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littlesoufflecafe · 1 month ago

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𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞 ⋆˙⟡

miya atsumu x f!reader

you go on a date with a guy in your major. meanwhile, atsumu finds himself increasingly upset about it.

part six of the in close quarters series, a friends-to-lovers college AU featuring you, atsumu, and the ten months you spend living together senior year.

"Y/N, have ya seen my knee pads?" Atsumu shouted thirty minutes before he was expected to be at volleyball practice.

"What?" you shouted back from across the apartment. Atsumu scrubbed his hair out in frustration.

"My knee pads!" he repeated, a little louder this time. "Have ya seen 'em?"

After an excruciatingly long second, you responded, "No, I haven't seen your note pad! What does it look like?"

"For god's sake," he murmured, storming across the apartment and barging through your open bedroom door. "I said — "

The words died on his lips when he caught sight of you.

You glanced up at him from your small desktop mirror, a tube of lipstick in one hand and a facial tissue in the other. You were dressed in a burgundy baby doll dress with ruffled sleeves, and your hair fell around your shoulders in gentle waves.

"Sorry, what did you say?" you asked innocently, clicking the tube shut and turning to face him. Upon seeing his frazzled expression, you asked, "What? Do I have lipstick on my teeth?"

Atsumu blinked once. Twice. It was as if the tiny person at the control panel in his brain had died.

"M-My knee pads. I can't find 'em anywhere," he managed after a while. Then, because he was flustered and incredibly stupid, "Ya goin' to church or somethin'?"

"On a Tuesday?" you retorted, fixing your lipstick in the mirror. "No, but I am going to dinner with this guy from my world lit class."

"I'm sorry — what?"

"I thought I told you."

"Uh, no ya didn't."

"I definitely did," you argued, plunking your lipstick into the nicest purse you owned. "We were sitting on the couch yesterday watching The Bachelor — "

"Well, see, that was yer first mistake. Ya know I lock in on Bachelor Mondays." He perched his hands on his hips. "What's this guy's name?"

"Jun."

"Like the month?"

"Phonetically speaking, yes," you said amusedly. "We got into this heated debate about The Paper Menagerie and its take on familial relationships, and he pulled me aside after class and asked if I'd like to do it again sometime."

"So he asked ya out?"

You nodded. "We're going to grab drunken noodles and ice cream, which will probably fuck up my digestive system for the next two days, but I don't care."

Atsumu didn't know what bothered him more — the fact that you got all dolled up for this guy, or the fact that he had no fucking clue what The Paper Menagerie was.

Either way, he shouldn't have been so surprised. You were pretty. Smart. Way too smart. Someone was bound to notice.

He just didn't know you'd be equally as interested.

"Besides, now that you're back at volleyball practice twice a week, I no longer have anyone to hang out with," you pointed out. "How are you feeling about your first day back?"

He shrugged noncommittally. "Fine. I'ma treat it like any other day. Go to practice, run my drills. Grab my green smoothie from Sip Happens."

"Love Sip Happens," you reassured him. A soft smile blossomed across your features. "I'm really proud of you, by the way."

He scoffed. "Why?"

"Because," you said, as if it should have been obvious. "Because you went through the shittiest break-up imaginable. So much so that you had to take a volleyball sabbatical and hang out with me for a whole month. But you dealt with it."

"Right," Atsumu breathed, shaking his head. That's what he should have been bothered by. His break-up with Akemi. His back-stabbing best friend. His month-long hiatus from the sport he loved.

Though, if he were being completely honest, he was getting better at recognizing the past for what it was. In fact, the more time he spent here with you — watching The Bachelor, eating dinner together, distracting you while you wrote — the less he ached for the life he once had. The more prepared he felt to step back on the court and prove himself worthy of being there.

He wouldn't admit that to you, though. Instead, he opted for the safer truth.

"I couldn't have done it without ya."

You frowned at the sudden sincerity in his voice, the emotion it stirred within you.

"Alright, get outta here," Atsumu said, jerking his chin towards your bedroom door. "Go talk about paper menageries or foreign films or whatever the hell y'all English majors like to yap about." Without thinking, he added, "But if he tries anything, I will break his face."

"Oh, I'm sure you will," you chuckled, slinging your purse over a shoulder and following him out. "By the way, you knee pads are in your gym bag already. I found them in the laundry room."

"Thanks, Y/N. Yer a lifesaver."

"I know," you said sweetly before closing the front door.

Sure enough, when Atsumu unzipped his gym bag, his knee pads were there, tucked safely inside. And beside them? A pack of blue raspberry sour straws. His favorite.

He peeled off the yellow sticky note you'd left on the packaging.

Good luck on your first day back! ♡

Sucking in a sharp breath, Atsumu tilted his head towards the ceiling, massaged the inner corners of his eyes, and tried not to tear up.

It had been a long time since you'd gone on a date.

It was strange — being wanted like that. Putting so much effort into your appearance for someone you barely knew. In fact, as you'd pulled the dress from the back of your closet and applied a little more makeup than usual, you couldn't distinguish the feeling in your stomach as butterflies or plain, old-fashioned anxiety.

Not to mention the look on Atsumu's face when he'd seen you — it was as if you'd grown a second head. Did he find your dress too frilly? Your blush too over-the-top? Did he think you completely pathetic for trying so hard?

"Earth to Y/N," Jun droned, waving his chopsticks in an attempt to get your attention.

"Yes!" you piped up, the clamoring sounds of the Thai restaurant flooding back into your senses. Across the table, Jun looked at you expectantly.

"Sorry," you apologized, dabbing the corners of your mouth with a napkin. "What did you ask me again?"

Your date sat back in his chair and took a swig of his sake. "I asked you what you've been writing recently."

"Right," you nodded. "Well, I just started outlining my creative writing honors thesis, and I think I'm going with my tell-tale genre."

"Which is?"

You poked your half-eaten drunken noodles with your chopsticks and debated your response.

"...smutty romantic comedy?"

"Wow," Jun chuckled into his ochoko cup. "I did not take you for a smutty romantic comedy kind of girl."

You shot him a bemused smile. "What does that mean?"

"Well, based off our heated discussion in Professor Connelly's class, I pegged you as someone with more sophisticated taste."

Ouch. You folded your arms across your chest. "Just because I write about sex and relationships doesn't mean I have unsophisticated taste."

"Of course not," he followed-up quickly. "But, come on. You aren't exactly winning a Pulitzer Prize with a genre like that."

"Well, maybe I don't want to," you clipped, your voice sharper than usual. Had he always been this condescending? This rude? You folded your hands in your lap and asked, "Why, what have you been writing recently?"

Jun put his chopsticks down and began gesturing in the air like a tenured professor. "Think Ernest Hemingway meets Flannery O'Connor..."

For the next fifteen minutes, Jun droned on about his 'disruptive' novel idea — something about an unbathed farm child, a long, winding road, and several metaphors about the journey within.

Meanwhile, you wondered what it would be like if Atsumu were here instead. The jokes he'd make, the questions he'd ask. If Atsumu were here, he'd press you for details about your thesis outline. Tease you for being a closeted freak before taking your story ideas seriously.

He wouldn't insult you. Or undermine you.

He would accept you. Just as you were.

You pictured him. Sitting across from you with his bleach blonde hair and lopsided grin and dimples you wished you could pinch off his cheeks. Asking for the check with an easy lift of his hand. Using that same hand to reach for your knee underneath the table —

"Ready for dessert?" your waiter asked. You nearly jumped out of your seat.

"Just the check. Thanks," Jun replied, plopping his napkin atop his empty plate. Once the waiter was out of earshot, he asked, "You still down for ice cream?"

You pursed your lips to one side before saying, "Actually, I think I'm going to call it."

"What? What happened?" he drawled, reaching underneath the table for your knee. You writhed away from his touch.

"Dunno," you shrugged, eyes empty. Tone flat. "I guess I just don't have very good taste."

You paid for your half of the meal and left.

"You were on fire today, man," Aran told Atsumu after practice, clapping him on the back in the men's locker room. "Welcome back. We missed you."

"Yeah, you nearly took my arms off," Sakusa muttered under his breath, massaging his forearms with soapy water in the sink.

"Yeah, sorry about that," Atsumu said sheepishly, wiping his face with a worn towel. "It's good to be back, though. I missed y'all."

Atsumu had definitely played better today than all of his previous off-season practices, but he couldn't say he was 100% focused, either. The entire time, he couldn't stop thinking about you and your stupid date. Were you having a good time? Had you exchanged Goodreads accounts? Were Jun's jokes funnier, more intellectual than his?

Turns out spiking the volleyball like it was English major's face made for some pretty incredible service aces.

"That from your girlfriend?" Sakusa asked, jutting his chin towards the sticky note you'd written for Atsumu earlier that day. He'd since stuck it on the inside of his locker door.

"Nah. She's just a friend," Atsumu told him, slamming the locker door shut and slinging his gym bag over a shoulder. At Sakusa's raised eyebrow, he said, "She is! She's literally on a date right now."

As they exited the men's locker room and pushed through the double doors of the student athletics center, Atsumu stopped in his tracks. Because there, across the courtyard, you sat. Phone in one hand. A green smoothie in the other. Sitting all pretty in that burgundy dress that made Atsumu want to disintegrate.

"Sure she is," Sakusa drawled, yanking his mask over his nose and mouth before stalking off in the other direction.

"Y/N, what are ya doin' here?" Atsumu asked as he approached you.

"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm picking you up," you said matter-of-factly. You handed him his green smoothie from Sip Happens for good measure.

"I thought ya had yer date with English major. What happened to drunken noodles? Ice cream? Two days of uncontrollable IBS?"

"Yeah, well, turns out English majors aren't really my type," you admitted. Upon seeing Atsumu's perplexed expression, you added, "The guy was an asshole."

"Oh," he said, shoulders sagging. "I'm sorry."

You rolled your eyes. "No, you're not."

"I'm not," he confessed almost immediately. You barked out a laugh. "I'm sorry! But ice cream after spicy food? On a first date?"

"You're right. He's a psychopath."

"A complete psychopath," he agreed. "Ya deserve someone better. Someone who understands yer digestive issues. Someone who — "

He stopped abruptly, unsure of how to finish that sentence.

You peered up at him expectantly. "Someone who...?"

"Someone who really knows you," he finished after a moment. His throat bobbed. "And who can put up with all yer freaky obsessions."

"Ugh," you groaned. "I am never telling a man I write smut on the first date ever again."

Atsumu's lips tugged into a soft smile. "Thanks for the smoothie."

"No problem," you replied, stretching your arms out towards the orange sky. "Wanna join me for second dinner? I'm starving."

"Why?" Atsumu asked. "Ya didn't eat on yer date?"

"Barely. I have leftovers in the fridge, but I need something that doesn't remind me of Jun's pretentious face."

Atsumu snorted, already heading in the direction of your go-to diner spot. "Weird way to ask me out, but alright."

"Yeah, right," you scoffed, right on his heels. "You wish."

He knew you were only joking, but his heart twinged anyways.

Because, deep down, he knew you were right.

@miyasmagnolias, 2025

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littlesoufflecafe · 3 years ago

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𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ✧

miya osamu x f!reader

long-time friend and soon-to-be restaurant owner miya osamu asks you to be the event planner for the single-most important evening of his career. no pressure.

"No," you repeated into the phone, swiveling on your heel to check the binder you'd left open on the bar top. "I specifically remember ordering an 8 x 10 vinyl backdrop for photographs, and the one that just arrived is an 8 x 5. I am not paying fourteen-thousand yen for — well, I don't care what the delivery man said, it's smaller than the shower curtains at a public swimming pool!"

"Y/N," Osamu said. He had to mash his lips together to keep from laughing. "Maybe we should just keep it —"

Your glare was enough to silence him. "Look. A lot of big, high-profile volleyball athletes are coming to this event. Athletes who — God forbid — will completely obscure your puny backdrop with their giant muscles and gargantuan personalities. Is that really the kind of impression you want future clients to have when those photos hit the web?"

Osamu slid a plate of onigiri your way as soon as you got off the phone and slumped into your bar stool, having wormed the vendor into sending you a replacement backdrop for half the original price.

"When I asked ya to be my event planner, Y/N, I didn't ask ya to rip the heads off of every man that crosses our path."

"Please," you scoffed, pulling the plate towards you. "Like you didn't rip your brother's head off until he promoted your grand opening on social media."

"'Tsumu's different. Takes 'im a solid kick to the head to remember anything you ask 'im to do. Just ask his publicist."

You gave the young business owner an exasperated smile and sank your teeth into the fresh rice ball, the savory taste of tuna mayo and pickled plum dissolving the hours of phone calls you'd had to endure. You'd dedicated nearly all of your free time to helping Osamu plan for the grand opening of his first restaurant — your most recent internship at an event planning agency equipping you with the necessary skills to bring your long-time friend's vision into a reality.

"Are you sure you want me to do it?" you'd said when he asked you over lunch three months ago. "It's not like I'm a seasoned event planner or anything. I mean, I'm barely even an intern..."

"Ya say that like ya didn't graduate at the top of yer hospitality program this year," Osamu had said, his expression a portrait of dubiety and admiration. "You'll do just fine."

"But this is your brain child we're talking about, 'Samu. You can't just hand over the grand opening of Onigiri Miya to a complete noob."

"I'm not hiring a noob — I'm hiring you. The woman who single-handedly alphabetized my spice cabinet when she was supposed to be studyin' for finals."

"That's hardly a relevant qualification," you'd muttered under your breath. Osamu's steady gaze settled atop your frazzled expression, and you had no other choice but to meet his eye.

"Believe me, Y/N, yer one of the most qualified people I've ever met in my life. My lil' business won't hold a candle to the lavish clients you'll be workin' for this time next year."

Except Onigiri Miya did hold a candle to all those high-end clients you'd always dreamed of working with — and it pained you that Osamu couldn't see that. As self-assured as your beloved friend was, he always downplayed his aspirations of opening his own restaurant, always shrugged off his four-year business degree as a mere side-effect of growing up than a product of his hard work.

"It's not like I'm my twin brother or anything — playin' for the big leagues and gettin' brand deals from Nike," he'd chuckle, eyes wandering over to the MSBY matches you'd watch during your study sessions with the volume on low. That blasé, almost dismissive tone of voice he'd use made you want to wring his neck sometimes.

Perhaps that's why you eventually agreed to planning this event: to show Osamu just how accomplished and deserving he really was. To show him that sure, he wasn't some revered, hot-shot athlete with fifty Twitter accounts dedicated to his abs, but that he didn't have to be. You wanted the grand opening of Onigiri Miya to reflect the hard work and caliber of its owner — even if it took you hours of phone calls, marketing ploys, and budget spreadsheets to do so.

The day of the grand opening, you and the waitressing staff at Onigiri Miya transformed the humble one-story restaurant into a thriving yet comfortable party space — complete with karaoke, a specialized drink menu, and a (correctly-sized) backdrop for customers to snap content for social media. Osamu pushed out of the kitchen an hour before opening and stopped short when he saw the finished product, the paper lanterns you'd strung across the rafters bringing warmth into his wide smile.

"So?" you asked breathlessly, tucking back the strands of hair that had fallen out of your low bun. You gestured towards the place and beamed. "What do you think?"

"I think..." Osamu started. His eyes scanned the set-up in awe as he pulled you in with one arm and pressed his lips to your temple in gratitude. "That I'm nowhere near as deservin' of yer talent, Y/N."

"Oh, hush." You curled into his side. He smelled like pickled veggies and spicy mayonnaise and a hint of aftershave. "You're just as deserving of my talent as you are the tens of thousands of customers that are coming tonight."

"Ya really think people are gonna show up?"

You craned your neck to meet his gaze — that cautious, wary expression in his eyes. "I know people are going to show up. Atsumu and your mother included."

And boy, did it feel good to be proven right. Within the first five minutes of opening, the sizable crowd that had gathered outside the establishment had settled into every table, booth, and bar stool in the place, waiters and waitresses greeting them enthusiastically before taking their orders. Within the next hour, the line to enter the place had wrapped around the block. Not to mention the pro-volleyball team that made all heads turn as they entered.

"Y/N, this ring light is makin' me look like a model in heat!" Miya Atsumu exclaimed as he posed for several pictures in front of the backdrop.

"I want to look like a model in heat!" shouted his teammate, Bokuto Kōtarō, before he crashed into the frame with a drink in his hands and a grin on his face. Another MSBY Black Jackal — Hinata Shoyo — joined in not a moment later.

"Remember to tag Onigiri Miya in all your social posts, boys!" you reminded them, to which they all saluted you dutifully.

From across the busy restaurant, Osamu merely smiled and shook his head. He couldn't believe how much you'd dedicated yourself to this event, even if it was just a favor for a friend. You wouldn't even accept a paycheck from him, and yet here you were, pouring a hundred-and-ten percent of yourself into something that meant more to him than he let on.

He'd always been afraid of leaning into his full passion for Onigiri Miya — because if this entire business venture turned into one colossal failure, perhaps he could soften the blow by telling himself that it wasn't a big deal to begin with. That none of his work would be as mainstream or important as that of the athletes currently sing-shouting karaoke lyrics into his expensive speaker system. That he was always meant to be a complementary shadow in the grand scheme of the Miya legacy. He was content with that. He was.

That is, until he saw you dedicate an entire binder to his grand opening. Until he saw you haggling with the backdrop company for ten minutes until they gave you exactly what you wanted. Until he saw you now, chatting with some customers and nodding along with whatever they were saying. From the look on your face, he assumed it was positive.

Maybe leaning in wasn't as scary anymore knowing that at least one person had full confidence in him. The fact that it was you made it even better.

After several hours of satisfied customers, high praises, and tipsy karaoke performances, Osamu finally closed up shop and sent his staff home for the night, thanking them each for their hard work before letting the back door swing closed behind him. Tossing his soiled apron into an empty crate and grabbing the bottle of champagne he'd stashed inside his backpack, he exited the kitchen only to find you sweeping the floors with a dustpan and broom.

"If you don't quit workin'," he warned. "I'mma tell yer boss you've been working another job behind 'er back."

Your broom takes pause, the crumbs and dust settling before you say, "You wouldn't."

"Try me," Osamu countered, twisting the cork off the bottle and pouring two glasses. "I'mma go on an' on about this event ya pulled off tonight, and how ya didn't sit still for nearly five hours straight."

"Well, to be fair, neither did you," you argued, sliding into a stool and accepting your glass of champagne from him. You shared a quick toast across the bar before sipping your celebratory drinks in silence — a stark contrast to the orchestra of laughter, music, and conversation that existed in the space just an hour before.

"I'm so proud of you. You know that, right?" you asked quietly after a moment, your cheeks dusted pink after downing your glass a little too quickly. Osamu merely waved a dismissive hand, through a faint blush crept up his neck as he did so.

"Ah, it was nothin'. You were the real architect of the whole event, and all those people wouldn't have shown up if it weren't for MSBY —"

"Oh, would you just shut up and give yourself credit for once?" you said, the pained expression on your face taking your friend by surprise. "None of those people would have stayed if it weren't for the food you prepared — hell, none of us would even be here if you hadn't busted your ass to open this business in the first place! I am so sick and tired of you being the last person on Earth to recognize just how hard working and valuable and deserving you are, 'Samu. Everyone else sees it! Why can't you — ?"

You're cut off as Osamu reaches across the bar to kiss you, his lips gentle as they press against yours in a quiet yet clear act of surrender. You're taken aback as his calloused hand finds its place just at the base of your neck, his thumb caressing your cheek as you close your eyes and deepen the kiss. It's soft and slow and over before you know it, your breath mingling with his as he draws back and rests his forehead against yours.

"...thank ya," he murmurs, the scent of champagne drifting lazily from his breath. You try to steady your breathing as you try to comprehend what just happened, but his hand is still there. It seems to be the only thing you're thinking about as you stupidly ask:

"For what?"

A set of dimples deepens on either side of his lips. "For helping me see it."

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