bokuto koutarou x f!reader
When you first met Bokuto, he was a teenager. Loud, awkward around girls, convinced he could win a fight against a bear if it came down to it. The kind that devoured bowls of rice bigger than his stomach and laughed like he was the only one in the room.
Still, you fell in love with him. It was in the way he was too honest with his emotions. In the way he treated strangers like friends and teammates like family. In the way he saw the world—great, kind, infinite.
You started dating in the final semester of your last year of high school. He asked you out on the festival day.
“I like your hair like that.” He declared out of the blue even though you were carrying heavy boxes. Your hair was up in a ponytail, and there was sweat dripping from your forehead. Your heart skipped a beat, and at this moment, you knew that if you turned him down, you would regret it for the rest of your life.
He left for Osaka a few months after, while you stayed in Tokyo. Long distance was never a problem, not when the person on the other end always made sure to finish his calls with sweet words and loud ‘I love yous’. Despite starting his professional career and becoming a promising player, Bokuto was the best boyfriend you could ask for.
Ten years have passed since then.
There have been highs and lows for sure, but nothing dramatic. You remember a few mismatched expectations, a handful of miscommunications, but that’s all. You moved in together two years ago and, for the most part, it had been easy. Soft. Full of delicious meals, long mornings in bed, shared clothes, and the certainty that this is what you want forever.
Simply perfect. Well—except for the past month.
You can’t say when or even how it started. Maybe it was your new job that drained you more than you expected. Or maybe it was Bokuto’s frustration after losing the world championship. Or maybe it was both.
Usually, you’d say you were each other’s anchors. Steady and always together. But lately, you’ve felt like you were tugging away, and at times you even wondered if you weren’t going in complete different directions.
You never imagined you'd really fight with Bokuto one day. Yes, he could be clumsy—mixing whites and colours in the laundry, deleting tax emails by mistake, showing up an hour late to medical appointments (even though you wrote it down on the fridge in bright letters!). But those things meant nothing compared to all the joy he gave you; those could even be endearing.
But what happened today wasn’t endearing.
You snapped for something you can’t even pinpoint now. He yelled back. You called him an asshole, and he slammed the front door on his way out.
You waited for him to come back only to find yourself alone for the last four or five hours. Tonight’s meal has turned cold, and you miss him now.
You’ve never gone this long without fixing things. The only times you didn’t hear from him for more than an hour were when he was having a game, or when he was on the plane. Never because you were mad at each other.
You don’t realise you’ve bitten your lips so much, your mouth tastes like metal. You’re slumped on the couch in his hoodie with a melting tub of ice cream on the coffee table. A thought goes through your mind, telling you how cliché and desperate you must look. It’s almost laughable. You’re even watching some k-drama about a girl chasing her childhood friend who doesn’t know she loves him.
“She should have told him,” you groan at the TV like an old lady getting angry at the news. “Before he left.”
You think you might cry at some point, for the fight or the silence or the fatigue that you have both been enduring. And you regret every word you said to him. Gosh, if only you could rewind the last hours. You never used to be so vulnerable, so raw with your feelings. You were the kind to keep everything locked tight, but Bokuto cracked you open over the years—gently, patiently. How are you supposed to feel better without him?
The door opens and it startles you.
You fumble for the remote to turn off the TV, but in the rush, you knock over your tub of ice cream. It drips down your jumper.
“Shit,” you whisper, pressing a hand to the stain.
“Oh—wait, I’ll…find something.” Bokuto’s voice sounds like he has been crying.
He kicks off his shoes and disappears into the kitchen. You hear the clatter of a drawer, the rush of the tap, then his hurried footsteps as he returns with a sponge.
He drops to his knees beside you. You catch a trail of waterdrops behind him, following the path he took. The sponge is the wrong one—this one is meant for scrubbing dishes, not cotton—but you don’t correct him. You just watch the way his hands tremble slightly, how his brows pull together in worry.
“It’s fine now Kou,” you tell him.
You pull the jumper over your head and toss it aside. He tries not to look at you, but fails. His cheeks turn red at your almost bare chest. You find it cute, the fact that, after nearly a decade, he still gets flustered like it’s your first summer together.
You’re not sure if you want to laugh or cry again.
So instead, you clear your throat, and he finally lifts his head to meet your eyes.
One of you has to talk first, yet you can’t seem to collect your thoughts to form a sentence, an apology. You feel stupid, so immature. How do people usually make up with each other? How do they regain one’s trust? And how are you supposed to show him how much he matters to you when you’ve let him down. All of a sudden, everything seems incredibly complex, too complicated—
“I like your hair like that,” he admits.
Your brain stops. The sentence is all it takes for your muscles to release. You move an inch towards him and fall into his arms; he steadies himself, and hugs you back—tight and warmly. His hand finds the back of your head, burying into your hair (messy, up in a quickly made ponytail).
“I’m sorry for calling you an asshole,” you whisper.
“And I’m sorry for leaving,” he says as he presses his lips to your temple. “I don’t ever want to leave like that again.”
“You better not,” you murmur with a pout.
Of course, making up with him is that simple. That evident. Like it’s always with him. How could you forget?
“What were you watching?” He asks after a few minutes.
You try to act as if you weren’t hooked on the series, as if you hadn’t been binge-watching the entire season. “Ahh… just some stupid k-drama.”
He reaches for the remote to turn it on again, “I’ll watch with you.”
“Wait, I’ll go warm up the food first.”
He smiles, and you kiss the corner of his lips. Just like that.
a/n: i went to ed sheeran concert and the song tenerife sea inspired me haha
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