroo Tetsuro, Osamu Miya.

TW: mentions of alcohol, I also wrote this drunk off my ass actually. Hope it’s good!

★ ATSUMU MIYA— “Too Honest for My Own Good”

The ballroom glows gold.

MSBY’s sponsor gala hums with music and money—executives shaking hands, champagne bubbling, photographers flashing. You’ve spent the evening juggling press schedules, media briefings, and the occasional “Atsumu, please don’t make faces in the team photo.”

You spot him across the room—bow tie undone, champagne flute in hand, cheeks tinged pink from too many refills. Atsumu Miya, setter and chaos incarnate, grinning like he just got away with something.

When he catches your eye, he lights up. “There’s my favorite person in the whole damn room.”

You sigh, amused. “I think you’re just drunk, Miya.”

“Atsumu.” He corrects, slurring slightly. “And maybe. But ya gotta admit, I look real good in a tux.”

He’s not wrong. The black suit fits him unfairly well, all sharp lines and messy charm. You cross your arms, trying to maintain the professionalism you’re known for. “You were supposed to stay near the sponsors, remember?

He hums, stepping closer. “Yeah, well. Sponsors don’t laugh at my jokes like you do.”

The air shifts. The playful edge in his voice falters into something quieter, rawer. His gaze drops to your lips, then back up again—like he’s fighting with himself.

“I shouldn’t say this,” he murmurs.

You tilt your head. “Say what?”

He licks his lips, breath hitching. “That every time ya walk by in those heels and that perfume, I forget what I’m supposed to be doin’. That I think about ya when I’m servin’, when I’m runnin’ drills, when I close my damn eyes at night.”

Your heart stumbles. “Atsumu—”

“—and I know I’m drunk,” he cuts in, voice low, “but that don’t mean it ain’t true.”

The music swells, laughter echoing from across the room, but it all fades around you. He takes another half-step closer until you can smell the warmth of his cologne and champagne on his breath.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he whispers.

And before you can think, he leans in. His lips find yours—soft, eager, tasting of sugar and something dangerously honest. You freeze for a heartbeat before melting into him, his hand curving around your waist as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It’s not frantic; it’s slow, dizzy, filled with every unspoken word he’s been holding back. When you finally pull away, your lipstick is smudged, and his grin is boyish and unguarded.

“See?” he says, breathless. “Told ya. Too honest for my own good.”

You exhale a shaky laugh, cheeks burning. “You’re going to regret this tomorrow.”

He shakes his head, smile softening. “Not a fuckin’ chance.”

⸻

★ SAKUSA KIYOOMI — “The Things I Shouldn’t Say Out Loud”

The night hums with elegance.

Strings play softly from the stage, champagne flutes clink, and every inch of the ballroom glows with luxury. The MSBY Black Tie Charity Gala—an event meant to impress sponsors and donors—has everyone dressed to kill.

You’ve never seen the team like this before. Bokuto with a bow tie, Atsumu actually behaving (for now), and Sakusa—

Sakusa looks devastating.

Black suit tailored within an inch of perfection, crisp shirt open just enough at the collar to reveal a line of warm skin, curls perfectly in place. He’s talking to a sponsor, expression polite and unreadable, but his gaze keeps flicking to you across the room.

You feel it every time.

You’re wearing a floor-length satin gown that hugs you in all the right places. The color catches the light like liquid fire, and when you laugh at something a coworker says, Sakusa nearly drops his drink.

He’s been careful all night. Careful not to linger. Careful not to stare too long. But a few glasses of champagne have chipped away at his restraint, and when he sees you slip out toward the balcony for a breath of fresh air, he follows without thinking.

You’re standing there, the city glittering below, cool air brushing your shoulders.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he says quietly.

You turn, surprised but smiling. “Didn’t think I’d find you leaving the safety of indoor air conditioning, Sakusa.”

“I made an exception.” His voice is low, rougher than usual.

You raise an eyebrow. “An exception? For what?”

His jaw flexes. “For you.”

You laugh softly. “You’re drunk.”

“Tipsy.” He corrects automatically, but his eyes are softer than you’ve ever seen them. “And I don’t usually do this.”

“Do what?”

He takes a slow step closer. “Say too much.”

The words slip out before he can stop them, his fingers twitching against the railing like he needs something to hold onto. “You looked—when you walked in tonight—I forgot how to breathe for a second.”

Your pulse jumps. “You did?”

He nods once, gaze tracing the line of your collarbone like he’s memorizing it. “You’re just…you’re always put-together, but tonight you look—” He breaks off with a small, helpless laugh. “It’s ridiculous how beautiful you are.”

You blink, stunned. “Sakusa—”

“I know. I shouldn’t be saying this here. Not like this.” He rubs the back of his neck, a rare flush creeping up his throat. “But I can’t—every time we talk, you get stuck in my head. I notice when you’re not in meetings. I notice when you are. I shouldn’t, but I do.”

There’s a long silence. Only the hum of the city and the faint buzz of champagne between you.

“You’re going to regret this tomorrow,” you whisper.

He shakes his head, stepping in until you can feel his breath against your cheek. “No, I’ve regretted not saying it for too long.”

You don’t even remember who moves first. One heartbeat, you’re staring at him; the next, his hand is cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing your lower lip like he’s asking for permission he doesn’t need. The kiss that follows is soft at first—hesitant, testing. But then he deepens it, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

When you finally pull away, he exhales, forehead resting against yours.

“I don’t do this,” he murmurs, voice barely there. “But for you…I think I’d make the exception.”

Your laugh is breathless. “You already did.”

He smiles then—small, real, and so heartbreakingly human.

⸻

★ BOKUTO KOUTARO — “You Make Me Feel Like Electricity”

It’s supposed to be a simple team dinner.

No press, no formalities—just MSBY sprawled across a long table at a cozy restaurant downtown. Plates of grilled meat, laughter bouncing between walls, Atsumu halfway to drunk already and Hinata trying to outdrink him (bad idea).

You’re sitting at the end of the table, nursing a cocktail and laughing at Bokuto’s dramatic retelling of a match from three years ago. He’s animated, gestures huge, eyes shining. His voice cuts through the noise like sunlight.

Bokuto when he’s happy is infectious. But Bokuto when he’s tipsy?

He’s dangerous.

He’s looser—his smile a little too bright, his hands a little too touchy. His arm drapes across the back of your chair like it belongs there, and every time you lean in to say something, his breath catches like it’s the first time he’s ever heard you speak.

By the time dessert plates hit the table, you can feel his gaze like a pulse.

“Hey,” he murmurs, leaning close enough that his voice hums against your ear, “you wanna get some air?”

You glance at him, heart jumping at the look in his eyes—mischief laced with something molten. “You okay?”

He grins. “Better now.”

You roll your eyes, but follow him out anyway. The air outside is cooler, quieter. The restaurant’s back patio is dimly lit and mostly empty. Music hums faintly through the glass.

He runs a hand through his silver-streaked hair, exhaling a laugh that’s just a little too nervous. “You look really, really pretty tonight.”

“Bokuto—”

“No, wait, lemme finish.” He steps closer, eyes locked on yours. “I’ve been trying so hard not to say anything ‘cause you’re—you know—you’re you, and I’m me, and we work together, and it’s messy and I didn’t wanna mess it up. But—”

He stops, chest rising fast, lips curling into a crooked smile.

“—I’m fucking obsessed with you.”

Your breath catches. “What?”

He laughs again, low this time, voice thick with something that feels like confession and surrender all at once. “You make me feel like electricity, like every time you walk into the room, the world gets louder. I can’t focus, I can’t think straight, and I don’t even wanna try anymore.”

“Bokuto, you’re drunk—”

“Maybe,” he admits, stepping into your space until his chest nearly brushes yours. “But drunk me’s just honest me without the brakes.”

He’s close enough now that you can see the faint gold flecks in his eyes, the way they dart to your lips before flicking back up. His hand finds your hip, fingers curling like he’s trying to hold onto something real.

You should stop this. You both know that. But when he murmurs, “Tell me you don’t feel this too,” your resolve cracks.

You don’t answer with words.

You grab his jacket, tug him down, and his mouth crashes into yours—warm, hungry, sweet. The world blurs out. Just the scrape of his stubble against your skin, the low sound he makes when you kiss him back.

When you break apart, both of you are breathless, laughing quietly like you’ve just done something terribly wonderful.

Inside, the team’s laughter is muffled behind the wall. You can still hear Atsumu yelling about dessert.

Bokuto brushes his thumb across your cheek, grin softening.

“Think anyone saw?”

You shake your head. “Not unless they have x-ray vision.”

He laughs, pressing a quick, lingering kiss to your forehead. “Good. ‘Cause I wanna keep this part just for me—at least for tonight.”

And under the amber glow of the patio lights, with the sound of distant laughter and the faint taste of whiskey between you, it feels like a promise neither of you are quite ready to let go of.

⸻

★ OIKAWA TOORU— “When the World Finally Goes Quiet”

The bar has long since blurred into noise.

His teammates are still there somewhere—laughter, clinking glasses, the faint thud of music through the floor—but Oikawa’s half-slouched in the corner booth, collar undone, eyes glassy from too many drinks and not enough victories.

It had been a bad game.

Every missed serve, every bad set still sits heavy in his stomach. He hates losing more than anything; it feels like failure and all the noise that comes after.

His phone is in his hand before he really thinks about it. Your name glows on the screen—saved with a little star next to it. He stares at it for a long time before hitting call.

You answer on the third ring, voice soft and surprised.

“Oikawa? Is everything alright? Are you okay?”

He exhales a laugh that sounds a little broken. “You always answer like that. So responsible.”

“…are you—you sound drunk.”

“Mm. Maybe just a little.” His voice wobbles between playful and tired. “The guys thought I needed cheering up. But now the room won’t stop spinning, and all I can think about is you.”

There’s a pause. “Oikawa…”

“I know, I know. You’re the team manager, and I’m supposed to keep things professional, but you’re the only one who ever really listens when I fall apart.” His words start tumbling, softer now, like he’s afraid they’ll dissolve if he stops. “You remember last week? You handed me water after practice and told me to breathe? I didn’t tell you, but you saved me a little that day.”

You can hear him smile faintly through the receiver.

“I shouldn’t say this. You’ll think I’m pathetic.”

“I don’t.”

He goes quiet for a moment. The sound of a car horn echoes in the distance, the low buzz of the bar behind him.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he finally says. It’s almost a whisper, almost lost in the static. “And I hate that I’m saying it like this—half drunk, probably slurring—but I am. I love how you look when you’re trying not to laugh at my jokes. I love that you never treat me like I’m some stupid celebrity. I love that you make me feel like I can still be someone good.”

You don’t speak. You can hear his shaky breath, the quiet clink of his glass being set down.

“I’ll regret this tomorrow,” he murmurs. “But tonight…it feels good to tell the truth.”

Your voice is soft. “Then sleep, Tōru. We can talk when the sun’s up.”

He chuckles, warm and low. “You called me by my name.”

You smile despite yourself. “Yeah. Go home, okay?”

“I will. But just so you know—when I win again, you’re the first person I’m taking to dinner.”

He hangs up before you can answer.

And when you put your phone down, there’s a lingering warmth in your chest—like his words are still echoing there, suspended between confession and promise.

⸻

★ IWAIZUMI HAJIME — “The Things I Can’t Keep Quiet”

The night should’ve been perfect.

The bar’s low-lit, the laughter steady, his friends are celebrating a hard-won victory, and he’s finally had time to breathe. The music’s good, the drinks are strong, and he’s even smiling—until he glances toward the door.

You walk in.

You’re dressed up—nicer than he’s used to seeing you at the training facility—and there’s a man beside you. His hand is hovering just a little too close to yours, and it makes Iwaizumi’s jaw tighten before he even realizes it.

He shouldn’t care. You’re a coworker, a friend. You handle the team’s athletic program, and he’s supposed to be focused on recovery schedules and game prep, not on how your laugh slides under his skin.

But then he hears the guy order for you, and something in him snaps.

He doesn’t even think. He’s on his feet, weaving through the crowd, the buzz of whiskey pushing him forward until he’s standing right at your table.

You blink up at him, startled. “Iwa? What are you—”

“Hey,” he cuts in, voice rougher than he means it to be. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

Your date frowns. “We were—”

“It’ll only take a minute.” There’s steel in his tone, the kind that doesn’t invite argument.

You shoot an apologetic glance to the guy before letting Iwaizumi lead you toward the back hallway, away from the noise. He stops under a flickering light, running a hand through his hair, trying to catch his breath.

You cross your arms. “You wanna tell me what that was about?”

He exhales, shoulders still tense. “Didn’t like the look of that guy.”

You stare. “You don’t even know him.”

“I don’t need to.” His eyes finally meet yours, dark and unsteady. “I just—couldn’t sit there and watch you with him.”

You take a step back, heart pounding. “You’re drunk.”

“Little bit,” he admits, mouth twisting into something like a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Makes it harder to shut up about the things I usually keep down.”

“Iwa—”

He steps closer. The hallway’s narrow; you can smell the faint spice of his cologne, the warmth of whiskey on his breath.

“I see you every damn day,” he says quietly. “And I tell myself it’s fine, that we’re coworkers, that I shouldn’t cross that line. But then I see you laughing with some guy who doesn’t even know you the way I do, and I—” His voice cracks; he huffs out a humorless laugh. “I just lose it.”

Your pulse skips. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” His hand lifts like he might touch your face, then stops halfway. “You drive me crazy. The way you care about the team, the way you yell at me to rest, the way you look when you’re trying not to smile— I’ve been holding it in for months.”

The words hang there between you, warm and raw and a little bit terrifying.

You swallow. “What if I was happy with him?”

He shakes his head. “Then I’d still have to tell you. At least once. Just so you’d know.”

For a second, neither of you move. The only sound is the faint hum of the bar beyond the wall.

Then, softly, you say, “You’re an idiot.”

He laughs under his breath, eyes flicking down to your lips. “Yeah. Yours, though?”

You don’t even answer. You just grab the front of his shirt and pull him down. His mouth finds yours—rough, desperate, honest. The kind of kiss that leaves no room for words. When you finally pull back, you’re both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.

“You’re gonna regret interrupting my date,” you murmur.

“Maybe,” he says, thumb brushing your cheek. “But I’m not gonna regret this.”

⸻

★ KUROO TETSURO — “Something I Shouldn’t Say Out Loud”

The party’s half-over when he finally finds you again.

It’s one of those post-match celebrations that’s somehow gotten bigger than anyone planned. The music’s loud, the lights are low, and Kuroo’s been everywhere—talking, laughing, clinking glasses. He’s magnetic in a suit: hair messier than usual, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie long gone.

You’ve been keeping yourself busy—networking, pretending not to notice the way his eyes keep finding you through the crowd

He corners you near the drink table.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he drawls, leaning against the counter beside you. His grin is crooked, his eyes warm with that familiar spark. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Avoiding you would mean you weren’t following me around, Kuroo.”

He pretends to be wounded. “Ah, ouch. You wound me.”

“You’re drunk,” you tease.

He tilts his head, smirking. “Tipsy. There’s a difference. I’m still charming, just… with fewer filters.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “That sounds dangerous.”

“It is,” he says softly, the playfulness fading a little. “Because then I end up saying things I’ve been trying not to.”

Something shifts in the air—lightness fading into quiet tension. The noise of the room seems to fade behind him.

He sets his drink down, eyes searching yours. “You know I joke around a lot, right?”

“That’s an understatement.”

“Yeah, but I mean it when I say you make it hard to focus. You walk into a room and I forget what I was talking about. You smile, and I—” he laughs under his breath, rubbing at the back of his neck, “I just lose the thread completely.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Kuroo…”

“I like you,” he says simply. “There. Said it.” His grin is small now, almost shy. “Been trying to keep it to myself because I didn’t want to make things weird. But maybe I’m a little too drunk to keep pretending I don’t think about you all the damn time.”

You can feel your heart stutter. “You’re serious?”

He shrugs, stepping closer until the heat of him wraps around you. “Dead serious.”

For a second, you can’t breathe. He’s watching you—really watching—like he’s memorizing every reaction.

“Say something,” he murmurs.

You manage a whisper. “You’re trouble.”

His grin widens, slow and knowing. “Maybe. You look like you don’t mind.”

He’s close enough now that his breath brushes your cheek. You should step back. You don’t.

When he finally kisses you, it’s careful at first—his hand sliding up your arm, his mouth moving against yours with the kind of restraint that feels like he’s been holding this in for too long. It deepens by degrees until you’re both smiling against each other, laughing into the kiss like you can’t quite believe it’s happening.

He pulls back, forehead resting against yours. “Told you it was dangerous.”

You laugh, breathless. “You’ll blame the drinks tomorrow.”

He shakes his head, that lazy grin returning. “Nah. I’ll thank them.”

⸻

★ OSAMU MIYA — “Spilling What I Keep to Myself”

The restaurant’s closed, but the lights over the counter are still on.

He’s sitting there with a half-empty glass of sake, sleeves rolled, apron still tied around his waist. You’ve stayed behind to help him lock up, laughing through the last of the night’s work, stacking chairs and wiping down tables.

It’s quiet now. The kind of quiet that hums.

He’s watching you as you count out the register. You can feel it—the weight of his gaze, steady and unhurried. When you look up, he doesn’t look away.

“What?” you ask, smiling.

He shakes his head, a small smile ghosting across his mouth. “Nothin’. Just thinkin’.”

“About?”

He hesitates, swirling the liquid in his glass. “How you make this place feel warmer. Even on nights like this.”

You laugh softly. “That’s the sake talking.”

“Maybe,” he admits, eyes dropping to his drink. “But maybe it’s just the truth I don’t usually say out loud.”

You set the cash drawer aside, leaning on the counter. “You’re full of those tonight, huh?”

He huffs out a laugh. “Guess I am.” He’s quiet for a beat, then glances up at you again. “You know, I see people come in and out every day. Different faces, same stories. But you—” He stops, searching for the right words. “You’re the one I look for. Every time the door opens.”

Your chest tightens. “Osamu…”

He shrugs, looking suddenly shy, the tips of his ears going pink. “Didn’t mean to make it weird. I just—had a bit too much, I guess. Makes me honest.”

You come around the counter, taking the stool next to him. The smell of rice and smoke lingers in the air, mixed with the faint sweetness of sake.

“You really mean that?” you ask quietly.

He turns his head toward you, eyes soft but steady. “Yeah. I mean it.”

You don’t know who moves first, only that he’s suddenly closer, his hand finding yours on the counter. His thumb traces the edge of your palm, slow and sure. “You’re trouble, y’know that?” he murmurs, voice low and rough.

You smile. “So I’ve heard.”

When he kisses you, it’s unhurried—just a warm press of lips that tastes faintly of sake and something steady underneath. He pulls back barely an inch, forehead against yours, smiling in that quiet, certain way of his.

“Guess I’m glad I said it out loud,” he whispers.

“Guess I am too.”

The lights hum overhead, the city soft outside the window. The world feels smaller, safer—just the two of you and the faint clink of empty glasses.

⸻

[thicchaikyuuboys]

HAPPY HALLOWEEN DIVA 🎃 👻 🔮 🕷️ 🕸️

How is everyone doing on this spooky night? How did you guys spend your Halloween and what were your costumes?! I would love to know omg!

New content is dropping soon, btw!

STAY SAFE, STAY SPOOKY, AND HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!