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yukkiji · 19 hours ago

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taste like home

osamu miya never expected love to find him behind the counter of onigiri miya—until a girl from miyagi handed him her number during a volleyball match. what began with long-distance visits and late-night messages turned into quiet mornings, shared meals, and a life built side by side. now living nearby, he dreams of always cooking for her, and her always tasting—because some love stories are simple, steady, and meant to last.

haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. miya osamu x fem!reader ft. oikawa tooru

genre: fluff, romance, timeskip!osamu, chef bf and taster gf

wc: 4.1k

author's note: i always imagined osamu having a s/o where he would always cook for them and would let them taste his newest creations in onigiri miya

the warmth of onigiri miya always made it hard for you to leave.

technically, it had become your second home ever since you started dating osamu miya—the former volleyball star turned onigiri restaurateur with a sharp mind for flavors and an even sharper way of knowing exactly how to hold you when the day had worn you thin.

here you were, sitting down on your usual stool behind the counter, right in that little space between the rice cooker and the stack of handwritten menus—close enough to watch him work, but far enough not to get in the way of the lunch rush he’d just wrapped up. the clatter had died down. the stools were empty now, save for yours, and soft music hummed low from the speaker he swore he never remembered turning on.

osamu was wiping down the cutting board, towel slung over his shoulder like always, apron dusted with grains of rice and streaks of miso. he didn’t say anything at first—just gave you that look. the one that said you’re here without needing to put it into words.

“you’re late,” he muttered, but his voice was gentle, teasing more than scolding.

you shrugged, chin resting in your hand as your eyes followed him behind the counter. “work held me. new team’s still getting the hang of things. i swear i answered the same email five times today.”

osamu didn’t answer right away—just huffed under his breath, the way he always did when you sounded too tired for your own good. then, without a word, he grabbed a small ceramic plate from the drying rack and walked over to where a fresh tray of onigiri rested, cooling slightly on the sideboard.

he picked up three—each wrapped slightly differently, seaweed folded with intention, each one marked with a tiny dot of colored seasoning on top like a secret code.

when he returned, he set the plate down in front of you like it was a course at a five-star restaurant, not something whipped up in a quiet corner shop in hyogo. “try these.”

you blinked. “all three?”

“all three,” he said, bracing both hands on the counter and leaning in slightly. “need you honest, though. not just the ‘you love me so it’s good’ answer.”

you smirked. “i always give honest feedback.”

“lies. you once said my umeboshi one was ‘an acquired taste’—that’s code for ‘i’m sufferin’ but i love you anyway.’”

you laughed, picking up the first one, identifiable by a dusting of furikake on top. “alright then, chef miya. let’s see what you’ve been up to.”

the first bite was comfort—a smooth blend of miso butter and sweet corn, surprisingly mellow. creamy, rich, but not heavy. you chewed thoughtfully, nodding.

“this tastes like… if autumn had a kitchen.”

osamu’s lips twitched. “miso corn butter. you like it?”

“like it enough to fight someone for the last one.”

he chuckled, clearly pleased, and gestured for you to try the second.

this one had a sliver of thin lemon peel tucked beneath the nori. the first bite hit sharp—pickled daikon and a touch of yuzu kosho, with a hint of grilled mackerel. bold. salty. clean.

you blinked. “okay. this one punches me in the face, but in a respectful way.”

“that’s the idea,” he said, clearly trying not to grin.

“name it something dramatic,” you said through another bite. “like… ‘breakup cleanse.’ or ‘kiss me after this and you’ll regret it.’”

he barked a laugh. “i’m not writin’ that on the chalkboard.”

“you’re no fun,” you teased.

finally, you reached for the third. it was smaller than the others, rolled slightly rounder, with no seaweed wrapping—just a glossy brush of soy on the rice. one bite in, and you paused.

then blinked.

then slowly looked up at him.

osamu raised an eyebrow. “too much?”

“it’s… sweet,” you said, brows furrowing. “but… smoky? and is that—?”

“caramelized onion,” he said. “mixed with katsuobushi. finished with black sugar glaze.”

you stared at him. “who hurt you?”

he shrugged. “felt like tryin’ somethin’ weird.”

you shook your head, still chewing. “weird. but addictive. i hate how good this is.”

he looked insufferably smug now, arms crossed over his chest. “so?”

you leaned back on the stool, tapping your lip. “the first is the safe choice. the second is for people who think wasabi’s too mainstream. the third…” you looked him straight in the eye, “is gonna start fights.”

“which one’s your favorite?”

you didn’t hesitate. “the third. but you already knew i’d say that.”

he nodded once, satisfied, then leaned over the counter until your knees bumped.

“you work too hard,” he said quietly, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “let me take care of the rest of the night.”

“you mean feeding me until i can't move?”

he smirked. “exactly that.”

and just like that, the weight from your shoulders melted. you weren’t sure if it was the food, or his voice, or just the fact that he always knew how to meet you where you were—without asking for anything in return.

so you stayed. behind the counter, on your usual stool. picking apart rice grains with your fingers and feeding him bites in between cleaning up the shop. it was quiet. simple.

the kind of simple that only comes after everything else—after distance and longing and workdays spent apart. after months of phone calls, rushed trains, and bags packed in half an hour. after the ache of trying to make something real when miles stood in between.

funny how everything always circled back to that day.

your eyes drifted toward the storefront window, the hyogo dusk painting gold onto the floor, and your mind pulled back—to a year ago, in a city that used to feel like home.

sendai. kamei arena. the adlers vs. the jackals.

the stadium had been buzzing, a sea of noise and jersey colors, and you’d been there more out of obligation than genuine interest—invited by coworkers, not wanting to be the odd one out. the game itself had been intense, sure, but halfway through the second set, all you could think about was food. your stomach had growled loud enough to make the girl beside you glance over. you needed something, anything, to get you through the last two sets.

so during the break, you wandered out to the concession area—fully expecting overpriced hot dogs or soggy fries. but instead, tucked at the end of the row of pop-up food stalls, was a modest setup with a hand-painted banner that read:

onigiri miya – hyogo's own.

he wasn’t shouting like the others. no flashy signs, no mascot. just a man in a black t-shirt, a matching black cap tugged low over silver-streaked hair, and a crisp white apron wrapped around his waist, tied off like he barely noticed it anymore.

he stood there calmly, molding onigiri with practiced ease, his movements smooth and steady as the world around him bustled and clamored for attention. most of the ones on display were already gone—just a few scattered triangles left in the front case, their labels curling slightly at the corners, proof that word-of-mouth had clearly done its job before you even arrived.

but osamu didn’t rush.

he didn’t bark out specials or wave signs in people’s faces. he worked like a man who knew his food spoke louder than anything he could say. each rice ball was pressed with deliberate care, fingers moving like it was second nature—like he was doing something sacred, not just feeding a crowd.

even from a few feet away, you could see the focus etched into his features, the faint line between his brows, the way his mouth quirked thoughtfully whenever he tasted something off the back of a spoon. every so often, someone would try to ask for a substitution or an extra helping of filling, and he’d just glance up with those steady grey eyes and say, “trust me.”

and they did.

so did you. without realizing it, you’d stepped into the line, drawn in by more than the smell of grilled soy or the crackle of seaweed. it was something in the quiet confidence of him—how still he was in a place full of noise.

by the time it was your turn, he barely looked up, just asked, “what’ll it be?” while reaching for another sheet of nori.

you hesitated for a split second, just long enough for him to glance at you.

that was the moment everything tilted.

because when his eyes met yours—fleeting, unbothered, but sharp—you felt something catch in your chest.

there was no dramatic spark, no sweeping music in the background—just a quiet shift, like gravity adjusting without warning. he looked at you like he didn’t need to look long to know what kind of person you were. and maybe that was exactly what made your pulse stutter.

“grilled salmon,” you said suddenly, abandoning your original choice.

osamu blinked once. nodded.

“comin’ right up.”

he didn’t question the change, didn’t tease or smirk like most guys might’ve. he just reached for the next ball of rice, hands steady, eyes flicking down like he already knew exactly how you’d like it—lightly salted, crisped just a little on the outside, no extra sauce.

as he molded the rice, a small line formed between his brows—focused but relaxed. the cap shadowed part of his face, but you could still see the way his mouth moved slightly as he worked, murmuring something under his breath. a habit, maybe. you wondered if he talked to the food when no one was listening.

a minute later, he wrapped the finished onigiri in wax paper and slid it across the counter toward you. warm. perfectly shaped. his fingers brushed yours again—another second, another static jolt under your skin.

“first time tryin’ us?” he asked, voice casual.

you nodded. “didn’t plan on eating. but i smelled yours all the way from the stairs.”

that earned the faintest quirk of his lips.

“hope it lives up to the hype.”

you smiled, already taking the first bite. “if it doesn’t, i’m tracking you down after the game.”

he tilted his head. “bit dramatic, ain’t ya?”

“you’ll see.”

and you meant it.

you tore a napkin from the dispenser at the end of the stall, tugged a pen from your bag, and scribbled your number down without hesitation. the numbers bled slightly into the paper, your handwriting a little rushed but still clear.

you slid it across the counter toward him with the same ease you might’ve handed over spare change.

“if it does live up to the hype,” you said, meeting his gaze, “text me anyway.”

osamu looked at the napkin, then at you. there was a brief pause—measured, unreadable—but the corner of his mouth ticked up, slow and knowing, like he was already one step ahead.

“a bold move,” he said, eyes steady beneath the brim of his cap.

you shrugged, lips curving. “well, i can’t let this opportunity slide.”

he huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, the kind that said he was more amused than he’d let on. like he hadn’t expected that answer—but he liked it anyway.

“you always give your number to guys makin’ rice balls in crowded arenas?” he asked, one brow raised.

“only the ones who look like they know what they’re doing,” you said, tapping your half-eaten onigiri for emphasis. “and wear their aprons like they were born in one.”

his smirk twitched into something dangerously close to a smile. “careful. flattery might get you extra fillings next time.”

you leaned in a little, voice light but certain. “good. then i’ll see you next time.”

and with that, you gave him one last look—just long enough to linger—before walking away, warm rice still in hand, grin still tucked against your mouth.

behind you, osamu watched.

napkin folded in his apron. number already memorized.

a text came right after the game ended.

nothing fancy. no overthinking.

“still think it’s worth trackin’ me down?”

you were halfway through unlocking your front door when your phone buzzed, and the second you saw the unfamiliar number, you knew. no one else could’ve timed it that perfectly. no one else could’ve said just that.

you didn’t hesitate. you leaned against the frame, keys still in hand, thumbs moving on instinct.

“definitely.”

that was it.

no games. no waiting three days. just two people—separated by miles but tethered now by rice, timing, and something that felt like a beginning.

from there, it became a rhythm.

a photo of his new flavor, sent at 2 a.m. a blurry shot of your train window, captioned “hyogo-bound.”

a voice message from him, thick with sleep and kansai accent, muttering, “train again? ya sure i’m worth all this rice?”

and your reply: “you’re worth more than salmon and seaweed, samu.”

during free weekends, you always tried to hop on a train bound for hyogo—sometimes after work, sometimes at sunrise. more or less than 24 hours with him, depending on schedules, delays, how long you could get away with calling it “remote work.” even if it meant sleeping in the corner of his cozy little shop, wrapped in a borrowed blanket while he wiped down counters behind you, the hum of the fridge lulling you to sleep.

you never asked for much. just time. just him.

and he always made room for you in that space between his morning prep and late-night cleanup. sometimes you’d arrive and find a new flavor waiting—your name scribbled next to it on a sticky note taped to the glass display. sometimes he’d greet you with a nod and a cup of warm tea, tugging off his gloves before leaning across the counter and kissing your temple like it was nothing. like it was routine.

other times, you’d stay past closing—bare feet tucked beneath you on your usual stool, helping him fold napkins while he tested new fillings. you’d sneak him bites and steal some for yourself, laughing when he smacked your hand away with a lazy, “oi, that one ain’t even cooked yet.”

but he never minded. not really.

those visits were short, sweet, and stitched together with quiet moments that made it all worth it.

and when the weekend ended, and the train home came too soon, he'd walk you to the station if he could—hood up, hands deep in his coat pockets, eyes a little too soft under the streetlights.

“text me when ya get there,” he’d say, every single time.

“i always do.”

sometimes, there were weeks when the world got too loud. work piled up. meetings ran long. schedules clashed. the shinkansen felt too far, too much—for just a few hours with him.

you’d text him with a heavy heart, thumbs dragging over the words: “can’t make it this weekend. i’m sorry.”

he’d reply with a simple: “don’t worry. rest. i got ya.”

and sometimes, that was it. you’d assume he meant it literally—that he understood, that he’d wait. that he’d keep his side of the rhythm until you could pick it back up again.

but then you’d hear a knock on your apartment door late that night. or early the next morning. and there he was—osamu, standing just outside your door like it was the most natural thing in the world. hoodie pulled over his head, travel-wrinkled duffle slung over his shoulder. one hand in his pocket, the other holding up a neatly packed bento box wrapped in a cloth with little rice ball prints.

no words at first. just that small, knowing look of his. like he’d felt your exhaustion through the phone and didn’t want you eating convenience store food alone again.

“i brought yer favorites,” he’d say, nudging the box into your hands.

the first time he did it, you’d laughed and asked, “samu, did you seriously get on a train at six in the morning just to feed me?”

he’d just stepped past you, slipping off his shoes and tossing his bag by the door.

“nah. five-forty.”

the food was always warm when he arrived—miso-marinated fish, pickled veggies, rolled omelets the way you liked them, and of course, one perfect onigiri shaped the way only he made them.

you’d eat curled up beside him on the floor or on your small couch, sharing bites and leaning into his shoulder when your eyes got too heavy to stay open.

he never asked for anything in return. never acted like it was some grand gesture.

to him, it was simple.

if you couldn’t come to him—he’d come to you.

every time.

of course, there were moments—quiet, aching ones—when doubt crept in. long train rides. missed calls. holidays spent apart. you’d lie awake sometimes, wondering if it was sustainable, if something this good could really stretch across prefectures without tearing.

but osamu had a way of grounding you. of making the distance feel like a small detail instead of a mountain.

he never said too much—didn’t believe in grand speeches—but he showed up. always. with warm hands, a quiet laugh, and food packed with care like it was his love language (because it was).

even on your birthday.

you told him not to come. it was already late, the weather was awful, and you didn’t want him exhausting himself just for the sake of showing up. he said he’d stay put. you believed him.

until there was a knock on your door at 11:47 p.m.

you opened it, heart already racing, and there he was—drenched from the rain, holding a tiny cake box and a towel slung over his shoulder like he knew you'd scold him first. his voice was hoarse from the cold air, but his smirk was clear.

“told ya i’d stay put,” he said. “didn’t say where.”

that night, sitting cross-legged on your rug while sharing a too-sweet cake with plastic forks, the conversation slipped in like breath.

“samu,” you’d murmured, your voice half-laughing, half-tired, “what do you think… are we?”

he didn’t even blink.

“we’re literally dating at this point. probably married.”

you’d choked on the frosting, smacked his shoulder, but couldn’t stop smiling.

and just like that, it was official.

no fanfare. no fireworks. just a quiet agreement between hearts that had already been choosing each other for months.

but then—like fate finally decided to take your side—your company announced its expansion plans. to hyogo.

they said they needed someone capable, someone familiar with the region, someone who wouldn’t mind relocating.

it wasn’t even a decision. it was alignment.

and when you told osamu, he didn’t say much at first. just stared at you from across the counter in onigiri miya, like the rice might spill if he didn’t hold the emotion still.

then he walked around, wiped his hands on his apron, and pulled you into a hug that smelled like shiso and sea salt.

a few days later, osamu suggested—casually, like he was talking about the weather—that the two of you should just live together.

“you’re here now. would be easier if ya just moved in,” he said, setting down a tray of tamagoyaki like he hadn’t just dropped a life-altering sentence.

you’d blinked at him from your stool, halfway through sorting your spice rack.

“i just unpacked my boxes,” you replied with a dry laugh. “let me enjoy paying rent first.”

he snorted, unfazed. “don’t see the point in ya going home when yer already home.”

you smiled at that—softly, quietly. and yeah, a part of you wanted to say yes right there. but you didn’t. not because you didn’t want it—hell, you did—but because you still wanted to build something of your own first. have your own space, even if it was temporary. even if it was just down the street.

so you said, “not yet.” and he didn’t push. just gave a nod like he understood—because he did.

eventually, the two of you found a small apartment tucked into a quieter street just a few minutes’ walk from onigiri miya. it had creaky stairs and a balcony barely wide enough for two, but the light hit the kitchen just right in the mornings and it smelled like home within the week.

now, on slow afternoons, you’d stop by the shop just because you could. no train tickets, no suitcases—just a pair of house slippers by the counter with your name written on the soles in marker.

and osamu? he never said “i told you so.”

but every time you showed up—hair still damp from a shower, sleeves rolled, reaching for a rice ball—he’d give you that quiet, satisfied look.

like this was the part he’d always been waiting for. like maybe, this was the life he’d started shaping the moment you handed him your number on a napkin—creased and half-soaked from your drink, but carefully folded into the pocket of his apron like it was gold.

you caught him watching you sometimes when the shop slowed down—when the sound of the rice cooker humming was the loudest thing in the room. his eyes weren’t hungry or calculating. just… still. steady. as if he was memorizing you, again and again.

you, perched on your usual stool, picking the seaweed off your onigiri before taking a bite. you, humming some song under your breath while scribbling on a receipt pad. you, already reaching for the soy sauce bottle before he even asked if it needed more.

the shop had learned you. you had learned it. you’d even learned him—the way he never said everything, but always said enough.

and on nights like this, when the shutters were down and the last pot had been scrubbed, you both settled into the quiet like it was a blanket. some couples needed fireworks. you two just needed clean counters and leftover rice.

“samu,” you asked one night, your voice a little sleep-warm, cheek resting against the rolled-up sleeve of his flannel shirt, “did you ever think it’d end up like this?”

he didn’t answer right away. just breathed in deep, like he was still taking in the scent of miso and your shampoo. then he glanced down at you, lazy smirk forming like it always did when he was about to say something that’d stick.

“this is perfect,” he said simply. “just sayin’… still got time. might add a second shop. bigger kitchen. maybe even a ring—if yer not too busy workin’ overtime.”

your chest tightened—not with nerves, but with something heavier, warmer. hope, maybe. recognition.

but then his tone softened, and so did his expression. he leaned a little closer, his shoulder brushing yours.

“when you gave me your number, i knew i’d marry you someday,” he said. “not right away. eventually. knew you had your own thing to build. and i wanted you to. still do.”

the weight of his words settled over you like a quiet sunrise. no pressure. no rush. just the truth—his truth. he’d been choosing you from the beginning. not loudly. not with fireworks. but with presence. with every rice ball he wrapped. every train ride. every surprise visit. every “you okay?” when the world got too loud.

and maybe you didn’t answer—not with words, at least. because when you turned to him, leaned in and kissed him, it said everything.

it wasn’t urgent or rushed. just real. a quiet promise sealed between the taste of salt and tea and the lingering warmth of the shop.

he kissed you back with the same certainty he always carried behind the counter—with focus, with care. like loving you was a craft. something he’d chosen to get better at, day by day.

when you pulled apart, his hands stayed on your waist, thumbs brushing slow circles over your sides. he didn’t say much after that. didn’t need to.

but as you helped him store the last batch of leftover rice, you caught him glancing your way again—this time with something new in his eyes.

he looked around the shop—the neatly labeled containers, the dented trays, the sign you helped paint over last month—and then back to you.

“y’know,” he murmured, almost to himself, “i want this. all of it. you. me. this place. i wanna keep makin’ stuff for ya. new flavors, old ones—whatever comes to mind. i want you sittin’ there,” he nodded toward your stool, “tastin’ every single one.”

you smiled, the kind that curled slowly across your lips and settled into your chest.

“and i will,” you said, your voice quiet but certain. “as long as you keep making them.”

and just like that, it was settled. no rings, no grand declarations—yet.

just a kitchen, a counter, two bowls of leftover soup. and a love made of rice, patience, and the promise of always coming home to each other.

always.

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yukkiji · 23 hours ago

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certified menace

dating atsumu miya is like signing up for a lifetime of secondhand embarrassment, dramatic public antics, and the kind of teasing that makes you want to strangle him—lovingly. from chaotic ikea trips to amusement park disasters and beach blunders with the team, he somehow manages to push every button you have… and still be the one you want to come home to. he’s exhausting, ridiculous, and completely yours—and honestly? you wouldn’t have it any other way.

haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. miya atsumu x fem!reader

genre: fluff, romance, timeskip!atsumu

wc: 3.3k

warning: 18+ nsfw, minors dni. smut (not really detaile) at the end, atsumu can be menance but he's whipped

author's note: tsumu can be menance but he loves you so... and also this is a bit self endulgent but i hope you guys enjoy reading it hehe

atsumu likes to make you mad.

not in the cruel way. never that. but in the boyish, infuriating, insufferably smug way—because for some reason, your narrowed eyes and hissed curses made his heart do backflips. to him, every exasperated “atsumu, i swear—!” was basically a love letter.

you learned that the hard way when you two started dating.

for the past few years, you’ve been with atsumu miya—setter for the msby black jackals, walking headline factory, and certified menace. and if there was one thing more consistent than his post-match protein shakes, it was his relentless mission to poke, prod, and pester you into mild (or not-so-mild) fury.

even when you first met him—at one of those fancy corporate parties your father made you attend as the daughter of one of msby’s owners—atsumu had annoyed the living hell out of you.

he had swaggered right up to you, half a drink in hand, hair perfectly messy like it had been styled by chaos itself. he wasn’t exactly drunk, but he had the buzz of someone who knew he was charming and planned to weaponize it all night.

you remember standing near the back of the banquet room, fingers curled around your glass, when he grinned at you like he knew a secret about you before you’d even spoken.

and then he spoke.

“didn’t know angels showed up to team events,” he’d said. “or are ya one of those rich execs lookin’ to buy me for a new team?”

you blinked once. slowly.

“no,” you said flatly. “i’m here to make sure no one gives you another drink.”

he laughed, bright and unapologetic. “feisty. i like ya already.”

you did not like him already.

in fact, if you had to describe atsumu miya that night, it would’ve been: golden retriever with rabies.

too loud, too fast, too much.

he bounced between conversations with the grace of a wrecking ball, flirted like it was an olympic sport, and somehow made even the waitstaff laugh with his stupid impressions and over-the-top compliments. he was chaos incarnate, dipped in cologne and wrapped in designer dress shoes.

you told yourself, nope. not my type. never in a million years.

because if there was one thing you couldn’t stand, it was men who lived like the world owed them attention—and atsumu practically demanded a spotlight with every breath.

so of course, the universe laughed and decided he’d be the one you’d fall stupidly in love with.

what made it worse was the fact that atsumu fell first.

you didn’t even notice at first. he was always annoying—flirting with reckless abandon, texting you dumb memes at 3 a.m., showing up to msby events with two drinks but only ever offering you the one he didn’t want. he called you “princess” with the kind of teasing lilt that made you want to throw things at him. and he lived to press your buttons.

but the thing was—he never stopped showing up.

when you had a bad day, he was there, kicking at your foot under the table until you cracked a smile. when your father’s meetings went long and you were stuck waiting, atsumu kept you company with a steady stream of ridiculous stories about his teammates. when he found out you liked this specific strawberry mochi from a hole-in-the-wall shop in osaka, he remembered—and brought you one every single week.

you accused him of being annoying.

he said he was “just persistent.”

but eventually, you started seeing the signs.

the way his eyes lit up when you rolled yours at him.

the way he laughed the hardest when you were mid-rant, threatening to throw your shoe at his head.

the way he looked at you—not like you were yelling at him, but like you were somehow the best part of his day anyway.

one afternoon, in a particularly dramatic moment of you scolding him for nearly tripping over your chair on purpose (again), you muttered, “you’re such a masochist.”

he grinned, smug as ever. “only fer you, sweetheart.”

and you hated how warm your face got.

because somehow, you had fallen too.

maybe it was the way he never made you feel silly for being mad. maybe it was the way he never once pushed you to soften yourself. or maybe it was just the fact that, beneath all the teasing and chaos, atsumu was always steady with you.

loud, but loyal. annoying, but tender when it mattered. exhausting, but kind—so achingly kind in ways he didn’t even realize.

so yes, he fell first. but when you finally let yourself fall, you didn’t fall halfway.

you fell hard.

you still hated when he stole your food. still threatened to break up with him every time he called you “grumpy-bun.” still screamed into a pillow when he left his socks all over your apartment.

but god—you loved him.

even though he does know how to push your buttons—and actively seems to seek out new ones just to see how far he can go—you still agreed to let him help you furnish your shared penthouse near the msby training grounds.

which was mistake number one.

the second you walked into ikea, atsumu’s eyes lit up like a kid in a toy store. dangerous. already grinning. already plotting.

you held your phone and your curated list of must-buys with all the efficiency of a woman on a mission. he had zero interest in your list.

“first stop—lighting,” you said, eyeing the showroom map.

“first stop—vibe check,” he replied, immediately veering off course to plop himself into the nearest armchair. “gotta make sure the thrones are worthy of yer royal ass.”

you stared. “we haven’t even started yet.”

he leaned back dramatically, arms spread over the chair’s armrests like a sitcom dad. “this one’s too stiff. no soul. next!”

and then he stood up, made a show of rotating his shoulders, and moved to the next chair over like this was some sacred ritual. sat. grunted thoughtfully. kicked his feet.

you blinked once. “are you trying out every single chair in ikea?”

he looked at you, dead serious. “i’m makin’ sure our future dinner guests have an emotionally supportive place to sit, babe.”

you exhaled slowly. “i’m going to lose my mind.”

by the fifth chair and third exaggerated sigh, you genuinely debated leaving him in the office furniture section. but it got worse when you hit the bedroom displays.

“atsumu.”

“hmm?” he says, already halfway through dramatically stretching across a king-size display bed, arms behind his head like he’s about to take a nap in the middle of ikea.

“get off the bed, atsumu.”

he turns his head, flashing that smug, boyish grin you should honestly be paid to endure. “but what if the bed isn't suitable for… certain activities that involve the two of us?”

you gasp, mortified, as a family strolls past—with children. one of the kids is definitely old enough to understand. the mom gives you a sharp look. the dad stifles a laugh.

you whip back toward him, eyes wide. “oh my god, shut up,” you hiss.

atsumu just laughs, unbothered, shamelessly lounging like he owns the place. “i’m just sayin’, babe. what if it squeaks? what if the springs suck? what if halfway through—”

“we are not testing the beds for that,” you snap through gritted teeth, cutting him off before he can scar another family of four.

he shrugs, eyes dancing with mischief. “seems like important research to me.”

you lean over the bed, grab a pillow, and slap it right across his face.

he lets out a dramatic groan and flops onto his side like he’s been mortally wounded. “abused in broad daylight… by the woman i love… in front of innocent bystanders…”

you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose, the edge of a smile betraying your exasperation. “can’t take you anywhere.”

from his dramatic sprawl across the bed, atsumu peeks up at you from beneath the pillow, one eye squinted shut like he’s barely surviving the assault.

“yeah,” he says, voice lazy and smug, “but ya keep takin’ me places…”

then he lifts the pillow just enough to flash a grin that spells danger.

“…and i can also take you to places.”

you pause.

he winks.

your soul leaves your body.

“atsumu miya,” you say, slowly, like you’re preparing to sentence him to life in ikea jail, “i swear to every god in this overpriced swedish maze—”

“emotionally. mentally. spiritually,” he continues, completely ignoring the warning in your voice, stretching like a cat across the bed. “also, like, physically. frequently.”

you smack the back of his head with the product catalog.

he howls with laughter, muffled by the bedding. “worth it!”

you roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they come back down. “if i go to jail for murder today, i want it on record that it was completely justified.”

“ya say that now,” he says, sitting up and leaning in close, voice dropping low, “but ya love it when i talk like that.”

you don’t answer.

you don’t have to.

because your face is already betraying you—and atsumu knows it.

“god, yer so hot when yer about to strangle me,” he adds with a grin, voice dipping low as he leans closer, “like, i genuinely can’t wait to try the couch and the bed once we get home… for activities, of course.”

you groan, cheeks burning, and shove the cart forward with more force than necessary. “pick a damn couch before i turn this into a crime scene.”

he jogs after you, still laughing, totally unfazed by the judgmental glances from other shoppers. “ooo, that one looks like it’d survive both of us jumpin’ on it!”

“atsumu—”

“i’m just sayin’!” he throws his hands up in mock innocence. “gotta think long-term! like, comfort, durability, spring tension, stain resistance…”

you shoot him a glare so deadly, a nearby employee quietly steers a family away from your aisle.

he grins anyway, bouncing on the edge of a sleek gray sectional like a child testing trampolines. “yeah, this one’s got some give. real flexible. just like—”

“finish that sentence and i’m leaving you here to live among the storage bins.”

he freezes dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “cruel. and after i committed to a lifetime of ikea dates with ya.”

you snort despite yourself, dragging the cart toward the checkout. “we’re never doing this again.”

“sure we will,” he says, catching up and bumping your shoulder with his. “next time we need a rug or—oh, a dining table. one that’s real sturdy. for, y’know…”

you cut him off with a sharp glare, but your lips twitch. “you have one brain cell and it’s entirely dedicated to being inappropriate.”

“and makin’ you laugh,” he adds, nudging you again, softer this time. “can’t forget that part.”

you sigh, giving in to the tiniest smile. “you’re lucky i love you.”

“yer lucky i make ikea fun.”

“that’s… debatably true.”

“ya smiled, didn’t ya?”

you huff. “shut up.”

but you lace your fingers with his anyway.

and he beams like he just won a trophy.

then, without warning, he tugs you a little closer—right there between the discount lamps and a stack of folded futons—and presses a kiss to your forehead, then another quick one to your lips. soft, sweet, and utterly smug.

you blink at him.

he’s already laughing.

“what now?” you mumble, heat creeping up your neck.

“you looked like ya were gonna punch me,” he says, grin stretching wide, “but then ya kissed me back. that's love, baby.”

you roll your eyes, but you're smiling for real this time.

and when he kisses you again—gentle, warm, like he’s sealing every chaotic, loud, ridiculous moment with one quiet promise—you let him.

because yeah, he’s annoying. yeah, he’ll probably embarrass you again before you even make it to checkout. but he’s yours.

and you wouldn’t trade him for the world—though you’d possibly trade him for a solo ikea trip. just once. maybe twice.

you thought, foolishly, that a day at the amusement park would be a calmer choice.

cute. fun. public enough to keep atsumu from getting too handsy. or inappropriate. or, you know… atsumu.

you were wrong.

it started with him dragging you to the carnival games like an overgrown golden retriever on a mission.

“this one!” he pointed, eyes locked on a claw machine full of stuffed animals, all wildly overpriced and rigged to hell. “that angry-lookin’ one in the back? kinda looks like ya.”

you shot him a look.

“i’m sayin’ that lovingly,” he said, already inserting coins. “yer cute when yer mad. i mean, look at its tiny frown.”

it took him three tries and way too much cheering from nearby children, but he won it. a small, round, very grumpy-looking red bear with permanently furrowed brows.

he handed it to you proudly. “perfect match.”

you narrowed your eyes. “i’m giving this to the next toddler i see.”

“you won’t,” he grinned, already snapping a photo of you holding it. “yer soft like that.”

you weren’t.

(you were.)

the haunted house was next. you didn’t even want to go in. but of course, atsumu insisted—because “what if you get scared and jump into my arms like in the movies?”

spoiler: he got scared first.

the second a fake zombie popped out of the wall, he jumped and cursed so loud the couple behind you burst into laughter. he latched onto your arm, half hiding behind you and muttering, “that thing moved too fast, what the hell—”

“you’re a professional athlete,” you deadpanned.

“exactly! my body’s a temple. i gotta protect it from jump scares.”

by the end of the haunted hallway, you were rolling your eyes and dragging him out like a bodyguard escorting an emotionally fragile celebrity. he claimed he “let you lead to feel safe.”

sure.

you thought the chaos would mellow out during snacks. it did not.

he bought cotton candy the size of his head, shoved a chunk in his mouth, and leaned in to kiss you with sticky lips and fingers.

“don’t even—” you started.

“too late,” he mumbled through sugar, already leaning forward.

you shoved a packet of wet wipes right into his face.

he froze, blinking as you dabbed at his mouth like a scolding daycare teacher.

“this is why you’re not allowed near fondue fountains,” you muttered.

he chuckled, lips still sweet. “but i wanna kiss ya.”

“then don’t taste like a cavity.”

“i can’t help it. i’m sweet-natured.”

“you’re a menace.”

“same thing.”

the sky had begun to melt into soft hues of purple and gold, a cotton-candy swirl of evening settling over the amusement park. from the moment atsumu suggested the ferris wheel to “end the day right,” you had your suspicions.

you were right to.

as soon as the gondola doors clicked shut and the wheel jerked into motion, slowly climbing, atsumu’s head tilted toward you, lips already pulled into a grin so smug it should be illegal.

“you know…” he started, settling back lazily into the bench with one arm stretched across the backrest, “the windows are tinted, and it’s all closed off…”

you didn’t even look at him. “don’t.”

“i'm just sayin’,” he drawled. “would be the perfect place for a quickie.”

you turned your head, slowly, expression blank.

“atsumu.”

“what?” he said innocently. “it’s efficient. romantic. environmentally conscious, even—savin’ energy and all that.”

“i will open this door and throw you off.”

he laughed. “you love me too much.”

“you really wanna test that theory while we’re suspended thirty feet in the air?”

he was still laughing when he slid closer, arm dipping down to hook around your waist—pulling you right into his lap with zero warning.

“atsumu—!” you gasped, clinging to his hoodie as your balance tipped and your legs swung over his.

he gave you that shit-eating grin, eyes warm and golden in the late light. “this is better.”

“you are unbelievable,” you muttered, though you didn’t move from his lap. not even when his hand slid comfortably to your waist and his other cradled the back of your head like it belonged there.

“just one kiss,” he said, voice quieter now, lips inches from yours. “promise.”

“you never stop at one.”

“can’t help it,” he murmured, brushing your lips with his. “yer addictive.”

and maybe you were tired of resisting. maybe you knew the second you sat on his lap, you'd lose.

the first kiss was testing the waters—barely a brush. the second sank deeper, lips moving slowly, deliberately, like he had time and wasn’t about to waste a second. you curled your fingers into the collar of his hoodie, holding tight as his hand caressed your back, dragging you closer until your chest pressed to his and there was no space left between you.

the third kiss made you forget about the height. the crowds below. the gentle swaying of the gondola. all of it faded under the heat curling in your stomach as he kissed you deeper, his lips parting yours with practiced ease, coaxing soft, secret things from your throat you hadn’t meant to give away.

when you finally pulled back—barely, breathless—your noses touched, foreheads pressed together in the quiet aftermath.

“you’re gonna marry me someday,” he whispered.

you let out a breathy laugh. “you’re so delusional.”

“maybe,” he murmured, brushing a kiss to your cheek, “but you still let me kiss ya like that.”

you were quiet for a second, lips parted, voice lower when you finally spoke.

“with everything i’ve been through… all the crap i’ve had to deal with—do you really think anyone else would still put up with you like this?”

his arms tightened around you.

there was a flicker in his eyes—still playful, still warm, but something deeper underneath. his thumb brushed slow circles against your side.

“no,” he said softly. “that’s why i’m never lettin’ go.”

you kissed him again, gently this time. a little slower. a little more like a promise.

then he leaned back just enough to flash that boyish grin again, eyes flicking up to the soft glow of the night sky through the glass above.

“so…” he said, lips brushing yours, “still no quickie? we’re already at the top. got at least fifteen minutes left…”

you didn’t even hesitate. you slapped a hand over his mouth. “one more word and i will make out with the emergency call button instead.”

he laughed against your palm.

and when you pulled your hand away, his smile stayed—so damn full of love, mischief, and that chaos you’d fallen headfirst for. you curled up against him, his arms wrapped around you like second nature, and you both stayed like that—quiet, warm, and tangled—as the wheel began its slow descent.

maybe he was exhausting.

but he was yours.

and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

most of the time.

because sometimes—sometimes—he went a little too far.

like the beach trip two weeks later.

it was one of those rare weekends where the whole msby black jackals roster and a few familiar faces from their high school volleyball days managed to get time off together. bokuto had screamed “beach day!” in the group chat at 3 a.m. and by noon the next day, coolers, towels, umbrellas, and an absurd amount of sports drinks were packed into every available car.

you’d tagged along, of course. not because you loved the idea of being around a bunch of hypercompetitive athletes throwing volleyballs at each other on sand—but because atsumu had begged with those stupid golden eyes and promised to “be chill.”

which was your first mistake: believing that miya atsumu could ever be chill.

at first, it was fine. you were under the umbrella, sipping from your cold drink, watching them chase each other down the shoreline and attempt increasingly dramatic dives into the water like grown children.

atsumu had broken away at one point and jogged toward you, skin warm from the sun, a crooked smile on his face.

“c’mon,” he said, already reaching for you. “let’s go in the water.”

“no thanks,” you replied easily, shifting your sunglasses. “i don’t wanna get wet. i’m good right here.”

“but yer wearin’ a swimsuit,” he said, as if that nullified your statement entirely.

“yes, a dry one.”

he huffed, flopped down beside you, then dramatically laid his head in your lap like you’d just wounded him with your refusal.

but eventually, as always, he got back up. the ocean called. so did bokuto’s challenge to a water wrestling match.

you didn’t notice he was planning something until he came back with a glint in his eyes and a grin that should’ve warned you.

“atsumu,” you said warily as he bent down and scooped you into his arms with far too much ease. “put me down. i’m serious. i told you i don’t wanna get—”

too late.

he ran straight into the water.

you screamed—not out of fear, but rage—arms clinging to his neck as he laughed like a maniac and jumped forward, plunging the both of you straight into a crashing wave.

the water soaked you instantly—hair, clothes, everything.

you surfaced sputtering, soaked and furious, while he popped up beside you, still holding onto your waist, beaming like an idiot.

“you—atsumu—i told you!” you shouted, slapping the water. “i didn’t want to get wet!”

“i know, i know,” he said quickly, hands raised as if surrendering. “but it was hot! and you looked like you needed coolin’ off!”

you didn’t answer. you just turned and stormed your way back to the shore, dripping wet, your wet cover-up clinging to you, your sunglasses gone to sea, and your pride in shambles.

you didn’t stop until you were back under the umbrella, towel wrapped around your shoulders as you flopped angrily onto the beach chair and crossed your arms.

atsumu stayed in the water a little longer, laughing weakly as bokuto made some joke about how he was “gonna die out there.”

eventually, he trudged back—wet and sandy and clearly knowing he was in deep shit.

he hovered at the edge of the umbrella’s shade like a kicked puppy.

“…babe?”

you didn’t look at him.

he crouched beside your chair, arms resting on the armrest, eyes wide and guilty. “hey. i’m sorry. i really am. i know you said no, and i shouldn’t’ve pushed it.”

you said nothing, arms still folded.

“i just… you were smilin’ earlier and i thought maybe i could make you laugh, but—i crossed a line. i know that. and i’m sorry.”

you glanced at him finally, just long enough to catch the way his wet bangs stuck to his forehead and how sincere he looked. the frustration was still there, sitting like a lump in your throat—but so was the ache of knowing he had meant well. in the dumb, atsumu way he always did.

“you owe me a new drink,” you muttered.

he grinned. “and a dry towel?”

“two towels.”

“done.”

he leaned in carefully, brushing a kiss to your shoulder like an apology. “still love me?”

you narrowed your eyes. “barely.”

but he smiled anyway. because he knew you meant yes.

even if you were still plotting revenge.

even if you were still soaked and cranky and low-key traumatized from your unwanted dip in the ocean.

and maybe—maybe—he knew he had to go above and beyond this time.

which is why, on the drive home, he took a sudden detour without warning. you frowned from the passenger seat until you realized exactly where he was headed.

your favorite dessert café. the one that made those ridiculous, over-the-top ice cream creations that barely fit in a bowl and stocked cakes so rich they could kill a man in two bites.

“you’re bribing me,” you said flatly as he came out carrying two bags—one with cake, the other with a parfait the size of your face.

“nope,” he grinned, handing them to you. “this is what lawyers call reparations.”

you tried to hold your glare, but it faltered the second the first spoonful of your favorite flavor hit your tongue. he watched you closely, like a man waiting for a verdict. you stayed quiet as you slowly worked through the dessert, ignoring how smug he looked when you didn’t push it away.

by the time you got home, you were tired. the good kind. your skin still carried traces of salt and sunscreen, and your legs ached a little from walking in the sand—but atsumu, for all his idiocy earlier, had managed to soften the memory into something survivable.

and maybe that’s why you let him tug you into the shower with him.

not that he was very subtle about it.

not when his hands slid over your hips the second the water hit, or when his lips pressed to your neck with quiet, murmured apologies that had less to do with actual regret and more to do with making sure you forgot everything but the way he could touch you like no one else could.

he knew your body better than he knew his own playbook. knew exactly how to coax those gasps from your lips, how to make you dig your nails into his shoulders, how to pull you against the cold tile just right to get that sound out of you that made his knees weak.

it was slow at first, unhurried. like he was worshiping you with his hands, not just touching you to feel good but touching you to make it right.

and then it wasn’t so slow anymore.

not when you pulled him down with a kiss that tasted like want, not when his grip on your thighs tightened, not when your back arched and you both forgot everything except this.

by the time the shower fogged over the glass and the water began to cool, you were both breathless—wet skin pressed against wet skin, your back to the tile, his mouth on your neck, his hands on your thighs, everywhere and overwhelming in the way only he could be.

but of course, atsumu wasn’t done.

not even close.

you barely had a moment to catch your breath before he was toweling the two of you off in a mess of laughter, kisses, and clumsy stumbles into the bedroom—still trailing droplets, still drunk on each other.

he didn’t even make it to the bed first.

you found yourself pinned against the wall near the dresser, his hands framing your face like he couldn’t get enough of looking at you, even now—especially now.

“you’re so damn pretty when you’re mad,” he breathed against your lips.

“you’re gonna make me mad again if you don’t shut up.”

he grinned into the kiss you gave him to shut him up. that’s what he wanted. you always knew.

and from there it was all fire and heat.

he lifted you easily, your legs wrapping around his waist like instinct, your name falling from his mouth in a reverent groan as he carried you to the bed—only to miss it entirely and press you down into the plush carpet just beside it.

not that you cared.

there was something raw and aching about the way he touched you then. not hurried, not rushed, but desperate in that slow-burning way that made your heart beat louder than your thoughts. every kiss on your chest, every scrape of his teeth, every hoarse whisper of your name sent sparks up your spine.

by the time you made it to the bed—finally—it wasn’t even about revenge or apology anymore.

it was just you and him.

it was him kneeling between your legs, worshiping every inch of you like he still couldn’t believe you were real. it was the way he whispered “mine,” like he needed to remind the universe. it was you arching under him, pulling him closer, holding nothing back.

and it was love. god, it was all love.

the kind that burned in your lungs when you moaned his name.

the kind that cracked his voice when he whispered yours back.

the kind that had you tangled up in the sheets by the time it was over—legs still wrapped around each other, skin warm, hearts slower now but just as full.

atsumu brushed a hand over your hair, kissed your temple, and collapsed beside you with a satisfied groan.

“…still mad?”

you didn’t answer right away. just sighed and rolled toward him, cheek on his chest.

“…you’re lucky i love you.”

he chuckled, lazy and smug. “so… you did like the make-up sex.”

you snorted. “it’s the only thing keeping you alive right now.”

he smiled against your hair.

"course it is.”

and yeah… he was exhausting. overbearing. sometimes completely ridiculous.

but he was also yours.

and he knew exactly how to make you fall in love with him again—over and over and over.

even if you’d still rather go to ikea alone next time.

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yukkiji · 2 days ago

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if i finish my to do list later, i'll post my miya twins and isagi drafts

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yukkiji · 2 days ago

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posted two fics in a row today

it's almost 3am here and since i can't sleep i just decided to post two drafts today lol anyways, i might start to write for jjk and knb soon so stay tuned hehe

#i feel productive #also sleepy

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yukkiji · 2 days ago

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silence, and then you

you were supposed to be writing a paper—but instead, you ended up in kenma’s lap, ranting about college stress while he listened with quiet patience. in the home you built together, love looks like chamomile tea, shared silences, and being carried to bed when you fall asleep in the library he made just for you.

haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. kozume kenma x fem!reader ft. oikawa tooru

genre: fluff, romance timeskip!kenma, just domestic

wc: 3.3k

author's note: i love domestic kenma fics sm <333

kenma’s gaming room was never designed for two.

it’s dark in the way he likes it—lit only by the soft glow of his monitors and the ambient led strips lining the desk. cables are neatly managed, shelves lined with game figurines and tech accessories. the custom chair supports his back perfectly. his headset rests on a stand like it’s sacred. every inch of the room is calculated for efficiency and quiet comfort.

and then there’s you.

wrapped in a fleece blanket, legs tangled beneath you, you’re curled sideways in his lap like it’s your natural habitat—because at this point, it is.

you were supposed to be writing your sociology paper. you even started off strong, earbuds in, fingers typing, head bowed over your laptop while you sat cross-legged on the bean bag in the corner. it was your “study station,” makeshift but functional. that lasted maybe twenty minutes—until your groupmate ghosted the shared doc again, leaving behind a half-finished bullet point and a timestamp of shame.

so now, your laptop sits abandoned on the bean bag like a forgotten responsibility, and your focus is long gone—buried somewhere between stress and indignation.

because now you’re in kenma’s lap. because now you’re ranting. because that’s what happens when everything feels too heavy.

“she had the nerve to tell me i should be more understanding,” you mutter, your voice muffled against the front of his hoodie. “like i haven’t already picked up the slack for three different sections. and then when i told the professor i’d just do it alone, he had the audacity to say group work builds ‘character.’ i don’t need character. i need a passing grade.”

kenma doesn’t flinch. doesn’t even glance away from his screen.

he hums low in his chest, controller clicking in steady rhythm. “you sound like you’re thriving.”

“i’m dying,” you groan.

“you say that every week.”

you groan louder, your face squishing further into his chest. “i hate school. i should drop out.”

“you should,” he says immediately.

that makes you pull back just enough to squint up at him. “i was joking.”

“i’m not.” he doesn’t miss a beat, not even as his in-game character scales a rooftop. “you should drop out. i’ll take care of everything.”

you blink. “kenma.”

“i already pay the bills. i keep the snack drawer stocked. i buy your oat milk—the one that’s like seven bucks a carton. you could literally just vibe all day and i’d support it.”

your heart stutters, even as you scoff. “so what, you’d raise me?”

he shrugs like it’s a serious consideration. “i kind of already do.”

you swat his chest. “you make it sound like i’m your dependent.”

“you are,” he deadpans. “you live here rent-free, you wear my hoodies more than i do, and your coffee addiction is singlehandedly draining my bank account.”

you open your mouth to argue—then close it. because he’s right.

he replaces your fraying chargers before you even realize they’re dying. he orders your favorite takeout unprompted when you sound tired over the phone. he stocks the fridge with that one brand of yogurt you only mentioned liking once. when the local store ran out of your favorite granola bars, he drove across town to find them without telling you.

he spoils you—without ceremony, without expectation. just quietly, completely.

when he bought this house—a sleek, quiet place a little outside the city—he’d walked the empty rooms with his phone pressed to his ear, telling you about the natural light and soundproofing. by the end of the week, he’d called again with a single question:

"want to live with me?"

you said yes before he even finished the sentence.

you’d been dating since your second year of high school—two quiet kids who found each other through shared projects and handheld consoles, who fell into a rhythm so natural it never needed explaining. there was no grand confession. no dramatic turning point. just steady, quiet gravity pulling you toward each other.

and when you moved in—one battered suitcase, two plushies, and a stack of paperbacks—kenma made space for all of it. for you.

he even converted the spare bedroom into a full-blown personal library. bookshelves from floor to ceiling. warm reading lights. a chair big enough for you to curl up in, and a soft wool blanket he’d picked out “because it looked like something you’d like the texture of.” all because one time—just once—you had sighed dreamily and said, “i wish i had a room that smelled like old books.”

“you’re ridiculous,” you mumble now, more fond than frustrated.

“you love it.”

“unfortunately.”

at that, he finally looks down at you, the corners of his lips tugging up in a subtle, unspoken smile. you think he’s beautiful like this—dimly lit by the glow of the screen, golden eyes soft despite the endless clicks of his controller.

“you talk a lot when you’re stressed,” he says simply.

“i know,” you sigh. “you hate it?”

he’s quiet for a beat. then, gently:

“no. i like it.”

you blink, the rant finally draining out of you.

“i like that you come in here when you’re overwhelmed,” he murmurs, eyes returning to the screen. “i like the sound of your voice. you fill up the space.”

you go still, the kind of still that comes when someone touches something tender inside you.

“so i’m your white noise machine?” you manage, trying for levity.

“you’re my favorite background noise,” he says, and leans down to kiss the top of your head.

you don’t speak after that. not because you’ve run out of words—but because your chest is too full for any of them to make it out.

the game hums in the background—soft ambient music mixed with the occasional digital footstep, a distant gunshot, or a notification ping. it all blends into a kind of electronic lullaby, steady and familiar. the glow of kenma’s monitor bathes the room in low, flickering light, reflecting off his hair like static gold. his controller clicks in slow, practiced rhythm, matching the quiet pulse of the evening.

across the room, your laptop rests forgotten on the bean bag you’d been occupying not too long ago—still open, blinking sleepily at the half-finished document waiting for you to return. but here, now, wrapped in a blanket and nestled securely in kenma’s lap, surrounded by the gentle whirr of his pc fans and the steady, grounding thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek, the urgency of academic deadlines feels like a distant problem.

here, you feel safe. heavy-limbed and warm, like sinking into the softest part of the day.

at first, you keep talking—low, muffled complaints against the fabric of his hoodie. frustrated mutterings about deadlines and underwhelming classmates give way to stories that spiral out from your stress, things you hadn’t even realized were weighing on you until you’d spoken them aloud. kenma doesn’t interrupt. he doesn’t offer solutions. he listens in that quiet, constant way of his—head tilted just slightly toward you, thumb brushing small, rhythmic circles into your side, his breathing slow and even.

eventually, the words dry up.

not from exhaustion—at least, not in the conversational sense—but from the weight of the day finally catching up to you. somewhere between a half-laugh and a breathless sigh, your rant melts into silence, and you let yourself be still. the sounds of the room blur into background noise—the soft clicks of his controller, the gentle shifting of his legs beneath yours, even the occasional rustle of the blanket as you adjust without really waking.

and kenma?

kenma doesn’t move.

more than an hour passes, but you wouldn’t know it. his match ends, another begins. he leans forward just once to mute his mic when he notices your breathing deepen—slow, steady, edged with sleep. he adjusts the blanket over your legs like it’s second nature. his hand never leaves your hip.

there’s no need to speak. no urge to change anything.

kenma’s always been good at silence. he used to cherish it as a shield, a comfort zone no one could breach. but with you, silence became something different. not empty. not cold. just full of quiet closeness—of your presence curled up in his arms, of your breath rising and falling against him, of the small way your hand clutches the fabric of his hoodie even in sleep.

eventually, you begin to stir.

it’s subtle at first—the tiniest shift of your shoulder, a small wrinkle of your brow as the dream fades. then your lashes flutter. a blink. another. you squint into the soft cotton at your cheek, confused by how warm and safe you feel when you should be hunched over a desk, still mildly annoyed.

kenma’s hand is still on your hip, his fingers warm through the blanket, steady as always.

“i fell asleep, didn’t i?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep and embarrassment.

“yeah.” his reply is soft, edged with amusement. “you drooled.”

you lift your head just enough to glare blearily at him. “liar.”

“you’ll never know.”

you groan, more bashful than annoyed, and let your head fall back against his chest with a dramatic sigh. the warmth of his body, the steady thud of his heart—it all tempts you to stay right where you are. but there’s a paper waiting. and despite your best efforts, your conscience won’t let you leave it unfinished forever.

with a reluctant stretch and a quiet yawn, you slowly sit up. your limbs protest, a little stiff from the way you’d been curled into him, and your blanket slides slightly off your shoulder.

“okay, okay…” you mutter, rubbing your eyes. “i should get back to that stupid paper.”

kenma glances down at you, his expression unreadable except for the slight raise of one brow—the universal look of are you sure?

“now?” he asks, voice as calm as ever.

you nod, even as your body sways a little. “yeah. i actually feel better now. like, weirdly better. and if i stay here any longer, i’m gonna fall asleep again and wake up at 3 a.m. in a panic. but if i go to the library room, i might actually focus.”

he hums, noncommittal. but he doesn’t argue.

“want me to bring you tea?” he offers after a beat, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

you blink at him, a smile tugging at your lips despite the grogginess. “you offering to be my emotional support butler now?”

kenma shrugs, almost convincingly serious. “sure. if it means you’ll stop spiraling about sparkles-and-thumbs-up girl.”

you snort, pressing a sleepy kiss to his lips before carefully climbing off his lap. your legs wobble as you stand, half-asleep and still draped in your blanket like a sleepy little wizard, but you manage to stay upright. the blanket trails behind you like a cape, comically dramatic.

you scoop your abandoned laptop from the bean bag and turn toward the door, padding barefoot down the hall with each step soft and familiar against the wooden floor.

kenma watches you go, eyes quietly following the retreating figure of the person he built a home with.

the hallway is quiet, steeped in the familiar hush of a late evening in a house built for comfort. the wooden floor beneath your feet is cool, smooth. you know each creak and soft dip in the boards like second nature now—just like you know which light switches buzz, which corners of the walls catch the fading sun in the morning, and exactly how many steps it takes to reach the door at the end of the hall.

your door.

well—yours, because kenma made it yours.

the door to the library isn’t extravagant. just an ordinary wooden frame, painted a muted shade of sea-glass green. but when you twist the brass knob and step inside, it feels like crossing into something sacred.

the warm scent of wood polish and paper meets you like an embrace. it’s the kind of smell that clings to your skin and settles in your lungs—not overpowering, just comforting. safe. familiar.

it’s warmer in here than the rest of the house, thanks to the old-fashioned radiator tucked behind one of the lower bookshelves. the walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves, each packed with novels, academic texts, graphic novels, and that one row of used paperbacks you couldn’t bear to part with even though their spines are cracked and half the pages are dog-eared. kenma insisted on keeping them. said they looked “lived-in. like you.”

there’s a reading nook in the corner, framed by a softly arched window and covered in pillows. a thick-knit blanket is draped across the seat—ivory white with a looped texture you once described as “cloud-like.” kenma had remembered that. you hadn’t even meant it seriously.

but it’s the armchair you settle into now—the one he picked out himself, wide enough to curl into, upholstered in soft fabric the color of stormy skies. your laptop warms your thighs as you open it again, blinking against the sudden white glow of the screen. the doc is still there. still half-finished. still daunting.

but the room? the quiet?

it makes things easier.

you tuck your legs beneath you and exhale slowly, fingers hovering over the keyboard. the silence here isn’t like the oppressive kind you get in the library on campus, or the awkward kind in coffee shops where everyone’s pretending not to eavesdrop. this is a silence that breathes. that settles around you like a weighted blanket. that makes space for thoughts to form instead of crowding them out.

a few keystrokes.

then a paragraph.

you don’t realize how long you’ve been working until the words on the screen start to blur and your shoulders ache from the angle you’re hunched over. still, there’s a deep satisfaction in knowing the hardest part—starting—is already behind you. you pause for a breath, leaning back into the plush curve of the chair, stretching out your fingers.

your blanket slips off your lap. you don’t bother to fix it.

just as you consider returning to bed, the door creaks open—quietly, like someone trying not to wake you.

kenma steps in, dressed down in a hoodie and sweatpants, his hair tucked behind his ears and falling a little messily over one eye. he’s holding a mug in one hand, the steam curling upward in soft spirals.

“chamomile,” he murmurs, like he already knows you’ve hit your limit. “no caffeine.”

you smile, soft and grateful, as you reach for it. “thanks, babe.”

he doesn’t answer—just watches you take a sip, eyes scanning your face the way he always does when you’ve had a long day. looking for signs of leftover tension. of stress you forgot to name. of the part of you that still feels tight, even after sleep.

“paper done?” he asks quietly.

“almost.”

he nods.

then, without another word, he crosses the room and presses a kiss to the crown of your head, his lips warm and still faintly tasting of mint.

you close your eyes, just for a second.

you don’t need to say thank you. he already knows.

kenma doesn’t leave right away.

he lingers, standing by your armchair with his hands tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie, the soft glow of your laptop screen casting a faint shimmer over his tired features. his gaze moves over you slowly, quietly—like he’s memorizing this version of you too: tired but trying, frustrated but still moving forward, wrapped in a blanket in the library he built just for you.

you feel the weight of his eyes before you see the movement—the gentle lean forward, the way his hand finds your shoulder, and then the soft brush of his lips against your temple. a kiss not meant to distract, but to ground. to say i’m still here.

“i’ll go finish my last match,” he murmurs against your skin, voice hushed and steady. “then i’ll shut everything off and come back.”

you nod, not really trusting your voice, and offer him a soft smile instead. he squeezes your shoulder gently before he turns to leave, the door clicking shut behind him with quiet finality.

the silence returns—not empty, but full of the warm remnants he leaves behind. the soft throb of affection. the fading scent of chamomile.

you try to keep working.

you manage another paragraph, maybe two, before your eyes begin to blur again and your mind drifts away from your thesis statement and starts circling something far more comforting: the warmth of kenma’s hoodie, the sound of his voice when he’s half-distracted and honest, the solid feel of his arms around you when you’re too exhausted to hold yourself upright.

your fingers fall still on the keyboard.

the library is so still, so warm, so yours—that your body gives in before your brain can argue.

you don’t even remember closing your laptop.

the game room is quiet now—headset hung, pc humming into sleep mode, lights dimmed low. kenma rubs the heel of his palm against his eyes, exhaustion tugging at the corners of his vision as he finally pushes back from his desk. it’s late—he knows by the feel of the air alone, the soft hush that settles into the bones of the house after midnight.

he pads barefoot through the hallway, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. he’s already halfway through a yawn when he reaches the bedroom, expecting to find you curled up in bed.

but the room is empty.

the sheets are untouched.

kenma frowns softly, then pivots, turning toward the softest pocket of the house. he nudges open the library door, already suspecting what he’ll find.

and there you are.

curled into the armchair with your laptop shut beside you, blanket tangled around your legs and your cheek pressed against the crook of your arm. your breathing is soft, deep—the kind of sleep that comes only when you finally let yourself stop.

kenma leans against the doorframe for a long moment, eyes on you, his features unreadable in the soft light.

he’s always preferred silence. it made sense. it was simple. predictable. safe.

but this silence—the one wrapped around you now—is different.

it’s full of your breathing, your dreams, the tiny subconscious twitch of your fingers. it’s full of the knowledge that you’re here—safe and close and his. it’s a silence that holds.

eventually, he moves.

with practiced ease, he crosses the room and kneels beside the armchair. his fingers brush softly against your cheek, coaxing you without waking you, and when you stir just enough to lean toward the warmth, he lifts you carefully into his arms.

you mumble something, half-asleep and unintelligible, your arms curling instinctively around his neck.

“i got you,” he whispers, more to himself than to you.

he carries you down the hall, every step measured and quiet. the hallway is dim, but he doesn’t need the lights. he’s carried you through this house enough times to know the path by heart.

when he reaches the bed, he lays you down gently, careful not to jostle you too much. you curl instinctively toward the mattress, eyes still closed, a soft little exhale falling from your lips as you reach—still half-asleep—for something. for him.

kenma doesn’t make you wait long.

he slides in beside you, pulling the blanket up over both of you, then curls himself around your body like a second shield. his arm wraps securely around your waist, tugging you close until your back is pressed to his chest, your head tucked just beneath his chin.

“silence might still be my favorite,” he murmurs, lips brushing the top of your head, “but only when it’s like this.”

you don’t respond—not with words. just a soft sigh as your hand finds his beneath the blanket and squeezes, barely awake but still feeling him.

kenma lets the silence stretch. lets the night take its time.

then, in a voice no louder than the breeze outside, he presses a kiss to your hair and whispers, “good night, baby.”

and pulls you closer.

124 notes · View notes

yukkiji · 2 days ago

Text

love again

when a chance return to blue lock reunites you with your ex, otoya eita—the boy who once broke your heart and the only one who ever truly had it—you’re forced to confront the past you never fully let go of. amidst old wounds, meddling fathers, and second chances, he begins to show you that maybe love doesn’t always have to be perfect to be real. maybe, just maybe, this is what it means to love again.

blue lock masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. otoya eita x fem!reader ft bachira meguru

genre: fluff, romance, mild angst, second chance trope

wc: 9.3k

author's note: this has been the longest and i just found myself writing more while proof reading this hehe

you weren’t supposed to be here.

technically, you weren’t even on the list of medics scheduled for duty today. you only ever filled in from time to time—volunteer work, mostly—thanks to your dad, who happened to be one of the senior physicians working with blue lock’s rotating medical team. he’d drag you along whenever someone bailed, mumbling something about “real-world experience” and “pulling your weight.”

today was one of those days.

the medic who was supposed to be on duty had called in sick, and your dad, already drowning in work, gave you that look—the one that meant you didn’t really have a choice. so here you were, standing inside the blue lock arena, medical kit in hand, trying not to look completely out of place.

the air buzzed with intensity. even from the edge of the field, you could feel it—the heat, the ambition, the need to be seen. it was different watching from a screen back in the medical bay. back there, you were just an observer. now, you were close enough to feel the weight of it all.

and then you saw him.

otoya eita.

quick, fluid, all confidence and charm wrapped in sweat and sunlight. you’d seen his name in reports, heard bits and pieces—how he’d nearly thrown it all away, how he clawed his way back. he was reformed, they said. focused. dangerous, in a way that made you wonder what it cost him to smile like that.

you looked down, pretending to check something in your kit.

you first met otoya eita back in middle school.

he was the well-known playboy in those days. breaking hearts like it was part of his routine. either he’d flirt until someone fell for him, or he’d say just enough to leave them wondering if he ever meant it. it was all a game to him. attention, affection, and then—nothing.

when you two became classmates, he found himself drawn to you—and he didn’t know why. you weren’t flashy. you weren’t the loudest or the prettiest or the kind of girl that begged for attention.

you were just… kind.

the typical sweet girl. a quiet ray of sunshine. the one who always remembered to bring an extra pen. the one who smiled at everyone like it didn’t cost a thing. soft voice, warm eyes, and a laugh that stayed with him longer than he cared to admit.

and maybe that was what unsettled him the most.

you weren’t trying to impress him. you didn’t giggle at his stupid jokes or blush when he teased you. you treated him the same way you treated everyone else—gently, genuinely, like he wasn’t someone to chase or be wary of.

and that… confused him.

he flirted anyway, of course. it was second nature by then. made his usual comments. tested the waters.

but you never played along.

one day, while he was leaning against your desk, doing that thing where he smirks and says your name like it’s a secret only he knows, you looked up at him—calm, collected—and said:

“you should stop.”

he blinked. “stop what?”

“this,” you gestured vaguely between the two of you. “whatever game you think you’re playing. you flirt with every girl who breathes near you, and it’s getting old.”

you didn’t raise your voice. didn’t sound angry. but the words hit him harder than if you had.

“you’re not serious,” he’d said, a weak laugh slipping out. but something about your eyes made him pause.

“i am,” you said, still with that same polite smile. “you’re the biggest flirt i’ve ever met, otoya. and i don’t think you even realize how much it hurts people when you treat their feelings like a pastime.”

he didn’t know what to say to that. no one had ever called him out before. not like that. not with honesty instead of bitterness. not with clarity instead of jealousy.

you’d gone back to your notebook after that, like the conversation was over.

no drama. no lingering stare. no satisfaction in calling him out. just a quiet shift, like you’d decided it wasn’t worth your time.

and maybe that should’ve been the end of it.

but otoya found himself even more drawn to you after that.

because for the first time, someone hadn’t melted under his attention. you didn’t treat his words like gifts—you weighed them, called them empty, and handed them right back.

he realized then that you were like a camellia.

beautiful in a way that wasn’t loud or overwhelming—just steady. graceful. the kind of flower that blooms in winter, when everything else gives up. soft petals layered with quiet strength.

but camellias have thorns too. ones you don’t always see right away. and he hadn’t seen them—not until that moment, when you cut through his charm with a single sentence.

he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

after that day, something in otoya shifted. slowly, then all at once.

he started showing up early to help set up for school events. not just to be near you—at least, that’s what he told himself—but because he liked the way your eyes lit up when someone actually followed through on their promises.

he began waiting for you after class. never said it outright, but he’d linger by the gates, hands in his pockets, pretending like it was just a coincidence. like he just happened to be heading the same way.

and eventually, he started walking you home.

he never pushed. never flirted the way he used to. instead, he asked about your day. listened when you talked. remembered the small things.

the rumors never fully stopped. some people said he was just bored. others said you’d be next. a few whispered that you’d changed him—like that was a bad thing.

but you didn’t listen to any of it.

because you believed in what you had.

you believed in him.

and somewhere between the quiet walks home and the way he started remembering the things that mattered to you—your favorite snacks, the songs you hummed under your breath, the way you liked the sky best when it was overcast—you found yourself falling for him.

not in the loud, all-consuming way people expected. but in the quiet, steady way that felt like trust.

you knew he was being genuine.

knew it in the way he looked at you—no teasing, no games, just something soft and uncertain. knew it in the way he stopped entertaining the attention from others, like he didn’t need it anymore.

he was still otoya—still charming, still cocky sometimes, still figuring himself out.

but with you, he let his guard down.

and that meant more to you than any perfect romance ever could.

you started dating sometime around your third year in middle school.

there wasn’t a grand confession. no big moment under the cherry blossoms or dramatic “will you be mine” in the hallway. just the two of you walking home one afternoon, shoulders brushing, and him reaching out to quietly take your hand.

and that was enough.

otoya proved himself in the ways that mattered. he showed up. he listened. he stayed. and for you, that was all it took.

rumors still followed him like shadows—whispers in the hallways, passing comments from people who still thought they knew who he was. but you chose to ignore them.

not out of naivety, but for your own peace of mind. because you knew what he was like when it was just the two of you. no masks, no act. just eita.

and you loved him for that.

you thought maybe—if the two of you held on long enough—you could carry that feeling into high school, into something more.

but not all stories go the way you hope they will.

when high school came around, things felt… different.

you started volunteering occasionally with the athletics committee—mostly on the first aid team. it wasn’t glamorous work, but it kept you close to something you cared about. helping. staying useful. staying present.

otoya, of course, was already making a name for himself on the soccer team.

he was fast, relentless, impossible to miss on the field. even when he was drenched in sweat and surrounded by cheering crowds, his eyes always searched for you in the sidelines. and when he found you—just a glance, just a second—it was like nothing else mattered.

despite his packed schedule—practices, matches, meetings—he still made time for you. he’d walk you home whenever he could, even if it meant running to practice afterward. he’d bring you energy drinks during long committee meetings, sneak you your favorite bread from the cafeteria, show up after games with that tired, crooked smile and ask, “did you see that goal?”

and you thought—maybe being in almost the same circle, being around the same events, the same people—meant you’d get more time together.

that it’d bring you closer.

but sometimes, even when you’re running in the same direction… it doesn’t mean you’re still side by side.

you started to notice the changes in little things.

his replies came slower. plans got pushed back, or canceled entirely. he forgot to walk you home more often than not—but always apologized, always with that tired voice and the same soft excuse: “sorry, practice ran late.”

you believed him. you always did. but that didn’t stop the ache from settling in your chest.

and it wasn’t helping that he was getting more popular.

on the field, he was electric—fast, confident, untouchable. off the field, people started noticing. upperclassmen. girls from other schools. even some of the younger players who looked up to him like he was already something legendary.

you weren’t the jealous type.

you never had been.

but even so, something ugly started to bloom in your chest—quiet and tight and heavy. insecurity.

because the more people praised him, the more you started to wonder if you were still enough.

he never gave you a reason to doubt him—not really. he still brought you little things when he remembered. still smiled at you when your eyes met across the field. still held your hand when no one else was looking.

but it felt different now.

like you were holding onto something slipping between your fingers.

and the worst part? you didn’t want to ask for more—not when you knew how hard he was working, how much pressure he was under.

so you stayed quiet and kept showing up. kept loving him the only way you knew how.

but deep down, you could feel it—something shifting.

the slow, steady unraveling.

you just didn’t know how much longer the thread would hold.

sadly, the thread broke.

the locker room.

it wasn’t intentional—just a quick trip to drop off a first aid kit after the game. exhaustion clung to your skin like something permanent after a long day of standing, running, managing cramps and bruises.

then came the sound—bright, too familiar. a girl’s laugh.

you turned the corner, and the world stopped.

her arms wrapped tightly around him, his back against the lockers, and her lips on his.

he didn’t pull away. he didn’t push her off. he didn’t even move.

it lasted only a second—maybe less—but it was enough.

your breath caught somewhere in your chest. the kit slipped slightly in your hand, suddenly heavier than it should’ve been. the hallway rang with silence, except for the echo of her laugh and the pounding in your ears.

she had always been there. always stayed a little too long after games. always smiled too wide when he was around. always looked at you like she was waiting to prove a point.

and deep down, you knew.

some part of you always knew.

but that? that felt like betrayal wrapped in confirmation.

you didn’t confront him. didn’t shout.

you turned and walked.

fast.

his voice never came, but his footsteps did—rushed, familiar, echoing down the corridor behind you.

you didn’t want to hear him. didn’t want to give him the chance.

so you ducked into the nearest storage room, pulled the door shut, and pressed your back to the wall. the air was cold. the silence even colder.

outside, his footsteps slowed.

lingered.

then faded.

he never saw where you went and you never gave him the chance to explain.

a week later, you sent a message. short. final.

“don’t reach out. we’re done.”

he never replied.

and maybe that hurt more than anything else. maybe part of you wanted him to fight for it. maybe you were afraid of what he’d say if he did.

you had told him once—clear, serious:

“cheating is non-negotiable, eita.” “i know what people say about you. i know your past. but if we do this… i need to know i’m the only one.”

he had promised. “you are. i swear.”

but promises, it seemed, were meant to be broken.

what you didn’t know—what you never stayed long enough to see— was that he did push her off. did shove her away like her touch was poison. did snap at her, furious, telling her it meant nothing. that it wasn’t her he was thinking about.

but by then, you were already gone.

he disappeared into blue lock.

you disappeared into silence.

and just like that, you stopped existing in each other’s lives—like none of it had happened. like first love wasn’t supposed to leave that kind of mark.

a few months later, here you are—back in it, though you hadn’t planned to be.

the arena is colder than you expected. sleek and sterile, all sharp lines and too-bright lights. a place built to turn hunger into greatness. you're not even supposed to be on duty. the original medic called in sick, and your father—ever persuasive—asked you to fill in.

so here you are. wandering unfamiliar hallways with a med kit slung over one shoulder, muttering under your breath as you look for the bathroom. the signage is useless. the layout’s a maze. and the lights overhead hum like they’re mocking you.

your sneakers squeak slightly on the polished floor as you turn the corner.

then, footsteps.

familiar. steady. unhurried.

a tall shadow appears ahead.

you freeze.

and when he rounds the corner—just a few feet away—it’s him.

otoya eita.

older now. sharper. still tall, still wearing that same wild, lazy hair. there’s still something cocky in his eyes, but it’s quieter now. dulled. like something in him got worn down over time.

he sees you.

he stops.

and in one second, everything comes rushing back, third year. his stupid grin after practice. your hand in his. his lips on your temple. the quiet ache in your chest when you walked away.

and just like that, the thread pulls tight again.

“…you’re not supposed to be here,” he says, voice low—surprised, not accusing.

your grip tightens around the strap of your kit. “yeah,” you reply, just as quietly. “i’m not.”

you don’t look at him. not fully. not yet.

he takes a step forward. hesitant. careful, like you might vanish if he gets too close.

“i didn’t think i’d see you again.”

“you can thank the medic who called in sick,” you mutter. “i’m just a fill-in.”

he almost smiles, but there’s no light in it. just the shadow of something older. heavier.

there’s a long pause. then—

“that day, back then—”

“don’t,” you cut in, firm but not unkind. “not here.”

he nods, once. but the silence between you stretches thin, fragile.

then, he says it. “you didn’t stay long enough to see what actually happened.”

your throat tightens.

“i saw enough.”

“did you?” he asks, softly. not defensive. just… hurt.

you look away, jaw clenched. “don’t.”

“don’t what?”

“don’t make me doubt what i saw. don’t act like it didn’t ruin me.”

“i’m not,” he says, stepping a little closer. “i just—i didn’t kiss her back. i didn’t want it. i pushed her off.”

your heart stutters. because those are the words you wanted to hear months ago—words you needed.

but now? now they just sound like an echo from a place you no longer live in.

you lift your eyes to his. and then you say it—quiet, steady:

“you know i only had one condition, eita.”

he freezes.

“one,” you continue. “don’t make me look stupid. don’t make me feel like just another girl in your past.”

his voice cracks, almost like he’s holding back more than just words. “you weren’t.”

“but i felt like i was,” you say. “and that was enough.”

he takes a breath, slow and tight. “i promised you.”

“you did.” you nod. “and then you broke it.”

“no,” he shakes his head, urgently now. “i didn’t. i didn’t cheat on you. i never would’ve.”

“but i didn’t see that,” you whisper. “i saw her. i saw you. and i couldn’t stay long enough to learn the difference.”

he opens his mouth again—but before anything else can be said, voices echo down the hall.

“yo, otoya! where the hell’d you go?” “coach is looking for you!”

you both freeze.

the footsteps are getting closer. teammates turning the corner.

otoya looks over his shoulder, then back at you. his jaw clenches. there’s something desperate in his eyes.

“i’ll talk to you after the match,” he says quickly, quietly. like a promise. like he means it this time.

you don’t answer.

you just step back as his teammates reach him, loud and oblivious.

and even as he walks away, even as he throws one last glance over his shoulder—you don’t move.

because this isn’t the version of him you used to know.

and you’re not the same girl who used to wait around to be chosen.

the match ended.

blue lock won.

the crowd roared, lights flashed, names echoed through the arena—and somewhere in the chaos, you stood with your kit clutched to your chest, heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with the game.

he looked for you once, eyes scanning the crowd from the field. you turned before he could catch your gaze.

you weren’t sure if you were supposed to stay. if you wanted to stay. if seeing him again would do anything but crack open everything you spent months sealing shut.

you told yourself you’d just patch up whoever needed it, then leave.

quick, clean, professional.

but when the final whistle blew and the players filed back inside, part of you lingered in the tunnel—just far enough to not be noticed, just close enough to feel the weight of it all.

you were having second thoughts.

about staying.

about meeting him.

about what it would mean to look him in the eye after pretending he didn’t exist.

you told yourself it wouldn’t matter. that it was in the past. that it didn’t deserve to crawl back into your chest and take up space.

but the ache was still there. deep, dull, constant. the kind of ache that didn’t listen to logic. the kind that came with unanswered questions and the memory of a promise he swore he wouldn’t break.

and now, here you are—still standing there, frozen in the hallway outside the locker rooms, when you hear it:

his laugh.

soft. quiet. real.

the sliding door suddenly opens, and the sharp hiss of it makes you flinch. instinctively, you take a step back.

“ah—sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

it’s not otoya.

bachira meguru stands in the doorway, slightly damp from a post-match rinse, hair curling around his face and jersey half on like he was too impatient to dry off properly. he blinks at you, eyes curious and bright.

“you’re the medic, right?” he tilts his head, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to place you. “don’t think i’ve seen you around before.”

you force a smile, small and polite. “i’m just filling in.”

“hm,” he hums, rocking on his heels. “well, you’re lucky. you came on a win.”

you nod, shifting the med kit in your hand. “yeah. congratulations.”

bachira’s smile widens, then his gaze flickers behind him for a moment. “oh—hey, otoya—”

your chest tightens.

“he’s looking for someone,” bachira adds absentmindedly, before glancing back at you. something unreadable flickers in his eyes, like maybe he connects the dots too quickly for comfort. “i’ll, uh… let you two talk.”

and just like that, he slips past you with a grin and a wave, leaving the door half-open behind him.

you don’t move.

your fingers curl around the strap of your kit like it might anchor you to the floor.

because you know who’s coming next.

you just don’t know what version of him you’ll be looking at.

or what version of you he’s expecting to find.

you don’t move.

not when footsteps echo from inside the locker room. not when his voice—low, a little rough from exertion—says something you can’t quite make out. not even when you hear your name.

then—

he steps into view.

otoya eita.

his hair’s damp, strands clinging to his forehead. his jersey is slung over one shoulder now, a towel in the other hand. when he sees you, he stops short—like he wasn’t ready. like maybe he didn’t expect you to still be there.

his eyes lock on yours.

and for a second, neither of you speaks.

just silence. and history.

he takes a step closer, cautious. “you waited.”

you shake your head, eyes flicking to the floor. “i wasn’t going to.”

“but you did.”

his voice is quiet. softer than you remember. none of that flirty, smug ease you were so used to. just plain honesty, hanging heavy between you.

you sigh, shifting the med kit higher on your shoulder. “i don’t know why.”

he doesn’t press it. doesn’t try to close the distance.

you glance past him, toward the noise behind the door. “you should go back in. they’re probably looking for you.”

“i told them i’d come back,” he says. “after i talked to you.”

his gaze doesn’t waver. neither does yours.

“eita…” your voice trails, too many thoughts trying to push through at once. “i’m not saying i forgive you. i’m not even saying i understand what happened that day.”

his jaw tightens. “you didn’t stay long enough for me to explain.”

“i know.”

you take a breath.

“but i’ll think about it.”

his eyes search yours, like he’s trying not to get his hopes up—but failing a little anyway.

“you will?”

“i said i’ll think about it,” you repeat, softer. “that’s all i can offer right now.”

and for now, that’s enough.

he nods, once. “then i’ll wait.”

after the match against the u-20 team, blue lock gave its players a two-week break. a rare sliver of rest between battles. for most of them, it meant a return to normalcy—sleeping in, catching up with friends, maybe going home.

but for otoya, it meant something else entirely.

you had once told him, back when everything fell apart, “you didn’t chase me.” and he hadn’t. not really.

he had let you walk away. let the silence settle and harden. maybe out of guilt. maybe because he thought it was what you wanted.

but now—he’s chasing you.

not with words. not with excuses. but with action. quiet, consistent effort that slipped into your life like sunlight through drawn curtains.

the first time, he showed up outside your gate with a bundle of wildflowers clutched awkwardly in both hands. they weren’t perfect—some petals already wilting, stems unevenly cut—but his eyes were soft and unsure when he said, “i didn’t know which ones you’d like, so i just picked the ones that looked the most like you.”

you hadn’t known what to say to that. so you let him hand them over.

after that, he came around more often. never uninvited. never demanding.

sometimes he brought flowers, sometimes your favorite snacks, and once—just once—a folded paper crane with a scribbled note inside: “if i could go back to that day, i’d run after you sooner.”

he never stayed long. ten minutes, fifteen at most. asked how you were. smiled when you smiled. listened when you spoke.

it wasn’t perfect.

some days, the ache in your chest whispered that you shouldn’t let him in again. that trust broken once might never hold the same shape.

but other days, when he laughed—soft and warm, like the version of him only you ever got to see—you caught yourself remembering. not the end. not the pain.

just the beginning. when it all felt easy. when he made you feel chosen.

your mother said nothing at first. just eyed the growing collection of vases by the windowsill, each one filled with different blooms. but on the fifth day, she leaned over your shoulder and said quietly, “he’s trying. you see that, right?”

and you did. even if you hadn’t said anything yet.

then the two weeks passed in a blink.

the evening before he was due back at blue lock, he came by again—but this time, no flowers, no folded notes. just him.

he stood outside your house under the fading orange sky, the porch light flickering to life above him. his bag was slung over one shoulder, his hair slightly windswept, eyes tired in a way that told you he hadn’t slept much the night before.

“this is the last day of break,” he said, voice quiet but steady. “i’ll be gone again starting tomorrow. might not get time to visit.”

you stood in the doorway, arms loosely folded, heart thudding a little louder than you wanted to admit.

he took a breath, looked straight at you. “but i wanted to say… please wait for me.”

your breath caught.

“i’ll still wait for your answer,” he added. “even if it takes weeks. months. i’ll wait. because this time, i want to do it right.”

your fingers tightened around the edge of your sleeves. it was hard to speak past the knot in your throat.

“…you’re serious about this?”

he nodded, without hesitation. “i’m serious about you.”

silence lingered for a beat. then you exhaled, slowly.

“i’ll think about it.”

his eyes softened, but he didn’t try to press more. didn’t ask for a timeline, didn’t demand anything.

instead, he took a step closer, then paused.

“…can i hug you?”

he asked it so gently, like the answer could either break or remake him.

you stared at him for a long second, searching for any trace of the boy who broke your heart—and finding only someone trying to piece it back together.

so you nodded. “yeah. it’s okay.”

and when he wrapped his arms around you, he held you like he’d been waiting months to do it.

you didn’t lean away.

you let yourself be still in it. just for a moment.

“good luck, eita,” you murmured against his shoulder, voice barely above a whisper.

he pulled back, just enough to meet your eyes. and in that look was a silent promise:

i’ll come back.

when you thought it would be a while before you saw him again, fate—ever unpredictable—had other plans.

because barely two weeks after that night at your doorstep, you found yourself walking past the familiar white halls of blue lock once more.

your father had asked for a favor. his usual assistant—an experienced medic who helped monitor and care for the players—was placed on temporary leave due to a family emergency. with the neo egoist league entering a critical stretch, and medical personnel stretched thin, he needed someone he could trust.

“just until my assistant gets back,” he had said, pressing the schedule into your hand. “i know it’s a lot to ask, but you know the environment. you know the work. and… i think you’re ready.”

you weren’t sure what he meant by that last part.

but you said yes.

so now here you are again—wearing the familiar badge clipped to your collar, carrying the same first aid kit, standing beneath the same cold fluorescent lights.

you weren’t supposed to be here.

not really.

but the universe has a habit of looping you back into unfinished chapters. and the moment your name was listed as part of the temporary staff for blue lock’s medical rotation during the neo egoist league, you knew exactly what it meant.

you were going to see otoya again.

not in passing. not across the street. but here—up close, often, and in the same space where it all began.

you tried to tell yourself it was fine. you had boundaries now. clarity. time had done its work on you.

and yet, as you stepped into the arena again—hearts racing just a little faster, footsteps echoing softly down the polished hallway—it was impossible to ignore the quiet buzz under your skin.

you weren’t even supposed to run into him that soon, but your father, as always, had other ideas.

"come with me," he said that morning, clipboard in hand, already walking too fast for someone who hadn’t even finished his coffee. "we need to do a quick round at the spanish stratum—fc barcha. they’ve been overworking in training again, and i want updated vitals from the forward line."

you barely managed to throw on your jacket and grab your kit before he was already halfway down the corridor.

"dad, don’t you have, like, three interns for this kind of thing?"

"they’re busy. and you already know most of the players. it'll be faster with you."

he didn’t even bother to hide his smug tone. and that’s when it hit you—he was doing this on purpose.

he knew exactly who was stationed under fc barcha.

he was trying to push you back into otoya’s orbit, pretending it was part of the job.

you sighed, adjusting the strap of your med kit over your shoulder, following him through the now-familiar blue lock halls. the sound of shouting echoed faintly in the distance—cleats on turf, a whistle being blown, someone yelling directions in clipped spanish.

fc barcha’s stratum was tucked in one of the sunlit wings of the facility—wide glass windows, synthetic grass that looked almost too perfect, and a row of players wrapping up their drills at the far end of the field.

and there he was.

otoya eita. jogging off the pitch with a towel slung over his neck, damp hair clinging to his forehead, laughing at something one of his teammates said.

but the moment his eyes found you—everything stopped.

his smile faltered just slightly.

your heart did too.

he didn’t say anything. not right away. but he walked over, slowing as he reached you and your father like the weight of the last few months was finally catching up.

"there he is," your dad said, pointing without subtlety. "otoya, come here. we’re running a quick check before i report the stats."

you resisted the urge to groan.

otoya stopped right in front of you, eyes never quite leaving your face.

"wasn’t expecting to see you here," he said, voice lower than you remembered.

"me neither," you answered, trying to stay neutral. "temporary. just covering until your medic’s back."

your father shoved the chart into your hands like it was the most normal thing in the world.

"take his vitals for me, would you?"

you stared at him, eyebrows raised, but he’d already turned away to greet another staff member, clearly giving you both space.

you narrowed your eyes. suspicious.

he was absolutely doing this on purpose.

and now you were standing there—face to face with the boy who’d once cracked your heart right down the center—while he waited quietly, the tension between you thick enough to choke on.

"i’ll be quick," you said, pulling out your stethoscope.

otoya just gave a small smile. "no rush. i don’t mind you staying a little longer."

you hated that your chest fluttered at that.

hated it even more that some part of you didn’t want to leave just yet.

you pretend not to notice the warmth in his voice. pretend your hands don’t tremble ever so slightly as you wrap the cuff around his arm. the tension is barely there—so subtle it could pass as nerves from working with a pro-level team.

but you know better.

he doesn’t say anything at first. just watches you.

and that’s somehow worse. the silence between you hums with everything unsaid. like dust hanging in still air—waiting to settle, but never quite falling. it’s strange how easily he still fits into your peripheral vision. how quickly your body remembers the rhythm of being near him.

you scribble down the vitals, quick and efficient.

“heart rate’s normal,” you murmur.

“of course,” he says, a half-laugh curling into the edges of his voice. “you’re the one checking it.”

you glance at him, unamused. “don’t flirt with me during vitals.”

he tilts his head. “it’s not flirting if it’s the truth.”

you don’t answer. don’t rise to the bait. but your hands slow just slightly, and you hate how he notices—how he always notices.

he shifts on the bench, glancing down at the floor for a beat, then back up. “you look good,” he says, quieter now. “i mean—not just… you know. like you’re doing okay.”

you hesitate. the words hit differently when they’re soft. when they aren’t part of his usual charm.

“i’ve been… busy,” you reply. “just doing what needs to be done.”

he nods, slow and solemn. “yeah. i get that.”

you close the medical kit with a quiet snap. the weight of the moment settles heavily between you. there’s history in it—too much, really. unspoken things and old scars, stitched up clumsily but never quite healed.

“i’m trying,” he says suddenly. “i didn’t chase you back then. i should have. but i’m doing it now… even if it’s late.”

you look at him—really look—and for a second, it’s hard to breathe.

“i know,” you say, and the honesty in your voice startles even you. “i can see that.”

before either of you can say anything more, a familiar voice breaks through the moment.

“otooooya! coach is calling, man!” bachira’s voice echoes across the training grounds, bright and teasing. “stop flirting with the medic and move!”

otoya sighs through his nose, muttering a quiet curse, and glances at you like he’s torn between obligation and the conversation that just started.

“can we talk after this?” he asks, voice gentle. “like really talk. no running. no hiding.”

you pause.

but the way he’s looking at you—so open, so afraid of the word no—makes something in your chest soften.

“…yeah,” you say. “after your review. i’ll wait.”

his shoulders ease, just a little. a breath he’d been holding finally released.

he hesitates, then asks, “is it okay if i… hug you?”

you blink, surprised.

still, you nod. slowly.

he steps forward, arms wrapping around you carefully, like you’ll vanish if he moves too fast. he smells like sweat and grass and something distinctly him. your hands stay at your sides at first—then lift slightly, settling against his back.

and just as you're about to pull away—

he leans in, pressing a light kiss to the top of your head.

your entire body stiffens.

he freezes too.

“…shit—sorry,” he mutters, pulling back quickly, eyes wide. “i didn’t mean to—it just—i used to do that a lot, didn’t i?”

your heartbeat’s too loud in your ears.

you nod. “yeah. you did.”

his lips part like he wants to apologize again—but the look on your face stops him. not angry. just tired. overwhelmed.

he rubs the back of his neck, stepping back.

“i really am trying to get this right.”

you meet his eyes one last time before turning away.

“we’ll talk after,” you say. “don’t make me regret saying yes.”

“i won’t,” he says, more certain than you’ve heard him in months. “i swear.”

and then you leave—pulse still quick, steps unsteady, and the ghost of a kiss still lingering where his lips had touched your hair.

you needed air.

not just oxygen—but distance. from him. from memories. from how easy it still is to fall into step with otoya eita, even after everything.

you told yourself it was nothing. just a reflex. an accident. the kind of thing someone does out of old habit without thinking. but your body remembered it too vividly. the way he used to greet you. the way he always kissed the top of your head like it was second nature.

you hated that it still made you feel something.

so now, you’re tucked away inside your father’s office—door locked, curtains drawn, pretending like you’re reviewing notes on the tablet in front of you. you’re not. the screen's dim, untouched for the past ten minutes.

your phone buzzes once, a notification lighting up the corner.

not him. just a reminder from your calendar: “n.e.l. — observe stratum assignments (tentative).”

you sigh, head tipping back against the couch.

your father had told you earlier, “i’ll be heading around to check on the other stratums. taking a few interns with me. you can stay here and rest.” but he had left the fc barcha player medical files open on the desk. hadn’t even tried to be subtle about it.

you know what he’s doing.

he didn’t drag you back into the arena by chance. didn’t ask you to fill in just because of a missing medic. he’s trying to fix something neither of you have had the courage to face.

he knows about otoya.

of course he does. he always liked him, maybe more than you expected. maybe more than he should have. and now he’s orchestrating little reunions under the guise of work assignments and medical rotations.

you glance toward the door.

your chest still feels too full. too heavy. like something is trying to press its way out from under your ribs.

“check on fc barcha,” he had said casually.

right.

as if you didn’t know exactly who was assigned there.

you close the tablet and shove it into your bag.

your feet drag a little on the way back toward the fc barcha stratum. exhaustion settles in your bones—not the kind that comes from work, but from feeling too much, too fast. your father had messaged you just five minutes ago:

“check on barcha one last time before you call it a day. few of them might’ve gotten banged up.”

short. simple. not even a hint of the real reason he was probably sending you back there.

you exhale through your nose as you walk the winding corridors of blue lock. the halls are quieter now, echoing with only the occasional voice or footsteps from a far-off training room. you keep your head down, kit slung over your shoulder, silently rehearsing what you’ll say if you run into anyone you don’t feel ready to face.

what you didn’t expect was seeing him again—already.

the clinic door is half-open, soft chatter spilling out.

you peek in.

and there he is.

otoya sits on the edge of the bed with a faintly sheepish smile, one ankle raised on a foam block while bachira applies an ice pack with exaggerated care.

"stop squirming, man," bachira huffs, pressing the pack down harder than necessary. "you're worse than isagi when he gets a paper cut."

otoya winces. “it’s cold, you demon.”

you blink. of course. of course this is how the universe chooses to set up your next conversation—with him mildly injured, bachira grinning like a cat, and you standing in the doorway feeling like you've walked into a scene from some weird sitcom.

they both turn to look at you.

otoya straightens immediately, his expression shifting—brightening with a hint of nervousness.

"hey," he says.

you glance at his ankle, then at him.

“i wasn’t expecting to talk to you in this kind of situation,” you say, stepping fully into the room and dropping your kit gently onto the nearby counter.

otoya laughs lightly, scratching the back of his neck. “yeah… not exactly how i imagined our next conversation either.”

bachira, still holding the ice pack, grins between the two of you like he’s watching his favorite drama unfold in real time.

“do you want me to, uh… give you guys a moment?” he asks, far too entertained.

you don’t answer right away. your eyes stay on otoya’s ankle—swollen slightly but not alarming.

“you rolled it?” you ask.

“during the final sprint,” otoya says. “nothing serious. just being dramatic, apparently.”

“very dramatic,” bachira echoes, already standing up and handing the pack off to you. “i’ll go… hydrate. or nap. or spy on rin.”

he exits with a two-finger salute, humming a tune as he disappears down the hall.

now it’s just you and otoya. again.

you place the ice pack more securely and adjust the elevation of his leg. you don’t say much at first—too aware of the silence. of his eyes on you. of the way he’s trying so hard to read you without pushing too far.

“so,” he finally says, soft, careful. “guess fate really doesn’t want us to stop bumping into each other.”

you don’t smile, but you don’t look away either.

“maybe fate’s just testing whether or not i’ll hit you with this clipboard.”

he chuckles under his breath. “fair.”

and then quieter, more serious: “but i’m glad you came.”

your hands freeze just slightly in their motion, before resuming.

“…i said we’d talk,” you reply.

“yeah,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “and i meant it when i said i’d wait.”

there’s a beat of silence, but it’s not uncomfortable—just… familiar.

you glance down at the ice pack, adjusting it just slightly, then brushing your thumb carefully along the edge of the wrap. it’s automatic, second nature now. like muscle memory.

and suddenly, the moment feels too close to another lifetime.

you’re reminded of middle school—of sitting beside him on the edge of the field with a scraped knee or a twisted wrist. of him wincing dramatically while you dabbed antiseptic on his cuts. of high school afternoons when he’d come find you after games with grass in his hair and that boyish grin, holding out some new bruise like it was a trophy.

"you always manage to get hurt in the dumbest ways," you'd say back then, shaking your head.

and he’d laugh and say, “just an excuse to see you fuss over me.”

you swallow hard, blinking back to the present where he’s older, a little more careful with his words, but somehow still the same.

“this feels… familiar,” you murmur.

his smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, a little wistful. “yeah. like we’ve rewound time or something.”

you shift on your feet, not quite meeting his eyes.

“…i’ve been thinking about us,” you finally say, voice quiet but steady.

his breath catches—just barely. he doesn’t speak, doesn’t rush you. he just waits. like he promised.

you place the ice pack down gently on the metal tray beside you, your fingers lingering on the cold surface for a few seconds longer than necessary. it gives you something to focus on, something to hold onto while your thoughts race. the room is quiet—too quiet—and the sterile scent of antiseptic in the air reminds you too much of before. of middle school afternoons and soccer matches and the way he used to wince but smile anyway when you wrapped his wrist or iced his knee.

this moment feels like those. and yet, completely different.

you finally look up.

he’s still watching you, his expression unreadable but open—like he’s bracing for whatever you might say next. and somehow, that makes it harder.

"i’ve been thinking," you start, voice soft, slow, uncertain at first. "about us. about what happened."

he doesn’t react. not yet. just listens. quietly, carefully. like each word is something he wants to remember.

you inhale deeply. it steadies you enough to continue.

"i spent so much time convincing myself that walking away was the right thing. that maybe if i left first, i’d hurt less. that if i didn’t ask for answers, i wouldn’t have to hear something that would shatter everything." your voice falters, but you push through it.

"but i should’ve listened. i should’ve stayed long enough to hear you out. and when i didn’t… i just kept wondering what if i was wrong.”

you glance down at your hands, twisting them in your lap.

“i didn’t believe you, eita. and i’m sorry.”

you expect silence—or worse, a flash of disappointment in his eyes. but instead, when you meet his gaze again, it’s not disappointment you see. it’s something softer. something sadder. understanding.

“you don’t have to apologize,” he says, voice low but steady. “not for that.”

you blink. “but i—”

before you can finish, otoya’s hand lifts—gentle, familiar—and brushes a stray strand of hair away from your face. his fingers linger just a little longer as he tucks it behind your ear, the gesture so soft it nearly undoes you.

“you were hurt,” he says, voice quieter now. steadier. “i saw it in your face.”

his gaze drops briefly, like the memory of it still stings. “you looked at me like i’d proven every awful thing you were afraid of. like everything we built just cracked open in front of you. and then you turned away—so fast, like even staying in the same room with me was too much.”

he draws in a slow breath, his fingers now curling into the fabric of his shorts. not out of nervousness, but restraint.

“i saw how hard you were trying not to fall apart right there. and i didn’t stop you. i didn’t even say your name.”

he lifts his head again, meeting your eyes with that same look that once made your heart race—honest and open, with none of the charm he used to hide behind.

“so no, you don’t owe me an apology,” he says, quietly but firmly. “you trusted me. you believed in me, even when you had every reason not to. i broke that. and i should’ve fought harder to fix it.”

his voice lowers even more now—barely above a whisper.

“i didn’t. because i was afraid. and maybe because i thought you deserved better than a guy who keeps messing up the only good thing he ever had.”

your chest tightens.

this—this version of otoya. unguarded. stripped down. not trying to win you over, not trying to flirt his way out. just… being here. showing up.

it makes your throat burn with something you’re not sure you have the words for. the weight of everything—what was lost, what was misunderstood, what was still lingering—settles somewhere in your chest, warm and aching.

then otoya speaks again, voice softer than before, carrying none of the usual teasing edge.

“if you want to take things slow,” he says, eyes steady on yours, “i’m fine with that. even if it means we just stand here. even if all it means is that you’re here with me again.”

he says it like a promise. like patience isn’t a price, but a privilege. like waiting—even in silence—is still better than never being close to you again.

“you changed me for the better, sweets,” he says softly, his voice dipping into something more vulnerable than you’re used to hearing. “and i didn’t even realize it until you weren’t there anymore.”

the nickname—sweets—slips from his lips like a reflex. it was always his favorite to call you. back then, he’d say it with a smirk, just to make you roll your eyes or hide your smile. now, it comes out gentler, less playful. more like something sacred he’s afraid to break.

he lets out a breath, shaking his head a little.

“i didn’t know the things i saw in movies—the way guys would do stupid, over-the-top stuff just to get the girl—i didn’t realize i was doing that too. not until way later.” he chuckles under his breath, a little sheepish. “bringing you snacks, waiting for you after class, volunteering at that dumb school festival just because you were in charge of it.”

his eyes meet yours again, softer now.

“i wasn’t acting. i just… really wanted you to see me. the real me. not the version everyone else talked about.”

you feel something pull tight in your chest—nostalgia, regret, affection. all tangled up in the boy he used to be and the man standing in front of you now.

he’s still him. but not exactly. he’s grown into something steadier, softer in the ways that matter.

“and when i got that text,” he says, voice low, rough around the edges, “i knew i messed everything the fuck up.”

your breath catches. he’s never said it out loud before. not like this.

“i was about to decline my blue lock application,” he admits, eyes not leaving yours. “i was this close. i didn’t care about rankings or japan’s future strikers or any of that shit—i just wanted to fix us. but… i knew you wouldn’t want me to give it all up for you. not like that.”

he swallows, jaw tight, as if forcing himself to keep going.

“so i accepted it. told myself that chasing something you believed in was still something you would’ve told me to do. and look—” he huffs a soft laugh, like he still can’t believe it. “i guess fate wasn’t done with us. you’re here. again. and i’m not gonna waste it this time.”

his voice dips lower, more certain.

“not if i still have the chance to try. to earn this. to earn you.”

this was the otoya eita you fell in love with. the one that the public doesn't know and you only know.

"you still do, eita, but we'lll take things slow

“not if i still have the chance to try. to earn this. to earn you.”

this—this was the otoya eita you fell in love with.

not the flirt everyone used to whisper about in crowded hallways. not the boy who smiled too easily and made girls fall harder than he meant to. this was the version no one else really got to see. the one who stayed behind to help you clean up after school events. who tied your shoelaces before a big exam because your hands were shaking. the one who looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that ever made sense.

this version? he was real. and he was standing right in front of you again.

your voice is quiet, but steady.

“have the chance, eita,” you say, meeting his eyes. “but we’ll take things slow.”

a pause stretches between you. not heavy. not tense. just full of everything unsaid.

and then he smiles—small, almost relieved. the kind of smile that doesn’t need words to say thank you or i’ll wait or i’m still yours, even now.

“slow,” he repeats, like it’s a promise. “whatever pace you need, i’m right there.”

before you can say anything back, his hands move—gently, deliberately. one finds your waist, pulling you in with a familiarity that still makes your breath hitch. the other comes up to your face, calloused fingertips brushing your cheek, then settling there, cradling it like something fragile and precious.

your heart skips. he leans in.

and then—

his lips press against yours.

it’s soft. not rushed. not hungry or desperate. just real. steady. sure.

you’re caught off guard. your breath stutters, eyes fluttering shut, and for a second you don’t move—because it’s been so long, and this is so much.

but then your body stops thinking, and simply remembers.

the feel of his touch. the way he always kissed you like the world could end in the next second.

so you let it happen.

you let yourself fall forward into the moment, into him, just this once.

when he pulls away, barely, his forehead rests against yours. his breath mingles with yours in the narrow space between.

your voice comes out softer than you expected.

“i said we take things slow.”

he chuckles, sheepish. “couldn’t help it. months sweets.

your voice comes out softer than you expected.

“i said we take things slow.”

he chuckles, sheepish. “couldn’t help it. i waited months, sweets.”

your chest tightens at the nickname—soft, familiar, his favorite.

“months of dreaming about this. about you,” he continues, voice dropping into something more vulnerable, more raw. “do you know how hard it was? walking away from every match, every win, and not having you there by the benches? not hearing you yell at me for getting bruised or skipping cooldowns? when my instinct was always to run to you first…”

his words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of everything he hadn’t said before. and your heart aches—not in pain, but in remembrance. with the echo of what used to be. and maybe, just maybe, with what still is.

because you remember it all.

how he used to pull you aside after school, grinning, sweaty from practice and holding out a crumpled flower from the school yard like it was some grand romantic gesture. how he’d wait outside your class with your favorite drink. how he’d joke, stumble over his words, and try to impress you even when he was already enough.

he changed for you once before.

he became someone better just to be worthy of your heart back in middle school. and you believed in him then.

but somewhere along the way—high school, maybe—your pride and your fears grew louder than your trust. you started listening to the whispers, to the stories. your own insecurities crept in, no matter how tightly you tried to keep them locked away.

you saw what you feared, and you ran. you didn’t give him a chance to explain, and maybe that was your biggest mistake.

“i knew you changed,” you murmur, eyes not quite meeting his. “i knew it even then. but… i was scared. i didn’t want to be wrong about you. and my pride… it got in the way.”

your voice wavers, not from weakness, but from finally saying what’s sat at the bottom of your chest for so long. “i let my pride talk louder than my heart. i let my fear of being hurt make the decision for me.”

otoya doesn’t say anything at first. he just reaches out, gently slipping his hand into yours. his thumb brushes the inside of your palm, slow and steady.

“i was selfish too,” he says, after a moment. “i thought staying silent was safer than risking more damage. i thought maybe it was what you needed… but i see now it just made things worse.”

he looks at you like he’s memorizing this moment. like he’s not going to take it for granted this time.

“i never stopped wanting to fix what broke between us,” he adds, voice lower now. “i just… didn’t know if you’d ever let me.”

you look at him fully, and this time, it’s without hesitation.

maybe you're both still a little bruised. maybe there's still history to sift through and spaces to fill.

but he’s here. and so are you.

“we’ll take things slow,” you say again, stronger this time, your fingers squeezing his. “but… i’m here.”

and this time, it feels like a beginning—quiet, uncertain, but full of something that’s undeniably real. not perfect, not seamless, but honest.

a second chance written in soft silences and lingering glances. in stitched-up wounds and the willingness to try, again.

finally—love, not like the dizzy kind from middle school, or the aching one from high school. but something steadier. grown. weathered. earned.

you glance down at your still-intertwined hands, the warmth between them like a small flame.

and maybe… just maybe, you owe your father a thank you. for meddling. for nudging. for seeing something you weren’t ready to admit out loud.

because if he hadn’t dragged you back into this world—into blue lock, into fc barcha, into otoya’s orbit again—you might’ve never realized:

some things don’t end. they just wait. for healing. for timing. for love—real love—to begin again.

and this time, it feels like a beginning—quiet, uncertain, but full of something that’s undeniably real.

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yukkiji · 2 days ago

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yukkiji · 3 days ago

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daylight

after a painful betrayal, she turns to iwaizumi hajime — the quiet constant from her past. in his steady presence, she learns that love was never too much to ask for, just asked of the wrong person. with him, she finally finds something real: her daylight.

haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. iwaizumi hajime x fem!reader ft. oikawa tooru

genre: fluff, romance, slowburn, hurt to comfort, timeskip!iwaizumi, timeskip!oikawa

warning: mentions of cheating, iwa punches the ex, and some profanity

wc: 8.4k

author's note: happy birthday iwa-chan!! iwa's such a green flag in this fic and tooru also like they're the best boys huhu

you weren’t supposed to come early.

you just wanted to surprise your fiancé — his favorite takeout in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other, heart still fluttering with the weight of the promotion you hadn’t stopped dreaming about. all you could think about, all day, was coming home and sharing the news with him. his smile. his arms. the soft sort of joy you’d been chasing for so long.

but the moment the door cracked open, you knew something was wrong.

it was quiet at first — just laughter. not his, not yours.

then it was voices, too close. a whisper. a breathless giggle. the unmistakable sound of skin against skin.

as if your feet had a mind of their own, you felt them moving toward the bedroom. everything else — the takeout bag, the wine, your thoughts — faded into static.

your chest was tight. your pulse louder than your breath. maybe it was denial, maybe it was instinct, but something in you still hoped it wasn’t what it looked like.

the door wasn’t even fully closed. just slightly ajar. just enough.

and what you saw made your stomach drop.

your worst fears were right. worse than you'd imagined.

there he was — your fiancé — sitting up against the headboard, hair messy, shirtless and she was there, too. straddling him. laughing. naked.

the sound you made was barely audible. a quiet, broken thing. your heart felt like it had been split in two before it even had a chance to react.

they didn’t notice you. not at first. or maybe they did. maybe they just didn’t care.

you couldn’t breathe. couldn’t move. the takeout bag finally slipped from your hand, landing softly against the hallway floor.

still, you didn’t say anything.

you just turned and walked away.

you weren’t supposed to be there.

your feet had carried you without thinking — past streetlights, closed storefronts, the quiet hum of evening traffic — until you were standing in front of iwaizumi’s apartment building.

you didn’t remember choosing this place.

maybe your body just knew where safety was.

your phone buzzed softly in your pocket.

iwaizumi: just landed. where are you? iwaizumi: home? iwaizumi: thought i’d stop by. it’s been forever.

you blinked at the screen, heart thudding unevenly.

forever.

it hadn’t been that long, a few months since the last time you saw him, almost two weeks since he left the country for work. but today had made everything feel stretched thin. like time didn’t work the same anymore.

you could still see it, your front door swinging open, the wine bottle still in your hand. the laughter that didn’t belong to you. the mess of skin and betrayal tangled in your sheets.

you hadn’t told anyone. not yet. not even oikawa.

you met iwaizumi through him, years ago — back in high school. your school didn’t even play against theirs that day; oikawa had just wanted to show off. he’d dragged you along to a practice match and introduced you afterward with a smug little grin.

“this is my friend,” he’d said, nudging you forward, “play nice, iwa-chan.”

iwaizumi had given you a look that was mostly exhausted, then offered a short, breathless hey — just off a match, cheeks flushed from the heat of the gym. that was it. simple. no frills.

but something about him stuck.

and through the years, you stayed in touch. texts that turned into calls, video chats squeezed in between time zones. oikawa tried too, even from argentina — pictures of sunsets, long-winded voice notes, the occasional chaotic facetime when he forgot about the time difference.

but it was iwaizumi you heard from the most.

he was steady that way.

and now he was back.

you stared at your phone again.

you: not home you: just needed some air. didn’t mean to worry you. you: welcome back, haji.

you tried to sound normal, like you weren’t unraveling at the seams.

his response came quick.

iwaizumi: where are you? iwaizumi: i’ll come get you.

you hesitated for a second, then typed.

you: outside your place, actually. you: was walking. ended up here without realizing.

maybe it was a lie. maybe it wasn’t.

he didn’t question it.

iwaizumi: stay there. i’m coming down.

you put your phone away, fingers cold from holding it too tight.

you didn’t know what you’d say when he saw you. but for now, you just let the stillness settle.

he was coming.

and somehow, that was enough.

a few minutes later, the glass doors opened and there he was — hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair a little messy from the flight.

he blinked at you once. “you walked here?”

you shrugged. “guess i did.”

he frowned, eyes scanning your face. not saying anything about how tired you looked. not asking why you hadn’t told him you were coming. not yet.

“come on,” he said gently. “it’s freezing.”

his apartment was warm — not in temperature, but in feeling. lived-in. familiar. you slipped your shoes off by the door, the silence stretching comfortably between you. he'd always been good at that — not pushing too soon. not pushing at all.

you sat on the edge of his couch while he moved into the kitchen. “wine?” he asked, already pulling the bottle from the cabinet.

you nodded. “yeah. thanks.”

when he handed you the glass, your fingers brushed, just barely.

he didn’t say anything at first. neither did you. the tv flickered with something neither of you were really watching.

until finally, his voice broke through the quiet.

“you took the ring off.”

you didn’t look at him. just turned the stem of the wine glass slowly between your fingers.

“yeah,” you said, voice flat.

his voice stayed low, like he was afraid too much weight would shatter the air between you. “what happened?”

“i walked in on him,” you said. “with someone else.”

you felt more than heard his breath catch. and then — still calm, still controlled — he asked, “in your place?”

you nodded. “in our bed.”

iwaizumi didn’t speak.

he didn’t have to.

he’d known about the engagement. of course he had.

he and oikawa were the first ones you told — back when everything still felt good, felt possible. right after you came back from the date he proposed, you called them.

oikawa picked up from argentina with a dramatic gasp and too many questions, and iwaizumi answered with that quiet tone he always used when he was trying not to wake someone up — half-asleep, still grounding himself in your voice.

he said congratulations. he asked if you were happy. and when you said yes, he didn’t say anything more.

“what did i do wrong?” the words tumbled out before you could stop them. “was i too much? too… i don’t know. boring? or too soft? not soft enough?”

iwaizumi’s brows furrowed, but he didn’t interrupt.

“what’s too much to ask?” your voice shook. “to be loved? to be chosen?”

you laughed, bitter and breathless. “i knew his reputation. i knew who he was. i thought… i thought maybe i could change that. not for him. just—i thought if he really loved me, he’d want to be better.”

your voice cracked.

“was that too much to ask?”

for a second, all you could hear was the quiet hum of the apartment around you — the fridge in the kitchen, the faint rush of traffic outside, the way your breath hitched and stuttered trying to keep it together.

then, slowly, iwaizumi reached for the wine glass still in your hand and set it on the table. didn’t say anything. just took it from you gently, like even the weight of that was too much for now.

you felt his palm brush lightly against your shoulder before he moved closer, sitting beside you again. his arm came around you — firm, steady — and that was it. no words. no sudden declarations. just his presence.

your body folded in before your mind caught up. head against his chest, your fists curling lightly into the fabric of his hoodie. he didn’t flinch. didn’t ask you to stop. didn’t try to quiet you when you finally let it go.

he held you through it.

all of it.

and even though he had things he could’ve said — truths that had sat in him quietly for years — he didn’t. not now. not when your chest still trembled with every breath, not when your voice had broken under the weight of everything you'd carried alone.

because iwaizumi knew grief like this. the slow kind. the kind that crawled beneath your ribs and whispered that maybe you were the problem. and he knew that anything he said now — anything he wanted — wasn’t important.

you were.

and so he stayed.

quiet and still. the calm in the middle of the storm. the one person who didn’t ask you to be okay.

you woke to sunlight.

thin and pale, curling through the cracks in unfamiliar blinds. the kind of quiet morning light that asked nothing of you — just existed, soft and still.

the sheets beneath you weren’t yours.

it took a second to piece it together.

the blanket over you was heavier, tucked in with more care than you remembered falling asleep with. the bed was too neat, too cool on the other side. the pillow beside you was untouched.

iwaizumi hadn’t slept here.

you sat up slowly, letting the realization settle in your chest like a stone. your body ached from sleep you hadn’t meant to take. your throat felt dry. your heart, worse.

you padded out into the hallway barefoot, drawn by the quiet hum of the apartment. it smelled like him — warm and clean and grounding. the kind of scent that made you ache in a way you couldn’t name.

and then you saw him.

curled up awkwardly on the couch, arms folded, one foot dangling off the edge like he didn’t really try to get comfortable. the throw blanket barely covered him. his hoodie was twisted at the collar, hair a mess from the pillow.

he must’ve put you in his bed after you fell asleep. didn’t say anything. didn’t wake you. just quietly took the couch.

your chest tightened, but you didn’t say anything. not yet.

you turned, silent, and walked into the kitchen.

you needed something to do with your hands.

the kettle sat where you remembered it. everything was exactly in place, methodical in the way only iwaizumi could be — tea in the left cabinet, mugs above the sink, honey tucked in the corner with a folded note that said “expiration: jan.”

you filled the kettle. turned it on.

by the time he came into the kitchen, you were already holding two mugs, unsure which one to use.

he didn’t say good morning.

just walked over and grabbed the right one — your favorite, the one with the little chipped rim — and handed it to you without a word.

“i didn’t wake you, did i?” you asked softly.

he shook his head, rubbing his neck. “nah. couch just sucks.”

you laughed under your breath — tired and small. “you didn’t have to give up your bed.”

his eyes found yours, steady. “you needed it more.”

you wanted to say something. you didn’t.

he moved around the kitchen like he always did — quiet, efficient — dropping slices of bread in the toaster, pulling fruit from the fridge. the familiarity of it grounded you. reminded you that despite everything breaking open last night, you were still here. still held.

"haji?" you called softly, your voice barely above the hum of the quiet morning.

from the kitchen, where he was drying a plate, iwaizumi looked up. “hmm?”

you didn’t turn to look at him, just stared at the steam curling up from your mug. “can you… like, accompany me later? home?”

a pause, then the sound of a plate gently placed on the rack.

“of course,” he said, voice warm, without hesitation.

you glanced up. “you don’t have work?”

he shook his head, walking over to where you sat curled on the couch. “nah. i’m free the whole week. national team’s on break — mandatory downtime. coaches said we needed to rest before the next round of training.”

you nodded, quiet. something in your chest settled knowing he’d be beside you.

just then, his phone vibrated on the table beside you.

oikawa tooru 💫 calling...

iwaizumi raised an eyebrow, then picked it up. “he’s early.”

he answered with a sigh, already bracing. “what?”

“iwa—where is she?” oikawa’s voice was sharp, urgent, more anxious than usual. “she didn’t reply to anything yesterday. is she with you?”

iwaizumi looked at you, silently checking if it was okay to say.

you gave a small nod.

“she’s here,” he replied. “safe.”

a beat of silence passed.

“can you—can you put her on the phone?” oikawa asked, quieter now.

iwaizumi handed it over.

“tooru?” you said gently, pressing the phone to your ear.

his exhale was shaky, the sound of his worry unfiltered now that he knew you were on the other end. “i knew something was off. i didn’t know what, but i felt it. i barely slept. i just—are you okay?”

your throat tightened, lips trembling slightly. “not really.”

he didn’t say anything right away. didn’t push.

so you told him.

not all of it. just enough. what you walked in on. what shattered under your feet. your voice broke once — maybe twice — but oikawa just listened. no interruptions, no dramatics. just breathing steady on the other side of the world.

until, suddenly:

“i’m booking a flight.”

you blinked. “what?”

“i’m booking a flight back to japan. give me twenty-four hours and i’ll be there just in time to punch that bastard in the face. maybe twice. once for you. once for me.”

despite everything — the ache, the rawness — a sound escaped your throat, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“tooru—”

“don’t try to stop me,” he said dramatically. “this is my civic duty. i owe you at least one dramatic gesture. it’s been too long.”

you closed your eyes, smile trembling. “you don’t have to fly across the world just to throw a punch.”

“fine,” he sighed. “i’ll fly across the world to hug you, and the punch will just be a bonus.”

you swallowed hard. “thank you. for still looking out for me.”

“always,” he said, gentler now. “even from argentina. you’re not alone, okay?”

“i know,” you whispered. “i love you.”

“i love you, too.”

you handed the phone back, and iwaizumi ended the call without a word. his thumb brushed across the back of your hand — grounding.

"whenever you're ready," he said softly. "i've got you."

and this time, you let yourself believe it.

the car ride was quiet.

not awkward — not exactly. just… still. the kind of quiet that settled in the chest and pressed gently against your ribs, like your body knew what was waiting on the other side of it.

you kept your eyes on the passing streets, hands folded tightly in your lap. the world outside moved so fast, but everything in you felt slow. heavy. like your body hadn’t quite caught up to the fact that today, you’d be returning to the place where everything ended.

iwaizumi didn’t force conversation. he never did.

the soft hum of the engine, the rhythmic flick of the turn signals, the occasional crackle of the radio static between songs — it all felt strangely grounding. familiar, in a way that reminded you of high school bus rides after volleyball tournaments. of him sitting across from you in a convenience store booth at midnight, nursing a sports drink while you talked about anything and everything.

your throat felt dry. “haji?”

he glanced at you, then quickly back to the road. “yeah?”

“thank you. for… everything. for being here.”

“you don’t have to thank me,” he said quietly. “you never have to thank me.”

you looked over at him, at the way his fingers tightened slightly around the steering wheel. his jaw set just a little firmer than usual.

“i didn’t expect to come back to… all of this,” you admitted. “it still doesn’t feel real.”

“you don’t have to go in alone,” he said. “if you need a second — or if you want to leave, we leave. no questions.”

you nodded slowly. “i think i just need to get it over with.”

silence settled again, and you felt it stretch between you — this thing that felt like grief, but heavier, more personal.

“you know,” you said suddenly, “he used to drive me around, too. not like this, though. not quiet. he always had something playing loud. always distracted.”

iwaizumi’s grip tightened just enough for you to notice.

you gave a faint laugh. “it’s stupid, what details come back.”

he didn’t respond. didn’t need to. the way his hand briefly reached over the console to brush against yours said enough.

you were close now. just a few turns away from the apartment.

and for the first time since yesterday, you felt steady enough to walk back into it — not because it would be easy, but because he was here.

because he would stay.

the moment you stepped into the apartment, it felt colder than you remembered.

your ex was already standing near the kitchen island, like he’d been waiting—rehearsing, maybe. the second his eyes landed on you, and then on iwaizumi just a step behind, his expression twisted.

"so you're finally back," he said, voice deceptively calm.

you didn’t answer. just stepped inside, gaze fixed on the floor, your chest tight.

“i called you. over and over,” he went on. “you didn’t come home. you disappeared.”

"after what i saw?" you said, quietly. "i shouldn't have even come back at all."

his jaw clenched. “so what, you run straight to him?”

iwaizumi's posture tensed beside you.

“figures,” your ex scoffed. “maybe i should’ve seen it sooner. maybe you were already cheating on me with him. or was it oikawa? wouldn’t surprise me.”

your breath caught.

iwaizumi moved before either of you could process the shift — a single, heavy punch landed square across your ex’s jaw with a sickening crack.

he stumbled back, knocked into the counter, knocking over a glass that shattered on the floor.

iwaizumi didn’t move again. he just stood there, breathing hard, jaw clenched tight, voice low and cutting.

“don’t ever speak about her like that again.”

your ex wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, blood dotting his lip where the punch had landed. he laughed — dry, bitter, all ego and deflection.

“you’re affected because what i said is true, right, iwaizumi?” he spat. “you were just waiting for the right time. don’t act like some fucking saint.”

iwaizumi’s eyes burned, but he didn’t throw another punch.

instead, his voice dropped into something colder.

“if I were the kind of man who acted on what I wanted, you wouldn’t have had a chance in the first place.”

that shut him up — for a moment.

but the damage was done. the words were out in the open, unspoken things cracked wide and bleeding between the three of you. and still, hajime stayed steady, his presence grounding even as the air buzzed with tension.

you, silent until now, stepped forward slightly.

“you’re not worth the fight.”

your voice cut through the air like glass, sharp and trembling, but steady in all the ways that mattered.

he scoffed, but the guilt cracked through his expression before he could mask it. “so that’s it? you’re really just walking away from everything?”

“no,” you said, swallowing the lump in your throat. “i’m asking you to leave.”

his face twisted. “leave?” he echoed, incredulous. “this is my house, too.”

iwaizumi’s voice came from just behind you, calm but firm — resolute in the way that made silence follow it.

“the lease is under her name.”

your ex’s head snapped toward him. “of course you’d know that,” he sneered. “you always know everything, don’t you?”

iwaizumi didn’t blink. “only when it matters.”

your ex’s laugh was hollow, forced. “figures. you always had something to say. always hovering. waiting.”

you stepped between them — not to defend iwaizumi, not to stop another punch, but to close the distance on your terms. “you lost your place here the moment you decided i wasn’t enough. and now you don’t get to decide when it’s over.”

he looked at you then, desperation seeping into his features like he was realizing, finally, that you weren’t bluffing. that this was the end, and not the kind you could crawl back from.

“don’t do this,” he tried one last time. “we can fix it. i made a mistake, but it doesn’t mean we just throw it all away—”

“you already did.”

that was it.

iwaizumi stepped forward, gently touched your arm. “i’ll make sure he’s out. go start packing.”

and this time, you didn’t hesitate — you walked past the shattered version of a life you once tried to build and toward the one you were finally choosing for yourself.

you sat on the edge of the bed — the one you used to share — hands gripping the edge of the mattress like it might hold you together. the quiet was unbearable now, too thick, too loud. everything in the room screamed of what had been and what never would be again.

your suitcase sat open by the door, untouched. you’d tried, really tried, to get up and pack. but all you’d managed to do was sit and stare at the closet. and then the tears started again.

you didn’t hear the knock. you didn’t even register the door opening.

but you felt him. the familiar weight of his presence, quiet but steady.

“i knocked,” iwaizumi said gently. “you didn’t answer.”

you wiped at your face quickly, embarrassed. “sorry… i just—i needed a minute.”

he didn’t move closer, didn’t push.

“i figured.”

you looked at him — the tired lines on his face, the slight redness in his knuckles, the soft way his brows pinched in concern even when he tried not to show it.

he looked like he hadn’t stopped worrying since you stepped into his life again.

“you didn’t have to come in,” you whispered. “i would’ve… i just needed some time.”

“if you don’t want to leave,” he said slowly, carefully, “that’s fine. i can move here for the meantime. stay with you. i’m sure tooru would want the same if he were here.”

you let out a breathless, bitter laugh, small and strained. “it’s fine, haji.”

his jaw tightened slightly. “he won’t come back,” he repeated. “i made sure of that.”

a beat.

you looked at him, eyes searching his face. “haji… did you—”

“no,” he interrupted gently, shaking his head. “but i wanted to.”

your eyes softened, something fragile cracking under the surface.

“i’m not going to stay here, anymore.” you whispered again, the weight of everything rising in your throat. “i don’t want to stay here.”

iwaizumi didn’t push. didn’t ask why. he just watched you, a storm brewing in his chest but not touching you.

“it reminds me too much,” you went on, voice unsteady. “and it wasn’t the first time.”

his breath hitched — subtle, but there. you saw it in the faint tremble of his shoulders, the flicker of devastation in his eyes. not shock. not even disbelief.

just pain. the kind you carry for someone else.

you lowered your head, words tumbling before you could stop them.

“i knew who he was. everyone knew. but i kept thinking… if i was just enough, if i loved him enough, maybe it would change. maybe i could be the exception.”

your throat tightened.

“but all i did was keep forgiving him. and every time, i told myself it was fine, that it was just a mistake, that he still loved me. even when i could feel myself disappearing.”

you let out a shaky breath.

“it’s pathetic.”

“it’s not,” iwaizumi said quietly, firmly.

you looked at him.

“it’s not pathetic to want to be loved right,” he added, voice steady. “you weren’t asking for too much. you just asked the wrong person.”

your chest ached, breath caught.

iwaizumi came closer without a word, lowering himself slowly until he was kneeling right in front of you. his hands reached out gently, not to take, but to offer. and when your fingers twitched, he laced them with his own, grounding you.

he looked up at you then — not with expectation, but with something quieter. something steadier.

“ask again,” he whispered. “this time… ask me.”

your breath hitched.

you didn’t look away, even though everything inside you told you to. even though shame clung to your skin like a second layer. even though your heart was still sore and your voice was nearly gone.

you didn’t look away because hajime never had. not once.

his thumbs brushed over your knuckles. “not because i pity you. not because he didn’t love you right. not because i’m here now and he isn’t. but because i’ve loved you for a long time. and i think… i think i’ve been waiting for you to look at me like this.”

your chest ached.

“haji…”

“i know you’re not ready. i know you’re hurting. i’m not asking for anything,” he said, still holding your hands like something precious. “but if you ever think that loving you is too much to ask — let me be the one who proves it isn’t.”

a tear slipped down your cheek. he caught it with the back of his finger, soft and slow, before letting his hand fall back between you.

his voice came next, low and sure — not a promise made in the heat of the moment, but something bone-deep, like it had been waiting years to be said.

“i won’t let you cry,” he whispered, gaze steady on yours. “not like this. not because of someone who couldn’t see you.”

your lip trembled, but you didn’t pull away. you couldn’t. not when he was looking at you like that — like you were worth every ounce of his patience, every second of his silence.

“i will always make you feel loved,” he said, softer this time, like the words were being tucked into the quiet between your ribs. “not just with words. not just when things are easy. always.”

the weight of it hit you hard. not in a way that broke you — not anymore — but in a way that made you ache with all the years you’d settled for less, all the times you’d made yourself small just to be enough for someone else.

and here he was.

kneeling in front of you, hands holding yours like something sacred, and saying everything you had longed to hear without asking for anything in return.

his thumbs traced gentle circles over your knuckles, a silent reassurance that he meant every word — and then he spoke again, quieter this time, like it was meant only for you and the space that existed between the two of you.

“i will wait,” he said, unwavering. “and while i wait, i’ll prove it to you. all of it.”

you swallowed hard, breathing uneven, but didn’t look away.

“that you’re worth loving,” hajime continued, voice thick with quiet conviction. “that you don’t have to shrink yourself. that you don’t have to beg for affection or settle for pieces. that you never have to overthink your place in someone’s life.”

your grip on his hands tightened, barely, like you were grounding yourself in him.

“you don’t have to question it with me. not ever. not again.”

your chest rose and fell too quickly, heart thudding loud in your ears — not from fear this time, but from the possibility of something real. something whole.

and when you couldn’t find the words to respond, he didn’t push. he just kept holding on — his hands steady around yours, his presence solid, unwavering.

the silence stretched, not heavy, but full. full of everything you couldn’t say, and everything he already understood.

then, in a voice so soft it almost broke you, hajime spoke.

“i can’t promise that you won’t see darkness with me,” he murmured, eyes never leaving yours. “but i’ll make sure you always see daylight.”

your breath caught, tears gathering again — but this time, they weren’t bitter. they weren’t laced with hurt or betrayal. they came from the quiet, aching place that had longed for something gentle. something honest.

“i want to be that for you,” he whispered, like a vow only the two of you could hear. “not just a way out. not just a safety net. but something steady. something real. even when it’s hard. especially then.”

your throat tightened at his words — at how carefully he offered himself, with no expectations, only truth. the kind that made your heart ache in the softest way.

you blinked slowly, tears clinging to your lashes.

“haji,” you whispered, your voice cracked and raw, “i’m sorry. for not noticing you.”

he didn’t flinch. didn’t look away. he just smiled — small and full of something warm.

“you were happy with him,” he said, voice steady. “and being close to you… seeing you happy… that’s what mattered to me.”

you bit down on your lip, heart twisting. because you knew it was true. hajime had always been there, quiet but constant — never demanding space, never trying to be more than what you needed. and now, you were seeing it. all of it. how much he must have carried in silence.

“you didn’t do anything wrong,” he added softly. “you loved the way you knew how. and i… i’ve loved you from the very beginning, even if it wasn’t my place.”

your hand squeezed his, gently. “you never made me feel like it was wrong to lean on you.”

“because it never was,” he said. “and it never will be.”

you nodded, and this time when the silence came, it felt lighter.

it didn’t weigh like regret or grief — it lingered like something fragile but hopeful, like the first inhale after a long time underwater.

iwaizumi gave your hands one last squeeze before slowly rising to his feet, and when he looked down at you, there was no pressure in his gaze. just warmth. just him.

“come on,” he said gently, reaching a hand out to you. “i’ll help you pack, okay?”

you looked up at him, fingers slipping into his with something close to relief.

he gave a soft smile, the kind that made your chest ache in the best way.

“then one by one,” he continued, “if you want… you can move some of your things to mine.”

your eyes welled again, not from sadness this time — but from the quiet understanding that he meant every word. no expectations. no timelines. just space. patience. a home if you needed one.

“you’re not alone in this,” he said, and there was no room for doubt in his voice. “not anymore.”

you breathed in slowly, steadying yourself with the feel of his hand in yours.

“okay,” you whispered.

iwaizumi didn’t say anything when you arrived at his apartment with more than you originally planned to bring.

the suitcase had been the original idea — just a few days, enough time to catch your breath and figure out what came next. but in the quiet hours of the morning, as you stared at the remnants of everything you built with someone who had shattered it in one night, the suitcase didn’t feel like enough.

so you packed a little more. a few extra bags. a couple of boxes. the things that made you feel like you again — your favorite blanket, the books you always kept by your nightstand, the framed photo from high school of you, oikawa, and hajime that always used to make you smile.

iwaizumi took one look at the extra load and simply said, “let me get that,” as he took the heaviest box from your hands.

he didn’t ask questions. didn’t tease, didn’t offer platitudes. just made space — in his apartment and, quietly, in his life.

he led you in like it was the most natural thing in the world, setting the box down in a cleared corner of his living room. “you can put everything wherever you need. i don’t mind.”

the apartment smelled like fresh coffee and laundry. the window was cracked open, letting in the breeze. it was quiet — but not the kind that weighed heavy.

you tried to say thank you, but the words got tangled somewhere in your throat.

he just gave you a small smile. “hungry?”

you nodded even if you weren’t.

iwaizumi made something warm and simple — grilled fish, miso soup, soft rice — and by the time you sat across from him, the weight pressing on your ribs didn’t feel quite as suffocating.

that night, you slept like someone who hadn’t rested in months. not just physically — but in the way your mind finally slowed, in the way your chest didn’t ache with every breath. it wasn’t peace, not yet, but it was quiet.

you woke to soft morning light filtering through the curtains, the scent of brewed coffee in the air, and the faint sounds of someone moving in the kitchen.

pulling the blanket around your shoulders, you padded quietly out of hajime’s bedroom. it had taken him a bit of convincing the night before — you insisting that the couch was fine, and him refusing to let you sleep on anything but a real bed. he’d only relented when you stopped arguing, already halfway into tears again.

the apartment was quiet in the way that felt safe.

your suitcase sat by the hallway, but beside it, tucked against the wall, were a couple of boxes you didn’t remember unpacking. he must’ve brought them up without saying anything, while you were still asleep.

you blinked. you were only supposed to bring a suitcase.

but hajime… he didn’t say anything about the extra. didn’t make you feel like a burden or a complication. he just made room.

you stepped into the kitchen, rubbing at your eyes.

“morning,” hajime said gently, glancing over his shoulder. “coffee?”

you nodded, voice still raw. “yeah… thanks.”

he handed you a warm mug without a word, his fingers brushing yours, grounding. for a second, the silence stretched — not awkward, just full of everything unspoken.

you had just taken a sip when your phone buzzed from the counter.

[tooru 👽] incoming call

you blinked, surprised. “he’s awake?”

you answered quickly, “hey—”

“open the door,” came oikawa’s voice, breathless and sharp.

“what?”

“open iwa-chan’s door. i’m outside.”

your hand froze on the mug. “you’re—what?”

three sharp knocks echoed from the front door. hajime looked at you, brow raised.

you crossed the room quickly, heart jumping, and pulled it open.

there he was — oikawa tooru, sunglasses perched messily in his hair, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, suitcase in hand, and a look that was trying far too hard not to seem worried.

“i thought you were joking,” you said, stunned.

“changed my mind,” he replied casually, stepping in past you. “figured i’d come see with my own eyes. and possibly break someone’s nose, if needed.”

you stared at him for a second longer — then your arms moved on instinct.

he dropped the suitcase and pulled you in tight, arms wrapping around you like a safety net you hadn’t realized you still had.

“you look like hell,” he muttered into your hair.

“thanks,” you exhaled, voice cracking with a laugh that wasn’t quite whole.

iwaizumi appeared from the kitchen then, towel slung over his shoulder, coffee in hand.

“iwa-chan,” oikawa said like it had been days instead of months. “hope you made enough breakfast for three.”

hajime shook his head, but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “guest room’s ready.”

“you know me so well.” oikawa’s tone was breezy, but his eyes lingered on you longer than needed. “this place is nice. smells like expensive detergent and heartbreak.”

you rolled your eyes, leaning your head briefly on his shoulder.

he went quiet for a moment before turning to you again, softer this time. “i’m staying a few days. you’re not talking me out of it.”

“i’m not going to try,” you said.

he nodded, wrapping his arm around you once more, then looked over at hajime.

“by the way,” he said, like he was commenting on the weather, “you’re not going back to that apartment of yours, missy. i won’t risk you stepping foot in there again—i’ll just buy you a new one.”

you sighed, trying not to smile despite everything. “tooru, don’t worry. i’ll sell the apartment.”

“okay,” he said, with a dramatic shrug. “then i’ll buy you the next one.”

“you’re not buying me an apartment.”

“too late. it’s already in motion.”

“it’s been five minutes since you landed.”

“i’m very efficient,” he said with a grin, before reaching for your mug and taking a sip without asking. “anyway, i just don’t like the idea of you living somewhere with that kind of history. bad for the soul. messes with the energy.”

you gave him a look, and he added, more gently, “i just want you safe. in a place that feels like yours again.”

hajime didn’t say anything, but you caught the way he glanced at you from the side — quiet, steady, the way he always was. there was something in his eyes, though. something unreadable, but warm.

you nudged oikawa with your elbow. “for the record, i already feel safer. with you two around.”

oikawa beamed. “as you should.”

“better yet,” oikawa said, plopping onto the couch like he owned the place, “just stay with iwa-chan. he likes you.”

there was a beat of silence.

then his eyes widened just a fraction. “oh shit. did i say a lot?”

you didn’t bother hiding the soft smile that tugged at your lips. the warmth that settled in your chest wasn’t new anymore — it was familiar now, steady like the man who stood quietly in the kitchen, pretending not to listen.

“tooru,” you said, turning your mug slowly in your hands. “i already know. he confessed.”

oikawa blinked once, then gave a sharp, delighted inhale. “what?! when?!”

“last night.”

“and?!” he leaned forward dramatically. “did you kiss?! did you cry?! did you—”

“i cried,” you admitted, voice soft but steady. “but not because of that. he didn’t… he didn’t push. he just stayed.”

oikawa looked between the two of you, something tender flickering behind his usual theatrics. “of course he did.”

you glanced over to where hajime stood, arms crossed loosely, eyes on you like you were the only thing anchoring him.

“we’re taking it slow,” you added.

“good,” oikawa said, nodding firmly. “but also — if you ever want me to officiate a wedding, i have a really nice white suit.”

“tooru.”

“i’m dead serious.” oikawa leaned back against the couch cushions, a self-satisfied grin blooming across his face as he sipped from his coffee. “you know,” he said casually, “that’s why i made you two meet. since the beginning.”

you arched a brow. “what are you talking about?”

“high school,” he said, waving his hand like it was obvious. “that day you came to watch our match and i introduced you to hajime? yeah, that wasn’t random. i knew.”

“you knew what?” you asked, half-laughing, half-suspicious.

“that you’d end up together.” he pointed between the two of you. “you were perfect opposites. but the kind that fits. it was written in the stars, baby. i just gave fate a little push.”

you blinked. “tooru.”

“what? iwa-chan was grumpy and annoyingly loyal, and you were sunshine and chaos with a soft heart. it was a recipe.”

hajime let out a low sigh from the kitchen, though his voice carried over, amused and a little exasperated. “you’re not as subtle as you think you are, you know.”

“not trying to be!” oikawa beamed. “you’re welcome.”

you covered your face with your hands, feeling warmth rush to your cheeks, and heard oikawa mutter smugly, “matchmaker of the year.”

but when you peeked through your fingers, hajime was still watching you — steady, quiet, unwavering. and it struck you again: maybe tooru had known something all along. or maybe he just saw what you hadn’t been ready to admit back then.

and now? now the truth was finally unfolding. one moment, one morning at a time.

the apartment had settled into a rare kind of stillness.

oikawa was knocked out on the couch, one arm slung over his eyes, mouth slightly open — the aftermath of jetlag and too much caffeine catching up to him all at once. the tv was still on, playing some nature documentary neither of you had the heart to turn off. the volume was low, just a soft hum in the background.

you stood in the kitchen, nursing the last of your tea, the ceramic warm against your palms. hajime was across from you, leaning against the counter, arms crossed loosely, eyes fixed on you like there was no place else he needed to be.

“he hasn’t changed,” you said quietly, tilting your head toward the couch. “still dramatic.”

hajime huffed a laugh. “and loud.”

“but he means well.”

“always.”

a moment passed. the silence between you and hajime wasn’t uncomfortable — it never had been. it was the kind that felt lived in. settled. a silence that had room for everything unspoken.

you exhaled slowly, fingers tracing the rim of your mug. “thank you… for yesterday.”

he looked at you, eyes steady. “you don’t have to thank me.”

“i do. you didn’t have to… all of it. being there. packing. letting me stay.”

“you don’t have to explain anything,” he said, voice low, warm. “you’re not a burden. not here.”

you nodded slowly, but your voice was smaller when you said, “still feels like too much, sometimes. like maybe i’m too much.”

he pushed off the counter then — moved to stand in front of you. not too close, but close enough to make your breath hitch.

“you’re not,” he said. “you never were.”

your eyes flicked up to meet his, and whatever he saw there made his voice soften even more.

“you don’t have to keep carrying everything alone. not anymore.”

you didn’t respond right away. you didn’t need to. hajime waited — as he always did — patient in ways that made your chest ache.

then, quietly: “when did you know?”

“know what?”

“how you felt.”

his jaw tensed just a little, and he looked down, almost like he was sorting through every version of the truth before answering.

“probably the day oikawa introduced us,” he said, finally. “but i didn’t let myself think about it that way. not until after. not until you called me that night you got engaged.”

your breath caught.

“and even then,” he added, “i thought… if you were happy, that’s all that mattered. i could live with that.”

you set your mug down, the sound small against the quiet hum of the room. “i thought i was.”

his voice was barely a whisper. “i know.”

you looked at him — really looked — and saw it then, all the years of quiet longing tucked behind his calm exterior, all the waiting. he never rushed. never pushed. just stayed.

and in that small, quiet moment, you took one step closer.

just one. but enough that your hand brushed his.

“you can tell me to stop,” he said, voice barely there.

“don’t,” you whispered. “please don’t.”

and he didn’t.

he just stood there, beside you — the same way he always had.

months had finally passed.

and for the first time in what felt like years, mornings didn’t ache anymore.

the sun filtered gently through the curtains of iwaizumi’s bedroom, casting delicate golden streaks across tangled sheets and even more tangled limbs. the kind of light that didn’t demand, didn’t burn — it simply existed, soft and certain, like him.

you blinked slowly awake, nestled in the cradle of warmth that was iwaizumi hajime. his chest rose and fell steadily beneath your cheek, one arm slung around your waist, the other curled beneath the pillow. his skin was warm, his presence solid — and he held you like it was second nature.

it was. by now, it was.

your hand slid across the fabric of his t-shirt, fingertips curling just beneath the hem as if to ground yourself. months ago, you had shown up at his door shattered, unraveling. and he never once looked away. never once told you that you were too much, too broken, too late.

he shifted slightly in his sleep, tightening his hold on you instinctively, pressing a soft kiss into your hair without fully waking. you smiled.

you whispered into the quiet, even if he couldn’t hear it just yet, “i kept calling it love when it only ever burned. but you—” your voice faltered, thick with emotion, “you are the first warmth that didn’t leave a scar.”

he made a soft sound in his throat, the beginnings of wakefulness stirring in his chest.

your fingers brushed along his wrist. “i was never asking for too much. i was just asking the wrong people. you proved that when you loved me without flinching.”

his eyes blinked open then — hazy, soft, greenish-brown and shining with that sleepy tenderness only you ever got to see.

“good morning,” he rasped, voice low and warm.

you nodded, trying not to cry. “it is.”

he tilted his head a little, concern flashing across his features. “what’s wrong?”

“nothing,” you said quickly, pressing your forehead to his shoulder. “it’s just… i lived so long in the dark, i didn’t know light could be soft. then came you.”

his breath hitched — and he was awake now, fully, completely, arms wrapping tighter around you like he was trying to memorize the shape of the moment.

he didn’t say anything for a few seconds. just held you. and when he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, reverent.

“i told you,” he murmured, thumb brushing against your back. “i’d wait. and i’d prove it, every day, in every way you need me to.”

you nodded into him, your hand fisting his shirt.

“you already have,” you whispered. “in all the little ways i didn’t even know i needed.”

he tilted your chin up, eyes searching yours.

“i’ll keep doing it,” he said softly. “not because i have to — because i want to. every sunrise, every season. you’re it for me.”

his fingers brushed against your cheek again, slow and reverent — like he still couldn’t believe you were here, like you were something fragile he vowed never to mishandle. and maybe in some way, you were. but with him, it never felt like you had to pretend you weren’t.

“you’re it for me,” he said again, voice like a promise. “you always have been.”

your breath hitched — and then he leaned in.

there was no rush in the way he kissed you. no hunger to consume or possess. just quiet patience and something so deeply certain it made your eyes sting again. his lips pressed to yours gently, as though he was telling you, without words, you’re safe now. you’re home.

you kissed him back with that same softness, your fingers sliding into his hair as you moved closer, melting into the warmth you’d found — the warmth that never demanded anything of you, that never burned.

when he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his nose brushing yours in the most tender of ways.

“you deserve everything soft,” he whispered. “everything good.”

your hands stayed wrapped in his shirt like you were afraid letting go might somehow undo it all. but you knew now — he wouldn’t let go, not unless you asked him to. and even then, you knew it would break him.

you smiled, barely holding the tears that lingered. “thank you, haji. for staying. for waiting.”

he shook his head, just the faintest bit. “you were never late. you just… needed time to see what you’ve always deserved.”

and when you breathed in, it no longer hurt. when you looked around, it didn’t feel like the world might fall apart. because it was morning, and you were wrapped in the arms of someone who had stayed, someone who never stopped choosing you.

and in that quiet, golden-lit room, you finally understood:

you had found him.

your daylight.

134 notes · View notes

yukkiji · 3 days ago

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WAIT I FORGOT TO POST IWA’S BIRTHDAY FIC HAHAHAHA I’LL POST IT A FEW HOURS

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yukkiji · 4 days ago

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miss second place

oikawa tooru is always first — in volleyball, in school, and in everyone’s hearts. she’s second, but fiercely competitive and determined to keep up. their rivalry is electric, but beneath the teasing and tension, something deeper stirs.

haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. oikawa tooru x fem!reader ft. seijoh 4

genre: fluff, romance, slowburn, academic rivals to lovers

wc: 8.9k

author's note: i'll consider this as one of my personal faves since academic rivals is one of my favorite tropes and this was so longggg but i hope you guys will enjoy it <333

the clock flashes 7:48 p.m. in angry red digits—mocking, almost. this is well past the hour anyone with a shred of sanity would still be in school, let alone buried under a mountain of paperwork.

the student council room glows in soft lamplight, golden and too calm for the storm in your head. folders are splayed out in organized chaos, pages fluttering as you scrawl in tight, no-nonsense lines. your pen moves like a weapon.

then—like clockwork, or a curse—the door slides open.

"still slaving away, miss second place?"

oikawa tooru’s voice cuts through the quiet, smooth and irritating, like expensive cologne hiding something rotten underneath. you don’t have to look to know the exact smirk on his face. you can feel it.

your pen freezes.

"get out, tooru."

he doesn’t. of course he doesn’t. he sinks into the seat across from you like he owns the place, his seijoh jacket barely hanging off one shoulder, hair damp and tousled just right—like some overachieving drama prince straight from practice. even now, a faint sheen of sweat clings to his neck in a way that makes you want to look away and stare all at once.

you hate him. you really do.

"this room is for student council members only," you snap, eyes still on your paper.

"good thing i’m special." he props his chin on one hand, lashes fluttering in mock innocence. "joint authority, remember? besides, aren’t you tired of playing president all alone? i came to keep you company."

you finally glance up, and yes—there it is. that grin. the one that says he knows exactly how far under your skin he is.

"you’re not helping. and your definition of 'company' feels more like pest control."

"then it’s working." he leans forward, voice dropping just enough to make your pulse twitch. "wouldn’t want you to collapse from overwork before i get the chance to beat you on next week’s midterms."

you don’t hesitate—you grab the nearest piece of scrap paper, crumple it, and peg it at his annoyingly symmetrical face. it hits him square on the cheek, and he jerks back with a dramatic flinch like you’ve stabbed him.

"get out, pretty boy, or i’m telling hajime you’re still here after hours."

that gets a reaction. he presses a hand to his chest like you’ve wounded him deeply—emotionally, theatrically.

"that hurts, prez," he says, lips curling into a mock pout. "using my best friend against me? i thought we had something special."

"we do. it’s called mutual disdain."

he grins wider, as if that’s exactly what he wanted you to say. "funny. that’s my favorite love language."

as if on cue, your phone buzzes on the desk. you glance down, thumb flicking the screen open.

iwaizumi hajime: please tell me oikawa didn’t sneak into the council room again also tell him to shower before he starts flirting, he smells like gym socks and ego

your brow twitches.

"speak of the devil," you mutter, holding the screen up so oikawa can see. "your handler says it’s bedtime."

oikawa squints at the message, then gasps—actual, audible gasp.

"rude. gym socks?" he whines, sniffing his sleeve like that’ll help his case. "i smell like victory. and maybe just a hint of mango body wash."

"you smell like someone who thinks cologne is a substitute for personality."

"you wound me again." he sprawls back in the chair like he’s auditioning for a tragic romance. "first the paper attack, now this? one day, you’ll admit you’re obsessed with me, and i’ll pretend to be surprised."

"when hell freezes over."

"can’t wait, miss number two."

he winks, and it takes everything in you not to launch a stapler this time.

she remembered the first time he called her number two.

she was six, standing next to the gold-framed board of top test scores in the elementary school hallway. his name was at the top—bold, smug, infuriating. hers was right beneath.

oikawa had turned to her with a dazzling smile and said, "you’re pretty smart, number two."

so she’d kicked him in the shin.

he cried. she got detention. balance, briefly, was restored.

but he kept calling her that. every year, every test, every time she pushed herself just a little harder—he was always a step ahead, always grinning like he knew. like it was some private joke only he was in on.

and now here he was, still grinning across a student council desk stacked with forms and expectations, like he hadn’t haunted her entire academic life.

"still holding onto that nickname, prez?"

his voice yanked her back to the present.

you glare.

"you mean the one that got you kicked in the leg? yeah, fond memories."

"worth it," he says, leaning back like he’s proud of the scar you definitely didn’t leave. "you gave yourself a villain origin story, and i got a fan for life."

"delusional. impressive, but delusional."

"comes with the genius territory."

you chuck another crumpled paper at his head. he dodges—barely—and laughs like he’s won anyway.

you hate that sound.

you really hate how much you don’t.

it wasn’t always like this. or maybe it always was.

another memory surfaces before you can stop it—middle school, kitagawa daiichi, the golden age of bad haircuts and worse attitudes.

he’d just been named volleyball captain. you’d just topped the midterms for the first time in years. for once, your name was above his on the results board. you still remembered the silence when he walked up to check the list, eyebrows raised.

"look at that," he’d said, mock-shocked. "the earth’s off its axis."

you’d smirked. "guess it was bound to happen. number one fits me better anyway."

he opened his mouth to fire back, but before he could, iwaizumi’s firm voice cut through the tension.

"enough, tooru." iwaizumi stepped between you two, arms crossed, eyes sharp. "you’ve been going at this since elementary school. if you don’t stop, i’m telling coach to bench you."

oikawa scowled, but iwaizumi’s stare didn’t waver.

you exchanged a brief look with iwaizumi—part gratitude, part shared exhaustion.

oikawa sighed dramatically, but the edge in his eyes softened just a fraction. then he looked at you—really looked at you—and smiled, slow and unreadable.

"wear it while you can," he said quietly.

you’d thought about that moment more than you’d admit. not just the words, but the way he’d said them. like it wasn’t war anymore—like it was something closer, messier.

but of course, at the finals of your third year, oikawa was number one again—snatching the top spot effortlessly and infuriatingly like it was always meant to be his.

.and the rivalry didn’t stop there.

it followed you into high school like a shadow you couldn’t shake. he went all in on volleyball with iwaizumi at his side, carving out his name on the court with that same relentless brilliance that always kept him just one step ahead.

and you? you went for student council. naturally. there were fewer scoreboards, but the stakes were still high-recommendations, university prospects, the unspoken war for who would stand tallest by the end of it all.

by third year, the stage was set.

he was the captain of the seijoh volleyball team. you were the student council president.

two crowns. two thrones.

two people still acting like the world might stop turning if the other one ever admitted defeat.

and yet, somehow, despite all the years and fights and thrown stationery, oikawa tooru kept finding excuses to wander into your territory.

like now—his jacket slung over one shoulder, hair tousled from practice, that smug glint in his eyes making itself comfortable across the desk from you.

"you’re really going to keep pretending i don’t make your evenings more exciting?" he stretches like a cat, obnoxiously casual. "i bet the paperwork misses me when i’m gone."

you give him a flat look. "i bet your team does too. shouldn’t you be terrorizing first-years or something?"

"they’re fine." he leans in, eyes dancing. "besides, this is way more fun. watching you pretend you don’t enjoy the company."

you toss another crumpled paper at his head. he doesn’t even flinch this time.

and still—he doesn’t leave.

"you know," oikawa says, tapping his fingers against your desk, "you’ve never denied having a crush on me. statistically speaking, silence is admissi—"

the door slides open.

"knew it."

iwaizumi stands there with a look that could flatten a first-year.

"my gut told me you weren’t home yet and i was right." he steps fully into the room, arms crossed. "why am i not surprised you’re harassing the student council president after hours again?"

"harassing?" oikawa gasps, clutching his imaginary pearls. "i was keeping her company! she's lonely—"

iwaizumi walks over and grabs him by the collar.

"no, she’s busy. you’re the lonely one."

"rude!" oikawa protests, letting himself get hauled up like a sack of potatoes. "at least let me say goodbye!"

iwaizumi ignores him completely, nods politely in your direction.

"sorry. won’t happen again."

you raise an eyebrow.

"it will."

iwaizumi sighs. "yeah. i know."

oikawa, being physically dragged out of the room like some overgrown cat, turns his head with a grin and calls out:

"goodnight, number two~!"

you chuck a pen at the closing door. it bounces harmlessly off the frame.

you don’t miss the way your lips twitch—just barely—before you shake your head and dive back into your paperwork.

oikawa trudged down the hallway, iwaizumi’s grip still firm on his collar.

"you really don’t know when to quit, do you?" iwaizumi muttered, voice low but steady.

oikawa shrugged, flashing that trademark grin. "where’s the fun in quitting? besides, she was actually... tolerating me tonight."

iwaizumi scoffed. "tolerating you is the bare minimum. you’re lucky she didn’t throw a stapler."

oikawa laughed, the sound easy and unguarded. "true. i’ll take it as a win."

they slowed near the exit. iwaizumi glanced over, eyebrows raised.

"you’re really still hung up on her, huh?"

oikawa’s grin faltered just a bit, eyes darkening with something more complicated. "yeah."

iwaizumi shook his head, a rare softness in his voice. "just don’t mess it up, crappykawa."

oikawa smirked again but said nothing, letting the silence stretch between them as they stepped out into the cool night.

the next afternoon, you stood just outside the gym doors, clipboard in hand, trying to look casual but failing spectacularly. you needed to watch their practice—study their form, their movements, everything—so you could finalize the program for the upcoming school festival. it wasn’t like you wanted an excuse to see oikawa again, but if you did, this was as good as any.

oikawa was in the center of the court, barking orders with that usual mix of charm and command. iwaizumi was by his side, steady as ever.

the moment oikawa spotted you by the bleachers, his whole aura shifted—like a dog finally spotting its owner after a long day. his usual confident grin softened into something warmer, and his eyes locked onto you with unmistakable recognition.

iwaizumi, noticing this change, let out a long, exasperated sigh. he glanced sideways at oikawa, who was already weaving through the players and heading straight toward you without a second thought.

iwaizumi muttered under his breath: "here we go again."

“oi, miss number two, you’re here to watch me?” oikawa called out with a cheeky grin as he closed the distance.

you rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. “tooru, where’s the form? i’ve told you so many times to get it to me for the festival.”

he scratched the back of his neck, flashing a sheepish smile. “well, you see... i haven’t finished it yet?”

your patience snapped. “are you serious, tooru? i reminded you all last week.”

he held up his hands in mock surrender. “i’ll give it to you personally—later. or tomorrow.”

you narrowed your eyes. “that’s exactly what i’m trying to avoid. i don’t want to deal with you more than i have to.”

“promise, i’ll give it to you.” oikawa said, his grin softening just enough to sound sincere.

you let out a long sigh, feeling like you’d run out of options. it took every ounce of patience not to strangle seijoh’s volleyball captain right here in front of his teammates.

“i’m dead serious, tooru.” you warned, eyes locking with his. “this is the last time i’m asking.”

“not gonna stay to see my greatness?” he teased, voice dripping with mock confidence as you reached the door, already turning to leave.

“heck no,” you shot back without missing a beat, pushing the door open with a smirk.

as you stepped out of the gym, the cool air hit your face, a welcome relief from the noisy chaos inside. just behind you, iwaizumi barely held back a grin as he grabbed a volleyball and flung it straight at oikawa.

“stupid,” he snapped, voice low but amused, “you already finished the form last week.”

oikawa caught the ball with an exaggerated wince, clutching his chest dramatically. “that hurts, iwa-chan,” he said, voice thick with mock offense. “and besides, it’s kind of cute to see her reaction.”

iwaizumi rolled his eyes, grabbing another ball and launching it at him without hesitation. “yeah, well, quit wasting time and give it to her already.”

oikawa dodged the second ball with a laugh, shaking his head. “fine, fine. next time, i swear.”

iwaizumi’s glare softened just a little as he watched his friend, then glanced after you, who was already walking away, clipboard pressed to your chest.

from the sidelines, hanamaki and matsukawa leaned casually against the gym wall, arms crossed, watching the whole scene unfold with amused grins.

hanamaki nudged matsukawa, smirking. “so this is what it feels like to watch a romcom with a slow burn,” he said, eyes following oikawa’s playful dodges and iwaizumi’s half-exasperated throws.

matsukawa chuckled, shaking his head. “yeah, all the teasing, the back-and-forth… i swear, if they had a soundtrack right now, it’d be some dramatic love theme playing nonstop.”

hanamaki laughed softly. “and you just know they’re both secretly enjoying every second of it, even if they’d never admit it.”

matsukawa’s grin widened. “at this rate, the whole school’s waiting for them to actually drop the act and say what’s really going on.”

they shared a glance, silent agreement passing between them, like two longtime spectators watching a match far more interesting than any volleyball game on the court.

“slow burn or not,” hanamaki said with a sigh, “this is definitely one for the books.”

as dusk settled over the school, the student council room lay bathed in the soft glow of fading daylight. the usual hum of activity had long since faded, replaced by a stillness that felt almost sacred. papers were strewn across the desk, pens resting where they had been abandoned. and there, slumped over the wood, you were fast asleep—exhaustion having finally claimed you.

outside the sliding door, oikawa stood quietly, the folded form clutched carefully in his hands. the room was unusually silent, heavier than usual, and for a moment he hesitated. but then, with slow deliberate steps, he pushed the door open, careful not to disturb the fragile quiet.

he found you exactly as he’d expected—head resting on your folded arms, chest rising and falling in steady, tired rhythm. something softened in his usually mischievous grin. without a word, he shrugged off his seijoh jacket and gently draped it over your shoulders. the fabric settled warmly around you, a quiet shield against the chill of the evening.

unseen by oikawa, hanamaki and matsukawa lingered just beyond the doorframe, having followed him silently. hanamaki’s eyes widened in surprise as he whispered, “did you just see that? tooru put his jacket on her.”

matsukawa nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “he’s got layers, huh? who knew?”

before they could say more, iwaizumi appeared, arms crossed and wearing his trademark disapproving glare. “cut it out, you two. give them some space,” he ordered, tugging them gently away.

back inside, oikawa carefully placed the folded form on the desk beside you. he lingered a moment longer, eyes tracing the peaceful lines of your face. then, with a faint, almost shy smile, he quietly stepped out, sliding the door softly behind him.

the sound of the door clicking shut stirred you from your sleep. you blinked blearily, the room still dim but quiet once again. then, a soft warmth caught your attention—a weight across your shoulders that wasn’t there before.

you lifted your hands, fingers brushing against the familiar fabric of oikawa’s jacket wrapped gently around you. a slow smile spread over your tired face, the silent gesture lingering in your mind as you reached out to the neatly folded papers beside you.

the rivalry, the teasing, the endless back-and-forth—it all melted away in that moment, replaced by something quieter, something real.

and for once, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, the hardest battles led to the sweetest victories.

midterms season finally arrived—the unavoidable trial before the school festival’s bright chaos. you barely remembered what a full night’s sleep felt like, caught between finalizing festival preparations and cramming for exams. exhaustion clung to you like a shadow, but beneath it all, a quiet confidence simmered.

this time, you told yourself, it would be different.

you were pumped, ready to finally see your name soaring above oikawa’s on the class rankings—a victory long overdue. every sleepless night, every rushed note had been worth it. today, you thought, today would be the day the score finally tipped in your favor.

well, that was what you thought.

now, here you were—standing in front of the cold, unforgiving bulletin board, eyes scanning the list you’d been waiting for. your heart sank the moment you saw it: your name, again, just below oikawa’s.

but what stung the most wasn’t that you’d lost—no, it was the margin. one point.

one. single. damn. point.

a flush of frustration and disbelief rushed through you, hot and sharp. you had pushed yourself harder than ever this time. late nights, skipped meals, endless revisions—all for this? to fall short by a fraction that felt like a cruel joke?

you clenched your fists, the bitterness bubbling beneath the surface. how did he do it again? how did he always manage to stay one step ahead, grinning like he owned the game?

the weight of the rivalry pressed down on you heavier than ever. and in that moment, the silent promise you’d made years ago—to beat him, no matter what—felt more urgent, more necessary, than ever.

fuck.

from behind you, the murmur of students drifted over—mostly girls, their voices bright with excitement and praise.

“oikawa’s number one again! no surprise there.” “he’s amazing, isn’t he?” “i heard he stayed up all night studying for this!”

their words stung sharper than you expected, a chorus of admiration that only deepened the ache of coming in second—again.

you forced yourself to breathe, to steady the storm inside. but the familiar voice cutting through the noise was unmistakable.

“hey, number two,” oikawa’s teasing drawl came from just behind you, his grin smug as ever.

and just like that, the tension that had been building snapped into something sharper, more combustible.

“don’t talk to me, oikawa,” you said sharply, your voice low but slicing through the chatter like a razor.

without waiting for a reply, you turned on your heel and strode away, each step heavy with the weight of frustration and bitter disappointment. behind you, oikawa stood frozen for a moment, his usual cocky smirk fading into a flicker of confusion.

hanamaki appeared beside him, arms crossed and wearing an amused yet knowing grin. “i guess the prez finally broke down, huh?” he said quietly, nudging oikawa with an elbow.

oikawa ran a hand through his tousled hair, his grin slowly returning but tinged with something softer, almost reluctant.

“yeah,” he admitted, voice low. “maybe this time, it’s not just a game to her.”

just then, iwaizumi and matsukawa joined the group, having caught up after following the scene. iwaizumi’s usual stern gaze softened as he looked at his two friends.

“you’ve been pushing her for years, tooru,” iwaizumi said, arms crossed, voice steady. “maybe now she’s finally pushing back.”

matsukawa nodded, a small smile on his lips. “she’s tougher than she looks. and she’s not someone you just toy with.”

oikawa’s eyes flickered back toward the direction you’d gone, narrowing thoughtfully. “for me, it’s never been just a game. it’s how i make sure she always notices me.”

hanamaki shook his head with a chuckle. “you’ve been poking the bear for so long, tooru. you might finally find out what happens when she fights back.”

iwaizumi added, “you might want to be ready for that. she’s not the same girl you knew in middle school.”

there was a pause before hanamaki nudged oikawa again, a teasing grin on his face. “because you should’ve just told her what you really felt, tooru.”

oikawa’s gaze lingered on your retreating figure, a mixture of admiration, respect, and something almost like awe settling into his eyes. “i don’t know if i’m ready for that,” he confessed quietly.

but even as he said it, the weight of the rivalry hung heavy in the air—an unspoken truth between them all. a fragile line between competition, irritation… and something far more complicated.

instead of heading to practice like he usually did, oikawa found himself walking toward the student council room, a strange pull guiding his steps. the hallway was quiet, the usual buzz of activity replaced by an unfamiliar stillness. when he pushed open the door, you weren’t there.

he frowned, then glanced at the small window near the ceiling. without hesitation, he made his way up the stairs to the rooftop—because he knew you.

he knew that when the weight of everything got too much, this was where you’d retreat. where you could breathe, away from deadlines, expectations, and the constant pressure to be perfect.

when he reached the rooftop, he found you sitting alone, legs drawn up to your chest, eyes staring off into the distance like you were somewhere far away.

for a moment, oikawa just watched, the usual confident grin replaced by something softer—almost protective. he wasn’t sure if you wanted company, but he wasn’t about to leave you here alone. not today.

“leave me alone, oikawa,” you said without looking up, but you knew it was him.

he froze, a flicker of surprise crossing his face—because you usually called him tooru, not by his last name.

the shift in tone, the distance in your voice—it hit him harder than he expected. for once, he wasn’t sure how to break through the wall you’d put up.

“are you—”

he barely got the words out before you cut him off, sharper this time.

“i said leave me alone, tooru.”

you finally looked up at him then, eyes tired, voice strained—not angry, but worn down, like something in you had finally snapped under the pressure.

and oikawa—he wasn’t used to that tone from you. not the teasing, not the competitive spark. just… exhaustion. disappointment.

for a second, he looked like he wanted to say something else, but the words died in his throat.

you stared at him, and something in your chest cracked open—because he was just standing there, still looking at you like you were supposed to be fine. like you could keep doing this. like you hadn’t been breaking little by little.

“you know what’s worse than losing to you?” you said, voice trembling at the edges. “it’s how easy you make it look. like you don’t even try. like you don’t lose sleep. like you’re not terrified of not being enough.”

oikawa blinked, stunned silent.

you looked away, laughing bitterly. “you walk around like everything falls into place for you. and maybe it does, maybe it always will—but i have to fight for every little thing. i have to be perfect or it's not enough. i have to keep up or i’m a disappointment.”

your hands curled tightly into fists.

“so yeah. maybe i get annoyed when you call me number two. maybe i’m tired of always coming in second to you. maybe i’m just—” you swallowed hard, voice dropping, “—tired. of being not enough.”

you didn’t mention the way your parents' voices echoed in your head when you saw the results. you didn’t say how silence at home cut deeper than any scolding. you didn’t say how that one point wasn’t just a number—it was everything they’d use to remind you you weren’t quite there yet.

you just sat there, all of it pressing down on your shoulders like stone, unable to look at him anymore. afraid that if you did, the whole damn dam would burst.

“so tooru,” you muttered, each word sharper than the last, “if you’re just going to stand there to make fun of me…”

your voice cracked, but you pushed through it, jaw clenched as you finished, “just leave me alone.”

you didn’t even have the strength to look at him as the words left your mouth.

oikawa stood there, frozen. every instinct in him screamed to pull you into a hug, to tell you he wasn’t here to tease you, that he never meant to push you this far.

but he knew better.

this wasn’t the moment for that—not when you were breaking, not when the weight you carried wasn’t his to fix.

so, for once, oikawa tooru said nothing.

he stepped back.

and left.

the days leading up to the festival were unusually quiet. for once, no one barged into the council room with a smug grin and half-finished forms. no teasing voice echoing down the halls, no smug remarks about “miss number two.”

just silence.

just… peace.

and it was unbearable.

at first, it was a relief—you had time to breathe, to focus, to finalize the logistics of the festival without anyone pestering you. but the silence kept stretching. and it started to feel less like peace and more like absence.

you hadn’t seen oikawa since that day on the rooftop. no smirks, no casual visits, no fake apologies to buy himself more time on deadlines. he wasn’t even showing up to drop off paperwork anymore. it was always iwaizumi now. and while you appreciated iwaizumi’s quiet efficiency, the lack of chaos—the lack of him—gnawed at you.

and maybe, just maybe, you regretted it.

not the part where you said what you felt. but the part where you pushed him away like it was all his fault. because deep down, you knew it wasn’t.

you were tired. you were under pressure. and he’d just happened to be standing too close when everything finally boiled over.

so now the silence didn’t feel like peace anymore. it felt like distance. and maybe, just maybe… that hurt more.

on the other hand, oikawa wasn’t doing much better.

he tried—god, he really did. he showed up to practice on time, yelled at his team to run blocking drills again and again, even flashed his usual smile at underclassmen when they passed by the gym. but it was hollow, all of it. like watching a performance after the actor forgot his lines.

he hadn’t seen you since the rooftop and he hated how much he noticed.

every time he walked past the student council room, his eyes would flicker to the door, just in case. every time someone mentioned the festival, he half-expected your voice to cut in and scold him about paperwork, about deadlines, about how he was being irresponsible again.

but it never came and the silence started to echo.

his teammates were the first to catch on.

“you’ve been setting like a demon,” matsukawa groaned after taking a ball straight to the chest. “and not in a cool, cinematic way. in a ‘tooru’s got trauma’ kind of way.”

“did you two fight?” hanamaki asked, handing him a water bottle like he was ready to stage an intervention. “or did she finally punch you in the ego like we always hoped?”

oikawa didn’t answer. he just took the water bottle and drained half of it in one go, muttering something about increasing practice intensity.

but they weren’t wrong.

he was more irritable, more tightly wound. the usual charm that masked his stress was cracking around the edges.

iwaizumi, always the most observant, cornered him after practice. they sat on the bench outside the gym, the sun just beginning to dip into the horizon.

“you want to see her, don’t you?”

oikawa didn’t look up. he just ran a hand through his hair, messing it up more than usual. “of course i do. but…” he exhaled slowly, voice quieter, “she told me to leave her alone. and she meant it. i know she did.”

iwaizumi studied him for a moment before replying. “you’re not as good at backing off as you think.”

“yeah, well,” oikawa muttered, giving a weak smile, “turns out i’m even worse at staying away.”

silence settled between them for a few moments.

“you think i’m an idiot, don’t you?”

“always have,” iwaizumi said dryly. “but this time, it’s not because you’re stupid. it’s because you think not showing up is what she needs, when what she probably needed was for you to just be real with her.”

oikawa looked over, eyes flickering with something sharp.

“you think i don’t want to be real with her?” he said, frustrated. “you think i haven’t wanted to tell her everything since—” he cut himself off, biting the inside of his cheek. “but i never know how. with her, it’s always been this game. this rivalry. it’s the only way i knew how to stay close.”

matsukawa, who had wandered over quietly behind them, chimed in, “you could’ve just told her what you really felt, tooru.”

hanamaki followed soon after, tossing a towel at his captain. “maybe if you stopped flirting with sarcasm and actually said something genuine for once, you wouldn’t look like a kicked puppy every time someone says her name.”

“shut up,” oikawa grumbled, but the towel stayed draped on his lap, unmoved.

he leaned back on the bench, staring up at the sky as it deepened from orange to dusky purple.

“i screwed it up, didn’t i?” he said softly.

iwaizumi didn’t say no. instead, he stood up, clapped a hand on oikawa’s shoulder, and said, “not yet. but if you keep doing nothing, you will.”

and with that, the rest of the team walked back into the gym, leaving oikawa alone with his thoughts, a half-empty water bottle, and the hollow ache of wanting someone who asked him to leave.

two days before the festival, the student council room buzzed with low conversation and rustling papers. you were buried in a stack of checklists when the door slid open with a quiet thunk.

“knock knock,” iwaizumi said, holding a folder in one hand and a slightly apologetic look in the other.

you looked up, immediately straightening in your seat. “hey, hajime.”

“here’s the paperwork for the volleyball booth,” he said, placing it gently on your desk. “updated layout, activity proposal, and the final sign-ups. all signed and stamped.”

you blinked. “he actually finished it?”

iwaizumi nodded, then hesitated. “yeah. he did. few days ago, actually. i’ve just been delivering it.”

your hand paused mid-reach over the papers, fingers hovering. “…oh.”

for a few seconds, the room was too quiet.

then, because you couldn’t help yourself, you asked—softly, almost too casually,

“how’s… oikawa doing?”

iwaizumi looked at you for a moment, unreadable. not judging, not surprised. just watching.

“same as usual on the outside,” he said finally. “but quieter. doesn’t talk as much unless it’s volleyball. hasn’t been teasing the first years. or us. which is how we know something’s off.”

you nodded, lips pressed into a line.

“he hasn’t come by.”

“he’s giving you space,” iwaizumi said. then, after a beat: “and it’s killing him.”

your eyes dropped back to the folder. the clean signatures. the neat organization. it wasn’t like oikawa to be so tidy. it wasn’t like him to be distant, either.

and even though some part of you still felt the sting from midterms, another part—a bigger part—missed the way he filled the room with noise.

you cleared your throat. “thanks for the update.”

iwaizumi nodded, already heading for the door.

but just before he left, he paused, looked back, and said, “if you’re still mad, that’s fine. but if you’re not… maybe let him know.”

you looked down at the folder on your desk, running your fingers along its edges, thoughts swirling like an untamed storm. hajime was halfway to the door when you called out quietly—almost too quietly.

"iwa."

he stopped, glancing back over his shoulder.

you swallowed, eyes still fixed on the paper. "i'm not… really mad at him."

the words felt heavy, like they’d been sitting on your chest for days.

"i was frustrated. overwhelmed. with everything. the festival, midterms, and…" you exhaled, shutting your eyes for a moment. "it wasn’t about him. not really. i just… took it out on him. and i hate that i did."

iwaizumi stepped back into the room, closing the door with a soft click behind him. he didn’t say anything at first—just stood there, arms crossed, looking at you with that quiet, grounded calm he always carried.

"he knows," he said simply.

your eyes flicked up to meet his. "what?"

"tooru. he knows it wasn’t really about him," iwaizumi said, walking closer. "he gets it. probably more than he lets on. you think he doesn't notice when someone’s under pressure? he does. especially when it’s you."

you let out a shaky breath, blinking faster now. “he must think i hate him.”

iwaizumi’s lips curled into the faintest smirk. “he’d let you kick him in the shin and still ask if you wanted his last milk bread. you think he’s scared of you being angry?”

“…i did kick him once,” you muttered.

“he still brings it up,” iwaizumi said dryly, a trace of amusement in his voice. “point is, he’s not mad either. he’s just waiting. giving you time. because, you know…” he paused, shrugging a little. “he cares.”

you sat back in your chair, heart squeezing at that.

you weren’t ready to face tooru yet—not completely. but knowing he understood, knowing he was waiting…

it softened something in you.

"thanks, hajime."

iwaizumi nodded, then turned for the door again.

this time, before stepping out, he added without looking back, “just don’t take too long. he’s unbearable when he’s love-sick.”

you blinked. “love-sick? impossible. this is oikawa tooru we’re talking about.”

iwaizumi let out a soft snort. “yeah, well. apparently it’s a condition reserved exclusively for you.”

your breath caught just a little at that. but iwaizumi didn’t linger—he slid the door open and stepped out, leaving you with a folder full of finalized volleyball booth forms, a heart that beat a little too loud in your chest, and the ghost of a smirk on your lips.

when the next day arrived, it was your job to make sure everything was in place—from the booths to the decorations, from the schedules to the last-minute details. the entire school buzzed with energy, but you moved through the halls with a sharp, watchful eye, checking and double-checking every corner of aoba johsai.

you stopped in front of the classroom assigned to the volleyball club. their booth was set up like a cozy cafe, the sweet scent of cakes and fresh breads wafting through the door. colorful signs and neatly arranged pastries made it look inviting—and, knowing oikawa, probably perfectly planned to attract as many visitors as possible.

“iwa, i’ll be ba—” oikawa’s voice stopped abruptly as the door swung open and he caught sight of you standing there.

his usual confident grin flickered for a moment, replaced by something softer, something unreadable.

you met his eyes without hesitation, your clipboard lowered by your side as the buzz of the festival preparations faded into the background—just for a moment.

“hi prez, iwa’s inside if you want to check the booth,�� oikawa called over his shoulder, already halfway out the door.

before you could say anything, he was practically sprinting down the hall, leaving a faint trail of his usual confident energy behind him—but this time, tinged with something like nervous excitement.

from the side, you caught the familiar voices of his teammates chuckling.

“he’s hopeless,” hanamaki muttered, shaking his head.

“always running away when it counts,” matsukawa added with a grin.

iwaizumi just sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “that’s tooru for you.”

you stepped into the classroom, taking in the cozy setup. the tables were neatly arranged with trays of cakes and breads, decorated with colorful signs and cute little details that only oikawa could come up with. the volleyball club members were bustling quietly, making final adjustments and sharing quick smiles.

everything was in place—ready for the festival.

you let out a small breath of relief. it wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs, and that was enough for now.

as you scanned the menu, your eyes caught a particular cake that hadn’t been on the original list they’d given you.

“hey, haji,” you called softly, “did you add a new cake to the menu?”

iwaizumi glanced over your shoulder, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “oh, the strawberry cheesecake? that was tooru’s last-minute addition. said he knew you liked it.”

you couldn’t suppress a small smile, a mix of annoyance, flattery, and something softer swirling inside you.

“everything looks good. i’ll swing by again tomorrow to check on things. good luck,” you said, patting iwaizumi’s shoulder before turning to leave.

unbeknownst to you, oikawa had been quietly lurking in the back, slipping in through the other door just in time to catch your entire conversation. his eyes sparkled with a mixture of mischief and something more vulnerable.

just then, hanamaki and matsukawa appeared around the corner, grinning as they noticed oikawa caught off guard.

“look at captain,” hanamaki teased, nudging matsukawa. “caught red-handed.”

matsukawa laughed softly. “he’s hopeless, but you gotta admit, it’s kind of sweet.”

iwaizumi shook his head, a smirk on his face. “yeah, and now he’s stuck with us watching his every move.”

oikawa shot them all a playful glare but couldn’t hide the small smile creeping onto his face. beneath the teasing, there was an unspoken hope—that maybe, just maybe, she noticed the little things after all.

the day of the festival came with bright skies, loud chatter, and students from different schools pouring in through the gates. the energy was high, the booths alive with color and movement. everything was in place and no major disasters were happening—no missing materials, no last-minute emergencies, no clubs on the brink of combustion. for once, things were smooth.

you could actually breathe.

you allowed yourself to think—just for today—this might actually be a success.

as promised, you made your way to the volleyball team’s booth. it was buzzing with activity, a line stretching outside the classroom door. inside, the scent of fresh bread and sugar hung in the air, warm and inviting. students sat at desks turned café tables, enjoying cakes, drinks, and breads with cute handwritten menus propped up in front of them.

when it was finally your turn, you scanned the menu only to frown slightly.

“strawberry cheesecake’s sold out already?” you asked.

hanamaki, who was manning the small counter for now, gave you a cheeky grin. “sold out in the first hour. some girl bought two whole slices just because tooru made it.”

you rolled your eyes. of course.

“fine. i’ll just get the milk bread,” you muttered, fishing out your ticket stub to pay.

before hanamaki could ring it up, oikawa appeared from behind the divider with a tray. “make that one milk bread,” he said, carefully placing the warm pastry down, “and one iced choco.”

you blinked. “i didn’t order a drink.”

“but you like it with milk bread,” oikawa said with a soft grin. “iced choco, three cubes of ice, no whip, no syrup—just the way you like it.”

your lips parted slightly in surprise, caught off guard by the memory he held onto so casually. before you could speak, he added, “on the house. it’s festival day, after all.”

from the side, matsukawa leaned toward hanamaki and whispered, loud enough for you both to hear, “and the captain strikes again with his signature move—attention to detail.”

hanamaki fake-gasped. “devastating. truly swoon-worthy.”

oikawa shot them both a glare, but his gaze flicked back to you, a little more unsure now. “i mean, only if… you want it.”

you stared at the tray for a moment. then, with a soft sigh, you took it from his hands.

“thanks… tooru.”

and just like that, his smile returned—easy, bright, and just a little shy around the edges.

when the night had long fallen over aoba johsai, the warmth of the festival fading into the cool hush of a late autumn breeze. students gathered around the bonfire in the courtyard below, laughing, dancing, soaking in the final moments of what would be their last school festival. you should’ve been down there too, smiling with them, celebrating a job well done.

but instead, you were on the rooftop—your usual place of quiet, a little peace above the noise. it had been your biggest undertaking as student council president, and now that it was done, the adrenaline had left you all at once. the silence wrapped around your shoulders like a blanket. you let it.

the door creaked open behind you.

you didn’t even need to look.

“oh. you’re here,” oikawa’s voice broke the stillness, a little softer than usual.

you turned slightly, surprised to see him holding a white pastry box, tied with a neat ribbon—turquoise, like your school color.

“i come bearing gifts,” he said with an awkward little smile. “not to bribe you. well… maybe a little.”

he handed it over. curious, you undid the ribbon and opened the lid.

a whole strawberry cheesecake. not a slice. not a portion. a full, homemade cake.

“you made this?” you blinked, brows raised.

“kind of.” he rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting away for a second. “i had help. but most of it’s me. i remembered you liked it, so…”

you stared at the cake, then back at him. your lips tugged into a small, exasperated smile. “you’re unbelievable.”

he gave a tiny, nervous laugh, stepping beside you to look out over the bonfire-lit courtyard. for a moment, you both just stood there, watching the flicker of the crowd below. no teasing. no snark.

then he spoke again—quieter this time. “i wanted to tell you something.”

you turned your head slightly, his profile silhouetted by the soft lights coming from below.

“this might sound… stupid, and honestly, i probably should’ve said it sooner,” he muttered. “but i like you.”

you froze.

his voice didn’t waver—but it was gentler than you'd ever heard it.

“i’ve liked you for a while now. probably since you started beating me in rankings,” he added, with a short, self-deprecating chuckle. “you’re smart. and annoying. and really, really good at making me want to try harder.”

you didn’t speak. you couldn’t. the words landed somewhere deep in your chest.

“i’m not asking for anything. i know you’ve got a lot going on,” he said quickly. “but i just… i didn’t want to end high school without telling you. no pressure. take your time, or don’t say anything. i’ll be okay.”

you looked at him, really looked at him—his stupidly pretty eyes, the nervous line of his jaw, the way his hand gripped the railing like it was keeping him steady.

and for the first time in weeks, your heart wasn’t tangled in frustration.

it was warm. uncertain, but warm.

“okay,” you whispered.

you didn’t need to say anything else.

he smiled, and it was softer than any expression you’d ever seen on him.

maybe it wasn’t the beginning of something.

but maybe, just maybe, it could be.

oikawa’s confession stuck with you for weeks.

he didn’t bring it up again—not once. he didn’t push, didn’t pry, didn’t even hint. he went back to being his usual self: annoying, dramatic, always flashing you that ridiculous grin whenever you passed by. and yet… somehow it felt different now. like there was a second meaning hidden under his usual antics. a quiet kind of hope he carried behind every smirk and every stolen glance.

but his presence started to thin.

with the spring qualifiers looming closer, the third-years of the volleyball team were drowning in practice. late nights, early mornings, extra laps, countless drills. it felt like the whole team moved like a single heartbeat—driven and relentless. tooru, especially, seemed to be running on nothing but sheer will and obsession. and just like that, he became harder and harder to catch.

then the match against karasuno happened.

the result hit like a brick to the chest. aoba johsai lost. after everything—they lost. and with that, their journey as third-years was over.

you didn’t go to the game.

you wanted to, but duties piled up and the nerves clawed too sharp in your stomach. but when the final score came in, when you saw the hushed disappointment written across the school’s group chat, the ache bloomed deep in your chest. not because they lost—because you knew how hard they worked. especially him.

so you went to the gym that evening, hours after the game had ended.

it was dimly lit, with only a few lights turned on above the court. you stepped inside quietly, heart hammering in your chest.

the third-years were still there.

iwaizumi sat on the bench, towel around his neck, staring blankly ahead. matsukawa was on the floor, lying on his back with an arm covering his face. hanamaki was tossing a volleyball up and down without really looking at it. sawauchi and yuda were leaning against the wall in silence. shido sat by the door, legs stretched out and eyes shut like he was trying to block the world out.

and oikawa was in the center of the court, kneeling beside a ball, head bowed. still.

none of them noticed you right away.

not until your footsteps echoed.

iwaizumi looked up first. "hey," he said, voice hoarse.

"thought i’d check in," you said gently, eyes sweeping over them. "i figured you’d all still be here."

matsukawa let out a dry chuckle. “we don’t know what else to do.”

hanamaki offered you a half-hearted smile. “hey prez. sorry you had to see us like this.”

you shook your head, walking slowly across the court. “no. you don’t have to apologize. you all did your best.”

oikawa hadn’t moved.

your eyes landed on him, and something in your chest twisted.

“tooru,” you said softly.

his head lifted slightly at your voice, eyes dull with exhaustion and something heavier. pain, maybe. disappointment. loss.

you knelt in front of him, lowering yourself to his level.

“you played great,” you murmured. “all of you did.”

he shook his head, voice barely audible. “it wasn’t enough.”

you reached out and gently placed your hand over his, squeezing. “it mattered. to all of us. to me.”

he looked at you then, really looked at you, and for a moment the weight in his eyes cracked just a little.

“you came,” he whispered.

“of course i did.”

from the bench, hanamaki cleared his throat. “i swear to god if you cry, i’m leaving.”

“shut up,” oikawa muttered, his voice cracking anyway.

matsukawa smirked. “don’t act tough, we’ve all cried already.”

iwaizumi stood up, tossing his towel over his shoulder. “c’mon. let’s go get something to eat. my treat. we’re not dying here in this gym.”

as the others got up slowly, gathering their bags and their broken spirits, oikawa remained where he was for a second longer.

as the gym slowly emptied, one by one, the third-years dragged their bags over tired shoulders and shuffled toward the exit. the sharp echo of footsteps and the soft scrape of shoes against polished floorboards filled the space before fading into the distant hum of the overhead lights.

iwaizumi gave you a subtle nod as he passed, the kind that said take care of him, a quiet trust passed between you without words.

hanamaki and matsukawa lingered by the door for a moment, exchanging glances full of knowing amusement and concern. hanamaki smirked and whispered something to matsukawa, who snorted softly. you caught the words—rom-com timing—and it made you smile despite the heaviness hanging in the air.

sawauchi, shido, and yuda trailed after them, their footsteps gentle and respectful, fading down the hallway until it was just you and oikawa left in the cavernous gym.

he hadn’t moved from the center of the court. the dim lighting cast long shadows over his hunched frame, kneeling on the hardwood with one hand curled lightly around a scuffed volleyball as if it were the only anchor keeping him grounded.

his back was tense, shoulders tight as if carrying the weight of disappointment itself. his gaze was fixed on the floor, lips pressed into a thin, strained line that barely contained everything he wasn’t saying.

you crouched beside him again, this time closer—close enough to feel the slight tremor in his breath, the faint pulse of his wrist beneath your fingertips.

“tooru,” you said softly, barely louder than the quiet hum of the empty gym.

he didn’t look up. didn’t even flinch.

“i know this isn’t what you wanted,” you whispered, voice steady but tender. “and i know how much you gave—how much you always give.”

his fingers twitched. slow and uncertain, you reached out, letting your hand cover his. the warmth of your skin was a small lifeline in the vast silence.

“you don’t have to smile right now. you don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt—not with me.”

his breath hitched slightly. “it’s just—i tried so hard. i really tried.”

you squeezed his hand, slow and reassuring. “i know.”

his voice cracked like a fragile thread. “i wanted to make it. for us. for iwa-chan. for the team. for—”

“for you,” you finished gently, your voice catching with the weight of the moment. “and you did. you made something incredible.”

finally, his eyes met yours.

they were rimmed red, eyelashes heavy with unshed tears, raw and vulnerable in a way you’d never seen from him before. his face was a map of heartache and stubborn pride, and your chest tightened as empathy and something deeper welled up inside you.

“i lost.”

“you didn’t,” you whispered, leaning in just a little, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath. “you gave everything. that’s not losing, tooru.”

his breath hitched again, eyes searching yours, desperate for some kind of truth to hold onto. and for once, he didn’t have a witty comeback or a sharp retort—just silence.

and so you closed the distance.

your lips pressed to his—soft, tentative, trembling slightly with all the words you hadn’t spoken, all the feelings you’d kept locked away. for a heartbeat, he froze, caught off guard by the gentle weight of your kiss.

then he melted into it, his hand lifting to cup the back of your neck, fingers threading into the strands of your hair like he never wanted to let go.

the gym around you faded—no cheers, no confetti, no grand finale. just the quiet, steady rhythm of two hearts finding each other in the dark.

when you pulled away, his eyes were wide, shimmering with emotion, lips parted slightly as if tasting the moment again.

you smiled faintly, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

“no pressure, right?”

a soft, raw laugh escaped him. “right.”

“good,” you murmured. “but next time, let me cheer for you before the game.”

“deal,” he breathed, voice thick with something like hope.

and this time, he leaned in first.

bonus scene.

hidden just outside the gym door, hanamaki, matsukawa, and iwaizumi leaned casually against the wall, trying to keep their expressions neutral—but the amusement and relief were obvious in their eyes.

hanamaki was the first to break the silence, letting out a low, impressed whistle. “finally. about time those two stopped dancing around each other like it’s some kind of complicated volleyball drill.”

matsukawa chuckled, nudging iwaizumi with a grin. “guess that means we can officially retire from matchmaking duty, huh?”

iwaizumi gave a tired but genuine smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “yeah, i can finally live in peace… at least until the next disaster.”

hanamaki smirked knowingly. “don’t get too comfortable, hajime. now that they’re official, you’re basically their go-to therapist for all the drama.”

matsukawa laughed, crossing his arms. “and oikawa? he’s probably gonna come back swinging with ten times the teasing. no way he’s letting this slide quietly.”

iwaizumi sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “i’m doomed.”

they shared a look, the quiet camaraderie between them filling the space. then, breaking through the muffled sounds from inside the gym, came your sharp, amused voice.

“hey! i can hear you, you know!”

hanamaki’s grin faltered for a moment. “oh, busted.”

matsukawa laughed openly. “guess we weren’t as stealthy as we thought.”

iwaizumi threw his hands up, chuckling. “and here i thought i was done with the chaos.”

the three exchanged a glance, laughter bubbling between them as the gym’s silence returned. footsteps echoed softly inside, and through it all hung the unmistakable warmth of something finally falling into place—something worth waiting for.

155 notes · View notes

yukkiji · 4 days ago

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currently proof reading oikawa's fic rn, so i might post it later hehe

#haikyuu #hq #oikawa

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yukkiji · 6 days ago

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a short spoiler on this:

2nd chance type

friends to lovers (mutual pining)

yaps a lot and the other listens

academic rivals

i won’t tell which is which tho hehe

my current wips

• otoya

• isagi

• kenma

• oikawa

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yukkiji · 6 days ago

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my current wips

• otoya

• isagi

• kenma

• oikawa

#hehehe #excoited

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yukkiji · 6 days ago

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betting on you

blue lock masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. michael kaiser x fem!reader

genre: fluff, romance, suggestive, enemies to lovers-ish

wc: 5k

author's note: idk why the hell i've been thinking about kaiser lately but ig this a bit self indulgent so i hope you enjoy hehe (i'm also thinking about making a part 2 of this that's a bit hehe)

it all started with a bet.

it wasn't just any bet with someone.

it was with michael kaiser, the notorious golden striker of bastard münchen. the guy whose ego was as massive as his talent, whose smirk could disarm crowds and whose confidence filled every room he walked into. and now, he was looking at you like you were his next challenge.

you were the newest intern on the pr team, fresh into the whirlwind that was managing blue lock’s chaos. they’d warned you, over and over, that this job wasn’t just about one team. no, you were in charge of all five — barcha’s flashy social media blitz, ubers’ tight-lipped press demands, pxg’s controlled chaos, manshine’s risky rebranding campaigns, and of course…

kaiser.

you hadn’t even gotten your desk properly set up when he found you, slipping in with that cocky grin that made your skin prickle.

“let me guess,” you said, already tired of his smug attitude, “you think i’m just another girl who’s going to fall for the star striker?”

he cocked an eyebrow, like you amused him. “no. i know you’re not just another girl. that’s why i made it interesting.”

you crossed your arms, keeping your voice steady despite the way your heart beat faster. “i don’t have time for games.”

his eyes glinted with challenge. “then try to keep up, liebling [darling].”

he leaned in, his voice dropping to that infuriatingly smooth tone that made you want to punch him and laugh at the same time.

“winner gets bragging rights. first to fall in love loses.”

you swallowed the lump forming in your throat, fought the impulse to smile, and looked away. this was going to be a battle — and somehow, you already knew it wouldn’t be so easy to win.

you quickly learned that being the newest intern on the blue lock pr team meant diving headfirst into chaos — and managing more than just one team was a lesson in controlled madness. each squad had its own personality, its own challenges.

barcha, being the loudest with bachira over there has their flashy social media content demanded constant attention. their fans craved excitement, and your phone buzzed non-stop with requests for new posts, player interviews, and viral clips. managing their image was like trying to hold a firework show in a hurricane.

ubers took the opposite approach — stoic and serious, their press demands tight and unforgiving. every word had to be measured, every statement vetted carefully. no room for mistakes. you’d spend hours drafting and redrafting press releases, balancing professionalism with a hint of warmth.

pxg? pure chaos. their locker room was a storm of personalities and egos, and your job was to make sure none of that spilled into the media. sometimes you felt like a juggler with too many balls in the air, praying none of them would drop.

manshine was in the middle of a rebranding campaign, trying to reinvent themselves. the pressure was on to make their image sleek, modern, and appealing — but with a hint of mystery. that meant tight deadlines, surprise meetings, and frantic brainstorming sessions.

and then there was bastard münchen.

the team that was as much a force of nature as they were a soccer club — rough around the edges, fiercely competitive, and infamous for their wild energy both on and off the pitch. the media loved to paint them as rebels, the “bad boys” of blue lock, and you quickly understood why.

and within those bastards was michael kaiser — their golden striker, the guy who refused to play by anyone’s rules but his own. his ego was as massive as his talent, his confidence filling every room he walked into, his smirk disarming crowds and teammates alike. he was the heart of the team’s chaos and charisma all at once.

kaiser was impossible to ignore. the moment he entered a room, his presence took over. and somehow, he always found you. calling you “liebling [darling] ” or “kätzchen [kitten] ” with a wink, like it was a game — and you were the prize.

one afternoon, you were coordinating a complicated press shoot for barcha’s latest campaign. cameras flashed, stylists fussed, and players posed with practiced ease — but you were focused on the schedule, clipboard in hand, barking out orders to keep everything on track.

kaiser appeared at your side, his voice a low murmur meant only for you. “you’re too serious, kätzchen. you need to lighten up.”

you glanced at him, arching an eyebrow but resisting the urge to laugh. “someone has to keep you in line, micha.”

he chuckled, that deep laugh that made your heart skip just a little. “maybe. or maybe i just like the way you challenge me.”

you rolled your eyes but the smile you couldn’t hide betrayed you. it was dangerous, this back-and-forth. the way he could make a simple phrase sound like a promise.

later that week, as you were helping ubers with a press conference, you found yourself surrounded by players from other teams, answering questions, sharing laughs, and juggling requests. it was a lot, but you liked the challenge.

kaiser wasn’t far off, watching from a distance, a flicker in his eyes that you didn’t catch right away. then he came over, sliding in beside you with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“so, liebling,” he said, voice teasing but edged with something sharper, “you seem very interested in what pxg’s star forward just said.”

you glanced at the player, a tall, charismatic guy who was mid-story, and back to kaiser, who was watching you like a hawk.

“he was just telling me about their new training routine. it’s relevant for the press coverage.”

“hm,” kaiser hummed, “interesting. but not as interesting as me, right?”

you smirked. “don’t flatter yourself.”

kaiser leaned closer, lowering his voice. “i don’t flatter, kätzchen. i know.”

there was a brief silence between you, charged and electric.

“you’re jealous,” you said softly, amused.

his smirk twisted into something almost vulnerable. “maybe. or maybe i just don’t like sharing the spotlight.”

you nudged him playfully. “micha, it’s not a competition. you know that.”

“maybe not,” he said, eyes locking on yours. “but i don’t plan on losing.”

you laughed, but your heart was pounding. beneath the teasing and bravado, something real was brewing, a challenge neither of you expected, and neither were quite ready to admit.

and with kaiser, every moment felt like the start of something that could never be just a game.

there were also some moments when kaiser would suddenly show up in your office unannounced just to tease the hell out of you, like right now.

you were buried in a pile of press releases and social media schedules, fingers flying over your keyboard, when the door creaked open.

there he was—micha, smirking like he owned the place, leaning against the doorframe with all the casual arrogance he could muster.

“working hard, liebling?” he drawled, voice dripping with playful mockery.

you groaned, rubbing your temples. “micha, what are you doing here? i have a million things to do.”

he stepped inside, closing the door behind him like it was a stage curtain dropping. “just thought i’d remind you who’s winning our little bet.”

you didn’t look up. “you’re dreaming.”

he moved closer, too close, until you could feel his warmth right behind you. one hand brushed your shoulder, fingers tracing slow, teasing circles. “maybe, but i like my odds.”

you finally glanced over your shoulder, catching his mischievous grin. “stop it.”

“stop what?” he whispered, leaning in so his breath tickled your ear, “making you fall for me?”

your breath hitched. you twisted in your chair, just enough to meet his eyes. “micha…”

he pressed a light kiss to your cheek, just below your ear, before stepping back with a victorious smirk. “see? easy to fall, liebling.”

you rolled your eyes, but the flush creeping up your neck betrayed you. “you’re impossible.”

“and you love it.” he winked, heading for the door. “don’t work too hard — i might have to come back for another visit.”

there were also times when kaiser would secretly pull you into the locker room after practice, using the excuse of needing a quick word about the upcoming press schedule.

the door clicked softly behind you, shutting out the distant echoes of the players wrapping up. the air inside was cooler, tinged with the faint scent of sweat and leather. the usual bustle of the stadium faded away, replaced by a charged quiet that made your skin tingle.

kiser didn’t say much at first. instead, he stepped close, his presence overwhelming in the tight space. you could feel the heat radiating off him, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath his shirt.

“liebling,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “how long are you going to keep pretending you don’t feel this?”

before you could answer, his hand found the small of your back, steadying you. his lips followed a slow path down your neck, soft and deliberate, brushing against your skin like a promise. a shiver ran through you, his warm breath fanning over the sensitive spot just below your ear.

your heart hammered in your chest, caught between shock and something deeper — a pull you couldn’t resist. your fingers curled into the back of his shirt, anchoring yourself as he deepened the kiss on your neck, just for a moment, teasing but full of intent.

he pulled back slightly, eyes dark and searching. “i’m winning this, kätzchen.” he whispered, voice thick with something almost tender.

the tension between you wasn’t just a game anymore. it was raw, dangerous, and beautiful—a line you both danced around but neither dared cross completely.

and in that quiet locker room, away from the crowds and cameras, the bet faded into the background, replaced by something real that neither of you could ignore.

kaiser may have the tendency to tease you and make you frustrated most of the time, but there were also moments when he’d tone it all down. moments that caught you off guard, when the sharp edges of his teasing softened into something quietly caring, almost tender.

like that late afternoon when you were buried under a mountain of work, your eyes heavy and barely staying open at your desk. the office was quiet, the hum of the city outside fading into a soft background noise. your head dipped lower, and you fought the pull of exhaustion.

you didn’t notice when the door opened quietly behind you, footsteps soft but deliberate.

then, you felt it, the weight of his jacket slipping gently over your shoulders, the fabric warm and familiar, shielding you from the chill creeping into the room.

you blinked up, surprised to see micha standing there with a small coffee cup in hand, his usual smirk softened into something almost protective.

“for you, liebling,” he murmured, voice low and sincere.

you let out a tired laugh. “what, you worried about me now?”

he shrugged, but the spark in his eyes was different. “someone’s gotta keep you from killing yourself with work.”

you wanted to protest, but before you could, he pulled out the couch nearby and sat down. “come here,” he commanded softly.

you hesitated, but exhaustion won. you eased down beside him, barely able to keep your eyes open.

without missing a beat, he gently pulled you into his lap, careful as if you were fragile. your head found its place against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

“you’re not getting enough sleep, meine liebe” he said quietly, fingers threading through your hair, soothing and slow.

“i’m fine,” you murmured, but your voice was thick with tiredness.

he pressed a kiss to your temple. “no, you’re not. and i’m not letting you work yourself into the ground.”

in that moment, the teasing faded away, replaced by a quiet warmth that made your chest ache in the best way.

“micha,” you whispered, voice barely audible, “you’re impossible.”

he chuckled softly, lips brushing against your hairline. “i'm aware”

you closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into the rare peace he offered — a soft, stolen moment away from the noise and the bet, where just being close was enough.

as you rested against him, kaiser’s fingers gently tracing slow patterns in your hair, he muttered something under his breath — almost too soft to hear.

he pulled back just a bit, eyes flicking down to you, voice low and hesitant, “maybe... i’m losing the bet.”

you blinked, but you didn’t catch what he said. maybe it was just your tired mind playing tricks.

“what was that, micha?” you asked, half-smiling, but he just shook his head with that signature smirk, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face.

“nothing, liebling. just thinking out loud.”

kaiser was sure he was losing the bet. how could he not be? every time you showed up at his games, standing just beyond the sidelines or leaning casually against the press area, something inside him shifted. suddenly, he wasn’t just playing for the team or the fans anymore—he was playing to impress you.

he caught himself pushing harder, sprinting faster, weaving through defenders with a flair he usually kept tucked away. his smirk after every goal wasn’t just for the crowd, it was for you.

“why else would i care so much, liebling?” he muttered one evening, half to himself, half to the empty office as he slumped into his chair.

he knew the answer, even if he tried to deny it. this wasn’t just a game anymore. it was something more, something he wasn’t ready to admit, but couldn’t hide. and deep down, that terrified him.

yet, whenever you smiled his way, or called him “micha” with that tired, knowing grin, he felt something fierce and stubborn flare inside him.

he was falling, fast and hard, and damn if he wasn’t going to enjoy every moment, even if it meant losing the bet.

you started noticing it—the little things. kaiser’s teasing never stopped, but there was something different now. beneath the sharp banter and playful jabs, you felt the weight of something real, something genuine.

like the way his smirk lingered a moment longer when you caught his eye. or how, after a joke that usually made you roll your eyes, he’d catch your reaction and soften it with a quick, almost shy glance.

one afternoon, you were wrapping up a press release for manshine when micha popped into your office unannounced, as usual. “schatz,” he drawled, leaning casually against the doorframe, that trademark smirk in place. “working late again?”

“obviously,” you shot back, already expecting the teasing.

he pushed off the wall and stepped closer, voice dropping a notch. “you know, if you keep burning the candle at both ends, i might just have to drag you away from your desk.”

you raised an eyebrow. “oh really? and how would you do that?”

without missing a beat, he grabbed your wrist and tugged you up, pulling you into a mock struggle before settling you down on the couch. “just like this.”

you laughed, trying to squirm away, but there was a softness in his eyes that made you pause. “micha…”

he brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear and his grin softened into something warmer. “i’m serious, liebling. you’re not invincible.”

it struck you then, his teasing was still there, but it was laced with care, with concern.

and as you leaned into him, feeling the easy tension between you, you realized maybe kaiser’s game wasn’t just a bet anymore. maybe, just maybe, it was something more.

it’s a random thursday when it happens.

the media shoot for bastard münchen runs late, and the rest of the team’s already long gone by the time you and kaiser are left in the pr office. the lights are dimmed, just the glow from your laptop and the faint hum of your playlist filling the quiet.

you’re kneeling near the storage shelf, sorting through camera gear and tangled mic wires, too tired to care about how stiff your blazer’s gotten from wearing it all day. behind you, kaiser leans against the doorway, arms crossed, blue eyes sharp and unreadable.

it’s one of those moments, the ones where he shows up unannounced, just to tease the hell out of you. he always has a smug quip, always something to say. but tonight, he’s unusually quiet.

you glance back over your shoulder. “you good?”

his gaze flickers across your face like he’s memorizing every inch. and then, casually, like he’s commenting on the weather —

“i think i’m in love with you.”

you freeze.

your hands go still on the cables, your breath catches just enough to betray you.

there’s a long pause.

too long.

too quiet.

he sees your reaction—the way your spine straightens, the way your fingers tighten slightly around the gear—and immediately, panic flickers in his expression. his smirk reappears, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“kidding,” he says, tone light. too light. “obviously. still part of the bet. you’re almost there, right?”

you turn back to the equipment, force your voice to stay steady. “right.”

you don’t look at him. don’t let him see the hurt that blooms sharp in your chest like a bruise spreading under your ribs.

because you really thought… maybe it was real.

and maybe, that was your mistake.

you finish organizing the last mic, carefully winding the cord like your hands aren’t trembling slightly. behind you, kaiser shifts, but doesn’t say anything else. the air feels colder now, like whatever fragile warmth had existed between you had slipped out with his words.

what you don’t see—what you don’t know—is that kaiser had meant every damn word.

it wasn’t a line. it wasn’t part of the bet.

he’d said it without thinking, with the kind of quiet honesty that scares even him. and the moment he saw how still you went, how surprised you looked… fear kicked in.

he’s never needed anyone to know him before. never cared if people loved him or hated him, as long as they watched.

but you.

you make him want to be real. and that terrifies him.

so he took it back.

because kaiser didn’t know if you’d ever feel the same… and pride has always been easier than heartbreak.

but now, standing there in the doorway while you refuse to even glance his way, he realizes what he’s done.

he pushed you away the second he was closest to pulling you in.

and for the first time since he made that stupid, arrogant bet…

he’s terrified that he actually lost you.

then the next day came.

and the shift was unmistakable.

kaiser walked into the pr office like he always did, head held high, trademark cocky swagger in full force, expecting the usual. your unimpressed side-eye. the sarcastic “you’re not allowed in here, you know.” maybe, if he was lucky, the quiet smile you didn’t think anyone noticed when he leaned too close or called you liebling under his breath.

but this time?

nothing.

you were already at your desk, posture perfectly straight, headset on, fingers flying across the keyboard like you hadn’t just been the recipient of a half-confession the night before.

no teasing. no sarcastic quip. no glance in his direction.

just silence.

kaiser blinked, momentarily thrown off. okay, he thought. maybe she’s just busy.

he stepped inside anyway—uninvited, as usual—leaned casually against the filing cabinet near your desk.

“morgen, liebling.” he said with practiced ease, the pet name wrapping around the room like it always did.

your response?

a quiet, barely audible “morning.” you didn’t even look up.

his smirk faltered.

not that anyone else would notice, he was too good at keeping up the front. too good at hiding the fact that the cold brush-off felt like a punch to the chest.

he stayed there for a beat longer, waiting for the real reaction. the one where you'd roll your eyes and throw a pen at him. the one where you’d smirk and say, “don’t call me that at work, kaiser.”

but nothing came.

he walked out without another word, unsure if it was better to laugh or scream.

it only got worse from there.

during practice, he caught himself looking through the glass window of the upper level, where your office overlooked the training pitch, and you were there, clipboard in hand, headset still on. but you weren’t watching him. not like you usually did. not like you used to, when he’d send a wink your way after a goal or mouth a smug “for you.”

you didn’t glance at him even once.

and for someone who thrived on attention—who lived off reactions, validation, control—your silence hit like a direct kick to the ribs.

“yo,” ness nudged him mid-warmup. “you and the pr girl good? you’re off today. it’s creepy.”

“she’s busy,” kaiser grunted, brushing it off.

but his tone lacked conviction. even he could hear it.

isagi joined in a few minutes later, towel slung around his neck as he jogged beside him. “dude. did you mess up? she’s been acting different. super professional. formal. like—” he whistled low “—back to intern mode.”

kaiser didn’t respond.

because yeah. he’d noticed too.

the way you didn’t walk beside him down the halls anymore. the way you addressed him like a client in the media meeting, “kaiser, you’re expected at the post-match interview in ten” voice crisp, tone detached, like you weren’t the same person who once called him micha with something close to fondness under your breath.

not once today had you used that name.

and god, he missed it.

he missed you.

the real you, the version who didn’t flinch when he leaned in too close, who rolled her eyes when he flirted, who pretended not to smile when he brought you coffee just to watch your expression shift. he missed the quiet tension that buzzed between your fingertips whenever he reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the spark in your eyes when you pretended not to care.

and now?

now, you looked right through him. like last night had never happened. like the words “i think i’m in love with you” had been a figment of his imagination.

but it wasn’t your distance that killed him.

it was the fact that you didn’t confront him. didn’t retaliate. didn’t even acknowledge it.

because if you’d fought him, he could’ve argued back.

if you’d teased him, he could’ve spun it around, turned it into another game.

but this quiet, clinical version of you?

it meant you were hurt.

and worse, that you were hiding it behind professionalism.

that’s when it hit him.

you’d thought he was serious last night.

because he was serious.

what you didn’t know—couldn’t know—was that kaiser had never meant to say it out loud. he hadn’t planned on confessing anything. he was michael kaiser. prideful, untouchable, golden boy. he didn’t fall.

and yet, there he was, leaning in the doorway of your office after hours, watching the way your fingers moved and thinking i’m in love with her.

he’d said it without thinking.

and then panicked. covered it up with a joke because he was terrified of the shift, terrified of losing the upper hand, of admitting that the game had stopped being a game weeks ago.

he saw the way your shoulders stiffened.

he heard the pause.

and still, he laughed.

called it a joke.

just so he didn’t have to deal with the weight of what he’d just said out loud.

now you were slipping away from him, inch by inch, behind a wall of professionalism and distance.

and it was entirely his fault.

for the first time in his life, michael kaiser didn’t feel like a winner.

he felt like someone who was about to lose something real.

and the worst part?

he wasn’t sure how to fix it.

not yet.

it all comes to a head at the gala.

blue lock’s annual fundraising night, suits, champagne, media appearances, and gold-dipped smiles plastered across every player’s face. the pr team is in full force tonight, and as one of the top interns, you’re assigned to coordinate behind the scenes.

you didn’t expect to be seen.

definitely didn’t expect to be noticed.

but you were wrong.

your dress is nothing too extravagant, just a simple off-shoulder satin piece in midnight blue, elegant, understated. but it hugs in all the right places. a little more skin than usual, a little less guarded. your hair’s pinned up, leaving your collarbones exposed, catching the soft golden light of the chandeliers.

kaiser notices the moment you step into the room.

and his entire chest goes tight.

he's halfway through a conversation with a sponsor, flute of champagne untouched in his hand, but his eyes are glued to you, the way your fingers brush a curl behind your ear, the soft laugh you give when someone hands you a glass.

you’re not looking at him.

and yet, every man in the room is looking at you.

and then he walks up, some finance guy, older, tall, too smooth with his words, asking if you’re free for a drink after the event. kaiser’s too far to hear what you’re saying, but he doesn’t need to.

the guy leans in closer. his hand brushes your lower back. you don’t step away.

kaiser’s jaw clenches.

and then another one joins. some smirking ex-pro turned broadcaster who’s all too eager to compliment your smile. and god, you smile back.

that’s it.

he’s had enough.

“excuse me,” kaiser says, voice tight as he hands off his glass to the nearest staff member without a glance. his teammates call after him, confused. someone asks where he’s going.

but he’s already striding across the ballroom.

you don’t even notice him until his hand wraps gently but firmly around your wrist.

your eyes widen. “kaiser?”

“we’re leaving.”

you blink. “what—? i’m working.”

“not anymore.”

his voice is low. controlled. but there’s something wild simmering beneath the surface, jealousy, frustration, something close to desperation.

the two men standing beside you step back, startled.

“hey, man—” one of them starts, defensive.

but kaiser’s not listening.

he’s pulling you away from the crowd, past the confused eyes of sponsors and players, down the hallways of the stadium and back toward the pr wing like a storm on legs.

you protest once, “kaiser, let go—” but it’s weak. your heart is thudding too loudly, your breath catching at the heat in his eyes.

the moment the door to your office slams shut behind you, he turns—fast, sharp, like he’s been waiting for this.

you barely have time to draw a breath before his voice slices through the thick silence.

“do you enjoy it?”

you blink. “what?”

his jaw tightens. there’s heat in his eyes, something stormy and restless. “having them look at you like that. letting them touch you.”

your brows pull together, confusion giving way to disbelief. “it’s part of the job. it was harmless.”

“harmless?” he takes a step closer, the air between you shrinking. “they had no idea who you are to me.”

you flinch at the words—not because of what they mean, but because of what they don’t.

“maybe that’s because you made damn sure i wasn’t anything to you,” you fire back, the words out before you can reel them in.

the sentence lands like a slap. the silence that follows is louder than any scream.

his expression falters—just for a second. a flicker of something wounded passes beneath the cool, practiced arrogance.

“you think i don’t care?” he asks, quieter now, his voice laced with something raw. “you think this doesn’t eat me alive?”

he moves again, slow but deliberate, until your back hits the edge of your desk and you’re caged by his presence. it’s not threatening—but it’s consuming.

“you wear that dress,” he murmurs, eyes dipping to your collarbone, lingering like a touch. “you smile like that. and you expect me to stand there and watch them put their hands on you?”

you meet his gaze, unwavering despite the way your pulse races. your voice comes out steady—cool, despite the fire beneath your skin.

“you don’t get to be jealous,” you say. “not after you said it was all a joke.”

his mouth opens slightly, like the words caught him off guard.

then—barely audible—he says, “it wasn’t.”

you go still.

but now that the dam has cracked, he doesn’t stop.

“you think i didn’t mean it?” his voice is rough, strained. “you think i’d say i think i’m in love with you just to play some twisted game?”

you don’t answer. your silence is louder than words.

he exhales, ragged. “i panicked,” he admits, softer now. “i’ve always been in control. of the game. the spotlight. the way people see me. but you…”

he swallows, and it’s the most human sound you’ve ever heard from him.

“you’re the only thing i can’t manage.”

your gaze drops, but his fingers gently tilt your chin up again, forcing you to face him.

“i meant it, meine liebe,” he says, voice trembling at the edges. “every damn word.”

the room feels still, suspended in that fragile space between what was and what could be.

you hate the way your heart clenches.

hate the part of you that wants to believe him.

hate the way your breath stutters when his thumb brushes your cheek, soft like a secret.

then, in a voice barely more than a whisper—

“tell me it’s too late. and i’ll walk out that door.”

you don’t.

instead, your voice breaks the silence, quiet but sure.

“you really fell first, huh?”

and when he kisses you—desperate, deep, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold on tight—it’s not about the game, the act, or the mask he wears so well.

it’s real.

and this time, you let yourself kiss him back. completely. unapologetically.

like maybe, just maybe, this was always meant to happen.

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