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“Working hours” with this black ops group are loosely defined at best, and entirely nonexistent at worst. And don’t even get started on pay, because you think at this point that you’re only getting comped whatever the pay is for your cost of living, and that’s only really when you’re on the clock. They’ll pay for the hotel room and sometimes the food, but besides that, you’re on your own.

But, back to those working hours. You don’t know when they stopped, but maybe it was around the time your roomie decided to crack open a bottle of whisky and pour out half of it for you into one of the plastic solo cups they provide with the coffee pot. God knows you’re not working anymore, you’re just sort of sitting idle while he rambles about the room, gesticulating with the bottle. Like he does.

(Plus, you don’t think he’s even being paid for this? Adrian is just here for the fun and because he’s available, and the rest of the team just let him tag along because he’s useful. The thought makes you smirk a little bit.)

You admire his profile as he talks, one finger pressed to your smiling lips as your eyes trail him back and forth, thinking he might eventually hypnotize you. He’s so… expressive. And he has dimples and curly hair, which you’ve always been a sucker for. He hasn’t even taken off his suit; blue on silver on black, with a red visor on the mask discarded on the table. You had watched him remove it, and carefully tried to hide the fact that you were staring as he pulled his wire-rimmed glasses out of a hidden pocket.

You’re very pointedly staring now, sizing him up like your next fucking meal (alcohol does that to you), and Adrian keeps on blathering in one long spiel, pacing in circles like hasn’t even noticed your hungry gaze (alcohol does that to him).

“Is that prescription?” you ask, cutting him off in the middle of his sentence, which you’d barely been paying attention to. Something something Twilight, something something cultural reset.

Adrian stops pacing, looking at you with a deer-in-headlights expression. “Huh?”

You nod at the mask laying on the table by the door. “The visor. Is it prescription?” 

He swivels to look at the mask, and then back to you with an almost bashful laugh. “Uh… yeah?”

“That’s sick.” 

“Really?” Dimples. You take another sip of your whisky to calm yourself, and it burns at the back of your throat. Objectively, you should not be feeling this way about your pseudo-coworker, who also happens to be somewhat of a lunatic. But, y’know, he’s… sweet. To you. Which is the odd thing, but you’ve gone beyond worrying about the details at this point. You’re hunting alien butterfly creatures that live in people’s brains, you can get past a couple character flaws.

“I mean, yeah.” You lick your lips, which have taken on the flavor of the peach liqueur in the whisky. “I wear prescription lenses, too, but they’re a bitch to keep clean on the job. If I could afford prescription hardware, I would. Good on you.”

“Yeah, I mean… yeah, it is fucking cool, thank you!” He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners and making you clench your jaw with how badly you want to reach out and kiss him long and hard at that exact moment. “I was starting to think no one else would notice how genius it is. Y’know, I don’t even think Peacemaker’s noticed, which is totally not very best friend-like of him, but it’s fine, I’m sure he’ll come around eventually, the guy constantly has a lot of shit on his plate. Like I remember one time, me and him got stuck in a Winnebago that was rolling downhill toward a cliff like something out of Looney Tunes because some idiot crack dealer locked us in there with his load, and-”

He’s pacing again, and the amber colored liquid in the square bottle he grips by the neck sloshes against the glass as he continues waving it around emphatically. And you’ve zoned out again, because now you’re thinking about his hands, and how nice they’d feel on your body. You’ve seen him beat the shit out of people, you know he’s packing some major force in those fists, but you haven’t felt them on your own skin, or had the experience of having them wrapped around your throat for yourself. 

“-then, y’know, Eagly’s a fucking badass, I don’t know if you’ve seen him in action, but the little dude can take a guy out in like one peck. Like do not get caught on the wrong end of those talons is all I’m saying. Anyways, he swooped in and yanked the fucking wheel, so the Winnebago flipped. I mean, can you imagine! A bald eagle rolling a camper. That shit’s gotta be, like, legendary-”

And his quads as he walks, Jesus Christ. You’ve never been super partial to burly, buff guys (sorry Chris), but there’s something to be said for muscle in the right places. Adrian’s legs are nice, you can tell just by the way the fabric of his pants stretches around them when he turns, and fuck his ass is so tight. You nearly salivate just staring at it, thinking about how much you’d love to dig your heels into it, or squeeze it to urge him on as he fucks you. 

Your eyes snap down to your solo cup of whisky, and you frown. When did you drink half of it?

“-but like I’m sure you know Eagly pretty well because he loves you, I can tell. He kind of scooches closer every time you sit near him, it’s really cute actually, I mean, I would scooch closer whenever you sat near me too except I feel like you’d punch me in the dick, good thing my suit’s got a reinforced crotch-”

“Wait, what?” You blink up at him, your brain sort of fizzling out and then rebooting as you stare at him. What did he say? 

Adrian doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, the guy who made it was like, ‘That makes no sense, you’re gonna have the worst time trying to take a piss in this,’ and I said, ‘No, dude, have you ever been karate kicked in the nuts before? Shit hurts.’ I still had to pay extra-”

“No, no, what was that shit about scooching closer? To me?” You squint at him. “Babe, are you trying to tell me something?”

He blushes. You know he’s joked about not feeling emotions like other people do, but you wonder how true that really is, because he goes beet fucking red like he’s having trouble breathing as he stares down at his shoes. “I, uh- well, I mean, yeah, I’d scooch closer to you. Theoretically. If- if you wanted me to. And if you weren’t going to punch me in the dick.”

“Why would I punch you in the dick?”

“I don’t know, it’s like… it’s an understandable reaction to someone getting in someone else’s personal space!”

“No, it really isn’t…”

“Well, how was I supposed to know you wouldn’t punch me in the dick?”

You throw up your hand in an exasperated gesture. “When have you ever seen me punch someone in the dick?”

He screws up his face. “UM, I don’t know, you punched Peacemaker in the dick!”

“What? When?”

“When he tried lifting you onto the truck that one time!” 

“That was a misunderstanding, I kneed him because he didn’t give me a heads up!”

“But you did it!”

“Well, the last thing I would want to do to your dick is punch it, all right?”

You both stop and stare at each other for a long moment. You think you might have stopped breathing, too. Yeah, you are definitely tipsy at this point, but you raise a slightly shaking hand to take a casual sip of your drink, as if you aren’t staring at him with bulging eyes like you’re possessed.

He opens his mouth and closes it a few times before he comes out with a response. “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, okay. I mean, what other stuff would you do to my dick?”

“Uh… stuff.” You jerkily stand, nearly sloshing your drink as you try to get your bearings. You set the cup down on the bedside table and turn to look at him with the most awkward, pin-straight posture you could possibly muster, like a high schooler trying to pretend they aren’t drunk in front of their parents. “I’m going to take a shower now. Yeah. I am. I’m going to do that.”

“Oh. Okay.” Adrian looks down at the bottle in his hand, and then shuffles a bit to the side so that you can pass him.

“I mean, unless you wanted to shower first?” You pause at the end of your respective bed, and turn to see him turning down the covers on his own by the window. “What are you doing?”

“I’m getting in bed,” he says flatly, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He reaches up and undoes a latch on his armor that frees the chestplate, and lifts it over his head in one swift move, leaving him in his tight fitting black undershirt.

You stare at him, scatterbrained until you manage to scowl at him, and the two knives he wears crossed against his lower back. “You’re going to sleep with all your weapons?”

“Yeah.”

“With all the dirt and sweat and fucking blood from fighting?”

“Yeah.” 

“You can’t just… you can’t just get in bed with your outside clothes on, dude!” you splutter, leaning your thigh against the end of the mattress before you, and slow your speech carefully as you declare, “It’s… unsanitary.”

“Oh, and who are you, the sleep police?” Adrian turns to sneer at you. “I thought you were going to take a shower.”

“Well I was, but that was before I knew you weren’t planning on it!” You throw your hand out at him. “Why?”

“Because! If I go to sleep with wet hair it dries all weird, okay? Get off my dick!”

“I’m sure you’ll look just as pretty regardless, Adrian,” you tut condescendingly at him, rolling your eyes as you turn on your heels toward the bathroom. “Do what you want, or fucking join me if you change your mind, I don’t care.”

You don’t register the full weight of your words until you turn on the tap. But, by that time, you also don’t get to see the way Adrian stares at the door to the bathroom like you’ve just presented him with the key to the city.

You very rarely opt for lukewarm showers, but you certainly do now. With the way your blood is humming through your veins like electricity, and you feel hot just from the sight of Adrian’s muscles in that tight fucking shirt, you feel a cold shower is in order. Well, colder, anyways. 

The water pressure is complete bullshit, of course. It pathetically trickles out, and it takes longer than usual for your body to get completely soaked. In that time, you lean against the tile and hold your head in your hands as the water drips down your face. How the fuck are you supposed to sleep in the same room as this guy? Between the way you’re just aching to jump his bones, and his inability to stop talking, you don’t think it’s a possibility tonight.

You wonder what he would sound like when you ride him. You wonder if he would finally shut up, or if he would switch to talking to you like a lover instead of a drinking buddy. You wonder if he would beg, or if he’s more dominant than that. 

You’re imagining his head between your thighs. You’re imagining what he’d look like with your hands tangled in his hair. You’re imagining the feeling of his mouth on your skin, the calloused planes of his palms on your breasts and beneath your thighs. You’re… you’re shaking.

The white shower curtain rips open, and Adrian steps in beside you, naked as the day he was born. “Hey, can you pass the soap?”

“What the fuck?” You turn your head to look at him with a bewildered expression, simply refusing to tear your eyes away from his face because you do not want to cross that line and have the image of his dick imprinted in your brain while you try to get to sleep tonight. “Adrian, what are you doing?”

“Well, you said to join you if I changed my mind.” He shrugs, his smile the absolute picture of innocence, but his eyes still rake slowly down your body before finding your face again. 

You blink, searching for a proper response to that. His eyes are green. Jesus Christ, that’s three for three: dimples, curly hair, and green eyes. He’s trying to kill you. 

“I was being sar-” you cut yourself off with a sigh, “yeah, you know what, I did say that. Shit. Fucking… okay. Whatever. Here.” You fumble with the tiny complimentary body wash tube and thrust it toward him. “Go apeshit.”

“You have a really great ass by the way.”

“Adrian.”  

“What? You do. I’m just being honest. I’m not even saying that because this is the first time I’ve seen you naked, I always thought your ass was nice, there just wasn’t a good time to say it.”

Your face is burning. You turn your back on him and try your hardest not to clap your hands over your eyes or do something equally embarrassing. You don’t think Adrian is even fazed by any of this; he wasn’t wearing his glasses, either, and you don’t know how strong his prescription is. You imagine pretty strong, if he needs it in his visor. Maybe there’s a good chance he can’t see the exact details of your tits. Maybe-

He touches your shoulder, and you feel lather running down your back as he starts massaging circles into your skin.

“Are you washing me?” you wheeze, your voice coming out an octave higher, and you really do cover your face again this time. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, and you can’t focus on anything other than the touch of his hand on your shoulder blade.

“Uh, yeah? I wash your back, you wash mine, right?” He sounds cheery and completely content with everything that’s happening and, despite the sheer oddness of all of it, you don’t really want him to stop. You guess that’s why you haven’t told him to get the hell out, yet.

Maybe you’re just as much of a lunatic as him. “‘Scratch,’ Adrian. It’s fucking ‘scratch.’” 

He pauses. “What?”

“It’s ‘I scratch your back, you scratch mine.’”

“That makes no fucking sense.” He shakes his head in your periphery, his hand resuming its circular motion against your back, moving across to your other shoulder. You feel the soft, wet glide like a molten lava trail.

“Of course it makes sense! Why would it be ‘wash?’”

“Why wouldn’t it be ‘wash?’”

“Because it’s about doing your friends favors,” you argue in a wobbly, strained voice as you shiver while his fingers slide down your spine. It raises goosebumps on your skin, despite the heat in your veins and the cool of the water. “Friends don’t wash each other’s backs, genius.”

“So, we’re not friends?”

His hand pauses again just at the curve of your lower back, where it extends down into your tailbone. You bite your lip, and you can feel his eyes on you, the touch of his gaze almost as real as his hand is. Your thighs clench together involuntarily. You simpering little… weak, desperate thing, you are not going to beg for him to touch you. That’s not it. That’s not how this should go.

But, you could turn around and touch him, too. You could probably kiss him, if you were feeling really adventurous. He just basically implied that he wouldn’t be opposed to fucking you, right? That was where the conversation had been going earlier, if you hadn’t been such a pussy. Neither of you is nearly as subtle as you think you are.

You manage to chew your lip enough to tear a gash in it, and salty, coppery blood hits your tongue. You’re losing it, standing on the precipice of something way bigger than the two of you. You’re just an inch away from becoming more than just friends with Adrian, if you don’t reel it in quickly. Your hand comes up to slam against the wall when his fingers, which seem to be discontented to remain idle, start tracing little shapes on your lower back. A star. A diamond. A heart.

“N… No, I- I mean, we are. But I don’t think we’re going to be, if you keep it up.”

He grunts carelessly. “I’m having a hard time not keeping it up, really.”

“What do you mean?” You turn around, and his hand glides across your lower back and to your hip, because he refuses to stop touching you now (not that you want him to stop, either, if you’re being honest with yourself). Your eyes flick down, and you know exactly what he means, because he’s hard as a rock. 

And also thick, and long, and veiny, but hey. What did you expect?

Your eyes linger on his erection for a long time, and drag your gaze slowly from the burst of dark hair at the base of his cock, up the line of his torso and to his chest. His pale skin is riddled with little scars here and there, from small injuries that weren’t serious enough to slow him down. He has a faint spray of freckles on his shoulders, suggesting that he spends at least some time in the sun. It makes you inordinately flustered to think of him doing some sort of outdoor activities to get that toned body of his. 

You clear your throat as you find his gaze again. “Next dumb question,” you say, and he gives you a wide-eyed, vaguely awestruck look that makes you way more confident than it ought to. “Are you gonna fuck me, Adrian?”

His eyelashes flutter. His cheeks are painted with that sweet pink blush again, like he’s been entirely oblivious to the fact that he’s had you melting for him since he cracked open the bottle of Jim Beam. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“I think it’s a fucking fantastic idea, do you?”  

“Yeah, I do.” And he grabs you by the face to kiss you, and crowds you back against the wall. You give a surprised yelp into his open mouth, your arms coming up to wrap around his neck as your back hits the cold tile. He grunts and brushes his soap covered fingers across your cheeks. “Did you bite your lip?”

“Yeah.”

“...Was that because of me?”

You whimper weakly as he slowly, and very purposefully, traces the length of your bottom lip with his tongue like he’s savoring the taste of your blood. “Yeah.”

“That’s so fucking hot.”

He yanks you up off of your feet, making you squeak and hold in a nervous laugh. Your leg bumps the faucet handle, and the water turns ice cold just as Adrian scrambles to hook your legs around his waist. 

“Shit.” Adrian hisses and smacks the wall beside your hip once or twice before he finds the faucet, because he doesn’t stop kissing you. He’s sloppy and rushed and overexcited, but at least he gets the water running warm against as he presses you up against the wall. “I’ve never done this here, have you?”

“Shower sex? No.” You bite his lip as he hitches you up by the back of your thighs, and he groans as his hips jerk up toward yours. “But I think you’re doing a good job.”

“Wait, fuck. Do we need, like, a condom…?” He blinks at you with a glassy look in his eyes. 

“IUD. I have- it’s all good, you’re fine.” You knock your head back against the wall with a whimper high in your throat as he brushes his cock against your entrance. You can feel the world spinning as you tangle your fingers in his wet hair, giving it a small but sharp tug. “Now, if you don’t fuck me I’m gonna-”

You choke when he drives the full length of his cock into you, pushing your hips back against the wall. Your nails scratch down his neck and across his shoulder blades as he splits you open, your legs tightening around his waist while simultaneously trying to spread wider to accommodate him. Adrian spits a curse into your neck, his teeth grazing a vein there as he ruts up into you, filling you so completely that a cry dies in your throat. 

“God, fuck, Adrian,” you sob toward the ceiling, only too aware of him moaning loudly against your skin. He feels better than you had imagined, stretching you out so perfectly that your toes curl as you try your hardest to draw him forward with your legs alone.

“I knew you’d be perfect,” you catch him whispering into the crook of your neck, just barely audible over the trickle of water over your head.

He doesn’t even give you time to adjust before he starts pistoning his hips into yours, jolting you up the wall. Your skin squeaks against the wet tile, and his grunts echo in the curve of your neck. Tears might actually be streaming down your face, but you wouldn’t be able to tell them apart from the warm water coming from the showerhead.

Adrian’s hand comes up to brace against the wall beside your head, and he surprises you. “You really think I’m pretty?” He asks with such a genuine note of hope in his voice that you think he must be serious. 

“I think you’re fucking gorgeous,” you breathe, whining when he nips at your jaw with his teeth. You interrupt your train of thought with a series of hoarse cries, because Adrian picks up the pace with less precision, and more just forceful thrusts that drive all the way to the end of you and make you see stars, regardless.

“You’re the most perfect person in the world and I wish I could paint because the only thing I’d be painting is just you over and over and over-” 

He’s blathering into your shoulder, his mouth brushing your skin as it moves and his hips slamming yours back against the wall hard enough that you’re definitely going to be feeling it in the morning. Every bit of desire you have for him surges up inside you like an inferno catching on, like every stroke he makes is stoking that fire within you.

“-so pretty everyone wants you I can’t believe you would let me touch you or even kiss you but you’re letting me do this to you and it’s all I’ve wanted to do since I first saw you-”

It occurs to you to tell him that you’d let him do anything he wants to you at this point, as long as he just doesn’t stop fucking you- but that’s yet another line you refuse to cross for the sake of self preservation. You’re already drunk, and confessing the true scope of your feelings to him in this state would just be a recipe for disaster. 

Oh god, but he’s like a reckoning. You shake your head to compose yourself and scratch your nails along his neck before you take his face in your hands and draw him up to you. His pupils were already blown out, but you think they nearly eclipse his irises when his hips falter and he sucks in a sharp breath. His dark hair is thoroughly drenched, and water drips down his face in little rivulets that you trace with your fingers just before you draw him to your lips.

You feel his small moan vibrate on your lips, and that’s enough. Your legs spasm, and your orgasm suddenly snaps within you like a rubber band, every muscle in your core tightening down on his cock as you see a burst of white behind your closed eyelids. It snuck up on you just as much as it did him.

“Holy fuck-” Adrian loudly gasps against your lips with a startled jolt of his hips, his full weight crushing you up against the wall. His nose nuzzles yours, so intimate in a way that you hadn’t expected from him, and with a few shuddering huffs of breath you feel him come with a rush of warmth deep inside you.

You’re floating somewhere above awareness when he slouches forward, his forehead resting against yours and his eyes closed as he takes deep, steadying breaths. It takes you a moment to realize that he’s just holding you, with his fingers digging into your thighs like he’s just trying to ground himself in your body.

You raise a shaking hand to smooth his wet hair back from his face. “Earth to Adrian. You still with me, babe?”

He grumbles something entirely non-coherent directly in front of your face, and blinks his eyes groggily open at you. 

“The alcohol’s catching up with you, huh?”

He nods.

“Guess I’m washing your back, anyways. C’mon.” You wiggle out of his grip, and you’re only too thankful that you’re smushed up against the shower wall, or else you may have easily slipped and ate shit on the tile. The alcohol is fucking with your head quite a bit now, too, and your movements are a little jerky and uncoordinated as you try to help him get cleaned up.

He’s uncharacteristically quiet. The rest of the shower takes place in complete silence, actually, with the exception of the little grunt he makes when you urge him to bend down so you can get his hair for him. You catch him looking a little dazed as you turn off the water, and he gives you an unfocused stare when you toss a towel at him. You wonder if you actually succeeded in frying the guy’s brains just by fucking him.

But then, back in the room as you clumsily dig through your bag to pull out a night shirt and a pair of underwear, Adrian shuffles directly to his bed and tosses his towel aside before clambouring into it, bare ass to the wind. He flops down face first, and shoves his feet under the turned down comforter.

“Adrian… what are you doing?” You say for what feels like the millionth time this evening. 

“‘M going to bed,” he drawls into the pillow. His entire body shakes as he hiccups, and then turns his head to the side to look up at you with his big green doe-eyes that make your heart do a somersault in your ribcage. “You should tooootally join me. There’s-” hiccup- “lotsa room. We could go again.”

You blink at him as you semi-stagger, semi-walk toward the bed, stooping to pick up pieces of his uniform strewn across the floor as he had, presumably, just ripped everything off as he made his way to the bathroom. “Mm, no, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Uh, you said it was a great idea,” he argues as you toss his clothes into a pile at the end of the bed.

“That was before the whisky kicked in and we were both staggering… fuckin… drunk-” you accidentally whack your foot against the corner of the bed and bite your lip as you fight not to crumble to the floor. “One of us has to be responsible.”

“I’m-” hiccup- “responstable.”

“Uh-huh.” You stop as your eyes land on the mostly empty Jim Beam bottle on the bedside table. You’re almost positive it had been at least quarter full when you left him to go take a shower. “Adrian, did you drink all that?”

He blinks his eyes open and follows your pointing finger to the bottle. “Oh, yeah. Hhhuuuhh… had to… I lost the cap so we can’t keep it.” When you march forward to snatch it off the table, he grunts dismissively. “Gotta… get rid of it.”

“Guess that’s why you’re worse off than me.” You shake your head and drop the entire bottle into the trash bin. “Aren’t you gonna put something on to sleep in?”

“I don’t have anything.”

You snap your head towards his sprawling, naked form. Your eyes linger on his ass for way too long. “You didn’t bring a single thing to wear?”

“Why… why would I bring a change of clothes to kill bad guys?” 

“I don’t fuckin’ know! Anonymity!” 

He grumbles into the pillow, “I have a mask.”

“Fuck the mask. You can’t sleep in the mask.”

“Sure I can. I fuck in the mask, I can sleep in it. S’a free country.”

You blink, your eyes flicking between Adrian and the mask on the table. “Dude, you fuck in that thing?”

“Hell yeah I do. I could fuck you in the mask. Could do it right now. Go get the mask.” Despite the conviction of his words, he’s slurring them, and his face is still pressed into his pillow as he lies motionless on the bed. 

“I… don’t think that’s gonna happen tonight.” You sigh as you toe forward and grab the end of his comforter, drawing it up over his body. “We’re both way too drunk. We probably… probably shouldn’t have…”

Adrian flops over to look up at you as you, essentially, tuck him in. There’s a note of hurt in his voice when he mumbles, “You regret it?”

You pause, staring down at his expression of confusion and betrayal. Do you regret it? You can’t deny that you hadn’t been hesitant to have sex with him for a litany of reasons- one being that you work with him, and another being that he’s a loose cannon on the best of days. Not exactly relationship material, you think. 

Or, you thought, but now he’s gazing up at you with these wide, dumbfounded eyes, and you’re tucking the comforter up beneath his chin, and he turns his face down and kisses your knuckle even though he looks mildly hurt. And yes, you liked the sex very much. You liked it so much that you can’t trust yourself not to do it again if you don’t shuffle off to your own bed immediately.

“No,” you tell him firmly, combing your fingers through his wet hair as you draw back. “I don’t regret it, but I think we both need to sleep this off.”

“Okay,” Adrian says quietly, his expression relaxing, but his arms come out from under the comforter and he reaches for you with grabby-hands. “Sleep with me?”

You catch one of his hands and give it a gentle squeeze. “G’night, Adrian.”

You hear him sigh in disappointment when you shut off the bedside lamp. His hands audibly plop down onto the mattress as he rasps, “Night.”

You wake from a dreamless sleep sometime in the early hours of the morning, and your throat is bone dry. Smacking at the nightstand a couple times, your phone manages to illuminate and tell you that the time is only 1:30. 

You blink sleep away from your eyes and try to see through the dark as you stumble into the combination vanity, closet, and kitchenette. You knew you brought a water bottle or two, it can’t be that hard to find-

“Hey, what’cha doing?”

You hardly even startle at this point. You’re slowly becoming acclimated to the idea that Adrian is just constantly awake and witness to your every move, which isn’t as disconcerting to you as one might think. “I’m looking for the water. Did you see where I put it?”

“Uhhhhh mini-fridge?”

You reach blindly under the counter and yank the little fridge open, once again smacking around until your hand lands on the shape of a water bottle. “You want some?”

“Yeah, you could spit it into my open mouth-”

“Adrian.”

“What? It would be fucking sexy.” Adrian grunts, and the light clicks on from the main room. Then, he wolf-whistles just before you straighten up from where he’d caught you, bent over in front of the fridge. “Y’know, I was right. You have a really great ass.”

You grumble a half-hearted thanks under your breath as you approach his bedside and thrust a water bottle at him. “I see you’ve sobered up a bit.”

He waves a hand at you dismissively. “Pshh, I wasn’t that drunk.”

“You were drooling all over your pillow.”

“Maybe I always do that.”

“Yeah, okay.” There’s a long pause, wherein you perch on the edge of your mattress and chug an obscene amount of water. Adrian watches your throat work until he, too, succumbs and lifts his bottle to his lips. 

An uncomfortably heavy silence settles between you two, only permeated by the quiet sipping of water and the cheap motel AC unit kicking in. It’s entirely unlike him to be silent and still for more than a couple of seconds, but he’s just sitting there looking despondent and running a hand back and forth over the white comforter, periodically lifting his bottle to take another drink. He doesn’t even really look tired, and you wonder if he ever got to sleep in the first place.

You know that the tension in the air is so thick because you have yet to address the giant fucking elephant in the room; and to address it is to have the most awkward and intimate conversation you can possibly imagine with Adrian, of all people. As much as you love his sense of humor, the idea of baring your soul to him is almost enough to have you running into the bathroom again, and locking the damn door this time.

But, in true Adrian fashion (because damn it all to hell if he ever lets something be), he beats you to the punch. “So, are you? Sober now, I mean.”

You chew your lip again, and reopen the gash you’d put there before. “Yeah. I am.”

He nods, pursing his lips as he looks down at his lap. He was right, his hair does dry… well, not weird, but just rather unruly if he goes to bed with it wet. Dark curls stick up at odd angles, a cowlick on the back of his crown standing straight up and begging you to come over and smooth it down. More curls fall across his forehead and nearly touch the top of his glasses. He blinks slowly, and severe shadows from his lashes cross his face in the golden light of the bedside lamp. You snap your gaze away, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end.

“So… was that a lie? About just needing to sober up?”

Your thumbs twitch on your bottle. To tell the truth, or to lie? You feel like your mouth just stays dry, no matter how much water you drink. “Look, Adrian, I-”

“Also, I have, like, no pride and a ridiculously thick skull, or- or whatever Peacemaker calls it. So, you don’t have to beat around the bush or anything for my sake, you probably won’t even hurt me-”

“Adrian, I like you too fucking much, don’t you get it?” 

That fully shuts him up, and he locks his jaw as he fixes you with a startled look. You suck your bottom lip through your teeth, perturbed at the taste of blood still apparent on it, and dig your heels into the carpet. 

“The last thing I want to do is hurt you. You’re… one of my closest friends, all right? But I’m afraid that if we keep going like this, I’m not going to want to be friends anymore. And I think I’ll fall in love with you really quickly, and that might be a really bad idea for both of us. You just…” You shake your head, your voice dipping in volume as you stare bashfully down at your feet, “you have no clue how much I want you all the time, baby.”

“Why would it be a bad idea?” he asks you plainly.

“What?” You pick your eyes up off the floor to squint at him, finding him staring at you challengingly, a flush already on his cheeks. 

“I mean, honestly. Name a single reason why it would be a bad idea. Bet’cha can’t.” Adrian throws his empty water bottle across the room, and it makes a gentle tap against the side of the television before skittering to the floor. “I think we’d fuck like rabbits and then I’d wake up every morning and make you pancakes, because I’m really fucking good at those, but you’d have to make the eggs because I always burn them. And I think we’d kick ass together as a cool superhero power couple, and I’d carry your gun for you if you got tired, and I could show you where all my hidden knives are. And you could also do anything you wanted to me, like any time, and I’d be totally fine with it and probably also turned on by it, as long as you call me baby like you just did.”

“Are you serious?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m super hard right now. Probably should’ve warned you, I have a thing about that-”

“No, smartass, I mean are you serious about the other stuff?” You tilt your head at him. “I never really took you for the domestic sort.”

“Tsch- yeah! I’m, like, super domestic. I’m like one of those domestic...ated... cats?” He trails off as you step forward and crawl onto his bed, up his legs to straddle his lap.

“Cats?” you repeat with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m… I…” Adrian’s eyes flick across your face, down to your shirt and bare thighs on either side of his, your knees pressing the comforter taut across his lap and (very prominent) erection. “I don’t know, I have trouble thinking when you’re on top of me-”

Nodding, you reach forward and take his glasses by the wire earpieces, and pull them from his face. He goes stock still, his lips parted in awe as you slide them onto your own face, and give him a sweet smile. “I like your glasses. They look good on you.”

“They look good on you.” His voice cracks. “Can you see in them?”

You blink at him, and then turn your head to look across the room. “A lot better than I thought I would. I think our prescriptions are similar.”

“That means you can also wear my mask.” 

You look back at him, and find that he has his million-mile stare on, like he’s completely lost in thought. You smirk. “Do you want me to wear the mask?”

He blinks, and it’s like you’ve flipped a switch and turned his focus back on. “Uh… no. I mean, yes. Maybe later. I want to look at you.” His eyelashes flutter so fast you think he might take flight for a second. “You’re so fucking beautiful I could stare at you all day.”

“You can touch me, too. Don’t be shy.”

He practically vibrates with anticipation as his palms glide up your thighs, hot and big and just a bit rough. His eyes are everywhere at once; your lips, your eyes, your chest, your thighs, where your hips disappear under your oversized shirt. His fingers catch the hem, and he curls it between them.

“You should totally get naked, too. It’s super unfair that I’m the only one naked right now,” he says breathlessly, nodding the whole time like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you.

“So, do it.” You shrug, trailing a finger up his chest. “Take it off, baby.”

Adrian fists the hem of your shirt and rips it in half up the middle with a loud tear. You gasp, shivering as the garment falls from your shoulders and leaves you in just your panties. “Adrian!”

His eyes are trained on your tits. “What? It’s not like you need it tonight, anyways, and tomorrow we’ll be home…”

“What if that was my only shirt?” you retort.

He looks up at you. “Was it?”

“Well, no-”

“Then there’s your answer. Now, can I go down on you? Because I’ve wanted to for a really long time and I think it’s super hot that you’re wearing my glasses so it’s like I’m watching myself eat your pussy.”

He has such a hopeful expression on his face that you have to hold in a manic string of laughter as you nod at him. “Yeah, sure. Are you going to tear up my underwear, too?”

“No, I wanna keep those.”

“That makes perfect sense.” You shake your head before you kiss him deeply, and his tongue dips into your mouth as he rolls over with you, briefly getting tangled in the sheets before he roughly kicks them off. 

You run your fingers through his hair, snickering as he climbs between your legs and his hands deftly tug your panties down. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Depends on how incriminating it is.”

“I’ve never come from someone eating me out before,” you admit quietly, a blush furiously heating your cheeks until you fear that if you touch your face you might burn yourself. 

Adrian fixes you with a deadpan stare, and a slew of emotions cross his face before he lands on something relatively serene and says, “Okay.”

“Okay?” 

He nods and grins, like this is the most casual conversation in the world, and his green eyes bore into yours. “Yeah. You should probably, uh… hold on, though.”

You frown in confusion. “To what?”

He rocks back on his knees, picking up your arms by the wrists, and he very simply places your hands on his head, with a little smile that conveys, ‘it’s no big deal,’ but the tenderness with which he does it sends another message, altogether. Your fingers weave between soft, unruly curls, your fingernails digging in just a bit when he lowers himself down between your thighs, and you come to the conclusion that this is just how he is. Tenderness, closeness, hidden behind casual sighs and dismissive shrugs.

You’re learning. Slowly. 

His breath finds you before his lips do, where you’re wet and swollen and slippery like you haven’t been touched in your fucking life. But he has once already, and still his mouth feels like a searing hot brand between your legs. In fact, you nearly jump out of your skin at the first brush of his tongue through your folds, your hands tightening on his hair and tugging as you buck your hips up against him. 

Adrian grasps your hips and slams them down against the mattress. Sometimes you forget how fucking strong he is. His slight frame really doesn’t give justice to the force behind those lean muscles, because he holds you in an iron grip that you can hardly wiggle out of. It makes you feel small, in a way, that he holds you hostage to his tongue and won’t let you move away from or towards him. 

A long, miserable whine rips out of your lips before you can stop it, and you could blush at how pathetic it sounds, except that Adrian mimics it with a groan against your cunt. Your head is flung back against the pillows, but when you just barely tilt up to glance down at him, you find his green eyes trained directly on you. They start off wide as moons, and then narrow like he’s challenging you to look away as he drags the flat expanse of his tongue slowly over your clit, curling the tip just as it skims the mark.

“Oh, fuck you, Adrian, you’re so fucking good,” you grit out through clenched teeth. Your nails dig into his scalp and he shudders, briefly nuzzling his head up into your touch before he dips down to give you his tongue again. Your breath hitches, and your eyes flutter shut when he sucks on your clit long and hard. “So… s-so good… good boy…”

The moan that Adrian makes is overtly pornographic, and his hips snap once against the mattress so hard that the bed shakes beneath you. He breaks away from you to rest his forehead against your thigh, squeezing your hips tightly in his hold as his hot breath billows across your sweat-damp skin.

You loosen your fingers in his hair to stroke it softly, subconsciously struggling to flatten the cowlick at the back that you’d noticed earlier. Adrian’s eyes are squeezed shut, his shoulders heaving while he tries to steady his breath through his nose. “Did you just come?”

The tips of Adrian’s ears glow pink. He gives you a little nod and then a feeble, “Couldn’t help it.”

So, he can’t just take his praise in stride, he has to react to it with fervor. “That’s really sexy of you,” you blurt out, your voice ragged and just this side of adoring. 

He returns with a quiet mmm, rumbling across your skin as he drags his open mouth along the sensitive flesh of your thigh, his eyes drowsily shut. It takes him another moment to catch his breath, but once he does, he’s right back at it again. Dipping his head down and absolutely going for it with no signs of letting up, and you have to suck in a deep stream of air and scramble for a hold on him somehow.

“Oh- oh my fuckin-g god-” your voice comes out without thinking, wrung thin and anguished, as your foot plants itself in his shoulder. Adrian simply grunts, paying no mind to the fact that you’re effectively kicking the living shit out of him as he sucks so hard on your clit that you threaten to break his vise-hold on your hips.

He was right that you needed something to hold onto, because you feel like you might leave the ground. He works at you relentlessly, devouring you with his lips and tongue and teeth like he can’t get enough of you, his fingertips pressing so hard into your hips that his nails are turning stark white. 

“Fuck, you’re so squirmy,” Adrian groans when he pulls away from you for half a second, and struggles to hold you down when you try to chase his mouth. “Should I tie you down?”

“Do you have anything to tie me down with?” you mutter breathlessly toward the ceiling.

A beat. “Nope. Stay still.”

You fight not to jolt as the next touch of his mouth on you. He dips his tongue into your channel, seemingly trying to draw your arousal out of you that way. You start whining when he finally nuzzles his way back up, giving you soft, teasing licks to your clit that edge you closer and closer to the release of the swell of heat you feel building in your core. Your volume turns up a notch when his tongue starts drawing little circles around the swollen flesh. 

And when his lips come down to latch onto it and gently suck, you know you’re just shy of howling. His soft groans vibrate onto your skin as you scratch at his head and pull on his hair, and you eventually find yourself babbling, “Adrian, please, I’m gonna come, please pleasepleaseplease-”

He sucks harder, moaning like it turns him on just to hear you say it. You heave a few rapid breaths, and then come against his face with a cry that crackles and breaks in your throat as your head arches back, baring your neck forward. Your heels digging into his back, hands scratching, hips flailing like you can somehow escape the barrage of hypersensitivity he’s putting you through.

You really fucking hope no one is in the room next to yours.

His fingertips stick to your skin once he releases his grip on you. He’s practically glowing, grinning from ear to ear at you from between your legs, and it’s a better image than you had imagined. 

You drop your head back with a breathless chuckle. “Okay, Mr. ‘I Have No Pride.’”

“I made you come,” he chirps happily.

“Yeah, you did. It was really good, too.”

“So, why didn’t anyone else?” Adrian pushes his head toward your touch when you stroke your hand gently through his hair. 

“I dunno. They weren’t applying themselves, I guess.”

“That’s stupid. You’re, like, the hottest person ever. Hotter than Doja Cat,” he grumbles petulantly, and you can tell by the look in his eye that he’s dead serious. “Want me to kill them? I should kill them.”

“No.” You trail your fingers down the curve of his face, going for his chin, but he turns his face and sucks your two fingers into his mouth before you can manage it. You stop dead as the pad of his tongue swirls around the digits, and he blinks up at you innocently, despite the lewd connotations of the act. “N-no, I… hhhhh… you’re distracting me.”

He bats his eyes at you, and he slowly pulls back along your fingers until they pop out of his mouth, covered in saliva. “How am I distracting you?”

“You’re- you… you little shit.” You grab him by the chin and draw him up from between your legs. He clumsily crawls up the length of your torso with his cheeks smushed between your fingers as you hiss, “I’m going to fuck the ever-loving shit out of you, I swear to god.” 

“You know, that sounds slightly menacing when you say it like that,” he slurs, his jaw working against your hold. 

“On your back, Chase.”

He grabs you before you can protest, and rolls back over so that you plop down on top of him, your hand still jammed up against his jaw. A blast of air comes out of your lungs in lieu of laughter, and Adrian snorts, shuffling his hips so that he moves back against the pillows.

“Okay, look, I really really really like you,” he says as you pick yourself up, straddling his lap, “but if you’re too good at this I might accidentally fall in love with you. Just to let you know what you’re getting into here.”

“Oh, is that so?” 

“Yeah, and I think I might actually, um, ask you to move in with me, like, immediately. Like tomorrow. Do you rent or own? Doesn’t matter, I can put your name on the lease. Maybe if you own a house it can be income property-”

You cast your eyes down and find him, remarkably, hard and leaking precum as he continues babbling about living situations. You tilt your head, letting him get his stream of consciousness out there in the open, as your eyes catch on a dark wad of fabric beside his pillow. Your underwear, which he’d gingerly set aside instead of tossing across the room like you thought he would.

“Hm, Adrian?”

He blinks up at you, his eyes wide and dilated. “Yeah?”

You pick up the wadded up underwear. “You wanted to keep these, right?”

He licks his lips. “Um. Yes.”

“Hold them for me, then.” You grab his jaw and stuff them in his mouth, his eyes nearly popping out of his skull as he makes a noise of protest, but then actually moans when, presumably, he tastes you on them. “You’re so fucking cute, I haven’t even tied you up. You just want my taste in your mouth, huh?” He nods. “Yeah. Pretty boy.”

He predictably moans again, his hands grasping at every part of you they can reach; your arms, your breasts, the expanse of his palms gliding down the curve of your waist and settling on your thighs. You grab one, lifting it and settling his palm against your throat.

“Hold this for me, too?” You ask him sweetly, giving his bewildered expression a devilish smirk in return. You rock forward, sliding your dripping pussy along his erection, and his hand tightens on your throat just a bit. “That’s it.”

You pick your hips up, reaching between your legs to position him where you want him, and when you sink down onto his cock, the underwear in his mouth does nothing to muffle the obscene groan that he makes. His hand flexes on your throat, and his eyes close and open a few times as he tries to maintain a certain amount of control. Something tells you that he’s not really used to taking it lying down. 

You’re already decently sore from the way he effectively fucked your brains out in the shower. This is just ensuring that you’re going to be feeling it for the rest of the week, but you can’t help yourself. You take him in all the way, making agonized noises the entire time, and then jolt your hips down a little more so you can feel him bottom out. 

“Fucking hell, baby, you’re something else,” you snarl down at him, and his eyes go wide again as you squeeze him, every bit of your aching strength bearing down onto his cock until he whines loudly through the fabric and his fingers tighten on the sides of your throat. “Oh, god, I could ruin you. You could ruin me. I want you to, it would be so easy for you, I wouldn’t even be able to walk in the morning.”

And you’re moving, picking up your hips and letting them fall back down in slow, deep strokes that have him writhing, his free hand in a death grip on your thigh. You raise your hand to press against the back of his on your throat, your fingers weaving in between his, and he flexes them back a bit to make room. 

Even when he’s gagged, he’s noisy. Keening and grunting at you, his jaw tightening every once in a while and the tendons of his neck jumping out at you when your hips meet his. Dark curls hang down his forehead, damp with sweat, and you can’t help but feel like the shower was useless.

No, not useless. It brought you here.

Adrian bucks his hips up suddenly, meeting you halfway when you take a particularly long time on the downstroke. You gasp, tightening your hand on his, and your nails dig into his chest. 

“Oh, you want me to ruin you, don’t you?” You murmur at him, baiting him to do it again. And he does, just like you hoped he would. You pick up the pace in retaliation, letting the lewd sounds of your skin hitting his fill the room. “Silly boy, I knew you would.”

He whimpers, blinking up at you slowly, his face screwing up and tightening in earnest when you rake your nails up and down his chest. He makes a couple pathetic, weak groans in the back of his throat like he wants to convey something to you, but he’s not reaching up to remove your underwear from his mouth.

(You wonder if he even remembers that he can.)

“You gonna come for me?” you ask as his whimpers increase in volume. His cock is so hard, twitching and dragging thick inside you, and his chest jumps with every desperate, ragged breath he takes. “Yeah, you are. Go on, baby, make a mess.”

Adrian gives you a curt shake of his head, and paws at your thigh for a second before his hand slides forward, and his thumb touches your clit.

“Oh fuck, Adrian-” you lurch forward, pressing your throat hard against his palm, your legs seizing up on either side of his hips. He makes you come again with a single fucking touch, and it burns through your core like fire, almost more satisfying than the first because you’re able to feel him inside you this time, something warm and hard and thick to come on.

Apparently, that was all he needed in order to let go. His back arches a bit as he jerks his hips up into yours, and he fills your pulsing cunt until his shallow breaths rattle in his throat, his eyes squeezed so tight that you see a tear collecting in the corner of one. He lays with his head driven back hard into the pillow, whimpering and whining like he’s been mortally wounded. 

Too sore to move just yet, you pull his hand away from your throat and kiss his palm. Adrian’s eyes flutter open, and he finds you with a glazed-over stare, like he might either see you or see through you. Still letting out soft whimpers with each harsh exhale. 

“Oh. Sweetheart,” you giggle, and reach forward to pull the wad of underwear from his mouth. It comes out with a long string of his spit attached to it, and you give him a cheeky smirk as you break the string with your finger and lick it off, rather than wiping it on your skin. 

“You… you’re…” You swear his eyes nearly roll back in his skull before he closes them, trying to collect himself. He takes a deep, long breath, and then splutters, “Willyoumarrymeactually?”

You give him your biggest, goofiest grin, a little bubble of laughter wedging itself deep in your chest. “Get a little more whisky in me, and we’ll see what bright ideas I have then.”

“Okay.”

You lift yourself off of his softening cock, and the release comes with a dribble of his cum sliding down your thigh. He groans, but with one look at him you know that there’s not going to be any more action for the rest of the night. 

You shift to the left, and his hand smacks down onto your thigh. “Mmmm no, you sleep with me.”

“Yeah, obviously. But you came all over the sheets earlier, genius.”

“Oh.”

He takes a deep breath in and opens his eyes in time to see you taking his glasses off. You blink a few times, your eyes having adjusted to the slight difference in your prescriptions, and refocus on his face to find him gazing up at you adoringly. 

“I’m gonna take a guess and say you don’t sleep in these, too?” You wiggle the glasses at him. 

He licks his lips. “No, not… not usually.”

You set the glasses on the bedside table, and then slowly slide off of him, off the bed and onto shaky legs. You take his hand and tug just a bit. “C’mon, pretty. Into my bed.”

He follows your lead without a fuss, making the two step journey to the other bed and plopping down face-first. 

“D’you wanna get pancakes when we wake up?” he asks around a yawn as you nudge his ass, prodding him to scoot over. 

You nod furiously, even though you know he can’t see you as you switch the light off and climb in beside him, curling up against his warm back. “Pancakes sound fucking delicious.”

“Not as delicious as your pus-”

“Adrian.”

He tossed the bloodied tweezers onto the tray, along with the last of the bullet fragments. For a moment the only sound between you two was the sound of your blood dripping against the floor of the van percussively.

“You have to stop holding me with your legs like that, it’s making me hard,” he grumbled, pushing up his glasses with the back of his wrist. 

“I’m bleeding out in front of you and you’re getting hard?” you asked in disbelief.

Adrian frowned. “You’re not bleeding out. In fact, you’re barely bleeding at all.”

“We’re literally both covered in my blood, but okay, let’s take the time to be pedantic.”

“I don’t think it’s being pedantic if I’m being medically accurate and you’re being a big baby.”

You unlocked your ankles and freed Adrian from the confines of your thighs. Perhaps it wasn’t exactly fair to be ragging on him for getting semi-hard when you knew the space between your thighs was wet. There was simply no time for unpacking that, not when Adrian was –

“Jesus Christ!” you hissed as antiseptic was pressed to the wound with no warning. You punched your other fist against the metal bench, desperate for any distraction from the pain searing in your shoulder. Adrian’s calloused fingers moved away again as he reached for gauze. You tried to focus on breathing, your own fingers prodding at the space between your brows in a half-hearted attempt to ease the tension there. 

You let your eyes flutter closed as Adrian dutifully packed and dressed the wound. He was clinically proficient, something you had no choice but to respect about him. When the man was set to focus on something, he could certainly deliver. But good lord if he wasn’t an utter disaster the rest of the time.

“All done!” Adrian cheered and you risked opening your eyes. A dull headache was blooming behind your eyes from the blood loss.

“Thanks Adrian,” you muttered. You pressed your hands against the bench and made to get up, but Adrian was still kneeling between your thighs. You opened your mouth to tell him to piss off but he leaned forward and pressed a kiss over the taped up gauze. When he pulled back, he had your blood on his chin and an expression that seemed as surprised as yours.

So you did the only reasonable thing you could think to do. Pressing your booted foot straight into his abdomen, you pushed him away from you. Adrian fell onto the bench opposite and you scrambled to your feet, vaguely woozy. You grabbed your water bottle from where it’d rolled under the bench and hopped off the end of the truck, ignoring the crackle of pain in your shoulder. 

“Where are you going?” Adrian asked, hopping out of the back of the truck after you, a desperate tinge to his tone. You turned on your heel to stare at him.

“I’m just trying to rinse the blood off my hands, Adrian,” you snapped. 

“Oh, okay. Good idea!” Adrian nodded emphatically as you screwed the top off your bottle and poured water onto your hands. You put the bottle down on the edge of the van and scrubbed as best you could – the dried blood caked under your fingernails was a later-issue. You rinsed again and then reached out towards Adrian who had just been silently observing you. Water dripped from your fingers to the dirt below.

“What?” he asked, flinching slightly. You supposed you couldn’t really blame him. You sighed and beckoned him with a crook of your fingers, knowing all too well he’d comply. It would take a lot more than a kick to the stomach to keep Adrian Chase down. He stepped closer and you yanked him all the way to you by the wrist. He swallowed a small yelp as you poured water into his waiting, cupped hands. 

You waited for him to scrub his own hands together and then dutifully emptied the rest of your water over his significantly less bloody hands. You moved to climb back into the van but Adrian was one step ahead of you, vaulting himself in and reaching down to pull you up.

“I don’t want you to hurt your shoulder,” he remarked, like it was a totally plausible explanation and not an excuse to keep touching you. But you let him pull you up and in and you breezed past him towards John’s bag.

“Um, I think that’s – ” He caught the travel sized hand sanitizer you tossed at him without even blinking. “Oh. Uh. Good idea.”

“Every so often I have one of those,” you joked. Adrian’s face lit up with a smile that you felt low in your stomach. Goddamnit. He tossed the hand sanitizer back to you and you used it before tucking it back in the bag. At least your hands were clean-ish, even if the rest of you was another bloody story.

You slumped back onto the bench and leaned your head against the van wall, pressing your eyes closed, vehemently trying to ward off the headache trying its damnedest to make its presence known, thudding in your temples and somewhere behind your eyes. 

Adrian moved about the van in a way that was starting to annoy you. What could he possibly be doing? You refused to open your eyes to find out. There was a slight rattling directly next to you and you were about to ask him to sit still for just a minute when his hand brushed yours and you felt him wrap your fingers around a water bottle. Probably his, since yours had just been emptied over his reverent hands.

“Open,” he said gently, fingers brushing your chin. A shudder rolled down your spine that was definitely because of blood loss and nothing else. You obeyed and felt Adrian press several pills onto your tongue. If his fingers lingered, if they dragged across your lower lip – you ignored it. He guided the water bottle to your mouth and you drank down, swallowing the pills in one fell swoop.

“That better be oxycodone,” you mumbled. 

Adrian shifted beside you. “Sorry, it’s just several Tylenol.” 

“What, no emergency morphine in the back of the van?” you joked, prying one eye open to look at the man sitting too close beside you on the bench. 

“That was all I could scrape up. All the strong stuff is back at headquarters,” Adrian replied with far too much earnestness. One day you’d get him to understand sarcasm. 

You let out a small, meaningless huff and gave a testing roll of your shoulders that had you biting back the pain. Well, at least pain meant you were still alive. Adrian winced and reached for your throat before you could protest, fingers pressing firmly for your pulse. Your radial pulse was weak, you reasoned, remembering those words from when you two had – still, goosebumps crept up the back of your neck.

“Are you mad at me?” Adrian asked, very clearly trying not to look like a kicked dog and failing spectacularly.

“No, Adrian, I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at myself. If I had been more focused I wouldn’t have ended up with a bullet in my shoulder,” you replied gruffly, picking at the shreds of your shirt. Maybe you should have been mad at him. It would be easier to have somewhere else to place the blame. But, no, you could only blame yourself. Because the truth was that the reason you’d been distracted was Adrian and there was no world in which you could tell him that.

“Oh. Okay,” he said quietly, sitting back slightly. When you looked over at him he was pouting.

“Are you upset that I’m not mad at you?”

“Last time you were mad at me we had sex,” Adrian stated matter-of-factly. There was simply no time to unpack that statement. 

“No,” you corrected. “Last time I was mad at you was literally this past Tuesday. And anyway, we did not have sex that time, we kissed a little, you ate me out and then you came in your pants, Adrian.”

“You were mad at me on Tuesday?” Adrian asked with a gasp, his eyes big and wet. “For what?”

You pressed your eyes closed again and sighed. For the headache. And not because you couldn’t bear to keep looking at him like that. So put out, and bloodstained, and pouty and sweaty and close. “I didn’t like the way you were looking at me.”

“How was I looking at you?” he asked, his brow furrowing. “You better tell me so I definitely don’t do it ever again. Because I don’t want to make you mad. Obviously. It would be totally weird if I like it when you’re mad.”

Had you accidentally Pavloved him into being horny when you were mad at him?

You nearly choked on your water, eyes opening again. “Sorry, do you think we’re going to have sex in this van while we wait for everyone to come back?”

“I dunno, maybe?” 

You rolled your eyes and reached down to peel your tattered tank top off. You were fairly sure you had another in your bag anyway, and the destroyed one wasn’t exactly living up to the idea of being a garment at all anymore. It wasn’t like Adrian hadn’t seen you in sports bra before and anyway he –

Adrian’s lips were suddenly on yours, startling you so much you leaned back and smacked your head on the side of the van. Your vision swam. 

“Whoah, Adrian, what the fuck?”

Adrian fell back immediately. “Sorry! Shit! Sorry, sorry. I totally misread that, didn’t I? It’s just that I checked your pulse which is kind of our thing? And you like…took your shirt off right after I said I wanted to have sex with you again. That seemed like a green light. I was wrong, clearly. Right?”

“We don’t have a…thing, Adrian! And that was definitely not a green light,” you snapped, even if the very feel of his fingers pressed to your neck had made your mouth dry. Something stupid came over you suddenly. A loss of logic and reason that only Adrian seemed capable of inducing. You leaned towards him. “But this is.”

Fingers hooking into the front of his suit you yanked him towards you, your mouth meeting his. You weren’t altogether sure why you did it. Maybe you were concussed. Maybe it was all some extremely vivid hallucination from blood loss. Maybe you were actually dead and this was hell. 

Or, maybe, you hadn’t stopped thinking about kissing him again since that night in the office weeks ago. And it was practically a full time job forcing yourself to not think about him like that. To not drag him into some supply closet at work and put his mouth to good use between your legs again. And your dumb ass had gotten shot because you were busy watching his fingers on the trigger of his gun and thinking about them inside of you instead.

God, you were stupid. Part of you wanted to stick your finger straight into your bullet wound – you deserved the pain. But you were also distracted, leaning against Adrian, his tongue deep in your mouth like he was mapping it for later. You wrapped your hand around the back of his neck and wrangled him somehow closer. Your knee hooked over his and your other leg slipped behind his back, pinning Adrian sideways between your legs. Your hand ran up his thigh and he moaned into your mouth. You tugged at his lip with your teeth as your hand brushed across his lap and he squirmed so violently you pulled back, hands in the air like you were being held at gunpoint.

“What’s wrong?” you asked. Adrian was panting. “I shouldn’t have – ”

“No, no, you definitely shouldn’t have,” he agreed, his eyes squeezed closed. You narrowed your eyes, trying to piece together what was going on in his utterly confusing brain. 

“I’m sorry, Adrian. I thought – ” Adrian interrupted you this time, halfway missing your mouth as he kissed you again, wet and desperate and whiny. You could have sworn he was cursing under his breath between every movement of his lips. There was a slight tremble to his hands, less like trepidation and more like barely managed restraint. 

“Fuck it, how long until everyone else gets back?” Adrian asked, panting against your open mouth.

“Like five minutes probably?” you replied with a glance towards the open back doors of the van. He was rubbing his face against your neck when you pulled him up by the hair.

He looked at you with wide eyes. “I only need two.”

“Okay,” you sighed. You were about to reach for his zipper but he’d already beaten you to the punch, wriggling his pants and underwear all the way down to his knees. You didn’t waste time snidely commenting on that, if only because Adrian started pumping himself with his own hand, his eyes pressed closed. You sat back slightly, suddenly realizing he had wildly misread your signals again. Part of you kind of wanted to just watch. If he wanted to jerk off in the back of the van while you observed, well, so be it. The way he pulled his lower lip between his teeth was strangely mesmerizing. 

Instead, you gave up any hope of better judgment and pulled him closer with your legs. His eyes snapped open just in time to see you join his hand with yours.

“Oh! Wait, no! You don’t have to do that!” Adrian almost squealed, wriggling out of your grasp. You frowned at him. “You’re injured and it’s going to be so annoying if you undo all the first aid I did because you were jerking me off! No handjob related injuries on my watch!”

“Adrian, I have two hands…” you reminded him. You lifted your injured arm and gave a wave of your fingers, in case he needed the visual aid. 

“Are you sure?”

You rolled your eyes. “Are you going to come faster if I do it?”

He swallowed hard, his throat visibly constricting under the skin. You wrestled down the urge to bite him. “Uh, almost definitely.”

“Great,” you said simply and wrapped your hand around him again. He let his hand fall back onto his upper thigh, fingertips pressing into the pale flesh.

“Um, sorry,” he choked out. 

“Why are you sorry?” you asked, studying his expression. Suddenly he looked pained, the tips of his ears bright red. You sat back slightly and eased your hand away. Adrian whimpered at the loss of touch, confusing you further. 

“It’s just…um, and I want to say that you’re perfect and you couldn’t do anything wrong ever, it’s just…” he trailed off and looked around as if there would be someone else to explain for him. You just waited patiently, starting to think there was no way this man was getting off before the rest of the team came back. You were about to suggest he tuck himself back into his pants when he leaned close to you. “It’s just kind of dry.”

“Oh,” you replied simply. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

You smiled wanly at him. What you were sure was a glint in your eye seemed to only draw him closer, almost conspiratorially.

“Spit on it,” you instructed. Adrian seemed surprised for a moment, but did not need to be told twice. Without breaking eye contact he leaned over, gathering saliva on his tongue. Then he let the string of spit land with the kind of practiced aim only a marksman possessed on his dick. 

He wrapped his fingers around yours, continuing to slide up and down the length of him. He pressed his forehead to yours as he tried to catch his breath. “Can I…can I show you how I like to touch myself when I think about you?”

“You think about me while you touch yourself?” you asked. Even though you were certain it was probably better not to know. His fingers flexed slightly and tightened your grip.

“Are you kidding?” he asked, a break in the low husk of his voice. “I think about you every time I touch myself. I mean, I was thinking about you even before last time. Although, just to be clear, I don’t really even masturbate that much, but when I do I think of you. I don’t want you to think I’m some sort of sex-crazed pervert who’s jerking it to you everyday because I am not. It’s a totally normal biological thing to wake up hard sometimes and then it’s like, okay, well I have to take care of this before I get on with the rest of my day so I might as well picture the badass I work with if it’s going to get it over quicker. You’re the badass in question. To be clear. Although I do think about Chris sometimes, too. And one time Harcourt sorta by accident but you cannot tell her I said that.”

“Before last time?” you choked out. You were actively ignoring the rest of that rambling diatribe because you well and truly were not in a clear enough headspace to begin to unpack that. 

He must have misunderstood what you were asking because he narrowed his gaze, his brow furrowing, even as his breath hitched in his throat. “Yes? When I went down on you? I feel like you probably remember that, especially because you got shot in the shoulder not in the fucking head.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yes, Adrian, I remember. Are you going to show me or not?”

“Oh, cool, sweet, yeah, um, so just like…” he trailed off, tucking his tongue between his teeth as he repositioned your hand slightly and tightened your grip significantly. 

“That’s not too tight?” you asked, vaguely concerned. 

“No, too gentle and it kinda gives me the heebie jeebies,” he replied, a rolling shiver running through his shoulders. You moved your hand under his new direction and his hips immediately bucked up off the bench into your fist. “Y-yeah exactly like that.”

You moved slow and firm, encouraged by little mumbled assurances and hitches in his breath. As your thumb rolled over the tip, he groaned and ducked his head slightly, his forehead pressing against your shoulder as his breathing quickened. 

“Fuckfuckfuck,” he mumbled. Your gaze drew up the length of his neck to his face and you immediately averted your eyes, redirecting towards his hair. Sure, that was a safe thing to look at! His eyes were closed, his lower lip tucked between his teeth, his cheeks flushed. But his hair…well, his hair was a ragged, sweaty mess, curls that had been pressed into submission beneath his helmet. Hair that you wanted to knot your fingers into.

Okay, so maybe his hair wasn’t a safe place to divert your attention either. Luckily, Adrian was mumbling something.

“I’m gonna - I’m gonna – ” You expected him to say come. Adrian, it seemed, had other plans. “I’m gonna fucking die.”

“What?” It slipped from your lips, your grip faltering. You couldn’t help it. 

“I’m gonna die, you’re gonna kill me,” he said again. You weren’t sure what to make of that, and your brain didn’t have any time to think about it either because Adrian surged forward and pressed his lips to yours haphazardly, teeth knocking against yours, panting into your open mouth. Then he came all over your hand. 

“Why’s it kinda smell like sex in here?” Adebayo asked, sliding onto the bench beside you.

Harcourt assessed the bloody mess you and Adrian’d left behind. “Also, whose blood is this?”

Adrian laughed a little too loud. Here we go, you thought to yourself. This is how I die – the first known case of death by mortification. 

“Oh yeah, Ads, because we were definitely fucking in here while waiting for everyone to come back,” Adrian said, using his patented ‘sarcasm voice’. “That’s so crazy that you would even suggest such a thing!”

“I didn’t suggest anything, I was just making an observation…” Adebayo said slowly. You were painfully aware of several gazes pinned to you. Unfortunately for them, you got into black ops specifically for the lying.

You shrugged nonchalantly. “As much as Adrian probably wishes, we were not having sex in here. I was a little busy bleeding all over the place.”

Technically not a lie.

“You’re so crazy! I don’t wish that! Because I only have sex with people who are my best friends, and you are definitely not one of my best friends. You’re like…a frenemy…”

Adebayo was looking at you sideways as you bit the inside of your own cheek to keep from frowning. Was that really how Adrian thought of you? “Okay, I don’t know what’s going on here but it’s deeply weird and now I don’t wanna know.”

“I had to cut her shirt off because of the bullet, Ads!” Adrian yelped suddenly. 

“Why are you yelling about it?” Harcourt asked.

“I’m! Not yelling!” Adrian managed to get out, not really disproving the yelling accusations. “I just wanted to address the horse in the room!”

“Do you mean elephant?” Economos asked as he climbed into the front seat.

“No?” Adrian rolled his eyes.

“The expression is ‘elephant in the room’,” Harcourt sighed like she couldn’t believe she was getting roped into the discussion even as it was happening.

“I thought the animal was like…proportional to the size of the thing in question? Like…she’s not wearing a shirt but that’s not an elephant-scale thing to be addressed. More like horse,” Adrian explained.

“Oh my god…” Adebayo laughed. “Adrian…just…no.”

“Hey Adrian?” you said gently. His head whipped towards you. You smiled sharply at him, full of teeth. “Shut the fuck up?”

Chris landed in the back of the truck with a tremble of metal and a clatter of guns being tossed aside. He pulled the van doors closed, mercifully casting the back of the van in shadow. Hopefully it would be enough to hide the heat in your cheeks. He took one look at you, then Adrian, then with a raised brow dug into his bag and produced an oversized Poison shirt which he promptly tossed at you.

“Thanks,” you managed.

Adrian leaned forward and whispered loudly, “I think Economos has been jerking it in here while we’re out in the field!”

“I can hear you, asshole!” John snapped from the driver’s seat.

“Well, you didn’t deny it!” Adrian said with a purse of his lips and a shrug of his shoulders. 

Adrian was being…strange. 

Which was saying something for a man whose default setting was strange. 

It was to the point where everyone was starting to notice.

“What did you do to him?” Rip asked, rolling his chair up beside yours at your desk. You nearly gave yourself whiplash turning to give him a look.

“Who?”

You knew exactly who. 

Rip rolled his eyes. “Adrian.”

“I…” you trailed off, eyes finding Adrian across the office where he was…what was he doing? He was walking, heel to toe, around the cubicles, pausing every so often to jot something down on a sticky note and then resuming. You had to drag your gaze by force back to Rip. “I didn’t do anything. Adrian’s always weird. He gets into moods sometimes, you know that.”

“Uh huh,” Rip intoned, looking you up and down. 

“Dude, I swear,” you insisted. 

“Well, if you haven’t done something to him then maybe you should,” he countered with a tilt of his head. “Because I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man who needs to fuck it out of his system so bad. Like…it’s embarrassing.”

You laughed, but even you could tell it lacked any authenticity. You really weren’t doing a very good job selling your emotional distance from the unfolding situation. Probably because there was none. 

“Well, if you’re so concerned maybe you should fuck him.”

“Adrian’s not my type. Besides, I don’t think anyone else stands a chance based on the way he looks at you.”

You froze. “What way?”

Rip grinned but Adebayo called his name and he only gave you a shrug before leaving you alone. Your fingers dug into the arms of your chair. 

“Rip! What way?” you called after him. You slumped in your chair. “Fuck.”

Your eyes tracked Adrian, pacing back and forth amidst the cubicles. The second you rose to your feet you could feel the distinct prickle of his gaze on you. You met his eyes and smiled at him. He looked over his shoulder, as if there was a possibility your smile was intended for someone else. Your heart clenched involuntarily. You couldn’t exactly blame him, you’d been keeping a bit of a distance since the van incident. But surely that wasn’t why he’d been so squirrely…right?

“Adrian, I’m going to make some coffee. Wanna take a break and give me a hand?” you asked casually. Take a break from what? He certainly wasn’t working. Or…at least not in any way that was comprehensible to anyone outside of Adrian.

“Oh, well, I’m actually trying to cut back on caffeine intake because – ”

“Adrian,” you interjected. “Whatever. Come grab a snack, then. Walk with me, V.”

Adrian finally seemed to get the memo that it wasn’t a request. He launched himself down the hall towards the kitchen and all you could do was sigh and avoid eye contact with Economos.

Adrian was perched on the countertop by the time you arrived, his legs slung casually wide in a way that made your face hot. And yet, he was swinging his feet back and forth in a way which made you feel conflicted about feeling anything toward him at all. He was so impossible.

“So,” he said. His hips shifted slightly as he braced his hands behind him and leaned back. “I was thinking you could stand between my legs and – ”

“Chase, we are not about to hook up in the work kitchen in the middle of the day.”

Adrian let out a huff and flung himself back onto the counter. “Ohthankgod. Listen, I would have done it for you, I’d do anything for you, but I was a little concerned. No way we wouldn’t have gotten caught! I am not very good at being quiet. Well, why am I telling you that? You’ve had my dick in your – ”

“Ooookay!” you spoke over him, throwing a surreptitious glance over your shoulder. You crossed to the coffee pot and started pouring a cup just for the sake of something to do with your hands that didn’t involve strangling Adrian Chase to death. You turned back to him as you swirled a spoon in your mug.

“You need to chill the fuck out, Adrian,” you began. His head turned towards you but he didn’t get up. He opened his mouth but you shook your head. “You’ve been acting weird. Weirder than usual. And everyone’s starting to notice. So, what’s the deal?”

Adrian’s lips pursed. “Nothing. Nothing’s the deal. I’m being so normal.”

“You’re laying on the kitchen counter in our office’s communal kitchen. That’s not normal.”

“This isn’t normal?” he asked, gesturing to his still reclined body.

“No.”

He was off the counter and had you pinned between him and the coffee machine in the blink of an eye. “What about now?”

“Adrian…”

“You know, you say my name a lot. You’ve said it like five times since you asked me to come in here.”

“What’s your point?”

He backed off slightly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders lifting up in a shrug. If you said you didn’t miss the closeness of him, the way he’d cornered you even for just a moment – you’d be lying. A thrill of possibility had coursed through you. A thrill you would not be indulging. Fucking Chase…well, actually fucking Chase would just complicate things. You’d already done enough.

“You know you probably shouldn’t drink that,” he sniffed.

You rolled your eyes. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, your blood pressure has been really high lately, which is unusual for you and excessive caffeine consumption is definitely not helping.”

Your eyes widened as you stared at him. “How would you even know that?”

He blinked back at you like you were stupid. You were starting to get deja vu, the kind that ended with Adrian Chase’s mouth between your legs. His brow scrunched together as he laughed. “Because, I keep an eye on your vital signs?”

“Why would you do that? How would you even do that?”

“Because you’re my partner? And I need to know if you’re not performing at peak capacity. Like, for example, when you first went back into the field after getting shot in the shoulder, I knew that your heart rate was elevating faster than normal because you’d been on desk duty for so long and your body was reacclimating. That’s also how I knew that your aim was off – ”

“Fucking excuse me?”

“You didn’t let me finish! I was about to say, off by a negligible amount, because your aim was so good before you got hurt. So technically your accuracy flagged, but your efficiency has not.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” you scoffed, indignant. You narrowed your eyes at him. “You didn’t answer the second part of that question.”

“Oh, well, pulse is easy enough to check, you know that. Also, when your pulse elevates your carotid like…throbs?” His tongue darted out and wetted his lips. His eyes traced the column of your neck and for the briefest moment you wondered if he might sink his teeth right in. What did it mean if you wanted him to? “Basically as soon as you pass 100 beats per minute or so. So I just look for that.”

“And?”

“Aaaaand I may have convinced the medical intern to tell me your blood pressure readings after every check-in. But only because I was worried about you!”

“Adrian, that is such an invasion of privacy,” you reprimanded even if your tone perhaps lacked some of the bite it should have had in the situation. He was worried about you? 

“So I probably shouldn’t mention that your periods have been all over the place?”

“I’m going to kill you. I’m actually going to kill you, Chase,” you muttered. “What, you bribed the intern for that info too?”

“Ew, no, that would be fucked up,” he protested, his whole face twisting into disgust. “The only time I’ve even considered bribing someone was when Peacemaker was in jail but Ads said – ”

“Adrian.”

“Right.” He refocused himself and then shrugged. “That one’s easy. I just know you.”

You’d be the first to admit that your perception of friendship and love and romance was completely and utterly warped. Just a side effect of your chosen field that you’d accepted with ease years ago. What is it they say? To be loved is to be known? Yeah right. 

“Yeah? You care that much about your ‘frenemies’?” you taunted.

His expression shifted into something almost like amusement. “Oh. Is that what this is all about?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been avoiding me. And I thought it was maybe because you regretted what happened in the van, but was it because I called you my frenemy?” he sounded weirdly elated. “Because I didn’t actually mean that. I sort of…panicked. Because when I think about you it’s like…you’re not my best friend, and you’re not my enemy…you’re like a secret third thing. What do you call someone who you think about all the time, who you tell stupid jokes to in the office but also that you kill people with in the field, and who you want to know all their thoughts and everything they want, and you think about kissing a lot and who you have kind of hooked up with? Someone you know the taste of but you don’t know how they feel?”

You didn’t have an answer.

Attempting to wash that thought and any accompanying unwise words straight down you lifted your cup to your mouth at the exact same time that Adrian grabbed for it.

“Ow, fuck, Adrian!” you hissed as hot coffee sloshed over the edge of the cup and across your fingers. You slammed the cup down on the counter but before you could move to rinse the spilled coffee off your hand Adrian grabbed your wrist and pulled you towards him.

“Let me clean it up,” he said quietly, gaze fixed on you. As he dragged your hand closer to his mouth it became abundantly clear what he was about to do and you…did nothing to stop him. No, you let him push your fingers past his lips. 

Mercifully his eyelids fluttered closed so you didn’t have to deal with those big, green, pathetic eyes of his. You naturally drifted closer to him as his warm mouth contended with the intrusion of your fingers. His grip on your wrist was firm and his tongue was hot.

Something heated and unwelcome uncoiled low in your stomach. Part of you felt like a predator with your prey exactly where you wanted him when you looked at Adrian’s sweet face. There was something that could almost be perceived as innocent about him when you couldn’t see the manic gleam in his eye. Well, as innocent as one could look while doing something so obscene. 

A brief, albeit fleeting, moment of clarity had you realizing just how much you were playing with fire. This is bad, this is stupid, this is dangerous! your brain all but screamed. But then his other hand fisted in your shirt as he moaned and then nipped playfully at your fingertips before he pushed them all the way back in.

“What are you two freaks up to in he – oh.” 

Adrian’s teeth clamped down on your knuckles as you both jumped at the sound of Fleury’s voice. Heads whipped in his direction before you finally managed to free your fingers from the trap of his mouth. Adrian whimpered somewhere at the back of his throat; small, graciously quiet and hungry. 

“I wasn’t expecting actual freak shit,” Fleury said in his trademark flat tone that made it impossible for you to parse out what he was actually thinking.

“I was choking!” Adrian yelped at the exact same time you said, “I burned myself!”

“What?” you both said in unison, looking at each other.

“Riiiiight,” Fleury drawled out. He pointed at you. “You got burned so Adrian had to put your fingers in his mouth?”

You swallowed hard and nodded your head. “Yup.”

Adrian looked at you and then nodded emphatically, eager to commit to the bit. “Yes! Yeah! I was wondering if my healing factor extended to my spit. You know, Edward Cullen style.”

Fleury frowned. “Edward Cullen didn’t have healing spit. His spit was venom.”

You both stared at him blankly.

He put his hands on his hips. “Stephenie Meyer’s vampires don’t have pointy teeth and they have venom, a major point of contention among vampire aficionados. Aren’t you both from the Twilight generation? Shouldn’t you know this?”

“Sorry?” you offered. Fleury shook his head and sighed. 

“Now I don’t even remember why I came in here,” he mumbled and then turned around and promptly left the kitchen. 

“I cannot believe that worked,” you breathed. You wiped your fingers on his shirt and a part of you thrilled at the feel of his abdomen tightening beneath your brief touch.

Adrian made a strangled sound of agreement and when you looked back at him his entire neck was red, his ears ruddy. His eyes were locked on your neck where you could feel your pulse hammering, his hand half raised between the two of you. He shifted slightly and then, without sparing another glance in your direction, managed: “I gotta go do something!”

He took off and left you alone in the kitchen before you could manage a response. 

Looking down at the cup on the counter sitting in a ring of spilled coffee, you sighed. You dumped it out in the sink.

adrian taglist: @countvonklit @tlfg-adrianchase @vigilantexreader @faelvz @a-young-g0d @euinein @fangirl48 @navs-bhat @snowyathena @kurt-wagner-enthusiast @vigil-mort @am-3-thyst @filmlover290

Your quirk allows you to manipulate emotions — anger, sadness, betrayal, love, hatred. If you can feel it, you can sink it into another's psyche deep enough to drive them to act. You can even imbue things with feelings. For example, a cup of warm milk can transform into more than just a simple comfort, now it can hold the feeling of home and safety, or even exhaustion strong enough to put even the biggest foe to rest. 

You could easily use your quirk with nefarious intent. 

You could steep hatred in someone's bone so deep it drives them to harm themselves. You could sew fury so solid into someone's mind it drives them to violence. 

Just a touch and you can control others with something so intrinsically personal it only exists within themselves: their feelings.

What makes you any different from little Asuke, a shy little girl with a quirk that allows her to see people's greatest fears, and then manifest and control them? You're convinced she can use this for good, if only with practice. In your mind, her future is bright and glimmering. Perhaps she will become a therapist, focusing on exposure therapy? Or, maybe the most prolific horror novelist in their time? 

Or, bright and sunny Tao — a transplant whose parents sought out Chiba Prep's specialized education — whose heteromorphic quirk makes his bodily fluids, namely saliva, eat through nearly anything but his own biologics. A sneeze is quickly the most dangerous thing in the world for the cheery, lizard-bodied class clown. 

He's just a boy given a quirk that needs more care. 

He isn't a villain-in-training. 

None of them are.

It's important to teach them that young — and as their teacher for Year 3 of their elementary schooling, you aim to hammer that in as much as possible. They deserve to feel normal. To feel loved and supported. They aren't scary, they're children. 

So, you take it upon yourself to insist on pushing for privileges like field trips. There aren't many public spaces that welcome the classes of Chiba Prep with open arms. Over the years, there have been plenty of incidents. But, a day trip into the city to visit Tokyo's Hall of Heroes is green-lit with bubbling excitement from both faculty, the children, and their parents. 

You usually keep your history as a graduated member of Class 1-A quiet. 

After all, you never did go pro.

And even still, Shoto Todoroki never stopped thinking about you.

He remembers that weekend everyone moved back in for their last year before graduation. He remembers you smiling at him, and helping him drag up a duffel of luggage from the common room to his dorm. You made a joke about how you're sure he got taller over the summer, and how his hair is longer now. You said you liked it. 

It was the beginning of the end, then.

His crush was a silent, smothering thing. It made it hard to think. Shoto had enough on his plate thanks to Touya's acceptance into the Villain Rehabilitation Program and his father's insistence on staving off retirement. Not to mention his parent's divorce — no matter how amicable, it was still a separation. Add on training, tests, studying, finals, and j-term classes... And a desperate, writhing, burning crush on the nicest girl in class? 

Touya's elbow digs into Shoto's side.

It drags him back to reality — to the stifled quiet of the historical Hall of Heroes. 

Suddenly, the doors to the wing squeak open, and a tour guide ushers in the elementary school class. The buzzing excitement and wonder are visible on each of their faces as the attendant — one of the HoH's lead tour guides — excitedly explains the newest, in-progress addition to the Hall:

Endeavor's wing. 

There's a whisper of awe that ripples through the children as their teacher and co-teacher follow, and as the class moves through the large, open space. They're staring up eagerly at the gilded statue in the center of the room. It's larger than life and intimidating. Years ago, Shoto might have had to fight the odd tremble in his knees at the reminder it brings: to be small in his father's shadow again. But, things are different now. 

Very different.

Touya scoffs. "I thought this wing wasn't open to the public yet."

"They're just children," Shoto hums, turning his back on the gaggle across the way to inspect the large mural winding along the back end of the installation, "I'm sure it's—"

"Oh, ho, no way!"

Shoto quirks his brow at his brother's outburst. His elbow digs into Shoto's ribs again. 

"Ain't that the pretty girl you never got the balls to ask out your senior year?" comes the rasped drawl of his older brother's voice. Touya is clearly amused, his white hair hanging in his eyes as he leans forward to squint, "She is cute, Sho'—"

"Shut up," Shoto grits, turning his head over his shoulder; he tries to bite back the flurry of nerves that ignite in his gut, "Stop talking."

It is you.

You look... good. 

Happy. 

You're crouched by a small, timid girl in the back of the crowd. Your hand is in hers, and you're pointing upwards at the large paneled screens replaying Endeavor's most historic fights. You're explaining something to her, your knees bent as you squat. You look... the same. As if in the six years since they graduated, you sat still in time. 

For a second, it's like he's seventeen again.

It's his senior year, and he's stuck at the corner of the gym's edge with a half-empty glass of punch in his hand. The lights are low, and there's slow music playing. His tie feels too tight. Bakugo keeps telling him to 'ask her to dance already', and Kirishima is considering bashing his head through the wall. Even Midorya is trying to persuade Shoto. 

"It's prom, man! C'mon, this could be your last chance—"

Touya is about to be a real pain in the ass — his favorite pastime — and make some comment about your ass, but when he turns to lob the one-liner at his baby brother, Shoto's gone.

Shoto is on the move.

The crescendo of gasps draws your attention first.

Then, the cry of "WOAH, IT'S SHOTO!" leaves you dumbfounded. The rippling murmur of excitement bleeds into the children as their eyes — and the eyes of the tour guide — widen at the sight of the approaching Pro Hero. 

Shoto Todoroki.

He looks... good. 

Really good.

He's a bit older, and a bit more filled out than when you were both teenagers. You can see the strength in his arms and shoulders — it's a distant echo of his father's physique, though Shoto is so much more elegant and much... prettier. He's always been.

For a second, you're seventeen again.

It's your senior year, and you're sprawled across Momo Yaoyorozu's bed.

They had finally wrangled out of you who your crush was: something they hadn't been able to do in all their years as classmates.

There's a sticky, Miss Midnight-themed face mask clinging to your expression as you try to flip through the large magazine in your hands as nonchalantly as possible. Mina's voice, as she paints Ochaco's nails a bright pink on the floor, is sweet and saccharine as she looks up at you.

"I think you and Shoto would be, like, the cutest couple ever." 

You're still crouched when the tour guide nervously — like she was caught doing something naughty — introduces The Pro Hero Shoto to the already-aware crowd of elementary school students and their teachers. It's like igniting a match; the uproar of excitement leaves you laughing as three of your boys push forward to bombard him with questions about his quirk. 

Asuke is smiling shyly, now. That's a small win. She's intrigued by the appearance of a real hero, not the "scary statues" — and her big, fat tears stopped rolling the moment you laid a gentle hand on her to quell her anxiety over the new environment with a push of comfort through your quirk. She unhooks her pinkie finger from yours as you guide her towards your co-teacher. 

"Boys," you call with a crisp air of authority as you stand and lead Asuke toward the bulk of the field trip group, "What have we learned about personal space?"

"It's fine, really, Insight," comes Shoto's voice; as warm and placid as you remember. 

"Insight?" mutters your co-teacher at the presumed hero-name; a look of confusion plasters itself on her face, and her big, feline ears perk up. She leans in to whisper in a way that borders on conspiratory, "Do you two know one another?"

"Old classmates," you confirm, not daring to get into the finer details.

Shoto's attention is entirely rooted in the way you manage the kids. There's something beautiful about the ease with which you handle the bouquet of students; you quell the excitement into a manageable decibel like it's as easy as breathing. 

"Shoto," you start as you gesture to him, "Has a very special quirk — Toyamai, he has ice like you. And, fire like Tojiro. He can regulate his temperature. Can anyone tell me what that means?"

There's a wave of hands shooting up, a few me, me, me's rise from the gaggle. 

You're using him as a teaching moment.

Shoto's smile is soft.

You nod at Ogomi, excitedly nodding as the reserved child speaks up. Normally, he hates public speaking. But, recently, he's started working with the speech pathologist during lunch. The boy bounces a little as he answers. "He doesn't g-get too hot, or too c-cold."

"Exactly! Isn't that cool?" you grin at the lazy attempt at a pun, "This is why it's important to learn about our quirks as much as we can!"

Touya thinks this whole thing is just too cute. 

You're different than he remembers — but, granted, things were sorta different last time he saw you. He was a little too busy tryna kill his old man and lil' Shoto. He's different now, too. A changed man! A real licensed hero. Support items and all. 

He hangs back. 

He... I mean, he is a jack-ass but he isn't gonna ruin this for Shoto. 

...It's kinda cute.

Just about as cute as Fuyumi said it was. 

Apparently, Shoto had opened up to her and Natsuo about his feelings after graduation — about how he regretted not doing anything about it. Fuyumi then told their mum, who then off-handedly mentioned it to Touya... and well Touya dug in because, duh, he is a whore for good gossip. He might be the family's black sheep, but Shoto is the glue that binds. 

And he deserves to be happy.

Your co-teacher is ushering the kids to the next installation — a viewing of All Might's Legacy, a new documentary following the retired pro's teaching career. It will be a good wind down for them, in comfy seats and the dark. It's hardly the sort of content an elementary school student would find riveting, but it is All Might. And they love him.

You hang back. 

Shoto's heart is hammering in his chest.

"Hey."

"Hi," you greet back, closing the door to the theater and stepping forward as you weave your arms around you, "Long time no see."

"Yea," Shoto breathes, his hands in his pockets as he meets you halfway across the museum's marble floors, "I... I see you're teaching."

His eyes are as pretty as they were back then. Slate grey and piercing turquoise. "I'm in my second year," you confirm softly, fiddling with the material of your sweater, "Congrats to your old man."

You gesture up at the statue, then wave around to the rest of the installation.

Shoto inhales, then nods; he's staring at your face, blissfully realizing you're just the way you were all those years ago. Kind. "I'll pass it along."

"How's he handling it?" you ask, your eyes raking across his expression and trying not to stick to the sharp slope of his jaw, or the bob of his Adam's apple, "Retirement, I mean."

"He's happy, I think. Touya and I are working together and... things are...  good."

Last month, Endeavor finally retired. He cited his age, and his dedication to passing his legacy to his two sons: Shoto and Touya. Shoto has planted himself firmly within the Top Ten in the last year or so, and shockingly, Touya isn't far behind. People love an underdog's redemption story, you suppose. 

And the underdog in question can read a room. 

This is getting a little too sexually tense for even him.

"Heeeeey, girl," he rasps out, staggering backward with a thumb over his shoulder, "Nice t' see ya. I'll let you two catch up, yea? I'm gonna go pop my head into the theater, see how the kids are handling the snooze fest on screen—"

You jump.

How long has he even been there?

"Hi, D— Touya," you strain, wincing a little; the rehab'd villain doesn't seem to mind.

"Hi, teach'. That cool with you?" he asks, wobbling his thumb and quirking a pierced eyebrow; it's comical, like he's trying to disarm you with humor, "Don't want you thinkin' I'm corrupting your youths—"

"It's fine," you breathe, ignoring the sting of age-old mistrust. You know better. Shoto wouldn't be here, with him, if Touya Todoroki hadn't changed. Endeavor wouldn't be entrusting his legacy to the ex-League of Villain member if he didn't believe in his capacity for good, "Just don't be disruptive."

Casting judgment on someone whose life was nearly destroyed by his own non-conforming quirk would go against everything you taught the kids anyway.

"Touya's whole thing is being disruptive," Shoto grits as his oldest brother slips silently through the doors, "I apologize for him—"

"No," you wave him off, laughing a little, "Don't. It's... nice to see you two together."

Shoto's expression is soft as he wanders a little closer. "It took time — and a lot of therapy — but we've all managed to come out the other side."

"That's great to hear, Shoto," you breathe, your eyes flitting across his face, "I'm really happy for you."

There's a long silence, then — and you can't help but ignore the roil of butterflies in your stomach. The eye contact is heavy with some unspoken thing, and both of your tongues are weighted by secrets-never-turned-confessions. 

It's like finally this dance you've been doing around one another for years breaks — and the two of you throw caution to the wind at the exact same moment. 

"Would you like to—"

"Are you free—"

Hesitant, slow grins bloom on both your faces.

"Dinner?" is all he manages after a sweet moment of soaking up your soft smile, "If you're available...?"

You make yourself available.

Yaoyorozu almost dies when you call her that night — winded from tearing through your entire wardrobe. You explained you had nothing to wear a-and you needed something nice, and you only have an hour to get ready, because Todoroki — yes, stop screaming, Todoroki — is picking you up at 8pm.

Little bro is nervous. Touya can tell. 

From his spot on the sofa, the white-haired ex-degenerate scoffs. Natsuo is digging around for some cufflinks in Shoto's dresser.

"Seriously, Sho'? A suit?" 

"It's a nice restaurant," his brother says tightly, adjusting the collar of the black button-down, "I booked the upstairs dining room for privacy." 

"Who the hell told you t' do that?" Touya quirks a skeptical brow.

"Father was the one who suggested it."

"...That old dog." 

Natsuo rolls his eyes at the exchange before throwing his hands as he emerges from the closet. "Do you have any links that aren't emblazoned with U.A. High School's crest?"

The ones in Natsuo's hands have his graduation year on them.

Shoto winces.

"Want me to ask dear ol' dog of a dad?" Touya snarks from the corner, his posture becoming less and less upright as he scrolls on his phone.

"Already did," comes the soft voice of Fuyumi; she's smiling, padding into Shoto's room with a velvet box, "He offered up his nicest pair. He also says not to screw it up with Insight. He likes her."

Of course, he likes her. You worked under Endeavor for a brief work-study period during your third year. Shoto remembers hearing grumbled praise over dinner one night about your talent for de-escalation.

"You told him who I was seeing?" Shoto asks incredulously, taking the box and working the cufflinks on. He's starting to feel exasperated.

Fuyumi nods, popping down beside Touya. 

"He asked. I'm not gonna lie to him."

"Did y' tell ma?" Touya rasps, peeking up over his phone to inspect Shoto's outfit. Not half bad, honestly. He looks good in all black. A man after his own heart, "M'sure she's gonna be real excited—"

"Yes," Shoto grumbles, "I called her earlier—"

"Chiba Prep is a really good school, y'know," Natsuo buts in as he tries to find a tie that matches Shoto's outfit. Ultimately, though, the middle brother decides against it and tosses the options over his shoulder, "They're, like, on the leading edge for quirk therapies."

"Hey, nerd? Quiet down. The big kids are gossiping," Touya shirks, turning back to Shoto, "What did mum say?" 

"She wants me to call her after—"

"One, you're gonna call mum the morning after," Touya raises a finger, "Because if you don't get laid, I'll be so fuckin' disap—"

Fuyumi slaps Touya's chest. He lets out a pained yelp at the solid smack.

"Uh, ow," he rubs his sternum. "An' two, take a deep breath. You look like you're gonna shit yourself. Those are my pants and they're expensive."

Shoto lets out a long breath. 

Fuyumi's smile is sweet like honey. "Aw, Sho'! It's gonna go great. You two have known each other for such a long time, and catching up is going to be amazing. Just be yourself! Confident and kind—"

"—Hold the door open for her, and pull her chair out," Natsuo adds as he adjusts Shoto's collar for him, "Car door, too—"

It's Touya's turn. He's dead serious. "—And do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night. I swear to god."

Easier said than done.

You never did go pro.

Those years of hardened battle instincts have lost their edge. You try to remind yourself this is just Shoto, not The Shoto — but you're a little lost in the whole celebrity of it all when he picks you up in a very nice, sporty little car with ENDVRplates. 

You answer the door and he forgets how to breathe.

He has flowers for you. They're blue and blooming and beautiful. 

Fuyumi's contribution. 

You settled then you were going to kiss him at the end of the night.

The restaurant is... nice. Really nice. The sort of nice you could never aspire to experience on your teacher's salary. Even the valet is a concept that has your head spinning. But, Shoto handles it all with cool ease. The entire time, his hand is settled on your lower back. 

It feels like you've been lit on fire.

You're glad Momo was able to create a dress fitting for the occasion. It's sleek and black. Comfortable, too. Not much can be said for your heels on that front, but it's fine. 

Somehow, Shoto managed to book the entire upper floor of this place in all its glimmering glory — it's just the two of you alone in a sea of tables. 

The waiter is pouring you a glass of the chef's suggested pairing of sake.

You thank him, smile, and take a sip as Shoto unbuttons his suit jacket and watches you. 

For a second, you're seventeen again.

Sero and Kirishima were always in cahoots when it came to parties back then — somehow, between the two of them, they always managed to smuggle enough booze onto campus to obliterate any semblance of promised sobriety from even the most stoic members of 1-A. 

You remember one night, after a lot of hounding, you finally gave in and joined a few of your classmates on the back lawn for a few drinks. 

A few beers turned into a cup or two of wine, and then another big gulp of whatever deranged jungle juice concoction Kaminiari managed to cook up. It tasted terrible, but you were too drunk to really care. Shoto was no better. He was nursing his fourth drink of the night — a rarity he was even drinking at all — and seemed completely fine with the way your arms brushed as the two of you sat close in the grass. 

He was always so nervous around you. Now, he just seemed... happy. 

"I can't believe there is only one week left until graduation."

Graduation day was the last time you saw him. 

Until this morning, that is. 

You smile into your drink. 

"What?" you ask when his eyes never leave your face.

His fingers twitch towards his own glass. Shoto blinks, then rolls his jaw. He was caught staring. He clears his throat, looking a bit shy. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" you press playfully, cocking your head to the side.

"You..." he starts, then bawks. You're stunning, and it's making it hard to even think straight. He thought these feelings might have mellowed out over the years but seeing you again has just reignited everything. He feels like a hormonal teenager again, "You look beautiful."

Your expression falters into something lovesick. You chew your lip. "You're not so bad yourself, Todoroki."

He manages a half-smile. "Touya had me worried the suit was a bit much."

The idea of Touya offering him advice on his outfit strikes a chord in your heart. It makes you smile even bigger than before. "Well, you can tell Touya that I like it. A lot."

You rake your eyes up and down him. On purpose.

He notices.

Shoto's face feels hot. 

He tries to shake the bone-deep want that has swept his entire body up in its grip, but it's difficult when every single word out of your mouth reminds him just how in love he was with you back in school. You explain, excitedly, why you chose to teach at Chiba Prefectural Prep and catch him up on where you've been living since graduating. He's pleased to learn you're still in the area, living in the city, and decidedly in love with the commute to the school. 

Shoto's always been a good listener — but you can see how much he's changed when he begins to speak about his career. He seems so much more sure of himself than he was all those years ago. It wasn't that he was... unsure... but, no. He was shy. Quiet.

Now, less so. 

It's adorable. 

Dinner comes and goes with conversation over sushi that is far too good for you to even process. It's easy talking to him. It was easy talking to Shoto back, then, too but... Things are different. You're both different. Not in a bad way, but in a way that feels like coming home. 

While you both wait outside for the valet, Shoto shrugs his jacket off and puts it over your shoulders without a single word. Suddenly, you're cradled in a warmth that's very Shoto — his cologne clings to the collar and you bury yourself a little deeper into it. 

Shyly, you step closer and steal his hand. It's calloused and warm. He laced his fingers with yours as if practiced. You bite back a grin. You give his hand a little squeeze when you spot the car coming around the corner.

His silence is calming — and he squeezes your hand back. When you look up at him, you realize he's already looking at you. 

His face is close. It's so... intimate. Very. Nearly better than a kiss. 

But, you've wanted to kiss Shoto Todoroki since you were seventeen. 

The valet driver interrupts the moment with a respectful call of Shoto's name and offers the keys with a shake of the hand. With a little bit of hesitancy, Shoto remembers the thing Natsuo said — the car door, too — and moves around the passenger side to open the door for you. 

It's sweet.

Really sweet. 

The car ride back to your apartment is punctuated with easy conversation — you ask him about Bakugo and Midorya, and you're pleased to hear they're both doing well. He asks about Momo, and if you still keep in touch with Mina and Ochaco. He smiles to himself when you admit you did call Momo for help with an outfit. 

"She did a beautiful job," Shoto breathes, a palm moving from the gear shift to brush over the dress' fabric on your thigh.

His hand settles there. 

Your stomach does a flip. 

You chew your lip, swallow down a sudden burst of nerves, and let your hand rest over his. You squeeze it. Shoto tries to focus on the road. His gaze drifts for a moment at a red light, his heterochromatic eyes dancing across your figure. 

Keep it together. 

He isn't seventeen.

He's twenty-five. He's a Professional Hero. One of the Top Ten in all of Japan. He's more than capable of keeping it together in the face of physical touch from the woman he's dreamed about for years. 

...Right?

Green light.

His hand is still on your thigh when he pulls up to your apartment. 

The touch is relinquished in favor of putting the sports car in park. 

It makes your chest ache.

Shoto swallows thickly.

Do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night.

He'll never forgive himself. But, admittedly, he's bad at this. He's not good at reading body language, or even knowing himself enough to realize he looks mildly terrified as you blink up at him in the passenger's seat. His heart is hammering a mile a minute.

What if you don't want to kiss him?

When would he even kiss you? Now? Or at the door?

Why does he feel like he's going to die?

"This was really... Shoto, are you okay?" you ask as you unbuckle your seatbelt; you pause, your brows knitting tightly. 

"What?" he asks, blinking back to the present moment. The look of fear disappears, "Sorry. Yes. I'm fine."

You're working his jacket off your shoulders, gently leaning to fold it neatly in your lap. Your voice dips low, into something playful. "You didn't look fine..."

"I—" Shoto clamps his mouth shut as he leans an elbow on the center console, "Sorry. I suppose I'm just nervous."

"Nervous?" you grin, a little giggle punctuating your words as you wriggle in the red, leather seat, "Why?"

Your expression makes his expression crack. He ducks his head as he huffs out a laugh. You continue to egg him on via expression alone. "I... Stop it."

"Stop what?" you push some more, your back pressed to the door as you face him in the car, "You're the one being weird—"

"I'm not being weird—"

"Then what's wrong, Shoto?" you tease in a sing-song voice.

"I'm nervous because I want to kiss you."

His words are punctuated by a slow look that takes in every inch of your face. Butterfly wings kiss your stomach walls. And your knees. You feel a little tremble in your chest. 

It feels like someone has sucker punched you square in the sternum. Shoto's no better. He isn't entirely sure what the expression on your face means. Is that... good? Are you happy?

Your voice is a little quieter now. You duck your head and fiddle with his suit jacket as you lean back against the seat, a little closer now. 

"You don't need to be."

Shoto's breath catches at that.

So, he makes his move.

His hand comes first — his calloused palm settles nicely against your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone as his pointer finger brushes the underside of your jaw. Shoto is slow. Methodical. It's like he's trying to ground himself in the moment. 

Truth be told, he thinks he might be blacking out.

Your eyes flit up his wrist — a dark leather band around his wrist with an expensive watch face, a dark dress shirt with glimmering cufflinks, strong arms and a broad chest, and you can see the dip of his collarbone where the top two buttons of his shirt remain undone. 

He looks so damn handsome with his sharp jaw, pretty eyes, and his trademark white and crimson hair. Even his scar is beautiful. 

The touch pulls you in like he's got his own personal orbit.  

Your elbows are braced along the center console, your eyes flicking across his face as his fingers continue to brush along the soft expanse of your cheek. You wring your fingers together. 

Then, his eyes stick to your lips.

"Can I kiss you?" he whispers, his breath fanning across your face. 

You never did go pro.

But, Shoto did. 

It shows. 

Because, at this moment, all you can do is nod feebly before you're swept into the sort of kiss people go to war for. It's the sort of kiss that sticks to your ribs, that feels like warm, fresh food. It's the sort of kiss that would drive you to the brink, that would make you nod and agree sure, let's get married and have three kids, let's name one after your father, and paint the house blue like your mother's favorite flower—

His mouth is eager, but not in an overbearing way. It's gentle. Slow. As if he needs to remind himself this is real and not some midnight fiction that leaves him aching and alone. Shoto reminds himself to be tepid, pliable, and easy, which is easier said than done when somewhere deep inside of him there's a seventeen-year-old screaming in victory. 

It's better than anything he could have ever imagined. 

And then you whimper. 

It's a sound tied between bliss and relief and it's muttered against his mouth as you lean in and let your fingers brush the fabric of his dress shirt. The tips of your fingers brush his abdomen and he flexes, the feeling foreign and warm. It warrants his other hand to drift to your face and you break for a breath; he doesn't care that there's lipstick smeared across his mouth. He's kissing you again — this time a little bit more feverish, a little bit more aching. 

You melt against him, this time your hands trembling to grip his wrists.

He needs to slow down.

He is not having sex with you in his father's car.

That's shameless.

He needs to slow down.

He has to, or he'll lose himself in this and he refuses to fuck this up. 

Shoto's breath is ragged when he finally peels himself away, his lip parted and eyes half-lidded. His grip on your face is still so soft, so gentle. It's very him. 

You're glad you didn't do this when you were seventeen.

It would have permanently altered your brain chemistry, you're sure of it. How could you ever kiss someone else again after that? 

He's rubbing your cheek with his thumb. You swallow, and try to level out your breathing. It's hard when he's still so close, when he's so... perfect. 

"I've wanted to do that," he murmurs against your cheek, "Since our last year at Yuei."

A well-kissed smile breaks across your face. You reel back, your nose wrinkling as you shake your head in disbelief. Shoto is smiling. A real smile. The sort that's so rare you can count on one hand the amount of times you've ever seen it in person. 

"Are you serious?"

"Very," he says, chastely pressing another to your other cheek as he leans back.

"Me too," you admit shyly, "Can we... do it again sometime?"

Shoto's eyes widen incrementally. Then, his smile eases back onto his face. 

"Are you free this weekend?"

"I can be," you reply easily with a honeyed look, "And I will be. For you."

"I get off patrol on Saturday around seven," he explains before asking timidly, "We could... do dinner again?"

"Works for me," you breathe as you move for the handle of the car door, "After all, I never went Pro. Weekends are free."

Shoto scoffs. 

Then, as you open the door and swing a leg out:

"Oh, and tell Touya I thought the suit sexy."

Shoto's laugh is dry. You leave his jacket on the seat and scurry into your apartment with a lovesick wave. He swears he sees the silhouette of a familiar ponytail greet you at the door, but he doesn't dwell on it. He waits until you're inside and the lights to the front door are shut off.

Then it hits him. He has another date with you this weekend. 

“Working hours” with this black ops group are loosely defined at best, and entirely nonexistent at worst. And don’t even get started on pay, because you think at this point that you’re only getting comped whatever the pay is for your cost of living, and that’s only really when you’re on the clock. They’ll pay for the hotel room and sometimes the food, but besides that, you’re on your own.

But, back to those working hours. You don’t know when they stopped, but maybe it was around the time your roomie decided to crack open a bottle of whisky and pour out half of it for you into one of the plastic solo cups they provide with the coffee pot. God knows you’re not working anymore, you’re just sort of sitting idle while he rambles about the room, gesticulating with the bottle. Like he does.

(Plus, you don’t think he’s even being paid for this? Adrian is just here for the fun and because he’s available, and the rest of the team just let him tag along because he’s useful. The thought makes you smirk a little bit.)

You admire his profile as he talks, one finger pressed to your smiling lips as your eyes trail him back and forth, thinking he might eventually hypnotize you. He’s so… expressive. And he has dimples and curly hair, which you’ve always been a sucker for. He hasn’t even taken off his suit; blue on silver on black, with a red visor on the mask discarded on the table. You had watched him remove it, and carefully tried to hide the fact that you were staring as he pulled his wire-rimmed glasses out of a hidden pocket.

You’re very pointedly staring now, sizing him up like your next fucking meal (alcohol does that to you), and Adrian keeps on blathering in one long spiel, pacing in circles like hasn’t even noticed your hungry gaze (alcohol does that to him).

“Is that prescription?” you ask, cutting him off in the middle of his sentence, which you’d barely been paying attention to. Something something Twilight, something something cultural reset.

Adrian stops pacing, looking at you with a deer-in-headlights expression. “Huh?”

You nod at the mask laying on the table by the door. “The visor. Is it prescription?” 

He swivels to look at the mask, and then back to you with an almost bashful laugh. “Uh… yeah?”

“That’s sick.” 

“Really?” Dimples. You take another sip of your whisky to calm yourself, and it burns at the back of your throat. Objectively, you should not be feeling this way about your pseudo-coworker, who also happens to be somewhat of a lunatic. But, y’know, he’s… sweet. To you. Which is the odd thing, but you’ve gone beyond worrying about the details at this point. You’re hunting alien butterfly creatures that live in people’s brains, you can get past a couple character flaws.

“I mean, yeah.” You lick your lips, which have taken on the flavor of the peach liqueur in the whisky. “I wear prescription lenses, too, but they’re a bitch to keep clean on the job. If I could afford prescription hardware, I would. Good on you.”

“Yeah, I mean… yeah, it is fucking cool, thank you!” He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners and making you clench your jaw with how badly you want to reach out and kiss him long and hard at that exact moment. “I was starting to think no one else would notice how genius it is. Y’know, I don’t even think Peacemaker’s noticed, which is totally not very best friend-like of him, but it’s fine, I’m sure he’ll come around eventually, the guy constantly has a lot of shit on his plate. Like I remember one time, me and him got stuck in a Winnebago that was rolling downhill toward a cliff like something out of Looney Tunes because some idiot crack dealer locked us in there with his load, and-”

He’s pacing again, and the amber colored liquid in the square bottle he grips by the neck sloshes against the glass as he continues waving it around emphatically. And you’ve zoned out again, because now you’re thinking about his hands, and how nice they’d feel on your body. You’ve seen him beat the shit out of people, you know he’s packing some major force in those fists, but you haven’t felt them on your own skin, or had the experience of having them wrapped around your throat for yourself. 

“-then, y’know, Eagly’s a fucking badass, I don’t know if you’ve seen him in action, but the little dude can take a guy out in like one peck. Like do not get caught on the wrong end of those talons is all I’m saying. Anyways, he swooped in and yanked the fucking wheel, so the Winnebago flipped. I mean, can you imagine! A bald eagle rolling a camper. That shit’s gotta be, like, legendary-”

And his quads as he walks, Jesus Christ. You’ve never been super partial to burly, buff guys (sorry Chris), but there’s something to be said for muscle in the right places. Adrian’s legs are nice, you can tell just by the way the fabric of his pants stretches around them when he turns, and fuck his ass is so tight. You nearly salivate just staring at it, thinking about how much you’d love to dig your heels into it, or squeeze it to urge him on as he fucks you. 

Your eyes snap down to your solo cup of whisky, and you frown. When did you drink half of it?

“-but like I’m sure you know Eagly pretty well because he loves you, I can tell. He kind of scooches closer every time you sit near him, it’s really cute actually, I mean, I would scooch closer whenever you sat near me too except I feel like you’d punch me in the dick, good thing my suit’s got a reinforced crotch-”

“Wait, what?” You blink up at him, your brain sort of fizzling out and then rebooting as you stare at him. What did he say? 

Adrian doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, the guy who made it was like, ‘That makes no sense, you’re gonna have the worst time trying to take a piss in this,’ and I said, ‘No, dude, have you ever been karate kicked in the nuts before? Shit hurts.’ I still had to pay extra-”

“No, no, what was that shit about scooching closer? To me?” You squint at him. “Babe, are you trying to tell me something?”

He blushes. You know he’s joked about not feeling emotions like other people do, but you wonder how true that really is, because he goes beet fucking red like he’s having trouble breathing as he stares down at his shoes. “I, uh- well, I mean, yeah, I’d scooch closer to you. Theoretically. If- if you wanted me to. And if you weren’t going to punch me in the dick.”

“Why would I punch you in the dick?”

“I don’t know, it’s like… it’s an understandable reaction to someone getting in someone else’s personal space!”

“No, it really isn’t…”

“Well, how was I supposed to know you wouldn’t punch me in the dick?”

You throw up your hand in an exasperated gesture. “When have you ever seen me punch someone in the dick?”

He screws up his face. “UM, I don’t know, you punched Peacemaker in the dick!”

“What? When?”

“When he tried lifting you onto the truck that one time!” 

“That was a misunderstanding, I kneed him because he didn’t give me a heads up!”

“But you did it!”

“Well, the last thing I would want to do to your dick is punch it, all right?”

You both stop and stare at each other for a long moment. You think you might have stopped breathing, too. Yeah, you are definitely tipsy at this point, but you raise a slightly shaking hand to take a casual sip of your drink, as if you aren’t staring at him with bulging eyes like you’re possessed.

He opens his mouth and closes it a few times before he comes out with a response. “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, okay. I mean, what other stuff would you do to my dick?”

“Uh… stuff.” You jerkily stand, nearly sloshing your drink as you try to get your bearings. You set the cup down on the bedside table and turn to look at him with the most awkward, pin-straight posture you could possibly muster, like a high schooler trying to pretend they aren’t drunk in front of their parents. “I’m going to take a shower now. Yeah. I am. I’m going to do that.”

“Oh. Okay.” Adrian looks down at the bottle in his hand, and then shuffles a bit to the side so that you can pass him.

“I mean, unless you wanted to shower first?” You pause at the end of your respective bed, and turn to see him turning down the covers on his own by the window. “What are you doing?”

“I’m getting in bed,” he says flatly, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He reaches up and undoes a latch on his armor that frees the chestplate, and lifts it over his head in one swift move, leaving him in his tight fitting black undershirt.

You stare at him, scatterbrained until you manage to scowl at him, and the two knives he wears crossed against his lower back. “You’re going to sleep with all your weapons?”

“Yeah.”

“With all the dirt and sweat and fucking blood from fighting?”

“Yeah.” 

“You can’t just… you can’t just get in bed with your outside clothes on, dude!” you splutter, leaning your thigh against the end of the mattress before you, and slow your speech carefully as you declare, “It’s… unsanitary.”

“Oh, and who are you, the sleep police?” Adrian turns to sneer at you. “I thought you were going to take a shower.”

“Well I was, but that was before I knew you weren’t planning on it!” You throw your hand out at him. “Why?”

“Because! If I go to sleep with wet hair it dries all weird, okay? Get off my dick!”

“I’m sure you’ll look just as pretty regardless, Adrian,” you tut condescendingly at him, rolling your eyes as you turn on your heels toward the bathroom. “Do what you want, or fucking join me if you change your mind, I don’t care.”

You don’t register the full weight of your words until you turn on the tap. But, by that time, you also don’t get to see the way Adrian stares at the door to the bathroom like you’ve just presented him with the key to the city.

You very rarely opt for lukewarm showers, but you certainly do now. With the way your blood is humming through your veins like electricity, and you feel hot just from the sight of Adrian’s muscles in that tight fucking shirt, you feel a cold shower is in order. Well, colder, anyways. 

The water pressure is complete bullshit, of course. It pathetically trickles out, and it takes longer than usual for your body to get completely soaked. In that time, you lean against the tile and hold your head in your hands as the water drips down your face. How the fuck are you supposed to sleep in the same room as this guy? Between the way you’re just aching to jump his bones, and his inability to stop talking, you don’t think it’s a possibility tonight.

You wonder what he would sound like when you ride him. You wonder if he would finally shut up, or if he would switch to talking to you like a lover instead of a drinking buddy. You wonder if he would beg, or if he’s more dominant than that. 

You’re imagining his head between your thighs. You’re imagining what he’d look like with your hands tangled in his hair. You’re imagining the feeling of his mouth on your skin, the calloused planes of his palms on your breasts and beneath your thighs. You’re… you’re shaking.

The white shower curtain rips open, and Adrian steps in beside you, naked as the day he was born. “Hey, can you pass the soap?”

“What the fuck?” You turn your head to look at him with a bewildered expression, simply refusing to tear your eyes away from his face because you do not want to cross that line and have the image of his dick imprinted in your brain while you try to get to sleep tonight. “Adrian, what are you doing?”

“Well, you said to join you if I changed my mind.” He shrugs, his smile the absolute picture of innocence, but his eyes still rake slowly down your body before finding your face again. 

You blink, searching for a proper response to that. His eyes are green. Jesus Christ, that’s three for three: dimples, curly hair, and green eyes. He’s trying to kill you. 

“I was being sar-” you cut yourself off with a sigh, “yeah, you know what, I did say that. Shit. Fucking… okay. Whatever. Here.” You fumble with the tiny complimentary body wash tube and thrust it toward him. “Go apeshit.”

“You have a really great ass by the way.”

“Adrian.”  

“What? You do. I’m just being honest. I’m not even saying that because this is the first time I’ve seen you naked, I always thought your ass was nice, there just wasn’t a good time to say it.”

Your face is burning. You turn your back on him and try your hardest not to clap your hands over your eyes or do something equally embarrassing. You don’t think Adrian is even fazed by any of this; he wasn’t wearing his glasses, either, and you don’t know how strong his prescription is. You imagine pretty strong, if he needs it in his visor. Maybe there’s a good chance he can’t see the exact details of your tits. Maybe-

He touches your shoulder, and you feel lather running down your back as he starts massaging circles into your skin.

“Are you washing me?” you wheeze, your voice coming out an octave higher, and you really do cover your face again this time. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, and you can’t focus on anything other than the touch of his hand on your shoulder blade.

“Uh, yeah? I wash your back, you wash mine, right?” He sounds cheery and completely content with everything that’s happening and, despite the sheer oddness of all of it, you don’t really want him to stop. You guess that’s why you haven’t told him to get the hell out, yet.

Maybe you’re just as much of a lunatic as him. “‘Scratch,’ Adrian. It’s fucking ‘scratch.’” 

He pauses. “What?”

“It’s ‘I scratch your back, you scratch mine.’”

“That makes no fucking sense.” He shakes his head in your periphery, his hand resuming its circular motion against your back, moving across to your other shoulder. You feel the soft, wet glide like a molten lava trail.

“Of course it makes sense! Why would it be ‘wash?’”

“Why wouldn’t it be ‘wash?’”

“Because it’s about doing your friends favors,” you argue in a wobbly, strained voice as you shiver while his fingers slide down your spine. It raises goosebumps on your skin, despite the heat in your veins and the cool of the water. “Friends don’t wash each other’s backs, genius.”

“So, we’re not friends?”

His hand pauses again just at the curve of your lower back, where it extends down into your tailbone. You bite your lip, and you can feel his eyes on you, the touch of his gaze almost as real as his hand is. Your thighs clench together involuntarily. You simpering little… weak, desperate thing, you are not going to beg for him to touch you. That’s not it. That’s not how this should go.

But, you could turn around and touch him, too. You could probably kiss him, if you were feeling really adventurous. He just basically implied that he wouldn’t be opposed to fucking you, right? That was where the conversation had been going earlier, if you hadn’t been such a pussy. Neither of you is nearly as subtle as you think you are.

You manage to chew your lip enough to tear a gash in it, and salty, coppery blood hits your tongue. You’re losing it, standing on the precipice of something way bigger than the two of you. You’re just an inch away from becoming more than just friends with Adrian, if you don’t reel it in quickly. Your hand comes up to slam against the wall when his fingers, which seem to be discontented to remain idle, start tracing little shapes on your lower back. A star. A diamond. A heart.

“N… No, I- I mean, we are. But I don’t think we’re going to be, if you keep it up.”

He grunts carelessly. “I’m having a hard time not keeping it up, really.”

“What do you mean?” You turn around, and his hand glides across your lower back and to your hip, because he refuses to stop touching you now (not that you want him to stop, either, if you’re being honest with yourself). Your eyes flick down, and you know exactly what he means, because he’s hard as a rock. 

And also thick, and long, and veiny, but hey. What did you expect?

Your eyes linger on his erection for a long time, and drag your gaze slowly from the burst of dark hair at the base of his cock, up the line of his torso and to his chest. His pale skin is riddled with little scars here and there, from small injuries that weren’t serious enough to slow him down. He has a faint spray of freckles on his shoulders, suggesting that he spends at least some time in the sun. It makes you inordinately flustered to think of him doing some sort of outdoor activities to get that toned body of his. 

You clear your throat as you find his gaze again. “Next dumb question,” you say, and he gives you a wide-eyed, vaguely awestruck look that makes you way more confident than it ought to. “Are you gonna fuck me, Adrian?”

His eyelashes flutter. His cheeks are painted with that sweet pink blush again, like he’s been entirely oblivious to the fact that he’s had you melting for him since he cracked open the bottle of Jim Beam. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“I think it’s a fucking fantastic idea, do you?”  

“Yeah, I do.” And he grabs you by the face to kiss you, and crowds you back against the wall. You give a surprised yelp into his open mouth, your arms coming up to wrap around his neck as your back hits the cold tile. He grunts and brushes his soap covered fingers across your cheeks. “Did you bite your lip?”

“Yeah.”

“...Was that because of me?”

You whimper weakly as he slowly, and very purposefully, traces the length of your bottom lip with his tongue like he’s savoring the taste of your blood. “Yeah.”

“That’s so fucking hot.”

He yanks you up off of your feet, making you squeak and hold in a nervous laugh. Your leg bumps the faucet handle, and the water turns ice cold just as Adrian scrambles to hook your legs around his waist. 

“Shit.” Adrian hisses and smacks the wall beside your hip once or twice before he finds the faucet, because he doesn’t stop kissing you. He’s sloppy and rushed and overexcited, but at least he gets the water running warm against as he presses you up against the wall. “I’ve never done this here, have you?”

“Shower sex? No.” You bite his lip as he hitches you up by the back of your thighs, and he groans as his hips jerk up toward yours. “But I think you’re doing a good job.”

“Wait, fuck. Do we need, like, a condom…?” He blinks at you with a glassy look in his eyes. 

“IUD. I have- it’s all good, you’re fine.” You knock your head back against the wall with a whimper high in your throat as he brushes his cock against your entrance. You can feel the world spinning as you tangle your fingers in his wet hair, giving it a small but sharp tug. “Now, if you don’t fuck me I’m gonna-”

You choke when he drives the full length of his cock into you, pushing your hips back against the wall. Your nails scratch down his neck and across his shoulder blades as he splits you open, your legs tightening around his waist while simultaneously trying to spread wider to accommodate him. Adrian spits a curse into your neck, his teeth grazing a vein there as he ruts up into you, filling you so completely that a cry dies in your throat. 

“God, fuck, Adrian,” you sob toward the ceiling, only too aware of him moaning loudly against your skin. He feels better than you had imagined, stretching you out so perfectly that your toes curl as you try your hardest to draw him forward with your legs alone.

“I knew you’d be perfect,” you catch him whispering into the crook of your neck, just barely audible over the trickle of water over your head.

He doesn’t even give you time to adjust before he starts pistoning his hips into yours, jolting you up the wall. Your skin squeaks against the wet tile, and his grunts echo in the curve of your neck. Tears might actually be streaming down your face, but you wouldn’t be able to tell them apart from the warm water coming from the showerhead.

Adrian’s hand comes up to brace against the wall beside your head, and he surprises you. “You really think I’m pretty?” He asks with such a genuine note of hope in his voice that you think he must be serious. 

“I think you’re fucking gorgeous,” you breathe, whining when he nips at your jaw with his teeth. You interrupt your train of thought with a series of hoarse cries, because Adrian picks up the pace with less precision, and more just forceful thrusts that drive all the way to the end of you and make you see stars, regardless.

“You’re the most perfect person in the world and I wish I could paint because the only thing I’d be painting is just you over and over and over-” 

He’s blathering into your shoulder, his mouth brushing your skin as it moves and his hips slamming yours back against the wall hard enough that you’re definitely going to be feeling it in the morning. Every bit of desire you have for him surges up inside you like an inferno catching on, like every stroke he makes is stoking that fire within you.

“-so pretty everyone wants you I can’t believe you would let me touch you or even kiss you but you’re letting me do this to you and it’s all I’ve wanted to do since I first saw you-”

It occurs to you to tell him that you’d let him do anything he wants to you at this point, as long as he just doesn’t stop fucking you- but that’s yet another line you refuse to cross for the sake of self preservation. You’re already drunk, and confessing the true scope of your feelings to him in this state would just be a recipe for disaster. 

Oh god, but he’s like a reckoning. You shake your head to compose yourself and scratch your nails along his neck before you take his face in your hands and draw him up to you. His pupils were already blown out, but you think they nearly eclipse his irises when his hips falter and he sucks in a sharp breath. His dark hair is thoroughly drenched, and water drips down his face in little rivulets that you trace with your fingers just before you draw him to your lips.

You feel his small moan vibrate on your lips, and that’s enough. Your legs spasm, and your orgasm suddenly snaps within you like a rubber band, every muscle in your core tightening down on his cock as you see a burst of white behind your closed eyelids. It snuck up on you just as much as it did him.

“Holy fuck-” Adrian loudly gasps against your lips with a startled jolt of his hips, his full weight crushing you up against the wall. His nose nuzzles yours, so intimate in a way that you hadn’t expected from him, and with a few shuddering huffs of breath you feel him come with a rush of warmth deep inside you.

You’re floating somewhere above awareness when he slouches forward, his forehead resting against yours and his eyes closed as he takes deep, steadying breaths. It takes you a moment to realize that he’s just holding you, with his fingers digging into your thighs like he’s just trying to ground himself in your body.

You raise a shaking hand to smooth his wet hair back from his face. “Earth to Adrian. You still with me, babe?”

He grumbles something entirely non-coherent directly in front of your face, and blinks his eyes groggily open at you. 

“The alcohol’s catching up with you, huh?”

He nods.

“Guess I’m washing your back, anyways. C’mon.” You wiggle out of his grip, and you’re only too thankful that you’re smushed up against the shower wall, or else you may have easily slipped and ate shit on the tile. The alcohol is fucking with your head quite a bit now, too, and your movements are a little jerky and uncoordinated as you try to help him get cleaned up.

He’s uncharacteristically quiet. The rest of the shower takes place in complete silence, actually, with the exception of the little grunt he makes when you urge him to bend down so you can get his hair for him. You catch him looking a little dazed as you turn off the water, and he gives you an unfocused stare when you toss a towel at him. You wonder if you actually succeeded in frying the guy’s brains just by fucking him.

But then, back in the room as you clumsily dig through your bag to pull out a night shirt and a pair of underwear, Adrian shuffles directly to his bed and tosses his towel aside before clambouring into it, bare ass to the wind. He flops down face first, and shoves his feet under the turned down comforter.

“Adrian… what are you doing?” You say for what feels like the millionth time this evening. 

“‘M going to bed,” he drawls into the pillow. His entire body shakes as he hiccups, and then turns his head to the side to look up at you with his big green doe-eyes that make your heart do a somersault in your ribcage. “You should tooootally join me. There’s-” hiccup- “lotsa room. We could go again.”

You blink at him as you semi-stagger, semi-walk toward the bed, stooping to pick up pieces of his uniform strewn across the floor as he had, presumably, just ripped everything off as he made his way to the bathroom. “Mm, no, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Uh, you said it was a great idea,” he argues as you toss his clothes into a pile at the end of the bed.

“That was before the whisky kicked in and we were both staggering… fuckin… drunk-” you accidentally whack your foot against the corner of the bed and bite your lip as you fight not to crumble to the floor. “One of us has to be responsible.”

“I’m-” hiccup- “responstable.”

“Uh-huh.” You stop as your eyes land on the mostly empty Jim Beam bottle on the bedside table. You’re almost positive it had been at least quarter full when you left him to go take a shower. “Adrian, did you drink all that?”

He blinks his eyes open and follows your pointing finger to the bottle. “Oh, yeah. Hhhuuuhh… had to… I lost the cap so we can’t keep it.” When you march forward to snatch it off the table, he grunts dismissively. “Gotta… get rid of it.”

“Guess that’s why you’re worse off than me.” You shake your head and drop the entire bottle into the trash bin. “Aren’t you gonna put something on to sleep in?”

“I don’t have anything.”

You snap your head towards his sprawling, naked form. Your eyes linger on his ass for way too long. “You didn’t bring a single thing to wear?”

“Why… why would I bring a change of clothes to kill bad guys?” 

“I don’t fuckin’ know! Anonymity!” 

He grumbles into the pillow, “I have a mask.”

“Fuck the mask. You can’t sleep in the mask.”

“Sure I can. I fuck in the mask, I can sleep in it. S’a free country.”

You blink, your eyes flicking between Adrian and the mask on the table. “Dude, you fuck in that thing?”

“Hell yeah I do. I could fuck you in the mask. Could do it right now. Go get the mask.” Despite the conviction of his words, he’s slurring them, and his face is still pressed into his pillow as he lies motionless on the bed. 

“I… don’t think that’s gonna happen tonight.” You sigh as you toe forward and grab the end of his comforter, drawing it up over his body. “We’re both way too drunk. We probably… probably shouldn’t have…”

Adrian flops over to look up at you as you, essentially, tuck him in. There’s a note of hurt in his voice when he mumbles, “You regret it?”

You pause, staring down at his expression of confusion and betrayal. Do you regret it? You can’t deny that you hadn’t been hesitant to have sex with him for a litany of reasons- one being that you work with him, and another being that he’s a loose cannon on the best of days. Not exactly relationship material, you think. 

Or, you thought, but now he’s gazing up at you with these wide, dumbfounded eyes, and you’re tucking the comforter up beneath his chin, and he turns his face down and kisses your knuckle even though he looks mildly hurt. And yes, you liked the sex very much. You liked it so much that you can’t trust yourself not to do it again if you don’t shuffle off to your own bed immediately.

“No,” you tell him firmly, combing your fingers through his wet hair as you draw back. “I don’t regret it, but I think we both need to sleep this off.”

“Okay,” Adrian says quietly, his expression relaxing, but his arms come out from under the comforter and he reaches for you with grabby-hands. “Sleep with me?”

You catch one of his hands and give it a gentle squeeze. “G’night, Adrian.”

You hear him sigh in disappointment when you shut off the bedside lamp. His hands audibly plop down onto the mattress as he rasps, “Night.”

You wake from a dreamless sleep sometime in the early hours of the morning, and your throat is bone dry. Smacking at the nightstand a couple times, your phone manages to illuminate and tell you that the time is only 1:30. 

You blink sleep away from your eyes and try to see through the dark as you stumble into the combination vanity, closet, and kitchenette. You knew you brought a water bottle or two, it can’t be that hard to find-

“Hey, what’cha doing?”

You hardly even startle at this point. You’re slowly becoming acclimated to the idea that Adrian is just constantly awake and witness to your every move, which isn’t as disconcerting to you as one might think. “I’m looking for the water. Did you see where I put it?”

“Uhhhhh mini-fridge?”

You reach blindly under the counter and yank the little fridge open, once again smacking around until your hand lands on the shape of a water bottle. “You want some?”

“Yeah, you could spit it into my open mouth-”

“Adrian.”

“What? It would be fucking sexy.” Adrian grunts, and the light clicks on from the main room. Then, he wolf-whistles just before you straighten up from where he’d caught you, bent over in front of the fridge. “Y’know, I was right. You have a really great ass.”

You grumble a half-hearted thanks under your breath as you approach his bedside and thrust a water bottle at him. “I see you’ve sobered up a bit.”

He waves a hand at you dismissively. “Pshh, I wasn’t that drunk.”

“You were drooling all over your pillow.”

“Maybe I always do that.”

“Yeah, okay.” There’s a long pause, wherein you perch on the edge of your mattress and chug an obscene amount of water. Adrian watches your throat work until he, too, succumbs and lifts his bottle to his lips. 

An uncomfortably heavy silence settles between you two, only permeated by the quiet sipping of water and the cheap motel AC unit kicking in. It’s entirely unlike him to be silent and still for more than a couple of seconds, but he’s just sitting there looking despondent and running a hand back and forth over the white comforter, periodically lifting his bottle to take another drink. He doesn’t even really look tired, and you wonder if he ever got to sleep in the first place.

You know that the tension in the air is so thick because you have yet to address the giant fucking elephant in the room; and to address it is to have the most awkward and intimate conversation you can possibly imagine with Adrian, of all people. As much as you love his sense of humor, the idea of baring your soul to him is almost enough to have you running into the bathroom again, and locking the damn door this time.

But, in true Adrian fashion (because damn it all to hell if he ever lets something be), he beats you to the punch. “So, are you? Sober now, I mean.”

You chew your lip again, and reopen the gash you’d put there before. “Yeah. I am.”

He nods, pursing his lips as he looks down at his lap. He was right, his hair does dry… well, not weird, but just rather unruly if he goes to bed with it wet. Dark curls stick up at odd angles, a cowlick on the back of his crown standing straight up and begging you to come over and smooth it down. More curls fall across his forehead and nearly touch the top of his glasses. He blinks slowly, and severe shadows from his lashes cross his face in the golden light of the bedside lamp. You snap your gaze away, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end.

“So… was that a lie? About just needing to sober up?”

Your thumbs twitch on your bottle. To tell the truth, or to lie? You feel like your mouth just stays dry, no matter how much water you drink. “Look, Adrian, I-”

“Also, I have, like, no pride and a ridiculously thick skull, or- or whatever Peacemaker calls it. So, you don’t have to beat around the bush or anything for my sake, you probably won’t even hurt me-”

“Adrian, I like you too fucking much, don’t you get it?” 

That fully shuts him up, and he locks his jaw as he fixes you with a startled look. You suck your bottom lip through your teeth, perturbed at the taste of blood still apparent on it, and dig your heels into the carpet. 

“The last thing I want to do is hurt you. You’re… one of my closest friends, all right? But I’m afraid that if we keep going like this, I’m not going to want to be friends anymore. And I think I’ll fall in love with you really quickly, and that might be a really bad idea for both of us. You just…” You shake your head, your voice dipping in volume as you stare bashfully down at your feet, “you have no clue how much I want you all the time, baby.”

“Why would it be a bad idea?” he asks you plainly.

“What?” You pick your eyes up off the floor to squint at him, finding him staring at you challengingly, a flush already on his cheeks. 

“I mean, honestly. Name a single reason why it would be a bad idea. Bet’cha can’t.” Adrian throws his empty water bottle across the room, and it makes a gentle tap against the side of the television before skittering to the floor. “I think we’d fuck like rabbits and then I’d wake up every morning and make you pancakes, because I’m really fucking good at those, but you’d have to make the eggs because I always burn them. And I think we’d kick ass together as a cool superhero power couple, and I’d carry your gun for you if you got tired, and I could show you where all my hidden knives are. And you could also do anything you wanted to me, like any time, and I’d be totally fine with it and probably also turned on by it, as long as you call me baby like you just did.”

“Are you serious?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m super hard right now. Probably should’ve warned you, I have a thing about that-”

“No, smartass, I mean are you serious about the other stuff?” You tilt your head at him. “I never really took you for the domestic sort.”

“Tsch- yeah! I’m, like, super domestic. I’m like one of those domestic...ated... cats?” He trails off as you step forward and crawl onto his bed, up his legs to straddle his lap.

“Cats?” you repeat with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m… I…” Adrian’s eyes flick across your face, down to your shirt and bare thighs on either side of his, your knees pressing the comforter taut across his lap and (very prominent) erection. “I don’t know, I have trouble thinking when you’re on top of me-”

Nodding, you reach forward and take his glasses by the wire earpieces, and pull them from his face. He goes stock still, his lips parted in awe as you slide them onto your own face, and give him a sweet smile. “I like your glasses. They look good on you.”

“They look good on you.” His voice cracks. “Can you see in them?”

You blink at him, and then turn your head to look across the room. “A lot better than I thought I would. I think our prescriptions are similar.”

“That means you can also wear my mask.” 

You look back at him, and find that he has his million-mile stare on, like he’s completely lost in thought. You smirk. “Do you want me to wear the mask?”

He blinks, and it’s like you’ve flipped a switch and turned his focus back on. “Uh… no. I mean, yes. Maybe later. I want to look at you.” His eyelashes flutter so fast you think he might take flight for a second. “You’re so fucking beautiful I could stare at you all day.”

“You can touch me, too. Don’t be shy.”

He practically vibrates with anticipation as his palms glide up your thighs, hot and big and just a bit rough. His eyes are everywhere at once; your lips, your eyes, your chest, your thighs, where your hips disappear under your oversized shirt. His fingers catch the hem, and he curls it between them.

“You should totally get naked, too. It’s super unfair that I’m the only one naked right now,” he says breathlessly, nodding the whole time like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you.

“So, do it.” You shrug, trailing a finger up his chest. “Take it off, baby.”

Adrian fists the hem of your shirt and rips it in half up the middle with a loud tear. You gasp, shivering as the garment falls from your shoulders and leaves you in just your panties. “Adrian!”

His eyes are trained on your tits. “What? It’s not like you need it tonight, anyways, and tomorrow we’ll be home…”

“What if that was my only shirt?” you retort.

He looks up at you. “Was it?”

“Well, no-”

“Then there’s your answer. Now, can I go down on you? Because I’ve wanted to for a really long time and I think it’s super hot that you’re wearing my glasses so it’s like I’m watching myself eat your pussy.”

He has such a hopeful expression on his face that you have to hold in a manic string of laughter as you nod at him. “Yeah, sure. Are you going to tear up my underwear, too?”

“No, I wanna keep those.”

“That makes perfect sense.” You shake your head before you kiss him deeply, and his tongue dips into your mouth as he rolls over with you, briefly getting tangled in the sheets before he roughly kicks them off. 

You run your fingers through his hair, snickering as he climbs between your legs and his hands deftly tug your panties down. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Depends on how incriminating it is.”

“I’ve never come from someone eating me out before,” you admit quietly, a blush furiously heating your cheeks until you fear that if you touch your face you might burn yourself. 

Adrian fixes you with a deadpan stare, and a slew of emotions cross his face before he lands on something relatively serene and says, “Okay.”

“Okay?” 

He nods and grins, like this is the most casual conversation in the world, and his green eyes bore into yours. “Yeah. You should probably, uh… hold on, though.”

You frown in confusion. “To what?”

He rocks back on his knees, picking up your arms by the wrists, and he very simply places your hands on his head, with a little smile that conveys, ‘it’s no big deal,’ but the tenderness with which he does it sends another message, altogether. Your fingers weave between soft, unruly curls, your fingernails digging in just a bit when he lowers himself down between your thighs, and you come to the conclusion that this is just how he is. Tenderness, closeness, hidden behind casual sighs and dismissive shrugs.

You’re learning. Slowly. 

His breath finds you before his lips do, where you’re wet and swollen and slippery like you haven’t been touched in your fucking life. But he has once already, and still his mouth feels like a searing hot brand between your legs. In fact, you nearly jump out of your skin at the first brush of his tongue through your folds, your hands tightening on his hair and tugging as you buck your hips up against him. 

Adrian grasps your hips and slams them down against the mattress. Sometimes you forget how fucking strong he is. His slight frame really doesn’t give justice to the force behind those lean muscles, because he holds you in an iron grip that you can hardly wiggle out of. It makes you feel small, in a way, that he holds you hostage to his tongue and won’t let you move away from or towards him. 

A long, miserable whine rips out of your lips before you can stop it, and you could blush at how pathetic it sounds, except that Adrian mimics it with a groan against your cunt. Your head is flung back against the pillows, but when you just barely tilt up to glance down at him, you find his green eyes trained directly on you. They start off wide as moons, and then narrow like he’s challenging you to look away as he drags the flat expanse of his tongue slowly over your clit, curling the tip just as it skims the mark.

“Oh, fuck you, Adrian, you’re so fucking good,” you grit out through clenched teeth. Your nails dig into his scalp and he shudders, briefly nuzzling his head up into your touch before he dips down to give you his tongue again. Your breath hitches, and your eyes flutter shut when he sucks on your clit long and hard. “So… s-so good… good boy…”

The moan that Adrian makes is overtly pornographic, and his hips snap once against the mattress so hard that the bed shakes beneath you. He breaks away from you to rest his forehead against your thigh, squeezing your hips tightly in his hold as his hot breath billows across your sweat-damp skin.

You loosen your fingers in his hair to stroke it softly, subconsciously struggling to flatten the cowlick at the back that you’d noticed earlier. Adrian’s eyes are squeezed shut, his shoulders heaving while he tries to steady his breath through his nose. “Did you just come?”

The tips of Adrian’s ears glow pink. He gives you a little nod and then a feeble, “Couldn’t help it.”

So, he can’t just take his praise in stride, he has to react to it with fervor. “That’s really sexy of you,” you blurt out, your voice ragged and just this side of adoring. 

He returns with a quiet mmm, rumbling across your skin as he drags his open mouth along the sensitive flesh of your thigh, his eyes drowsily shut. It takes him another moment to catch his breath, but once he does, he’s right back at it again. Dipping his head down and absolutely going for it with no signs of letting up, and you have to suck in a deep stream of air and scramble for a hold on him somehow.

“Oh- oh my fuckin-g god-” your voice comes out without thinking, wrung thin and anguished, as your foot plants itself in his shoulder. Adrian simply grunts, paying no mind to the fact that you’re effectively kicking the living shit out of him as he sucks so hard on your clit that you threaten to break his vise-hold on your hips.

He was right that you needed something to hold onto, because you feel like you might leave the ground. He works at you relentlessly, devouring you with his lips and tongue and teeth like he can’t get enough of you, his fingertips pressing so hard into your hips that his nails are turning stark white. 

“Fuck, you’re so squirmy,” Adrian groans when he pulls away from you for half a second, and struggles to hold you down when you try to chase his mouth. “Should I tie you down?”

“Do you have anything to tie me down with?” you mutter breathlessly toward the ceiling.

A beat. “Nope. Stay still.”

You fight not to jolt as the next touch of his mouth on you. He dips his tongue into your channel, seemingly trying to draw your arousal out of you that way. You start whining when he finally nuzzles his way back up, giving you soft, teasing licks to your clit that edge you closer and closer to the release of the swell of heat you feel building in your core. Your volume turns up a notch when his tongue starts drawing little circles around the swollen flesh. 

And when his lips come down to latch onto it and gently suck, you know you’re just shy of howling. His soft groans vibrate onto your skin as you scratch at his head and pull on his hair, and you eventually find yourself babbling, “Adrian, please, I’m gonna come, please pleasepleaseplease-”

He sucks harder, moaning like it turns him on just to hear you say it. You heave a few rapid breaths, and then come against his face with a cry that crackles and breaks in your throat as your head arches back, baring your neck forward. Your heels digging into his back, hands scratching, hips flailing like you can somehow escape the barrage of hypersensitivity he’s putting you through.

You really fucking hope no one is in the room next to yours.

His fingertips stick to your skin once he releases his grip on you. He’s practically glowing, grinning from ear to ear at you from between your legs, and it’s a better image than you had imagined. 

You drop your head back with a breathless chuckle. “Okay, Mr. ‘I Have No Pride.’”

“I made you come,” he chirps happily.

“Yeah, you did. It was really good, too.”

“So, why didn’t anyone else?” Adrian pushes his head toward your touch when you stroke your hand gently through his hair. 

“I dunno. They weren’t applying themselves, I guess.”

“That’s stupid. You’re, like, the hottest person ever. Hotter than Doja Cat,” he grumbles petulantly, and you can tell by the look in his eye that he’s dead serious. “Want me to kill them? I should kill them.”

“No.” You trail your fingers down the curve of his face, going for his chin, but he turns his face and sucks your two fingers into his mouth before you can manage it. You stop dead as the pad of his tongue swirls around the digits, and he blinks up at you innocently, despite the lewd connotations of the act. “N-no, I… hhhhh… you’re distracting me.”

He bats his eyes at you, and he slowly pulls back along your fingers until they pop out of his mouth, covered in saliva. “How am I distracting you?”

“You’re- you… you little shit.” You grab him by the chin and draw him up from between your legs. He clumsily crawls up the length of your torso with his cheeks smushed between your fingers as you hiss, “I’m going to fuck the ever-loving shit out of you, I swear to god.” 

“You know, that sounds slightly menacing when you say it like that,” he slurs, his jaw working against your hold. 

“On your back, Chase.”

He grabs you before you can protest, and rolls back over so that you plop down on top of him, your hand still jammed up against his jaw. A blast of air comes out of your lungs in lieu of laughter, and Adrian snorts, shuffling his hips so that he moves back against the pillows.

“Okay, look, I really really really like you,” he says as you pick yourself up, straddling his lap, “but if you’re too good at this I might accidentally fall in love with you. Just to let you know what you’re getting into here.”

“Oh, is that so?” 

“Yeah, and I think I might actually, um, ask you to move in with me, like, immediately. Like tomorrow. Do you rent or own? Doesn’t matter, I can put your name on the lease. Maybe if you own a house it can be income property-”

You cast your eyes down and find him, remarkably, hard and leaking precum as he continues babbling about living situations. You tilt your head, letting him get his stream of consciousness out there in the open, as your eyes catch on a dark wad of fabric beside his pillow. Your underwear, which he’d gingerly set aside instead of tossing across the room like you thought he would.

“Hm, Adrian?”

He blinks up at you, his eyes wide and dilated. “Yeah?”

You pick up the wadded up underwear. “You wanted to keep these, right?”

He licks his lips. “Um. Yes.”

“Hold them for me, then.” You grab his jaw and stuff them in his mouth, his eyes nearly popping out of his skull as he makes a noise of protest, but then actually moans when, presumably, he tastes you on them. “You’re so fucking cute, I haven’t even tied you up. You just want my taste in your mouth, huh?” He nods. “Yeah. Pretty boy.”

He predictably moans again, his hands grasping at every part of you they can reach; your arms, your breasts, the expanse of his palms gliding down the curve of your waist and settling on your thighs. You grab one, lifting it and settling his palm against your throat.

“Hold this for me, too?” You ask him sweetly, giving his bewildered expression a devilish smirk in return. You rock forward, sliding your dripping pussy along his erection, and his hand tightens on your throat just a bit. “That’s it.”

You pick your hips up, reaching between your legs to position him where you want him, and when you sink down onto his cock, the underwear in his mouth does nothing to muffle the obscene groan that he makes. His hand flexes on your throat, and his eyes close and open a few times as he tries to maintain a certain amount of control. Something tells you that he’s not really used to taking it lying down. 

You’re already decently sore from the way he effectively fucked your brains out in the shower. This is just ensuring that you’re going to be feeling it for the rest of the week, but you can’t help yourself. You take him in all the way, making agonized noises the entire time, and then jolt your hips down a little more so you can feel him bottom out. 

“Fucking hell, baby, you’re something else,” you snarl down at him, and his eyes go wide again as you squeeze him, every bit of your aching strength bearing down onto his cock until he whines loudly through the fabric and his fingers tighten on the sides of your throat. “Oh, god, I could ruin you. You could ruin me. I want you to, it would be so easy for you, I wouldn’t even be able to walk in the morning.”

And you’re moving, picking up your hips and letting them fall back down in slow, deep strokes that have him writhing, his free hand in a death grip on your thigh. You raise your hand to press against the back of his on your throat, your fingers weaving in between his, and he flexes them back a bit to make room. 

Even when he’s gagged, he’s noisy. Keening and grunting at you, his jaw tightening every once in a while and the tendons of his neck jumping out at you when your hips meet his. Dark curls hang down his forehead, damp with sweat, and you can’t help but feel like the shower was useless.

No, not useless. It brought you here.

Adrian bucks his hips up suddenly, meeting you halfway when you take a particularly long time on the downstroke. You gasp, tightening your hand on his, and your nails dig into his chest. 

“Oh, you want me to ruin you, don’t you?” You murmur at him, baiting him to do it again. And he does, just like you hoped he would. You pick up the pace in retaliation, letting the lewd sounds of your skin hitting his fill the room. “Silly boy, I knew you would.”

He whimpers, blinking up at you slowly, his face screwing up and tightening in earnest when you rake your nails up and down his chest. He makes a couple pathetic, weak groans in the back of his throat like he wants to convey something to you, but he’s not reaching up to remove your underwear from his mouth.

(You wonder if he even remembers that he can.)

“You gonna come for me?” you ask as his whimpers increase in volume. His cock is so hard, twitching and dragging thick inside you, and his chest jumps with every desperate, ragged breath he takes. “Yeah, you are. Go on, baby, make a mess.”

Adrian gives you a curt shake of his head, and paws at your thigh for a second before his hand slides forward, and his thumb touches your clit.

“Oh fuck, Adrian-” you lurch forward, pressing your throat hard against his palm, your legs seizing up on either side of his hips. He makes you come again with a single fucking touch, and it burns through your core like fire, almost more satisfying than the first because you’re able to feel him inside you this time, something warm and hard and thick to come on.

Apparently, that was all he needed in order to let go. His back arches a bit as he jerks his hips up into yours, and he fills your pulsing cunt until his shallow breaths rattle in his throat, his eyes squeezed so tight that you see a tear collecting in the corner of one. He lays with his head driven back hard into the pillow, whimpering and whining like he’s been mortally wounded. 

Too sore to move just yet, you pull his hand away from your throat and kiss his palm. Adrian’s eyes flutter open, and he finds you with a glazed-over stare, like he might either see you or see through you. Still letting out soft whimpers with each harsh exhale. 

“Oh. Sweetheart,” you giggle, and reach forward to pull the wad of underwear from his mouth. It comes out with a long string of his spit attached to it, and you give him a cheeky smirk as you break the string with your finger and lick it off, rather than wiping it on your skin. 

“You… you’re…” You swear his eyes nearly roll back in his skull before he closes them, trying to collect himself. He takes a deep, long breath, and then splutters, “Willyoumarrymeactually?”

You give him your biggest, goofiest grin, a little bubble of laughter wedging itself deep in your chest. “Get a little more whisky in me, and we’ll see what bright ideas I have then.”

“Okay.”

You lift yourself off of his softening cock, and the release comes with a dribble of his cum sliding down your thigh. He groans, but with one look at him you know that there’s not going to be any more action for the rest of the night. 

You shift to the left, and his hand smacks down onto your thigh. “Mmmm no, you sleep with me.”

“Yeah, obviously. But you came all over the sheets earlier, genius.”

“Oh.”

He takes a deep breath in and opens his eyes in time to see you taking his glasses off. You blink a few times, your eyes having adjusted to the slight difference in your prescriptions, and refocus on his face to find him gazing up at you adoringly. 

“I’m gonna take a guess and say you don’t sleep in these, too?” You wiggle the glasses at him. 

He licks his lips. “No, not… not usually.”

You set the glasses on the bedside table, and then slowly slide off of him, off the bed and onto shaky legs. You take his hand and tug just a bit. “C’mon, pretty. Into my bed.”

He follows your lead without a fuss, making the two step journey to the other bed and plopping down face-first. 

“D’you wanna get pancakes when we wake up?” he asks around a yawn as you nudge his ass, prodding him to scoot over. 

You nod furiously, even though you know he can’t see you as you switch the light off and climb in beside him, curling up against his warm back. “Pancakes sound fucking delicious.”

“Not as delicious as your pus-”

“Adrian.”

“Hm?” You blinked back at his concerned expression. Felt your eyes wander to the plaid flannel that stretched across his forearms, his chest. “Oh, yeah.”

He frowned. “Ya look like ya haven’t slept a wink.”

“Yeah, well…” You scratched your scalp. Awkwardly accepted the thermos. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“Yeah? Wanna talk about it?”

“What? Here?” You gestured to the chilly parking lot. The eighteen squirmy kindergarteners waiting to be let on the school bus. “Miss Yuki will be back any second.”

“Miss Yuki is currently hunting down the custodian to unclog the toilet in her classroom,” Osamu chuckled. “I think we got time.”

You folded your arms across your chest. Took a sip of the coffee Osamu had prepared. Two creamers and one Stevia, just how you liked it.

"Fine," you grumbled, lowering your voice so no one else could hear. "It's Misa's father."

"Oh?" Osamu nodded, feigning ignorance as best he could.

You frowned. “Please don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you didn’t already meet him!” you hissed. You averted your gaze, a blush rising into your cheeks. "Go ahead, judge all you want."

"No, no! He looked...smart. Accomplished."

"He's fake and conniving, is what he is," you sighed. "Anyway, he just asked me something super insensitive, but I don't think I'm entirely in a position to say no."

"Yeah?" Osamu’s brows pinched together. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? You’re not the one who asked me."

You squirmed beneath Osamu's gaze, then — that grey, glassy-eyed stare he'd give you whenever you confessed to skipping lunch or working late nights. He looked at you like one might an elderly person. Or a malnourished cat.

Either way, you were relieved to hear the sound of Miss Yuki's orthopedic shoes smacking against the loose gravel not a moment later.

"Alright!" your daughter's teacher chirped — hair frazzled. Sweater slightly askew. "Fortunately for us, an entire roll of toilet paper is no match for me and Mr. Watanabe. Unfortunately for us, we're running about twenty minutes behind."

She smacked a stack of name tags, Sharpie pens, and a seating chart into your and Osamu's hands.

"I need to grab the first aid bag from the front office before we go," she said. "You know what to do!"

You and Osamu busied yourself for the next half hour — wrangling girls into seats, sticking name tags onto polo shirts. (You had to peel Kina's off her forehead at least twice.) By the time Miss Yuki had returned, you both had resigned yourselves to your own assigned seating. You in the front. Osamu in the very back.

You okay? he mouthed when you spared a glance over your shoulder.

You gave him a bleak thumbs up before collapsing into your seat, the sound of high-pitched laughter reverberating in your ears as the bus lurched into motion.

As childish as it was, you almost wished you were sitting next to him.

Osamu had never been to the sculpture garden before. Just thirty minutes outside the city, the fourteen-acre property was home to twenty outdoor art installations, a two-story villa for rotating exhibits, and a koi pond teeming with peacocks. (Misa nearly ripped his arm off when one approached her in the parking lot.)

It was quaint. Quirky. The perfect outdoor wedding venue, according to their tour guide. Not like he was paying much attention, anyway.

The class had split up thirty minutes ago for a guided tour of the premises — and while he'd more or less expected to be separated from you, he couldn't help the uneasiness now seeping into his stomach. Just what exactly had Jun asked of you? And why weren’t you in a position to say no?

He knew he had no right to ask. Knew you, of all people, were capable of handling conniving men on your own. But that didn't mean you had to.

"Osamu-san," Misa murmured, trailing behind the rest of their assigned group.

She tugged on his flannel with a bunched fist and pointed at an art installation just beyond the trees. "Can you take a picture of me and Miffy-san?"

He trained his phone camera on your daughter's sun-warmed face, felt a chuckle rumble from his chest as she stood beside the ten-foot-tall bunny sculpture like a soldier recruited for battle.

"Don't worry," Misa said when she caught him staring at the photo a little too wistfully. "We'll be back with mommy soon."

At that, Osamu’s face turned beet red.

"Yeah?" he chuckled, pocketing his phone. Playing it off. "I just hope Kina ain't givin' her a hard time."

Misa merely hummed. As if she couldn’t reassure him on that one.

The entire class reunited for lunch outside the villa — picnic blankets sprawled across the grass, the smell of katsu sandwiches, ketchup, and cold milk thick in the air. He spotted you handing out bagged lunches from a soft cooler hung over your shoulder, and something in his chest shifted when your eyes caught his across the lawn.

“How’d it go?” he asked as you approached.

“Good! Nobody got lost, and Kina only serenaded the group twice." You frowned. "She knows a surprising amount of Kendrick Lamar, though."

"Are ya serious?"

"Don't worry. I don't think she actually knows any of the words."

"I told Atsumu to stop listenin' to his game day playlist in front of her..."

You smiled at him for a half-second. "Well, if you're not sitting with anyone for lunch..."

"Daddy!" Kina interjected, voice barreling across the lawn. She waved him over from the picnic blanket she was sharing with another girl from her group. Yuta. Or was it Yui? "We saved you a spot!”

"Go," you reassured Osamu with a laugh, sweeping your gaze across the lawn. "I’m gonna find my own spawn. I'll...I'll catch up with you later?"

At a ripe twenty-eight years-old, Osamu had never felt more childish as he accepted a bagged lunch from you, stalked across the grass, and plopped himself down on the blanket next to Kina.

He was halfway through his pork katsu sandwich when Yui (he'd read her name tag) asked, "So is Y/N-san, like, your girlfriend or something?"

"What?" he balked around a mouthful of food. He reached for a paper napkin and swiped the corner of his mouth. "What makes ya think that?"

The child shrugged. "You look at her like my dad looks at wagyu beef."

"You're so silly, Yui," Kina giggled into her sandwich. "My daddy doesn't have a girlfriend."

She met her father's eyes, then. Noticed the way they drifted to your and Misa's picnic blanket across the lawn.

"See? There it is again!" Yui cried.

"Oh my gosh," Kina said, wide-eyed. "Do you have a girlfriend?"

"No!"

"Oh." She sagged her shoulders. Took another bite of her sandwich. "Well, maybe you should."

They continued to giggle about his lack of a love life for what felt like ages. Osamu's face didn't return to its normal color until lunch was well over.

The field trip concluded with a free-draw period by the koi pond. Students were given a sketchbook and pencil and told to recreate whatever they wanted, provided they didn't disturb any of the animals. ("We do not touch the peacocks. Okay? We respect the peacocks' boundaries.") The energy of the group had since taken a dip — some girls crouched protectively over their drawings, others still circled the pond in search of inspiration. It was nice. Tranquil, even.

"Why don't you two take a break?" Miss Yuki suggested. "There's a walking trail not too far from here. I hear it's beautiful this time of year."

"Are you sure?" you asked, eyes flitting toward the pond. You half-expected a child to tumble in at any second.

"I'm sure," your daughter's teacher reassured you with a smile, practically ushering you and Osamu in the direction of the trailhead. "Just don't wander too far!"

The warm buzz of cicadas now filled your ears as you walked side-by-side with Osamu — the sun hitting you sporadically through the trees, the crunch of gravel sharp beneath your feet. You'd subconsciously hoped for a moment alone with him the entire day, but now that you had it, you didn't quite know what to say.

"You know, I never got the chance to — "

"So how was the rest of yer — ?"

You both clamped your mouths shut. Exchanged shy, sheepish smiles flanked by matching pink expressions.

"You first," Osamu insisted.

"I was just going to thank you for making me coffee this morning," you said. "I got pretty crap sleep last night, so..."

"Yeah?"

You nodded. "What with work and Misa's father coming into town, it's just...it's been hard to fall asleep."

You began to feel it, then. The dull circles pooling beneath your eyes, your unwashed hair clinging to your face. Even your usual button-up shirt seemed a little more wrinkled than usual.

"Ya can always call me, ya know," Osamu murmured. "If yer goin' through somethin'. Ya don't need to wait until ya see me."

"I know." You nodded, painfully aware of how guarded you were and how wonderful he was. You just couldn't find the right words to tell him. Didn't know if they existed anywhere beyond the deep, gaping void in your chest. "I will."

Farther along the trail, a bridal party stood taking photographs amid the trees. It was a small group — you could count on one hand the amount of bridesmaids and groomsmen, and they were all dressed in the same sage-green satin.

"Did I ever tell you that Jun and I were engaged?"

Osamu blinked back at the question. The sudden force in which you'd asked it.

"No."

"It wasn't for very long," you added quickly. "I actually think it lasted about nineteen days."

Your eyes drifted to the happy couple. The untouched joy in their expressions, the way their shoulders shook in nervous, pre-ceremony jitters.

"He came into town to tell me he was engaged to someone else," you said suddenly. "And to ask if Misa would be his flower girl."

Osamu stopped walking. You followed suit. His eyes — sharper than you'd expected — bore into yours.

"Ya serious?"

You nodded. His shoulders sank.

"Shit, Y/N." He ran a hand down his face. "How long have ya been holdin' that in?"

"I dunno." You shrugged. It didn't stop your expression from crumbling. The tears from prickling the corners of your eyes. "About a week?"

Osamu didn't hesitate. Simply grabbed your wrist, pulled you flush against his chest, and held you. You squeezed your eyes shut as an onslaught of tears threatened to ruin your mascara, and your whole body tensed as the scent of Osamu's detergent fried your every nerve.

"I don't know why I'm crying," you scoffed, clenching your jaw in protest. "I'm over him."

"I know."

"For fuck's sake, I don't even like him. He just..." You shuddered, hot tears dribbling down your face and onto Osamu's shirt. "He shows up whenever he wants. Leaves at a moment’s notice. He gets to decide that now's a good time to get his act together, and I..."

"...don't?" Osamu guessed after a while.

A weak laugh slipped past your lips.

"I don't regret having Misa." You buried your face into his shoulder. Relaxed ever-so-slightly into him. "And I love the life we've built together. I just...I wish I wasn't the only one who had to take responsibility for it, you know?"

"Yeah," Osamu exhaled. He pressed his cheek against the top of your head and frowned. "Yeah. I understand ya completely."

You stayed like that for a while. Osamu's arms holding you firmly in place. The sounds of laughter and camera shutters lifting your spirits slightly.

He was warmer than you expected. Like a patch of sun on a cloudy day.

"Have ya told Misa yet?" Osamu asked once you'd stopped crying.

"No," you muttered. "I'm afraid her excitement might blind me."

"Yeah..." Osamu's chuckle rumbled through your whole body. "She was so happy to see him the other day. I'll give him that."

"I know," you groaned. "God, what am I going to do?"

"Well, whatever you decide," he murmured, hands rubbing gentle circles into your back. "I'll be here for ya."

"...thank you," you breathed. You pulled away from Osamu's arms. Gestured miserably toward your swollen face. "Does my mascara look bad?"

You tried not to squirm as his calloused hands cupped either side of your face, thumbs swiping firmly beneath your eyes.

"Crap," he admitted after a moment. "I think I'm makin' it worse."

"Forget about it," you told him, a shaky laugh working its way out of your chest. "Just walk with me."

You continued hiking side-by-side toward the end of the trail. Congratulated the newlyweds as you overtook them. When a lone peacock wobbled onto the path beside you, you nearly ripped Osamu's arm off in terror.

The whole situation was absurd. Hilarious, too, if you weren't so goddamn petrified. Distracting enough to make you forget about fiancés and flower girls and seemingly incurable fatigue. If only for a moment.

And right now? You'd take any of those moments you could get.

He was trying very, very hard to understand the person standing in front of him—a panicked foreign with bright orange hair sticking up from humidity, a shirt that was slightly damp from the walk in the sun, his phone clutched in one hand, and a burnt-out bulb in the other.

You assumed he was a tourist. Thought you might help. And honestly? He looked adorable—like someone had dropped a golden retriever into a foreign language exam. His expression showing a desperate blend of determination and impending meltdown.

You were halfway down the aisle, weaving between shelves full of screws, nails, and tools you were pretty sure you didn't know how to use, when you heard a soft stream of Japanese.

"Chotto... chigau... What was the word in Portuguese? It's… laito… No, that's English," he let out a small, frustrated sigh. "Come on, you practiced this…"

You couldn't help smiling.

This was cute. Very cute.

You stepped closer—slow enough not to startle him but confident enough that both he and the clerk looked up. He was mid-typing something into a translation app when you reached toward him, gently placing your hand over his and lowering his phone. His eyes went wide immediately at the contact: warm brown, huge and a little frantic, like he wasn't sure if you were here to save him or witness his demise.

"Ele quer uma lâmpada," you said lightly, turning to the clerk. [He wants a lightbulb.]

Relief washed over the man like a blessing. "Ah! Sim!"

When the clerk left to get the lightbulb, you looked up and winked at him with a smile—just a conspiratorial little gesture.

But it hit him like a spike to the chest.

He made a tiny sound. Not quite a gasp. Just… a noise of pure overload. His ears turned red. Then his cheeks. Then the back of his neck.

Partly because of the wink, mostly because your hand was still in his, and absolutely because he thought you were stunning. An angel. A stunning Japanese-speaking angel.

"Ah—obri—THANK YOU!" he blurted, the words tripping over each other like he couldn't decide which language to malfunction in.

You laughed softly, and it felt like a breeze cutting through the heat for him.

"You're welcome."

When you slowly withdrew your hand, his breath hitched like he'd been holding it the entire time.

The clerk returned with two different types of bulbs. Hinata picked the cheapest, bowed far too deeply, thanked him far too many times, and then turned back to you—still flustered and glowing with gratefulness.

"You—you speak Japanese?"

You nodded with a soft smile, asking the clerk in Portuguese for screws before switching languages as you glanced back at him.

"A little."

"A little?! Your Japanese is amazing!"

You couldn't help the slight blush on your own cheeks as you shook your head.

"I'm still not there yet..."

"No, no, no. It's amazing!" he insisted, hands flailing just slightly. "My Portuguese is still… terrible. I practiced the word for lightbulb last night, I swear, but then the clerk looked at me and I forgot everything."

"That happens," you said, tilting your head. "And your Portuguese isn't terrible. You're trying, and it shows. People here appreciate that."

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Nothing came out.

A tiny spark of triumph lit your chest. Making such a cute guy flustered should not have been that satisfying—but oh, it was. You could tell he was sweet. Honest. You could read everything he felt right off his face, and you really liked that.

"Are you here enjoying the beaches?"

He nodded.

"Sorta. I moved here recently. I'm training for beach volleyball."

"Oh. I see..."

And it made sense now—the broad shoulders, the steady legs, the lean but athletic build, the spark of energy around him like he constantly ran on warm sunlight.

"Are you a Libero?"

He visibly deflated at that.

"Do you say that because I'm short?"

You couldn't help but laugh, hiding behind your hand. That earned you an embarrassed-but-amused smile from his end.

"No, no," you said in between laughs. "I said it because you have a lot of energy..."

"Ah, I see... I was a middle blocker in high school, actually."

"Interesting..."

"How did you learn Japanese?" he asked suddenly, making you happy that he asked about you, too.

"I like traveling. I'm not originally from here either—I'm on a study program," you explained as you paid for your screws and thanked the clerk. "Obrigado. Are you liking Rio so far?"

You turned to leave, half expecting—and half hoping—he would follow. He gave one more quick bow and a breathless thank you to the clerk, who was looking between the two of you with the mischievous smile of someone watching a romcom in a language he didn't understand but was absolutely rooting for anyway.

Hinata hurried after you, stepping into the heat-bleached sunlight.

"I do! I really like it here," he said quickly, answering your earlier question. "The water's warm—way warmer than Japan's. There's always so many people at the beach, and everyone is so nice. Even if it's hard to… You know, talk."

"Have you made any friends yet?"

The shift was instant.

Just a soft flicker in his expression, like the word friends tugged at his heart. Like a cloud passing over the sun.

That bittersweet saudade. You could see it. Relate to it, too, when you thought about your loved ones back in your home country.

"Not yet..." he admitted, voice small but honest.

A gentle smile curved your lips before you even realized it.

"You know… I have a group." You nudged his arm lightly with your shoulder. "Sorta like a club? A few more Japanese speakers—not natives, though. If you ever feel homesick, we meet every Thursday night at a bar not too far from here."

The effect on him was immediate. The shadow in his eyes vanished like it had never been there. And sunlight poured back in—bright, warm, and honestly breathtaking.

And then...that smile.

That huge, open, and absolutely beautiful smile. The kind of smile that felt like it reached straight inside your ribcage and squeezed your heart like a hug, sweet and warm and a little terrifying.

Time didn't freeze like in romcoms—but stretched instead.

The heat outside had softened into a gentle breeze, carrying the scent of pressed sugarcane from a nearby kiosk, mixing with the salt of the sea. A sweet-salty blend that wrapped around you both.

"Oh god," you thought, "Oh god, you could totally fall in love with this guy."

Hinata bowed again—awkward and sweet, like he didn't know what to do with all the gratitude piling up in his chest.

"Thank you," he said softly. "Really."

You stepped back toward your street, smiling with newly found fondness.

"No problem. Try not to start any more crises in hardware stores, yeah?"

He let out a breathy, helpless laugh. "I'll try!"

"It was very nice to meet you," you added, and the words felt truer than they should have for someone you'd just met. "Hopefully we'll see each other again."

You meant it—but the realization of how much you meant it burned under your skin. Embarrassment, excitement, something dangerously close to longing.

So you turned and started walking. And five steps later, you glanced back over your shoulder.

Hinata was still standing exactly where you'd left him, watching you leave. A little stunned. A lot charmed. Blushing up to his ears so hard it looked like the heat itself had kissed him.

And when he noticed you caught him staring, he waved—way too fast.

You only saw his flustered smile as you turned the corner, grinning to yourself.

You didn't hear the way he muttered to himself after:

"Yabai… kawaisugiru." [Oh no... She's too cute.]

It was only when you got back to your apartment that you realised you hadn't even asked for his name, nor had you given him yours. It hit you right as that painting hung nicely from a screw on the wall, and you'd wanted to bash your head against it.

It was silly, really.

The way every time you and your group of language-addicted university friends gathered at the bar over the next few weeks, you couldn't stop your eyes from looking up each time the door creaked open, half-expecting a bright pop of orange hair to appear.

And it was even sillier how the tiny sting of disappointment would settle low in your chest when it didn't.

But you'd been looking for him anyway—the whirlwind stranger with the sunlit smile who'd crossed your path for mere minutes and branded himself into your mind like he'd been there for years. It didn't make sense. It wasn't logical. You barely knew him.

But something about him had stayed with you, this bright and warm feeling, like catching the sun itself on your hand.

"Looking for your lightbulb guy again?" your friend Nina asked, nudging your arm with her elbow, that infuriatingly perceptive grin of hers adorning her lips.

"No Portuguese!" came the sharp scolding from across the table. 'The general', another of your friends—nervous intellectual, relentless rule-enforcer of language nights, and resident panic machine—adjusted his glasses without looking up from his notebook.

Nina rolled her eyes dramatically.

"Yeah, yeah. German night or whatever."

"No Portuguese!" he repeated, more distressed this time, because she was 100% doing it on purpose.

She stuck her tongue out at him and turned back to you with a wicked little glint in her eyes—one that made him sputter softly. He always acted like he hated her playing games with him, though the faint blush of his ears said otherwise.

"So?" she pressed—still in Portuguese, but The general had given up in correcting her for he was too busy being flustered. "Why hasn't he shown up yet? I'm starting to believe he doesn't exist. Maybe it was a heat-induced hallucination?"

You laughed, lifting a glass of sugarcane juice to your lips. The ice clinked gently in the dim, warm lighting of the bar—ceiling fans whirring lazily overhead, wood tables buzzing with multilingual chatter all around.

"It's alright, he'll show up if he wants, no biggie," you said, though the flutter in your stomach disagreed.

"You did tell him the name of the bar, right?"

Oh.

You bit your lip, an embarrassed smile creeping in as realization slapped you in the face.

No name. No bar. No way to ever see him again.

Nina burst into laughter as you hid your warming cheeks behind your hands.

"You didn't," she gasped in between laughs. "Are you dumb?"

You were laughing with her, begging to be left alone, when the bell over the entrance chimed, a sharp ding that sliced clean through the noise.

You looked up, didn't expect much.

But there he was.

Hinata Shōyō in the flesh.

A little breathless, a little flushed from the warm night outside, clutching the strap of a backpack like he'd been running around for hours.

His gaze swept the room, searching.

And when his eyes found you, they lit up. His whole face brightened with that same smile you'd replayed in your head more times than you cared to admit.

"What is it?" Nina asked, taking in your amused expression.

"It's him."

"There's no way—" she whispered as her eyes landed on Hinata, stunned.

The general beside her nearly knocked over his beer when he heard you.

"It's him! It's actually him!"

Nina jumped on the opportunity without a second to spare, looking at him with narrowed, mischievous eyes. "No Portuguese~"

But you barely heard any of it.

Hinata approached, steps hesitant but hopeful, still unconvinced that you were real and not some mirage he'd conjured out of homesickness and desperation.

He stopped right in front of your table, cheeks a soft pink.

"H-Hi," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I, um… I've been trying every bar around here for… a while."

Your jaw nearly dropped. "Every—every bar?"

He nodded earnestly, somehow both sheepish and proud of himself.

"I forgot to ask for the name, so… I just kept checking all of them on Thursdays."

Nina snorted beside you. "That's either romantic or crazy."

You slapped her arm without even looking at her.

Hinata flinched, embarrassed. He hadn't understood much, but he'd caught "loucura" at the end.

"Ah—sorry! I didn't mean to sound creepy. I just really wanted to—um—see you again!" He waved his hands frantically, even redder now. "Not in a weird way! Just—because you were kind! And nice! And you helped me! And—"

You reached out without thinking, placing your hand over his to stop the verbal tailspin.

He froze.

"It's okay," you said softly, smiling. "I'm really glad you found us."

His blush went absolutely nuclear.

The general, meanwhile, had completely malfunctioned.

“My god—An actual Japanese native here—AT THE BAR—this is the greatest day of my life—okay we switch immediately—no more German night!! Japanese night!! We must honor our guest—"

Nina laughed. "You're fanboying so hard right now. You're going to scare him."

Hinata laughed too—a bright, warm, slightly shy sound.

"Thank you for having me!" he said, and the whole table melted a little.

You scooted, patting the chair beside you. "Sit. Please. If you want."

He sat carefully, like he was afraid he'd mess something up. You leaned a bit closer—your natural style, friendly and warm—and you could practically see the thoughts scrambling inside his head like hamsters running on a wheel, and the wheel was on fire.

"So..." you started, a little embarrassed at the admission. "I realised I never asked your name."

"Ah, yeah. Hinata Shōyō."

"Shōyō... I like it, it's pretty."

He nodded, posture straightening and still a little red. He'd gotten used to people calling him by his name without honorifics, but somehow hearing it from your lips made him feel a little bashful.

"And, um… what's yours? I never… um… asked either."

You laughed, cheeks warming. "Guess we're both idiots, huh?"

He brightened. "Then we match!"

It was ridiculous how fast your heart stuttered at that.

As you introduced yourself properly, the general was already drawing up makeshift new rules for Japanese night, Nina was teasing him mercilessly, and Hinata looked equal parts overwhelmed and delighted.

He kept sneaking glances at you. Every time he did, he smiled a tiny, private smile, way too happy at the fact he'd found you again. (He was starting to lose hope after the fifth bar)

And he stayed close—close enough that your arms brushed now and then, close enough that he could whisper to you quietly:

"Hey… um… you're really good at making this feel less scary."

"Scary?" you asked.

He nodded, eyes soft. "I'm a little nervous. But you're here, so… I'm okay now."

Your heart did not handle that well. Not even a little. It was too easy to be fond of him, too easy to enjoy the warmth of his presence and resent the cold in his absence.

And after that first night, you and Hinata slipped into a friendship so easily it felt like you were picking up where something had already started a life or two ago.

He'd join your group whenever he wasn't working—always arriving a little out of breath, always with a smile that made your chest tighten in ways you refused to unpack. Other days, you'd meet him at the beach, watching him play volleyball with literally anyone and everyone who needed a partner. Sometimes you'd help him translate—but you quickly realized that once Hinata was in his element, communication barriers didn't exist.

Volleyball was the language he was fluent in.

He adapted instantly to every new teammate—old man or teenager, tourist, first-timer or seasoned player—falling into their rhythm like he was born to match whoever stood beside him. You'd watch him, always astonished, always caught off guard by just how bright he was when he played.

Stronger, sharper, and quicker each week. He was truly a sight to behold.

And after every match, he'd jog toward you with that proud, boyish grin, sand sticking to his shins, and you'd hand him a bottle of water like it was your assigned role from the universe. He'd flop beside you in the sand, cataloguing everything he still needed to improve on. Listing weaknesses the same way other people list shopping items—no shame. Just determination.

And every time, after another match or two, he'd fix everything he was not happy about.

You'd pretend you weren't staring. You'd pretend your heart wasn't squeezing itself into tiny origami shapes.

The number of times you almost said "fuck it" and kissed him on that beach was… Embarrassingly high.

And the physical proximity didn't help.

Hinata had been startled at first by how touchy people were in Brazil—handshakes that turned into hugs, cheek kisses from strangers, friends who always touched an arm, a shoulder, a knee during conversation. But he warmed to it quickly, melting into it like sunlight.

The "Japanese nights"—that only happened because he showed up—were both a shelter for when he felt homesick, and a place where he could learn from the culture. Every time he came, whatever language chapter you were supposed to study got tossed out immediately.

"Japanese night!" The general would declare, already flipping through his notebook like a man seeing God for the first time.

He'd try to enforce the 'No Portuguese' rule, only to fail spectacularly once the bar glowed with soft string lights and the haze of too many caipirinhas. And after a couple rounds, everyone would be hugging, singing, dancing, and slurring half-Portuguese, half-Japanese sentences that sometimes made absolutely no sense and sometimes helped him greatly in learning the language. Someone always pulled out a guitar and sang tunes that everyone knew the lyrics to.

And he found it beautiful. How the warmth of the Brazilian sun seemed to warm everyone's hearts as well, how everyone seemed to be so open about loving and liking each other, much different from the poised—and arguably a little cold—Japanese society.

Hinata looked around one of those nights, admiring the chaos with a soft kind of longing. You were leaning against The general's shoulder, cheeks rosy, singing and laughing into the music, and you caught Hinata watching you with an expression you couldn't translate—warm… confused… something else.

"Are you two... dating?" he asked suddenly.

Drunken group vocals drifted behind you as you turned to him.

You laughed. "No, he's just a friend. Over here it's super normal for friends to be this close. There's nothing more to it."

Hinata blinked, trying to process that. You gently nudged his foot with yours, then pointed—subtly—to The general.

"Besides, he's already head over heels for someone else." You grinned. "Watch."

Hinata followed your gaze. The general, half-lidded and singing quietly to himself, was watching Nina as she swayed and laughed with such open, unguarded affection that even the dim bar lighting couldn't hide it. Absolutely smitten.

Hinata's breath hitched in soft amazement—and a little jealousy.

Not necessarily of them, but of the ease of that emotion, of how freely it was allowed to love in the open here. Kinda wishing he could do the same.

He pressed his lips together, chest tightening.

Your eyes widened when you felt his weight settle on you as he rested his head on your shoulder—hesitantly, like he was testing the weight of a dream.

"Then I guess I can, too," he murmured.

Your heart stuttered.

He smelled like salt and lime and sunscreen. And when you looked down at him, feeling the brush of his hair on your cheek, he was red up to his ears, eyes squeezed shut in mortified determination—like if he opened them, he'd lose the courage to keep leaning on you. His whole body vibrated faintly from nerves, as if he was fighting the urge to pull away.

A tiny, gentle laugh escaped you, and you rested your head on top of his.

He let out a breath you didn't know he'd been holding and sank into you completely.

You thought it was innocent.

Truly.

You thought it ended on that warm bar night, that little shared moment on your shoulder.

Little did you know how much he'd make your heart suffer as months passed and your friendship developed. Because once you gave him a green light to touch you, Hinata became very touchy.

Very.

He hugged you tight every time he saw you—full-body, earnest hugs that lifted you a little off the ground, like he'd missed you in a way that didn't make sense for two people who'd seen each other less than twenty-four hours earlier. He'd bury his face in your shoulder, saying things like:

"Ahhh, I needed this!"

And your heart?

Your poor, dumb, heart? Melted into a puddle every single time.

He rested his head on your shoulder constantly. On buses, on bar stools, in line at açaí stands. He did it like it was second nature—like leaning on you was simply where his body preferred to be.

But the worst of all were the beach days.

Those were lethal.

Because Hinata very quickly became obsessed—obsessed—with using your thighs as a pillow. At first, it was a drunken decision, then a sleepy one, then it became a habit so natural you didn't know how to survive it anymore.

He'd flop down next to you in the warm sand with his hair sticking up in all directions, and murmur:

"Can I?"

And before you even answered, he was already lowering his head into your lap, smiling up at you with the softest, most devastating expression imaginable. Innocent. Trusting. Sunlit and breathtaking.

You were just friends, though.

Of course. Obviously. Totally.

You watched anime together on your couch, knees touching, arms brushing, his laughter vibrating against your ribs when he leaned into you during funny scenes. You took naps together, limbs tangled so naturally it felt like you'd done it your whole lives. The general nearly had an aneurysm each time he caught you two asleep, spooning on the couch during movie nights. Nina kept taking pictures. And with all that, even when there was no space between you bodies most of the time, when you both cuddled, even—fully, openly, shamelessly—you'd still shook your heads violently every time someone asked if you were dating. (Which was very often.)

Specially at the beach, where strangers would always asume you were a couple.

Hinata always panicked, waving his hands in frantic denial while still lying on your thighs.

"No, no, no—we're just friends! Just—just friends!" He'd let out, while your fingers were literally in his hair.

The day he introduced you to Oikawa was chaotic in ways only Oikawa could bring.

You showed up to the beach as usual, expecting to spot Hinata stretching near the nets or chasing a stray ball barefoot through the sand. Instead, you found him already looking for you—practically vibrating with excitement, jumping up and down as he waved you over like a kid who'd found something shiny and couldn't wait to show it off.

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

It felt good to see him like that—because lately, your bright sun had been dimming a little.

It wasn't anything dramatic. Hinata still laughed, still talked with his hands, still showed up every day. But his smiles had been arriving a second too late, like they had to travel farther to reach his face. He'd been sleeping more, stretching longer, rubbing at his shoulders with a quiet little frown when he thought no one was looking. Some days, he moved like gravity had decided to be cruel to him in particular.

You could tell he was struggling—with work, with volleyball, with learning how to exist in a country that wasn't his, under a sky that didn't quite feel like home.

Even when the Japanese nights with your group helped—late dinners, loud conversations, shared laughter that echoed off concrete walls—you could tell they didn't fix everything. It softened the edges, sure. But something in him still felt… unsteady. Like he wasn't sure where to set his feet anymore.

You didn't know what to do about it, not really. So you did what felt right. You stayed close without crowding him. Gave him space when he went quiet and offered your ear when he was ready to talk. Let him lean without making it obvious.

You had no idea how much that meant to him.

So seeing him now—eyes bright, grin easy, energy sparking off him like sunlight on water—made your chest warm with relief.

And maybe a little jealousy.

Because whoever this "Great King" was, he'd managed to pull Hinata back into himself.

"You're gonna love him—!! Oh—actually—he's a little—uh...—just, don't believe everything he says."

"Shōyō, that is not a reassuring introduction."

"It's fine! He's fine! Mostly!" he assured you, already waving him over.

Oikawa strutted across the sand, sunglasses on, shirt unbuttoned one button too many. He fit every description Hinata had ever given from his high school days perfectly—radiating that unmistakable 'I'm the protagonist' energy.

"Well helloooo~," he sang in Argentinian-accented Portuguese, "So you're the mysterious friend Chibi-chan kept talking about—"

Hinata smacked him in the arm so fast you barely saw it.

"I DID NOT—!!"

"You did," Oikawa hummed innocently, eyes sparkling.

Hinata blushed hard enough to turn into a huge, pouting tomato, and you could only hide a laugh behind your hand because it was too cute—dangerously so—and if you hadn't rein yourself in, you might've actually done something reckless. Like kiss him. Right there. In front of everyone.

And yet, beneath the laughter, something shifted.

Meeting Oikawa—this living, breathing fragment of Hinata's past—made the future feel closer. Sharper.

More real.

Hinata's departure was a silent, ticking clock that the two of you pretended you couldn't hear. But you knew it. He'd go back to Japan when his two-year training ended. You'd always known. Even when you let yourself believe—just a little—that this could last forever. That he would always be beside you. That you could keep bathing in his warmth, in his laughter, in the steady comfort of his presence.

That he would always be your sun.

And for the first time, the thought of losing that light hurt.

But you swallowed the feeling. Watched the duo lose against the infamous 'Buy-me-a-beer' brothers, watched Hinata's fiery eyes sparkle even in defeat—already lit with the promise of next time. Watched him laugh it off, already thinking ahead, already chasing something brighter.

Watched them train the next day.

And then the rematch.

Electric.

Hinata in full competitive mode—eyes sharp, movements precise, all instinct and fire. Oikawa barking orders like a true Great King, voice cutting clean through the air, while the brothers yelled absolute nonsense every time they scored, laughing like chaos itself.

You cheered your lungs out for him, hands cupped around your mouth, screaming "VAI, SHOYOU!!" until he nearly tripped from laughing mid-sprint.

They won in the end—because of course they did—and Hinata sprinted to you immediately afterward, high on adrenaline and sunlight, practically throwing himself into your arms.

"You saw that?! We won!"

You screamed and laughed as he lifted you from the floor and spun you around.

"You were incredible, Shōyō!"

He set you down and pulled away from you only briefly, with his arms still around you, and that spark in his eyes you loved so, so much.

"They say they're gonna buy us dinner! Wanna come?"

And just like that, the countdown in your chest ticked louder. The joy stayed. But it hurt now.

You smiled, small and crooked, and avoided his eyes. This was his moment—shared with an old rival, a piece of his past—and it felt wrong to anchor him to you. To pretend you weren't already starting to loosen your grip.

You were trying to teach yourself how to step back. Because you knew that only that way, his departure wouldn't kill you.

"That sounds amazing, but..." you murmured. "I think I'll pass. I have to study..."

He seemed a little sad at that, but he recovered quickly—because he always did—giving you a thumbs-up and one of those beautiful, earnest smiles that had undone you from the start.

"Okay! Gambatte!"

You nodded. Said goodbye.

And cried the entire walk back to your apartment.

Every week, the sands of Rio felt warmer, the sunsets sweeter, the nights longer—but the calendar kept thinning anyway. And even though Hinata always answered your questions with bright smiles and big energy, he never brought up Japan unless absolutely necessary.

And you didn't bring it up at all.

You kept hanging out like always: late-night anime marathons, naps tangled together, bossa nova at the beach to help him learn Portuguese, volleyball in the sun. You let yourself be happy and tried—really tried—not to think about the fact that the happiness had an expiration date.

Sometimes, though, you caught him watching you.

Not with worry or sadness—Hinata never liked showing either—but with a soft, lingering look, like he was memorizing you. Your smile, your hair, your voice. The way you said his name.

He pretended he wasn't doing it.

You pretended not to notice.

Two cowards in love, dancing around it beautifully.

One evening, after he'd had a first match with Nestor Santana as his partner, the two of you stayed at the beach as the sun dipped toward the water. The sky was turning honey-gold, and the sea breeze had softened into something gentle, almost shy.

Hinata stretched out beside you, head once again finding your lap like gravity had chosen you specifically.

"Portuguese practice?" you teased, pulling up the playlist you'd curated for him.

He perked up immediately. "Yes!"

As usual, you put on some bossa nova—soft guitar, warm vocals, the kind of music that sounds like sunlight feels. Hinata hummed along, his foot tapping lightly against the sand. The waves rolled in, rhythmic, slow, and for a moment, you forgot the world had anything else in it besides this.

After a few songs, he tilted his head back to look at you, eyes filled with curiosity.

"Ne… you hear this word a lot."

"What word?”

"Saudade."

You smiled softly. "Ah. That one."

He waited—bright, trusting, and eager to learn.

"It's a feeling that's… hard to translate," you began, combing your fingers gently through his hair. "It's like natsukashii, but… sadder. Emptier. It's missing something or someone so much that the feeling itself becomes kind of… beautiful."

Hinata's eyes softened, lashes fluttering as he processed it.

"Beautiful sadness…" he whispered.

"Yeah."

He was quiet for a moment, listening as the next song mentioned the word again and again.

Then he laughed, a small, embarrassed puff of air.

"I think… I think I'll feel saudade of you when I go back to Japan."

Your heart clenched so suddenly you almost dropped your phone.

Hinata didn't notice—or pretended not to—because he looked away toward the sea, face glowing pink from the sunset, or maybe from the honesty he hadn't meant to let slip.

You swallowed.

"Shōyō…"

"I mean—" he rushed in, waving his hands a little, "—just, you know—Because you're the first person who made me feel at home here. And you teach me so much. And you're always with me and you laugh with me and—"

He stopped. Shoulders tight, voice small.

"…and I like being here with you... So much."

The waves kept crashing. The sky kept glowing.

And your fingers kept moving through his hair like you weren't fighting a small war inside yourself.

You leaned down just a little.

"I'll feel saudade of you too," you whispered.

And Hinata's breath hitched. Then he closed his eyes and relaxed fully, sinking into your lap with a small, somewhat sad smile that made your chest ache in places you didn't know existed, looking down at him and playing with his hair of fire.

And as the sun disappeared behind the waves, turning the sky into a deep coral pink...

your suffering had officially begun.

You shouldn't have cried at Nestor's wedding.

But you absolutely did.

It was impossible not to—everything was too beautiful. Fairy lights strung between palm trees. A warm breeze carrying the smell of tropical flowers.

Nestor and Nice looked stupidly, beautifully in love—hands trembling as they held each other, vows spoken with voices that cracked halfway through.

Hinata sniffled so loudly during the ceremony that the couple snorted in the middle of their vows. You squeezed his hand. He squeezed yours back.

You watched the couple kiss, watched everyone cheer and clap, watched love spill everywhere just like the champagne in their glasses—loud, open, and unapologetic.

And something traitorous bloomed in your chest.

A little bit of sorrowful envy.

Hinata found you at the edge of the venue a little later, sitting alone beneath a string of lights, blinking rapidly to keep your emotions from spilling over. Everyone danced barefoot on the grass, the kind of dancing that's more swaying than anything, with warm bodies pressed together, and music so soft and happy it seemed to float between guests.

He crouched in front of you, worry softening his features.

"Hey. Are you okay?"

You nodded—planting a smile on your lips a little too quickly. Without hesitation, he sat beside you, legs brushing yours, shoulder touching your shoulder.

The music drifted from the dance floor—a rendition of 'Besame Mucho' by João Gilberto that made it feel like it was laughing cruelly at you.

You looked at him. At his bright eyes, his sun-kissed skin, at the smile that held a sadness nehind it he tried to hide because he knew you were sad, too.

"Shōyō…" you started, but stopped yourself.

I love you.

It was right there—on the tip of your tongue, trembling, begging to be said.

But you swallowed it.

Because how could you do that to him now?

Hinata Shōyō, your sun—who came here for a dream, who worked every day with fire in his chest, who was leaving soon because he had to, because he was chasing his place in the sky.

You couldn't be the gravity that held him back, no matter how much you wanted to keep him close.

So, with tears pricking your eyes, you whispered with a smile instead:

"...I'm going to feel so much saudade of you when you leave."

His breath hitched. You watched as his eyes searched for something in yours, and you feared for your secret. But whether he found what he was looking for or not, you couldn't tell.

He pulled you into him—not the usual eager hug, but something deeper, tighter. Arms wrapped around you fully. Chin pressing into your shoulder like he was trying to anchor himself to the moment.

"Me too," he murmured, voice trembling just enough for you to notice. "More than you think."

You closed your eyes. Held him back. Pretended it didn't break your heart.

And the day Hinata finally left, something in you left with him.

Not in a dramatic, fall-to-your-knees way—no. It was way quieter than that. Hollow. Like someone had scooped out the warm center of you and forgotten to put it back. Like the days had no sun and no moon. Only cold.

You kept moving, because life didn't stop for a heartbreak you weren't even allowed to admit. You still went to class, still met your friends at the bar every Thursday; still listened to guitar chords drifting over the sand; still watched volleyball games spark and dissolve in the glow of late afternoons.

But the world felt… muted.

You laughed a second too late. Smiled a little too small. Stared at the sea a little too long as if calculating swimming distances your body wouldn't ever survive.

Your group noticed. Of course they noticed—they weren't blind, and you weren't exactly subtle.

Nina cornered you one night, on a Christmas party you'd forced yourself to go to because you thought it might help you. Instead, you just sat outside the venue, a bourbon instead of a caipirinha. No chaser. The melted ice in the glass had numbed your fingers minutes ago, but you didn't care.

She watched you for a second, leaning her elbows on the railing of the balcony, overlooking the water. The waves rolled in and out, slow, lazy, and uncaring. You felt like shouting at them for not noticing your world had ended.

"C'mon," she said gently. "O que houve contigo? What's with you lately?"

You didn't look at her.

Couldn't.

Instead, your eyes followed the dark line of the horizon, where the water melted into the sky—the direction you'd been unconsciously staring at every day now. Wondering whether the ocean was thinner somewhere out there. Whether it was as cold as Shoyou had told you once.

Your throat tightened.

And before you could stop yourself, you whispered:

"É que… eu… sinto tanta falta do sol, Nina." [It's just that... I... miss the sun so much, Nina.]

It wasn't about the weather. It was summer, after all.

Her face softened instantly, and she wrapped both arms around you from the side, pulling you close in a wordless, protective hold.

"Oh, amiga…" she murmured, pressing her cheek to your temple.

And you hated yourself a little for feeling so deeply when the entire time you'd been 'just friends', so broken when on occasions you'd denied it yourself, so betrayed, when you'd been the one who stopped your own words when you were about to confess.

But grief doesn't care about labels, does it? It doesn't care about deadlines, or longing confirmation, or cowardly loves that never get to be and stay in stories you'll tell friends once the wounds heal and in soft bossa nova songs you cry yourself to sleep to while they haven't.

You closed your eyes, breathing in the familiar salt of the sea. The night breeze lifted your hair, warm in that uniquely Brazilian way that always felt like a gentle embrace. You wished for the hundredth time that Hinata had stayed to watch the sunset with you just one more time. Just one more golden hour with him laughing beside you. Just one more evening where you could pretend he'd never leave.

Little did you know, all the way back in Sendai, in a room still half-filled with unpacked suitcases, Hinata Shōyō curled forward on his mattress, phone clutched to his chest like it could anchor him to the life he'd left behind.

Bossa nova trickled softly from the tiny Bluetooth speaker on his nightstand. The same songs you'd played for him on the beach, watching the sun hide behind the waves, explaining what saudade meant while he rested his head on your thighs.

He understood it now. He understood it too well.

His chest tightened, and his eyes stung, then overflowed—sudden, embarrassing, and impossible to stop. He swiped at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, but the tears kept coming, dropping onto the album cover glowing on his phone screen.

Outside, the snow poured steadily, softening the world into pale silence. The quiet Sendai landscape felt suddenly so small compared to the vastness of the sea he'd fallen in love with—that sea that smelled like salt and sun-warmed skin and the laughter of strangers who welcomed him like family.

He missed Brazil.

He missed the freedom in the air, the warmth of its people, the open affection he'd never experienced so deeply before.

But mostly…

God, he missed you.

He curled in tighter, shaking a little and letting the quiet guitar and soft Portuguese vocals wash over him.

If anyone asked, he'd say it was just jet lag.

Not heartbreak. Not loneliness. Not the ache of missing you so much it hurt to breathe.

Because the truth was cruel and simple:

Japan had his dream. Brazil had you.

And he didn't know how to live in a world that kept both so far apart.

"Nii-san! Christmas dinner is ready!"

Natsu's voice rang from the living room, pulling him back. He swallowed hard, wiped his face again, and prayed he could sit at that table and tell his family all the stories they were waiting to hear about Brazil—without breaking down in tears and admitting in front of all of them just how badly he wished he'd brought you with him.

But life kept happening, the show must go on.

Time didn't heal everything, but it softened the edges. Slowly, too slowly. Clumsily. Like both of you were learning how to walk with a bruise you kept bumping into.

Hinata threw himself into volleyball the way he always had—with every atom of energy his body could muster. Morning runs in the cold, solo drills before sunrise, practices that left his legs trembling. Scrimmages where he pushed himself until his lungs felt like fire.

Tryouts began. Then callbacks. Then more training.

His body grew steadier, sharper, stronger…but the ache in his chest stayed the same.

And every night, when he finally collapsed onto his bed, Brazil crept back in—and he would always dream of that same sand under his toes, the warm press of your thigh under his cheek, and the sound of bossa nova floating through the breeze.

Sometimes he'd open your chat.

Not to send anything. Just to look.

Your last conversation full of cheerful emojis and polite support, both of you pretending not to read between the lines.

Every now and then he'd send you a picture—a snowy street, some silly food he tried, a selfie where he looked unbearably homesick but smiled anyway.

You always replied. Not instantly, maybe not in paragraphs. But always there.

And that was enough for him to breathe again. Sometimes.

Your days went back to being what they'd always been—classes, studying, part-time work, your language group… the things you used to love without thinking.

But now everything carried the faint aftertaste of him.

A stray volleyball on the beach made your heartbeat stutter and then hurt, someone laughing brightly made you look twice. Bossa nova felt like someone had unfolded those origami shapes in your ribs into sheet music.

You finished your study program. Your friends celebrated you. You smiled and danced.

But every night, when your painted and decorated apartment went quiet, you'd open Hinata's messages and read them again.

And again.

And again.

You sent him pictures too—sunsets, your group's goofy outings, Nina hugging the general while he pretended not to blush.

Short messages, kind, warm.

Careful.

Always careful.

Neither of you mentioned the beach. Or heartbreak. Or how much it hurt when you accidentally said saudade in front of someone else and had to swallow tears.

But you sent him a voice note once—just you laughing at something your group did—and Hinata listened to it seven times, smiling so hard his cheeks cramped.

So you both kept going.

Life kept happening, the show must go on.

But your routines had a new, quiet rhythm.

Shōyō☼: Good luck on your exam tomorrow! : Ganbatte on your tryouts! You're going to crush them. Shōyō☼: Look at this curry I made! It's kind of ugly www. : Looks delicious???? Don't disrespect the curry like that. : Nina and the general won a trivia contest today. Shōyō☼: Ehhhh so cool!! I wanna see you guys again. : Saudades. Shōyō☼: (typing… deleting… typing again…) Me too.

Hours. Days. Sometimes weeks between messages. But the connection never faded.

It was quiet and gentle, as it always had been. Like a low tide that never fully receded.

One quiet Wednesday night, you were on your bed, half-studying, half-asleep, half-bored, when your phone buzzed.

Shōyō☼: Today was kinda rough.

You paused.

He rarely said things like that. Not without stuffing them between emojis and sunshine.

: You okay?

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Then came back.

Shōyō☼: Yeah just… tired. I miss Brazil a lot today.

Your chest tightened softly.

: Brazil misses you too. Some days will be heavier.

A minute passed.

Then:

Shōyō☼: Is it weird that I miss talking to you the most? Even when we text all the time it feels like… I dunno… not the same.

Your breath stilled.

It wasn't a confession. But it was definitely close enough to hurt a little.

You stared at the screen, heart thumping painfully with that familiar mix of joy and sorrow curling in your stomach.

And then typed carefully, fingers trembling:

: Not weird at all, Shōyō. I miss you too.

He didn't answer right away, and it made you wonder if you said too much. But then your phone buzzed again.

Shōyō☼: Oh!! Also!! I have my official debut next week!! Like… my actual first pro match! MSBY Jackals vs Schweiden Adlers! I'll finally show Kageyama what I can do.

You smiled—a real one, warm and involuntary.

Shōyō☼: I wish… I wish you could see it. It'd calm me down a lot if you were in the crowd. I don't get stomach aches before matches anymore tho, don't worry.

Your eyes softened, drifting instinctively to the corner of your room, where an already-packed suitcase sat.

Your flight was in three days.

And the tickets to the match were bought weeks ago—courtesy of Oikawa Tōru, who had somehow gotten your number and sent them with a cryptic:

"He'll want you there. And you'll want to be there. Don't be late. And don't spoil the surprise~ (๑>؂•̀๑)"

Your fingers hovered above the keyboard.

You almost told him. Almost typed: I'm coming, you dummy. I wouldn't miss your debut for anything. I miss you too much to stay away.

But you swallowed the confession.

Instead, you wrote:

: You'll do amazing. I'll be cheering for you, don't worry.

He responded immediately.

Shōyō☼: Haha sorry for being clingy! Just thinking a lot today. But thank you… hearing from you always helps.

You held the phone to your chest with a fluttering heart. He didn't have to thank you. In three days, you'd be close enough to touch him again. Close enough to feel the warmth of him, to hear his laugh in person, to see that first brilliant spike with your own eyes again.

And maybe… maybe this time you wouldn't look away when the feelings got too big.

Maybe neither would he.

You hadn't been that nervous since finals week—maybe ever.

Your hands were sweating, your heart was dancing frenetically, and the stadium lights felt too bright—like they knew you were hiding a secret under your jacket:

You were here for him.

For Hinata Shōyō.

Your sun. Your saudade in human form.

The arena buzzed around you as you waved through the crowd to your seat, warm and alive, filled with gold, black, and white. Flags waved, fans shouted chants you didn't know, and your seat vibrated faintly from the bass of the speakers. You sat down, curling your fingers around the strap of your bag like it could anchor you to something, anything. You inhaled slowly—

—and then froze when you heard a familiar name.

"You think Hinata is at the toilet right now?" a small blonde girl whispered, hiding a small laugh behind her hand.

"He said he didn't get stomach aches anymore..." the freckled boy beside her murmured.

"You think that's even true?" came another, unamused voice from behind them.

You turned your head just an inch.

And recognized them instantly—not from real life, but from Hinata's wallpaper.

Yachi Hitoka—tiny, blonde, and vibrating with anxiety. Yamaguchi Tadashi—kind-faced, freckled, and clutching a Jackals towel a little too tightly. Tsukishima Kei—tall, blond, and unimpressed by the entire world.

They were talking about him.

Their Hinata. Your Shōyō.

A strange dizziness hit you, and you laughed to yourself. The universe had a sense of humor, and tonight it was being loud. Out of the entire stadium… You were seated next to the people who shaped him, who loved him, who knew him in ways you only saw glimpses of.

You were trying very hard not to stare when Yachi bent down too quickly, panickedly searching for something in her bag, and elbowed you right in the arm.

"AH—! I'M SO SORRY!" she squeaked in English, bowing so fast she nearly headbutted you next.

You quickly shook your hands. "No, no, I'm okay! Don't worry!"

She sagged in relief—mostly because you were chill about it, partly because you answered in Japanese.

"…Thank goodness. I would've died if I bruised a stranger before the game even started…"

You smiled, soft and warm.

"Are you... Hitoka by any chance?"

She blinked. "…Y-yes? Do we know each other?"

"Oh! No, I just recognized you from some photos. I'm a friend of Shōyō's. From Brazil"

And all three of them went completely still.

Yachi's mouth fell open. "Are you... Are you Y/N?"

When you nodded, their shock only grew. Yamaguchi's eyes widened comically. Tsukishima choked on absolutely nothing.

You stared at them, suddenly a little confused.

"…Um. All good?"

They exchanged looks—silent, intense, chaotic telepathy happening in real time. Then Yamaguchi, bless his sweet heart, blurted:

"Hinata talks so much about you."

Yachi nodded violently.

"Like—so much. You're gorgeous by the way!"

Tsukishima groaned, burying half his face in his scarf. "Oh my god, he actually didn't make you up.”

"I—he… talks about me?"

"Constantly," Yachi said, small fists clenched to her chest. "He won't shut up about you—uh—sorry, that sounded rude—! He's just—happy? Like really, really happy when he talks about you."

Yamaguchi tilted his head, careful, but so curious he couldn't afford to not ask right now, with you right in front of him.

"Are you two…?"

"Oh—no, no," you said quickly, waving your hands, heart hammering. "We're just friends."

They all shared a look, and it suddenly felt nostalgic, seeing that look again. That loud, judgmental, liar look you got used to back when Hinata was in Brazil.

Your heart stuttered so hard at that you almost missed the lights dimming. You cleared your throat, staring back down at the court as the Jackals jogged out for warm-ups.

And then—There he was.

Same bright hair. Same brilliant energy. Same smile that hit you like summer.

He looked… different. No—he looked the same. But also so, so different.

The boy you met in Brazil had been bright—all potential, all warmth, all eagerness. The man warming up on the court now was that same brightness distilled into purpose. Focused. Sharper. Radiant.

His body moved like it knew exactly what it was made for. His smile lit the entire stadium.

And your heart… oh, your heart hurt. It swelled. It cracked. It overflowed.

Because he looked so happy. Because he looked like the dream you used to fall asleep next to on the sand. Because distance hadn't dimmed any feeling you thought it had—not about him, not for you.

Your chest tightened at the sight of him jumping, running, laughing with his teammates like your world hadn't tilted the day he left.

Tsukishima noticed. Because of course he did. And seeing those eyes, the way they shone, following Hinata's every move, made him smirk faintly and mutter:

"…Sure. Just friends."

Yamaguchi elbowed him. He smirked harder.

The match finally started, and every jump made your pulse spike. Every receive made you exhale in relief. Every spike made your whole body react—muscles tightening, breath hitching, the kind of involuntary joy that comes from watching someone you love do what they were born to do.

And you reacted exactly like someone who knew just how many dawns he trained through. Someone who witnessed the first steps toward this very court.

He was brilliant, beautiful. And you were so proud you thought you might cry.

Hinata spiked—and scored—and you nearly jumped to your feet.

Yamaguchi grinned. "He improved that angle."

"He improved everything," Yachi agreed, eyes shiny.

Tsukishima glanced your way again, noticing how emotional you looked.

"He's been different since he came back from Brazil," he said casually.

You swallowed.

"Yeah," you whispered. "He's worked really hard."

Tsukki hummed—a knowing, almost annoying hum—and looked back at the court.

The match ended in roars and applause. Your ears rang, your cheeks were wet, and you didn't even remember when you started crying.

Yachi tapped your shoulder gently.

"Um... Y/N-san?"

You wiped your eyes quickly, hoping you didn't look as wrecked as you felt, and smiled at her.

"Y-yes?"

"We're all celebrating Hinata's debut later... Would you like to come?"

"It's a Christmas party!" Yamaguchi added.

Your answer was instant.

"Absolutely. I'd love to. Thank you, Hitoka-san."

The night air outside the restaurant was cold in that late-December Japan way—sharp enough to sting your lungs when you breathed too deep, clean enough that the city felt awake and hushed all at once. Your breath fogged faintly in front of you. Strings of Christmas lights spilled warm gold across the sidewalk, reflected in the thin sheen of melted snow and afternoon rain that still clung to the pavement.

The street smelled like fried food and sugar—karaage and something sweet and seasonal you couldn't quite place. Somewhere down the block, a busker strummed a slow, melancholy tune, the notes wobbling gently through a portable amp, half-swallowed by traffic and winter coats.

You'd been standing there for ten whole minutes. Maybe fifteen. Maybe an hour. Time lost all its meaning when your heartbeat was trying to escape through your ribs.

Yachi had stayed with you, sweet and chatty, filling the waiting silence with little stories about the first time she'd met Hinata—how he'd given her courage she didn't know she had, how he made people feel braver just by being there. She talked about university, about design projects, about life moving forward.

You nodded. Smiled. Tried to listen.

You felt a little guilty, because your nerves wouldn't let you be fully present. Your attention kept slipping back to your phone, to the familiar name lighting up your lockscreen again and again—messages stacked like tiny, impatient bricks:

Shōyō☼: Did you watch the stream?? God, I'm so tired www DID YOU SEE THAT LAST POINT THO??? ARE YOU AWAKE?? HELLOOOOOO

You didn't respond. Not because you didn't want to—but because you didn't trust yourself not to type out the truth the moment your fingers touched the screen.

I'm here. I'm already here. Where are you?

The surprise felt worth the guilt—right up until now, when your brain started whispering doubts in the spaces between breaths.

What if he's too tired? What if this is weird? What if he's moved on?

Your stomach twisted so tightly it felt like your ribs were holding their breath. You pressed a hand to your sternum, fingers curling into your coat, and inhaled slowly—repeating the small prayer you'd picked up in Brazil without ever meaning to.

Calma… calma…

Headlights swept over the sidewalk. A van rolled to the curb. Laughter spilling before the doors even slid open—voices overlapping in post-match chaos.

"Ah! It's them!" Yachi chirped, and the sound sent your pulse into overdrive.

Bokuto jumped out first, already mid-sentence, hooking one arm around Hinata's neck even before his feet hit the ground.

"YOU WERE AMAZING OUT THERE!" he boomed, messing with his hair and shaking him like a bobblehead.

"Bo—Kuto—san—stop—" Hinata wheezed, laughing that loud, sun-crackling laugh you had replayed in your head a thousand times with his hands fumbling uselessly as he tried to pry Bokuto off.

He looked a little tired, a little sweaty, hair mussed from all the movement—but he was glowing in that particular way only Hinata managed: like he'd swallowed the sun and it leaked out in his grin.

You drank him in the way parched people drink water. You drank the sight of him in like someone who's been wandering in total darkness, and finally got a sight of the sun again.

Your sun.

Then he turned.

His eyes swept over the small cluster of smokers huddled outside, the street slick with melted snow, the warm glow of the restaurant window—and then they landed on you.

His smile collapsed like a dropped curtain, and his whole body went still—jaw slack, shoulders folding inward, as if the cold had suddenly reached straight through his chest and knocked the air out of him.

For one terrifying second, he looked almost… lost.

Atsumu, halfway behind him, followed his frozen gaze and let out the most obnoxiously delighted, "Ohoooo?"

Kiyoomi paused mid-step, one eyebrow lifting slowly. Bokuto's hand slipped from Hinata's head, forgotten.

Meian frowned faintly.

"What's up? What are we staring at?" he muttered, craning his neck. Because Hinata was looking at you the way people look at miracles, and that in itself—his shiny eyes, his rising chest as he held in his breath—was a sight for sore eyes.

"…Hi," you managed, the word barely more than fog in the cold air.

But something in the sound of your voice broke whatever fragile spell had frozen him. Tears pooled in his eyes so fast that a surprised gasp escaped you.

"Shōyō—"

But you barely managed to let a sound out, barely managed to open your arms before he was crashing into you.

You stumbled back a half-step from the sheer force of it and let out a tiny, startled laugh as his arms locked around your waist with a force that was half joy, half desperation. His face buried into your neck, and you felt the dampness of his eyes against your skin.

His hair tickled your ear. His heartbeat felt like a hummingbird trapped against your chest.

You didn't realize you'd started to cry, too, until you felt his fingers fist the back of your coat after a first sob broke through you.

He held you like he'd been drowning. Like he'd forgotten how to breathe without you. And when he finally spoke, it was a whisper—ragged and trembling against your neck, in that accent you'd missed so much it hurt to even remember, but was now right here.

"Senti... tanta saudade de você…" [I missed you so much.]

The breath on your skin sent a chill down your spine. His scent—sweat from the match, a hint of citrus shampoo, and something unmistakably him—fled your senses until everything hurt in the sweetest way.

Your voice broke as your hands curled up his back, pulling him impossibly closer.

"Eu também, Shōyō… tanta, tanta saudade." [Me too, Shōyō. So, so much.]

He exhaled like he'd been waiting years. Centuries to hear that.

Behind you two, the team was very much staring.

Atsumu's grin stretched wide, sharp and triumphant. "Is that the Brazil girlfriend?" he called, eyes wicked.

"I KNEW THEY WERE REAL!" Bokuto crowed, beaming.

Meian sighed, long-suffering but smiling despite himself, and planted a hand on each of their heads, making them yelp.

"He said she was not his girlfriend," he hissed under his breath.

"But he said—"

"Well, well," Meian cut in, already steering them toward the restaurant, "let's celebrate inside. Give them some space."

The two rascals protested loudly as he ushered them away, murmuring a few indulgent 'there, there's like he was corralling overexcited children.

Hinata pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still warm against your cheeks, palms cradling your face as if afraid you might vanish if he blinked too hard.

You were certain he was going to kiss you.

Everyone was.

Even Meian paused at the door, eyebrows lifting as he took in the scene, before Sakusa nudged him sharply in the side with a dry, unimpressed, "Get on with it."

Meian only shrugged, a knowing smirk tugging at his mouth, and finally turned away.

Hinata's eyes were glossy with tears as they traced your face slowly, revisiting freckles, the curve of your lashes, the familiar shape of your mouth. As if he were committing you to memory all over again.

His voice trembled when he spoke again.

"I thought—I didn't— You didn't answer— I thought maybe—" He swallowed, breath shaky. "You're really here. What are you doing here?"

You blinked hard, chasing away the sting in your eyes, forcing a smile that felt a little fragile around the edges.

"I came to see your match, dummy!" you said, letting out a small laugh to steady yourself. "Aaand to apply for a work or study visa. Something like that."

His expression shifted in a blink—concern, then hope.

"Where are you staying?"

"At a hotel. I'm looking for somewhere to rent while I get all the paperwork ready—"

"Come live with me."

The words landed between you like a dropped glass. You froze.

"Eh?"

"I have space, stay with me—" His words tumbled out, urgent and sudden.

"Shōyō—I—"

It was too much, too sudden.

You hadn't seen him in so long, and in the span of minutes he had cried into your neck, held you like he was afraid to let go, and now he was asking you to live with him?

With what intentions exactly? He couldn't have possibly been thinking straight.

And you knew. You knew if you moved in with him now, the careful boundaries you'd drawn would evaporate, and every feeling you'd repressed during his stay in Brazil would bloom open again and probably swallow you whole.

Your mind was a thousand tiny images at once: moving boxes, nights you had spent cuddling with him in Brazil, another "we're just friends" that would tear you apart, the terrifying thought of confessing and losing him, and above them all—the wild, shimmering possibility of waking up next to him every morning.

You couldn't survive the heartache, the uncertainty; you couldn't let him play with your heart again without meaning to.

But god save you—

His eyes, his face in that moment—begging for an answer, begging for a yes.

They made it very hard to not give in.

Yachi, who had witnessed the entire moment with the wide-eyed devotion of a rom-com extra, finally stepped in—like a saving beam of awkward, earnest sunlight.

"Hi-Hinata! Um—maybe you two can talk about this later?" she said, hands fidgeting nervously in front of her coat. "People are waiting for you inside. We'll celebrate first, then—after—talk?"

Her voice carried the careful gentleness of someone trying very hard not to intrude.

Hinata blinked, as if the world snapped back into focus. His shoulders relaxed, eyes softening.

"Right. Sorry."

You offered Yachi a small, grateful smile—one edged with something fragile—and she returned it with a knowing nod that felt like a promise: "I've got you."

You needed to think. Think about it well.

So you swallowed the moment whole, tucked it somewhere deep in your chest like a secret you weren't ready to open yet, and followed Hinata inside. The noise was welcoming and terrible and perfect all at once.

Inside, the restaurant buzzed like a living thing.

Paper lanterns glowed softly overhead, their golden light spilling across polished wooden tables already crowded with food and laughter. Someone had strung up subtle Christmas decorations—pine sprigs, red ribbon, tiny bells that chimed whenever the door opened. Outside it was winter, sharp and cold, but in here, everything steamed and hummed and lived-in.

Plates arrived in waves—grilled meat, steaming rice, shared bowls that vanished as quickly as they appeared. Hungry athletes and proud families clinking glasses. Toast after toast rose into the air, voices loud and a little tipsy as they praised Hinata again and again.

Your head spun a little. In a good way, though. Not from the alcohol—you'd barely had any—but from sheer fullness of it. And from the amount of Japanese your brain was computing and interpreting in your head.

Hinata was everywhere, and he brought you everywhere with him. Laughing, bowing awkwardly at congratulations, waving his hands too much when people praised him, cheeks warm with beer and excitement. He looked lighter than ever, like something in him had finally clicked into place.

If he was disappointed about you sidestepping the conversation earlier, he didn't show it. Not even a crack. No hesitation, no shadow behind his smile. And that eased the tight coil of anxiety in your chest just a little.

For tonight, at least, he was simply happy.

Because of course he was enjoying himself. Hinata Shōyō didn't know how not to.

He introduced you proudly to everyone, hand resting at the small of your back whenever he pulled you into conversations, touch familiar and grounding.

"This is Y/n! From Brazil."

From Brazil. Not my friend. Not the girl I like.

Just enough distance to be safe. Just enough closeness to make your chest ache.

Everyone reacted the same way—eyes widening in recognition, faces lighting up like they'd finally put a voice to a name.

"Ah! From Brazil!" "So you're real." "You're gorgeous!" "How long are you staying?" "He talked so much about you!"

Every time, Hinata laughed and rubbed the back of his neck, ears turning red in a way that felt painfully familiar. You smiled through it—warm and a little dizzy—your heart caught somewhere between pride and a quiet, loving panic.

Dinner went on. Plates emptied. Drinks refilled.

Bokuto started recounting Hinata's every point in the match with wild arm movements. He knocked over a glass, then deflated instantly when the man beside him—his friend with glasses—scolded him under his breath. Then Bokuto leaned in, his friend whispered something in his ear, and then he lit up all over again, cheeks pink, grin soft and unguarded.

You filed that away absently.

Akaashi, you learned, worked as an editor for a shōnen manga magazine. He was soft spoken, but there was a steadiness to his voice that carried easily across the table.

"Hinata mentioned you know many languages."

You smiled, shaking your head. "He's being too nice. I just love learning any language I can get my hands on."

"Have you ever done translation work?" Akaashi asked. "We're currently looking for a localization specialist at my company."

You blinked, caught off guard, then shook your head again.

"I haven't. And I can't really work on a tourist visa, can I?"

Akaashi hummed thoughtfully, nodding as if turning over a puzzle piece.

"That can be arranged."

You laughed softly, unsure if he was joking. "Would you… would you really do that for me? A complete stranger?"

"Only if you plan on staying for a while," he said easily.

He threw a fond look at Hinata, who was chatting with Bokuto next to you.

"And we really hope you do."

Heat rushed to your cheeks. You looked down for a moment, then back up, offering a genuine smile—careful to avoid the knowing glint in Akaashi's eyes.

"Thank you, Akaashi-san."

"There's no need," he replied. "Call me when you've made up your mind. I'll hold the position until then."

His words settled over you quietly as you exchanged contact information.

Everyone seemed to expect you to stay in Japan. Everyone seemed to want you to. You liked that.

Somewhere in the middle of conversation, in the middle of celebration and happiness, and without any ceremony at all, Hinata's hand found yours beneath the table.

You startled a little. Not enough for anyone to notice—but enough that your breath hitched, sharp yet quiet.

His fingers slid between yours easily, like they'd done this a thousand times before, like it was muscle memory—the most natural thing in the world.

At least in Brazil, it was.

There, touch had been light. Casual. Sun-warmed and easy. It never felt like a statement—just affection, just comfort. Just friends who were a little too close, in a place where closeness came easily.

But here?

Here it felt denser. Like this small, hidden contact carried weight. Like every inch of closeness was… deliberate, on his part.

You suddenly became acutely aware of everything all at once: the people around the table, the way his thumb pressed gently against the side of your index finger and traced the skin there, slow and absent-minded. The way his knee bumped yours—and stayed. The fact that no one else could see it, and yet it felt like the loudest thing in the room.

Hinata didn't look at you right away. He kept listening to Bokuto talk, nodding along, smiling politely at the right moments. But his grip tightened just slightly—grounding.

Then, finally, he glanced down at you—just for a second—and his eyes softened instantly.

Not the bright, explosive joy he showed the rest of the table, but the kind of look that said 'I'm glad you're here' without using words.

The kind of look that said something else entirely, too.

Something you couldn't quite name. Or maybe didn't want to—because naming it would mean hoping, and hoping meant risking disappointment.

Your stomach flipped, and for the first time since you'd met him, you looked away first, suddenly fascinated by your drink.

He squeezed your hand once more, gently, and didn't let go.

You swore you heard him laugh softly.

"Too cute," he murmured against the side of his other hand.

You knocked your knee against his in flustered protest and tried to slip your hand free.

But he didn't let you.

The night rolled on like that—celebratory, loud, and impossibly warm.

And through it all, Hinata stayed exactly where he was supposed to be: laughing, shining, alive. But every now and then, beneath the table, his fingers would tighten around yours.

As if reminding himself. As if reminding you.

Of what, you didn't know.

The celebration dissolved slowly, like sugar at the bottom of a glass.

People filtered out in small, noisy groups—laughing too loud, swaying just a little. Bokuto declared he was not drunk (he absolutely was). Atsumu tried to start a chant that Meian shut down immediately, with the van keys already in hand and Dad Mode fully activated.

"Everyone who's riding with me—now," he ordered.

Groans followed, but compliance followed faster.

Hinata walked you outside with the others, and the night air was cooler now, clinging to your skin after the warmth of the restaurant. Neon still glowed above the street, but softer somehow, like the city was winding down with you.

You lingered near the curb as goodbyes unfolded around you.

Yachi— with flushed cheeks and questionable balance—hugged you tight and exchanged contact info with you, whispering something sweet and earnest you promised yourself you'd remember. Yamaguchi waved with a wide, drunken grin, slurring his farewells, and Tsukishima, sober as ever, gave you a brief look that felt suspiciously like approval before turning away and getting into the car with the other two.

One by one, engines started. Doors shut. Laughter faded.

And then it was just you and Hinata.

He rocked slightly on his heels, with his hands buried deep in his pockets and suddenly shy in a way that made your chest ache with recognition.

"Ah—um," he started, then stopped. Cleared his throat. "So… where are you staying again?"

"At a hotel," you said, smiling. "Still."

He nodded, eyes flicking away, then back to you. There it was again—that look. Like he was standing at the edge of something and deciding whether to step forward.

"Do you—" He inhaled. "Do you wanna… come over?"

You thought of your suitcase, abandoned and lonely in a generic hotel room. Of the way he'd introduced you to everyone he loved, of how his hand had fit so easily in yours under the table. And before your courage could falter, you tilted your head and let a teasing smile curl your lips.

"Wow, Shōyō," you said lightly. "We just saw each other again and you already want me at your place? Japan really turned you into a player, huh?"

Hinata made a noise somewhere between a squeak and a choke.

"EH?! N—NO—THAT'S NOT—!" he rushed, face going nuclear red as his hands flew out of his pockets to cover it. "I didn't mean it like that! I just—I mean—I thought—you're tired—and the hotel is—and my place is close, I—I have space—!"

You laughed softly, stepping closer, saving him from his own spiraling.

"I'm kidding," you said gently. "Relax."

He froze. Because you were close now. Close enough to see the faint shadows under his eyes. And your breath caught—because this time it was even clearer. Intent. Your teasing smile softened.

This… this was it, wasn't it?

Whatever had been hovering between you for years. Whatever had grown quietly in shared caipirinhas, training sessions, and long talks at the beach. Whatever had survived distance and silence and longing.

Your heart beat loud in your ears.

"…Okay," you said. His eyes widened.

"I'll stay with you," you added, quickly, before fear could steal it from you. "Just tonight."

Hinata blinked, momentarily stunned—even though he'd been the one to ask.

"R-really?"

You nodded.

"Really."

He smiled then, small and breathless.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. Yeah. Just tonight."

Famous last words.

Hinata's apartment was small.

Not cramped—just… compact. Thoughtfully lived-in.

You slipped your shoes off at the door, instinctively lining them up before you even realized you were doing it, and stepped inside. The place smelled faintly of clean laundry and a lot like him. A narrow hallway opened into a combined living space and kitchen, everything neat in that slightly chaotic way that screamed busy person who tries his best.

By the window, perched on a low cabinet, stood a small Christmas tree—barely taller than your thigh. Simple. A little crooked. Decorated with mismatched ornaments: a few red and gold baubles, a string of warm fairy lights, and what looked suspiciously like a tiny volleyball charm hanging from one of the branches. No topper. No presents underneath. Just… there.

It felt very him.

A low table sat by the tv, in front of it, a small couch. Volleyball gear was stacked carefully in one corner—knee pads, shoes, a worn duffel bag with fraying straps you recognized from Brazil—while another corner held a bookshelf that surprised you. Manga spines. Training manuals. A couple of Portuguese textbooks, dog-eared and heavily annotated.

Your heart squeezed.

The kitchen was tidy but clearly underused: a rice cooker, a frying pan hanging from a hook, instant noodle cups stacked on the counter like a guilty secret. On the wall above the sink, taped slightly crooked, was a photo. A group picture—blurry, laughing, and familiar.

Brazil.

The beach. The sun. Nina. The general.

You.

"—I, um," Hinata said behind you, scratching the back of his neck, ears already pink. "It's not much. Sorry."

You turned, smiling softly. "Shōyō, this is cute. It's so you!"

That only made him blush harder.

You glanced toward the sleeping arrangements, and there it was—one futon, neatly folded in the corner.

You raised a brow, slow and deliberate.

"Only one futon?" you asked lightly.

Hinata combusted.

"I—I mean—! I was planning to sleep on the couch! It's fine! I usually do when Bokuto-san crashes here, and—!" He gestured wildly, then froze. "…You're teasing me again, aren't you?"

You laughed, warm and easy, and his shoulders finally dropped.

"Relax," you said.

You both settled on the couch eventually, the city lights spilling in through the window in soft amber stripes. The television played something mindless—variety show chatter fading into background noise as you both talked over it, filling in the blanks of months spent apart.

At some point, without really thinking about it, you shifted.

You sat between his legs with your back resting against his chest, his knees bracketing your hips. It felt natural. Your bodies remembered this shape from Brazil, even if your minds pretended not to.

Hinata inhaled as you settled, slow and deep, and then sighed.

"I missed you," he said quietly, voice warm against your hair.

Your chest ached most sweetly.

"Yeah," you murmured. "I missed you too."

Your phone buzzed. You frowned slightly and lifted it.

Akaashi Keiji: Spoke to my boss. The company can sponsor you for a work visa if you decide to accept. We'd need to start the process soon—let me know when you want to talk details.

You huffed a small laugh, looking at the time on your phone and wondering how and why he'd talk to his boss right after a celebration, and at these hour of the night.

"God. He's efficient."

Hinata peeked over your shoulder, half-reading the message.

"That's Akaashi-san for you. I think he works even when he sleeps."

You smiled, then grew quieter as you locked your phone.

Hinata hesitated for a second, then squeezed you a little harder without noticing.

"…Are you going to say yes?"

You leaned back a little more into him, eyes on the ceiling. "I don't know yet."

He nodded, though you felt the motion more than saw it.

"I have time," you added gently. "Tourist visa's ninety days. I want to think. Properly."

Silence settled—not uncomfortable, but heavy. The kind that pressed against your ribs and waited. Hinata's arms rested loosely at your sides, not holding you, not letting go either. His chin hovered just above your shoulder.

You didn't know it yet—but somewhere in that quiet, with the city breathing outside and your heartbeat syncing with his, Hinata Shōyō was already standing at the edge of a decision he'd been building toward for months.

Your weight against his chest, the steady rise and fall of your breathing, the warmth of your body fitting against his like it had always belonged there—it was almost enough to make him forget how fast his heart was beating. Almost.

"The next time I see her, I'll tell her."

He'd said it so casually in the locker room after practice, sweat-soaked and laughing, Sakusa shoving a bottle of water into his hands. Bokuto had been talking too loud, Atsumu had been annoying as usual, and Hinata—still riding the high of being back, of finally standing on this side of the net—had said it without thinking.

The room had gone dead silent.

Then—

"Ohhhhhh?" "Brazil girl?" "Knew it." "GO SHOYOU! BE BRAVE!"

He hadn't taken it back. He never would.

Brazil had been a slow, beautiful undoing.

He remembered you walking ahead of him on the beach, barefoot, dress fluttering in the wind, turning back just to smile at him—bright and teasing and so warm it made his chest ache. The sun had painted your skin gold, and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

He'd wanted to reach for you then. To lace his fingers through yours. To pull you close and feel if your heart raced like his did.

It happened again and again.

You laughing, head tipped back. You calling his name across the sand. You brushing sunscreen onto his shoulders like it meant nothing. You curling into his side on the couch, soft and sleepy and there.

Every time, something in him screamed mine—not in ownership, not in entitlement, but in certainty. In recognition.

But he never crossed that line. Because he knew himself.

If he kissed you, he wouldn't stop there. If he held you, he'd want to hold you forever. If he loved you—he would do it loudly. Openly. With his whole chest and no shame.

And he was leaving.

He couldn't ask you to come with him, nor could he ask you to wait for him. He couldn't ask you to stretch yourself across an ocean just to meet him in the middle.

Long-distance wasn't just hard—it was cruel. And if it broke, it wouldn't break quietly. It would tear.

So he'd chosen silence.

He'd told himself it was kinder, that you deserved freedom, that loving you from afar was better than risking hurting you.

Even if it meant suffering anyway.

Now, sitting here in his apartment. In Japan. With you wrapped in his arms and a message glowing on your phone that could change everything—

He couldn't wait anymore.

If you stayed. If you chose Japan?

Then he wanted you. All of you. Not in pieces. Not in almosts.

He couldn't stand the thought of you belonging to a future that didn't include him. Couldn't imagine holding anyone else the way he held you now.

There was no one else in his heart.

Hinata lowered his chin, resting it gently on your shoulder, breath steadying as he made his decision.

No more guessing. No more assuming. No more silence.

If you stayed, he would tell you. And if he could do anything to convince you to stay, he would take his chance at it.

And if you would take him, he would love you the way he always had: completely.

He didn't move for a long moment.

He just breathed you in.

The quiet of his apartment hummed around you—the low whirr of his fridge, the distant city noise softened by the winter air and the snow that was starting to fall. The glow from the TV painted everything in muted blues and golds, flickering gently over your skin.

You were warm in his arms. To warm. Perfectly so.

The decision settled and solidified, unshakable in his chest. He whispered your name like it pained him, but in the way only a beautiful ache was leaving him.

And then carefully, he leaned in. Breathing you in, brushing his lips on the skin where your shoulder met your neck. They made their way up, softly caressing the skin and leaving the heat of the sun in their wake.

Then, barely there. A soft, lingering press just below your ear.

Your breath caught. You felt him smile faintly against you at the reaction.

Then, in a voice so quiet it felt like a secret meant only for your skin, he whispered:

"Would it be okay... If I asked you to stay?"

His lips lingered there after the question, unhurried, as if granting you time to think. As if offering himself completely and waiting to see if you would take him.

Your eyes softened.

Because you knew.

You weren't an idiot. You'd known, really. In the way he had looked at you all night—soft and awed and like there was something lingering at the edge of his tongue. In the way he had introduced you to everyone at the restaurant, and the reactions of his team. In the fact that you'd been offered a job by one of his most trusted people. In the way his hand hadn't once let go of yours under the table.

This was it.

This kiss.

This plead against your skin.

You slowly turned in his arms until you were facing him, and cupped his face in both hands.

He looked into your eyes like he had been waiting his entire life to be allowed to. Half-lidded, shining eyes. The windows to his soul were open and earnestand utterly unguarded. Lips parted, just lightly, breath shallow. Every thought was written plainly across his face without even trying to hide it.

You smiled. Gentle. Fond. Teasing, if just a little.

"Took you long enough, Shōyō."

His eyes watched your lips as you spoke, and before he could even attempt to respond, you leaned in to kiss him.

The kiss was soft, at first.

Your lips met like they were checking. As if asking permission to one another though you already had it. A careful press, warm and sweet and full of restraint that lasted exactly half a second before he exhaled your name into your mouth like a prayer.

Then it turned a little clumsy. Both of you figuring out the right timing to match eachother.

He was hungry, but unrushed, reverent. Like he was afraid it might be a dream and he didn't want to wake.

His hands came up to your waist, with fingers that trembled just slightly as they anchored themselves on the plush of your flesh. He kissed you deeper, pouring everything he'd held back into the way he fit himself into you.

You tasted home on his tongue.

Brazil sunsets and shared breaths and all the words he'd never said.

Your thumb brushed his cheek, your other hand travelling to the back of his neck, and then melted into you, pressing closer, a quiet helpless sound slipping from him before he even realized it. His forehead pressed against yours when you pulled back for air, breath warm and uneven.

He smiled softly. Shaky. Real.

"I love you."

Always the simplest truth in the world.

And outside, it was cold, so cold. The kind of cold that crept into bones, the city wrapped in silver and stillness as snow fell quietly against the windows.

But in here, in between his arms, in his hands and his tongue as his breath traced along your skin, in the feeling of his skin on yours as layers of clothing fell under tenbling hands, it was warm.

So warm.

Like melting under the sun in the most delicious way.

With Hinata sleeping beside you, breathing slow and even, with one arm heavy around your waist like it had always belonged there, you reached for your phone.

The screen lit the room softly. You opened your messages and typed:

: Thank you so much, Akaashi-san. Whenever you have time, I'd love to meet for coffee and talk about the job.

It was the easiest text you'd sent in your life.

Hinata shifted beside you, pulling you closer in his sleep and pressing his forehead lightly against your shoulder with a quiet hum—like he sensed it even then, even in the arms of Morpheus.

You smiled in the dark, slipping the phone away and sinking back into him, pressing a soft kiss on his forehead.

There was no ache pressing at your ribs. No doubt tugging at the edges of your thoughts, no weight of everything left unsaid in Brazil. Of late nights and unasked questions and longing that had nowhere to go. No weight of the years and miles you'd survived apart.

No coldness, even if snow fell outside.

Only the warmth of the sun.

Your sun.

He was trying very, very hard to understand the person standing in front of him—a panicked foreign with bright orange hair sticking up from humidity, a shirt that was slightly damp from the walk in the sun, his phone clutched in one hand, and a burnt-out bulb in the other.

You assumed he was a tourist. Thought you might help. And honestly? He looked adorable—like someone had dropped a golden retriever into a foreign language exam. His expression showing a desperate blend of determination and impending meltdown.

You were halfway down the aisle, weaving between shelves full of screws, nails, and tools you were pretty sure you didn't know how to use, when you heard a soft stream of Japanese.

"Chotto... chigau... What was the word in Portuguese? It's… laito… No, that's English," he let out a small, frustrated sigh. "Come on, you practiced this…"

You couldn't help smiling.

This was cute. Very cute.

You stepped closer—slow enough not to startle him but confident enough that both he and the clerk looked up. He was mid-typing something into a translation app when you reached toward him, gently placing your hand over his and lowering his phone. His eyes went wide immediately at the contact: warm brown, huge and a little frantic, like he wasn't sure if you were here to save him or witness his demise.

"Ele quer uma lâmpada," you said lightly, turning to the clerk. [He wants a lightbulb.]

Relief washed over the man like a blessing. "Ah! Sim!"

When the clerk left to get the lightbulb, you looked up and winked at him with a smile—just a conspiratorial little gesture.

But it hit him like a spike to the chest.

He made a tiny sound. Not quite a gasp. Just… a noise of pure overload. His ears turned red. Then his cheeks. Then the back of his neck.

Partly because of the wink, mostly because your hand was still in his, and absolutely because he thought you were stunning. An angel. A stunning Japanese-speaking angel.

"Ah—obri—THANK YOU!" he blurted, the words tripping over each other like he couldn't decide which language to malfunction in.

You laughed softly, and it felt like a breeze cutting through the heat for him.

"You're welcome."

When you slowly withdrew your hand, his breath hitched like he'd been holding it the entire time.

The clerk returned with two different types of bulbs. Hinata picked the cheapest, bowed far too deeply, thanked him far too many times, and then turned back to you—still flustered and glowing with gratefulness.

"You—you speak Japanese?"

You nodded with a soft smile, asking the clerk in Portuguese for screws before switching languages as you glanced back at him.

"A little."

"A little?! Your Japanese is amazing!"

You couldn't help the slight blush on your own cheeks as you shook your head.

"I'm still not there yet..."

"No, no, no. It's amazing!" he insisted, hands flailing just slightly. "My Portuguese is still… terrible. I practiced the word for lightbulb last night, I swear, but then the clerk looked at me and I forgot everything."

"That happens," you said, tilting your head. "And your Portuguese isn't terrible. You're trying, and it shows. People here appreciate that."

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. Nothing came out.

A tiny spark of triumph lit your chest. Making such a cute guy flustered should not have been that satisfying—but oh, it was. You could tell he was sweet. Honest. You could read everything he felt right off his face, and you really liked that.

"Are you here enjoying the beaches?"

He nodded.

"Sorta. I moved here recently. I'm training for beach volleyball."

"Oh. I see..."

And it made sense now—the broad shoulders, the steady legs, the lean but athletic build, the spark of energy around him like he constantly ran on warm sunlight.

"Are you a Libero?"

He visibly deflated at that.

"Do you say that because I'm short?"

You couldn't help but laugh, hiding behind your hand. That earned you an embarrassed-but-amused smile from his end.

"No, no," you said in between laughs. "I said it because you have a lot of energy..."

"Ah, I see... I was a middle blocker in high school, actually."

"Interesting..."

"How did you learn Japanese?" he asked suddenly, making you happy that he asked about you, too.

"I like traveling. I'm not originally from here either—I'm on a study program," you explained as you paid for your screws and thanked the clerk. "Obrigado. Are you liking Rio so far?"

You turned to leave, half expecting—and half hoping—he would follow. He gave one more quick bow and a breathless thank you to the clerk, who was looking between the two of you with the mischievous smile of someone watching a romcom in a language he didn't understand but was absolutely rooting for anyway.

Hinata hurried after you, stepping into the heat-bleached sunlight.

"I do! I really like it here," he said quickly, answering your earlier question. "The water's warm—way warmer than Japan's. There's always so many people at the beach, and everyone is so nice. Even if it's hard to… You know, talk."

"Have you made any friends yet?"

The shift was instant.

Just a soft flicker in his expression, like the word friends tugged at his heart. Like a cloud passing over the sun.

That bittersweet saudade. You could see it. Relate to it, too, when you thought about your loved ones back in your home country.

"Not yet..." he admitted, voice small but honest.

A gentle smile curved your lips before you even realized it.

"You know… I have a group." You nudged his arm lightly with your shoulder. "Sorta like a club? A few more Japanese speakers—not natives, though. If you ever feel homesick, we meet every Thursday night at a bar not too far from here."

The effect on him was immediate. The shadow in his eyes vanished like it had never been there. And sunlight poured back in—bright, warm, and honestly breathtaking.

And then...that smile.

That huge, open, and absolutely beautiful smile. The kind of smile that felt like it reached straight inside your ribcage and squeezed your heart like a hug, sweet and warm and a little terrifying.

Time didn't freeze like in romcoms—but stretched instead.

The heat outside had softened into a gentle breeze, carrying the scent of pressed sugarcane from a nearby kiosk, mixing with the salt of the sea. A sweet-salty blend that wrapped around you both.

"Oh god," you thought, "Oh god, you could totally fall in love with this guy."

Hinata bowed again—awkward and sweet, like he didn't know what to do with all the gratitude piling up in his chest.

"Thank you," he said softly. "Really."

You stepped back toward your street, smiling with newly found fondness.

"No problem. Try not to start any more crises in hardware stores, yeah?"

He let out a breathy, helpless laugh. "I'll try!"

"It was very nice to meet you," you added, and the words felt truer than they should have for someone you'd just met. "Hopefully we'll see each other again."

You meant it—but the realization of how much you meant it burned under your skin. Embarrassment, excitement, something dangerously close to longing.

So you turned and started walking. And five steps later, you glanced back over your shoulder.

Hinata was still standing exactly where you'd left him, watching you leave. A little stunned. A lot charmed. Blushing up to his ears so hard it looked like the heat itself had kissed him.

And when he noticed you caught him staring, he waved—way too fast.

You only saw his flustered smile as you turned the corner, grinning to yourself.

You didn't hear the way he muttered to himself after:

"Yabai… kawaisugiru." [Oh no... She's too cute.]

It was only when you got back to your apartment that you realised you hadn't even asked for his name, nor had you given him yours. It hit you right as that painting hung nicely from a screw on the wall, and you'd wanted to bash your head against it.

It was silly, really.

The way every time you and your group of language-addicted university friends gathered at the bar over the next few weeks, you couldn't stop your eyes from looking up each time the door creaked open, half-expecting a bright pop of orange hair to appear.

And it was even sillier how the tiny sting of disappointment would settle low in your chest when it didn't.

But you'd been looking for him anyway—the whirlwind stranger with the sunlit smile who'd crossed your path for mere minutes and branded himself into your mind like he'd been there for years. It didn't make sense. It wasn't logical. You barely knew him.

But something about him had stayed with you, this bright and warm feeling, like catching the sun itself on your hand.

"Looking for your lightbulb guy again?" your friend Nina asked, nudging your arm with her elbow, that infuriatingly perceptive grin of hers adorning her lips.

"No Portuguese!" came the sharp scolding from across the table. 'The general', another of your friends—nervous intellectual, relentless rule-enforcer of language nights, and resident panic machine—adjusted his glasses without looking up from his notebook.

Nina rolled her eyes dramatically.

"Yeah, yeah. German night or whatever."

"No Portuguese!" he repeated, more distressed this time, because she was 100% doing it on purpose.

She stuck her tongue out at him and turned back to you with a wicked little glint in her eyes—one that made him sputter softly. He always acted like he hated her playing games with him, though the faint blush of his ears said otherwise.

"So?" she pressed—still in Portuguese, but The general had given up in correcting her for he was too busy being flustered. "Why hasn't he shown up yet? I'm starting to believe he doesn't exist. Maybe it was a heat-induced hallucination?"

You laughed, lifting a glass of sugarcane juice to your lips. The ice clinked gently in the dim, warm lighting of the bar—ceiling fans whirring lazily overhead, wood tables buzzing with multilingual chatter all around.

"It's alright, he'll show up if he wants, no biggie," you said, though the flutter in your stomach disagreed.

"You did tell him the name of the bar, right?"

Oh.

You bit your lip, an embarrassed smile creeping in as realization slapped you in the face.

No name. No bar. No way to ever see him again.

Nina burst into laughter as you hid your warming cheeks behind your hands.

"You didn't," she gasped in between laughs. "Are you dumb?"

You were laughing with her, begging to be left alone, when the bell over the entrance chimed, a sharp ding that sliced clean through the noise.

You looked up, didn't expect much.

But there he was.

Hinata Shōyō in the flesh.

A little breathless, a little flushed from the warm night outside, clutching the strap of a backpack like he'd been running around for hours.

His gaze swept the room, searching.

And when his eyes found you, they lit up. His whole face brightened with that same smile you'd replayed in your head more times than you cared to admit.

"What is it?" Nina asked, taking in your amused expression.

"It's him."

"There's no way—" she whispered as her eyes landed on Hinata, stunned.

The general beside her nearly knocked over his beer when he heard you.

"It's him! It's actually him!"

Nina jumped on the opportunity without a second to spare, looking at him with narrowed, mischievous eyes. "No Portuguese~"

But you barely heard any of it.

Hinata approached, steps hesitant but hopeful, still unconvinced that you were real and not some mirage he'd conjured out of homesickness and desperation.

He stopped right in front of your table, cheeks a soft pink.

"H-Hi," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I, um… I've been trying every bar around here for… a while."

Your jaw nearly dropped. "Every—every bar?"

He nodded earnestly, somehow both sheepish and proud of himself.

"I forgot to ask for the name, so… I just kept checking all of them on Thursdays."

Nina snorted beside you. "That's either romantic or crazy."

You slapped her arm without even looking at her.

Hinata flinched, embarrassed. He hadn't understood much, but he'd caught "loucura" at the end.

"Ah—sorry! I didn't mean to sound creepy. I just really wanted to—um—see you again!" He waved his hands frantically, even redder now. "Not in a weird way! Just—because you were kind! And nice! And you helped me! And—"

You reached out without thinking, placing your hand over his to stop the verbal tailspin.

He froze.

"It's okay," you said softly, smiling. "I'm really glad you found us."

His blush went absolutely nuclear.

The general, meanwhile, had completely malfunctioned.

“My god—An actual Japanese native here—AT THE BAR—this is the greatest day of my life—okay we switch immediately—no more German night!! Japanese night!! We must honor our guest—"

Nina laughed. "You're fanboying so hard right now. You're going to scare him."

Hinata laughed too—a bright, warm, slightly shy sound.

"Thank you for having me!" he said, and the whole table melted a little.

You scooted, patting the chair beside you. "Sit. Please. If you want."

He sat carefully, like he was afraid he'd mess something up. You leaned a bit closer—your natural style, friendly and warm—and you could practically see the thoughts scrambling inside his head like hamsters running on a wheel, and the wheel was on fire.

"So..." you started, a little embarrassed at the admission. "I realised I never asked your name."

"Ah, yeah. Hinata Shōyō."

"Shōyō... I like it, it's pretty."

He nodded, posture straightening and still a little red. He'd gotten used to people calling him by his name without honorifics, but somehow hearing it from your lips made him feel a little bashful.

"And, um… what's yours? I never… um… asked either."

You laughed, cheeks warming. "Guess we're both idiots, huh?"

He brightened. "Then we match!"

It was ridiculous how fast your heart stuttered at that.

As you introduced yourself properly, the general was already drawing up makeshift new rules for Japanese night, Nina was teasing him mercilessly, and Hinata looked equal parts overwhelmed and delighted.

He kept sneaking glances at you. Every time he did, he smiled a tiny, private smile, way too happy at the fact he'd found you again. (He was starting to lose hope after the fifth bar)

And he stayed close—close enough that your arms brushed now and then, close enough that he could whisper to you quietly:

"Hey… um… you're really good at making this feel less scary."

"Scary?" you asked.

He nodded, eyes soft. "I'm a little nervous. But you're here, so… I'm okay now."

Your heart did not handle that well. Not even a little. It was too easy to be fond of him, too easy to enjoy the warmth of his presence and resent the cold in his absence.

And after that first night, you and Hinata slipped into a friendship so easily it felt like you were picking up where something had already started a life or two ago.

He'd join your group whenever he wasn't working—always arriving a little out of breath, always with a smile that made your chest tighten in ways you refused to unpack. Other days, you'd meet him at the beach, watching him play volleyball with literally anyone and everyone who needed a partner. Sometimes you'd help him translate—but you quickly realized that once Hinata was in his element, communication barriers didn't exist.

Volleyball was the language he was fluent in.

He adapted instantly to every new teammate—old man or teenager, tourist, first-timer or seasoned player—falling into their rhythm like he was born to match whoever stood beside him. You'd watch him, always astonished, always caught off guard by just how bright he was when he played.

Stronger, sharper, and quicker each week. He was truly a sight to behold.

And after every match, he'd jog toward you with that proud, boyish grin, sand sticking to his shins, and you'd hand him a bottle of water like it was your assigned role from the universe. He'd flop beside you in the sand, cataloguing everything he still needed to improve on. Listing weaknesses the same way other people list shopping items—no shame. Just determination.

And every time, after another match or two, he'd fix everything he was not happy about.

You'd pretend you weren't staring. You'd pretend your heart wasn't squeezing itself into tiny origami shapes.

The number of times you almost said "fuck it" and kissed him on that beach was… Embarrassingly high.

And the physical proximity didn't help.

Hinata had been startled at first by how touchy people were in Brazil—handshakes that turned into hugs, cheek kisses from strangers, friends who always touched an arm, a shoulder, a knee during conversation. But he warmed to it quickly, melting into it like sunlight.

The "Japanese nights"—that only happened because he showed up—were both a shelter for when he felt homesick, and a place where he could learn from the culture. Every time he came, whatever language chapter you were supposed to study got tossed out immediately.

"Japanese night!" The general would declare, already flipping through his notebook like a man seeing God for the first time.

He'd try to enforce the 'No Portuguese' rule, only to fail spectacularly once the bar glowed with soft string lights and the haze of too many caipirinhas. And after a couple rounds, everyone would be hugging, singing, dancing, and slurring half-Portuguese, half-Japanese sentences that sometimes made absolutely no sense and sometimes helped him greatly in learning the language. Someone always pulled out a guitar and sang tunes that everyone knew the lyrics to.

And he found it beautiful. How the warmth of the Brazilian sun seemed to warm everyone's hearts as well, how everyone seemed to be so open about loving and liking each other, much different from the poised—and arguably a little cold—Japanese society.

Hinata looked around one of those nights, admiring the chaos with a soft kind of longing. You were leaning against The general's shoulder, cheeks rosy, singing and laughing into the music, and you caught Hinata watching you with an expression you couldn't translate—warm… confused… something else.

"Are you two... dating?" he asked suddenly.

Drunken group vocals drifted behind you as you turned to him.

You laughed. "No, he's just a friend. Over here it's super normal for friends to be this close. There's nothing more to it."

Hinata blinked, trying to process that. You gently nudged his foot with yours, then pointed—subtly—to The general.

"Besides, he's already head over heels for someone else." You grinned. "Watch."

Hinata followed your gaze. The general, half-lidded and singing quietly to himself, was watching Nina as she swayed and laughed with such open, unguarded affection that even the dim bar lighting couldn't hide it. Absolutely smitten.

Hinata's breath hitched in soft amazement—and a little jealousy.

Not necessarily of them, but of the ease of that emotion, of how freely it was allowed to love in the open here. Kinda wishing he could do the same.

He pressed his lips together, chest tightening.

Your eyes widened when you felt his weight settle on you as he rested his head on your shoulder—hesitantly, like he was testing the weight of a dream.

"Then I guess I can, too," he murmured.

Your heart stuttered.

He smelled like salt and lime and sunscreen. And when you looked down at him, feeling the brush of his hair on your cheek, he was red up to his ears, eyes squeezed shut in mortified determination—like if he opened them, he'd lose the courage to keep leaning on you. His whole body vibrated faintly from nerves, as if he was fighting the urge to pull away.

A tiny, gentle laugh escaped you, and you rested your head on top of his.

He let out a breath you didn't know he'd been holding and sank into you completely.

You thought it was innocent.

Truly.

You thought it ended on that warm bar night, that little shared moment on your shoulder.

Little did you know how much he'd make your heart suffer as months passed and your friendship developed. Because once you gave him a green light to touch you, Hinata became very touchy.

Very.

He hugged you tight every time he saw you—full-body, earnest hugs that lifted you a little off the ground, like he'd missed you in a way that didn't make sense for two people who'd seen each other less than twenty-four hours earlier. He'd bury his face in your shoulder, saying things like:

"Ahhh, I needed this!"

And your heart?

Your poor, dumb, heart? Melted into a puddle every single time.

He rested his head on your shoulder constantly. On buses, on bar stools, in line at açaí stands. He did it like it was second nature—like leaning on you was simply where his body preferred to be.

But the worst of all were the beach days.

Those were lethal.

Because Hinata very quickly became obsessed—obsessed—with using your thighs as a pillow. At first, it was a drunken decision, then a sleepy one, then it became a habit so natural you didn't know how to survive it anymore.

He'd flop down next to you in the warm sand with his hair sticking up in all directions, and murmur:

"Can I?"

And before you even answered, he was already lowering his head into your lap, smiling up at you with the softest, most devastating expression imaginable. Innocent. Trusting. Sunlit and breathtaking.

You were just friends, though.

Of course. Obviously. Totally.

You watched anime together on your couch, knees touching, arms brushing, his laughter vibrating against your ribs when he leaned into you during funny scenes. You took naps together, limbs tangled so naturally it felt like you'd done it your whole lives. The general nearly had an aneurysm each time he caught you two asleep, spooning on the couch during movie nights. Nina kept taking pictures. And with all that, even when there was no space between you bodies most of the time, when you both cuddled, even—fully, openly, shamelessly—you'd still shook your heads violently every time someone asked if you were dating. (Which was very often.)

Specially at the beach, where strangers would always asume you were a couple.

Hinata always panicked, waving his hands in frantic denial while still lying on your thighs.

"No, no, no—we're just friends! Just—just friends!" He'd let out, while your fingers were literally in his hair.

The day he introduced you to Oikawa was chaotic in ways only Oikawa could bring.

You showed up to the beach as usual, expecting to spot Hinata stretching near the nets or chasing a stray ball barefoot through the sand. Instead, you found him already looking for you—practically vibrating with excitement, jumping up and down as he waved you over like a kid who'd found something shiny and couldn't wait to show it off.

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

It felt good to see him like that—because lately, your bright sun had been dimming a little.

It wasn't anything dramatic. Hinata still laughed, still talked with his hands, still showed up every day. But his smiles had been arriving a second too late, like they had to travel farther to reach his face. He'd been sleeping more, stretching longer, rubbing at his shoulders with a quiet little frown when he thought no one was looking. Some days, he moved like gravity had decided to be cruel to him in particular.

You could tell he was struggling—with work, with volleyball, with learning how to exist in a country that wasn't his, under a sky that didn't quite feel like home.

Even when the Japanese nights with your group helped—late dinners, loud conversations, shared laughter that echoed off concrete walls—you could tell they didn't fix everything. It softened the edges, sure. But something in him still felt… unsteady. Like he wasn't sure where to set his feet anymore.

You didn't know what to do about it, not really. So you did what felt right. You stayed close without crowding him. Gave him space when he went quiet and offered your ear when he was ready to talk. Let him lean without making it obvious.

You had no idea how much that meant to him.

So seeing him now—eyes bright, grin easy, energy sparking off him like sunlight on water—made your chest warm with relief.

And maybe a little jealousy.

Because whoever this "Great King" was, he'd managed to pull Hinata back into himself.

"You're gonna love him—!! Oh—actually—he's a little—uh...—just, don't believe everything he says."

"Shōyō, that is not a reassuring introduction."

"It's fine! He's fine! Mostly!" he assured you, already waving him over.

Oikawa strutted across the sand, sunglasses on, shirt unbuttoned one button too many. He fit every description Hinata had ever given from his high school days perfectly—radiating that unmistakable 'I'm the protagonist' energy.

"Well helloooo~," he sang in Argentinian-accented Portuguese, "So you're the mysterious friend Chibi-chan kept talking about—"

Hinata smacked him in the arm so fast you barely saw it.

"I DID NOT—!!"

"You did," Oikawa hummed innocently, eyes sparkling.

Hinata blushed hard enough to turn into a huge, pouting tomato, and you could only hide a laugh behind your hand because it was too cute—dangerously so—and if you hadn't rein yourself in, you might've actually done something reckless. Like kiss him. Right there. In front of everyone.

And yet, beneath the laughter, something shifted.

Meeting Oikawa—this living, breathing fragment of Hinata's past—made the future feel closer. Sharper.

More real.

Hinata's departure was a silent, ticking clock that the two of you pretended you couldn't hear. But you knew it. He'd go back to Japan when his two-year training ended. You'd always known. Even when you let yourself believe—just a little—that this could last forever. That he would always be beside you. That you could keep bathing in his warmth, in his laughter, in the steady comfort of his presence.

That he would always be your sun.

And for the first time, the thought of losing that light hurt.

But you swallowed the feeling. Watched the duo lose against the infamous 'Buy-me-a-beer' brothers, watched Hinata's fiery eyes sparkle even in defeat—already lit with the promise of next time. Watched him laugh it off, already thinking ahead, already chasing something brighter.

Watched them train the next day.

And then the rematch.

Electric.

Hinata in full competitive mode—eyes sharp, movements precise, all instinct and fire. Oikawa barking orders like a true Great King, voice cutting clean through the air, while the brothers yelled absolute nonsense every time they scored, laughing like chaos itself.

You cheered your lungs out for him, hands cupped around your mouth, screaming "VAI, SHOYOU!!" until he nearly tripped from laughing mid-sprint.

They won in the end—because of course they did—and Hinata sprinted to you immediately afterward, high on adrenaline and sunlight, practically throwing himself into your arms.

"You saw that?! We won!"

You screamed and laughed as he lifted you from the floor and spun you around.

"You were incredible, Shōyō!"

He set you down and pulled away from you only briefly, with his arms still around you, and that spark in his eyes you loved so, so much.

"They say they're gonna buy us dinner! Wanna come?"

And just like that, the countdown in your chest ticked louder. The joy stayed. But it hurt now.

You smiled, small and crooked, and avoided his eyes. This was his moment—shared with an old rival, a piece of his past—and it felt wrong to anchor him to you. To pretend you weren't already starting to loosen your grip.

You were trying to teach yourself how to step back. Because you knew that only that way, his departure wouldn't kill you.

"That sounds amazing, but..." you murmured. "I think I'll pass. I have to study..."

He seemed a little sad at that, but he recovered quickly—because he always did—giving you a thumbs-up and one of those beautiful, earnest smiles that had undone you from the start.

"Okay! Gambatte!"

You nodded. Said goodbye.

And cried the entire walk back to your apartment.

Every week, the sands of Rio felt warmer, the sunsets sweeter, the nights longer—but the calendar kept thinning anyway. And even though Hinata always answered your questions with bright smiles and big energy, he never brought up Japan unless absolutely necessary.

And you didn't bring it up at all.

You kept hanging out like always: late-night anime marathons, naps tangled together, bossa nova at the beach to help him learn Portuguese, volleyball in the sun. You let yourself be happy and tried—really tried—not to think about the fact that the happiness had an expiration date.

Sometimes, though, you caught him watching you.

Not with worry or sadness—Hinata never liked showing either—but with a soft, lingering look, like he was memorizing you. Your smile, your hair, your voice. The way you said his name.

He pretended he wasn't doing it.

You pretended not to notice.

Two cowards in love, dancing around it beautifully.

One evening, after he'd had a first match with Nestor Santana as his partner, the two of you stayed at the beach as the sun dipped toward the water. The sky was turning honey-gold, and the sea breeze had softened into something gentle, almost shy.

Hinata stretched out beside you, head once again finding your lap like gravity had chosen you specifically.

"Portuguese practice?" you teased, pulling up the playlist you'd curated for him.

He perked up immediately. "Yes!"

As usual, you put on some bossa nova—soft guitar, warm vocals, the kind of music that sounds like sunlight feels. Hinata hummed along, his foot tapping lightly against the sand. The waves rolled in, rhythmic, slow, and for a moment, you forgot the world had anything else in it besides this.

After a few songs, he tilted his head back to look at you, eyes filled with curiosity.

"Ne… you hear this word a lot."

"What word?”

"Saudade."

You smiled softly. "Ah. That one."

He waited—bright, trusting, and eager to learn.

"It's a feeling that's… hard to translate," you began, combing your fingers gently through his hair. "It's like natsukashii, but… sadder. Emptier. It's missing something or someone so much that the feeling itself becomes kind of… beautiful."

Hinata's eyes softened, lashes fluttering as he processed it.

"Beautiful sadness…" he whispered.

"Yeah."

He was quiet for a moment, listening as the next song mentioned the word again and again.

Then he laughed, a small, embarrassed puff of air.

"I think… I think I'll feel saudade of you when I go back to Japan."

Your heart clenched so suddenly you almost dropped your phone.

Hinata didn't notice—or pretended not to—because he looked away toward the sea, face glowing pink from the sunset, or maybe from the honesty he hadn't meant to let slip.

You swallowed.

"Shōyō…"

"I mean—" he rushed in, waving his hands a little, "—just, you know—Because you're the first person who made me feel at home here. And you teach me so much. And you're always with me and you laugh with me and—"

He stopped. Shoulders tight, voice small.

"…and I like being here with you... So much."

The waves kept crashing. The sky kept glowing.

And your fingers kept moving through his hair like you weren't fighting a small war inside yourself.

You leaned down just a little.

"I'll feel saudade of you too," you whispered.

And Hinata's breath hitched. Then he closed his eyes and relaxed fully, sinking into your lap with a small, somewhat sad smile that made your chest ache in places you didn't know existed, looking down at him and playing with his hair of fire.

And as the sun disappeared behind the waves, turning the sky into a deep coral pink...

your suffering had officially begun.

You shouldn't have cried at Nestor's wedding.

But you absolutely did.

It was impossible not to—everything was too beautiful. Fairy lights strung between palm trees. A warm breeze carrying the smell of tropical flowers.

Nestor and Nice looked stupidly, beautifully in love—hands trembling as they held each other, vows spoken with voices that cracked halfway through.

Hinata sniffled so loudly during the ceremony that the couple snorted in the middle of their vows. You squeezed his hand. He squeezed yours back.

You watched the couple kiss, watched everyone cheer and clap, watched love spill everywhere just like the champagne in their glasses—loud, open, and unapologetic.

And something traitorous bloomed in your chest.

A little bit of sorrowful envy.

Hinata found you at the edge of the venue a little later, sitting alone beneath a string of lights, blinking rapidly to keep your emotions from spilling over. Everyone danced barefoot on the grass, the kind of dancing that's more swaying than anything, with warm bodies pressed together, and music so soft and happy it seemed to float between guests.

He crouched in front of you, worry softening his features.

"Hey. Are you okay?"

You nodded—planting a smile on your lips a little too quickly. Without hesitation, he sat beside you, legs brushing yours, shoulder touching your shoulder.

The music drifted from the dance floor—a rendition of 'Besame Mucho' by João Gilberto that made it feel like it was laughing cruelly at you.

You looked at him. At his bright eyes, his sun-kissed skin, at the smile that held a sadness nehind it he tried to hide because he knew you were sad, too.

"Shōyō…" you started, but stopped yourself.

I love you.

It was right there—on the tip of your tongue, trembling, begging to be said.

But you swallowed it.

Because how could you do that to him now?

Hinata Shōyō, your sun—who came here for a dream, who worked every day with fire in his chest, who was leaving soon because he had to, because he was chasing his place in the sky.

You couldn't be the gravity that held him back, no matter how much you wanted to keep him close.

So, with tears pricking your eyes, you whispered with a smile instead:

"...I'm going to feel so much saudade of you when you leave."

His breath hitched. You watched as his eyes searched for something in yours, and you feared for your secret. But whether he found what he was looking for or not, you couldn't tell.

He pulled you into him—not the usual eager hug, but something deeper, tighter. Arms wrapped around you fully. Chin pressing into your shoulder like he was trying to anchor himself to the moment.

"Me too," he murmured, voice trembling just enough for you to notice. "More than you think."

You closed your eyes. Held him back. Pretended it didn't break your heart.

And the day Hinata finally left, something in you left with him.

Not in a dramatic, fall-to-your-knees way—no. It was way quieter than that. Hollow. Like someone had scooped out the warm center of you and forgotten to put it back. Like the days had no sun and no moon. Only cold.

You kept moving, because life didn't stop for a heartbreak you weren't even allowed to admit. You still went to class, still met your friends at the bar every Thursday; still listened to guitar chords drifting over the sand; still watched volleyball games spark and dissolve in the glow of late afternoons.

But the world felt… muted.

You laughed a second too late. Smiled a little too small. Stared at the sea a little too long as if calculating swimming distances your body wouldn't ever survive.

Your group noticed. Of course they noticed—they weren't blind, and you weren't exactly subtle.

Nina cornered you one night, on a Christmas party you'd forced yourself to go to because you thought it might help you. Instead, you just sat outside the venue, a bourbon instead of a caipirinha. No chaser. The melted ice in the glass had numbed your fingers minutes ago, but you didn't care.

She watched you for a second, leaning her elbows on the railing of the balcony, overlooking the water. The waves rolled in and out, slow, lazy, and uncaring. You felt like shouting at them for not noticing your world had ended.

"C'mon," she said gently. "O que houve contigo? What's with you lately?"

You didn't look at her.

Couldn't.

Instead, your eyes followed the dark line of the horizon, where the water melted into the sky—the direction you'd been unconsciously staring at every day now. Wondering whether the ocean was thinner somewhere out there. Whether it was as cold as Shoyou had told you once.

Your throat tightened.

And before you could stop yourself, you whispered:

"É que… eu… sinto tanta falta do sol, Nina." [It's just that... I... miss the sun so much, Nina.]

It wasn't about the weather. It was summer, after all.

Her face softened instantly, and she wrapped both arms around you from the side, pulling you close in a wordless, protective hold.

"Oh, amiga…" she murmured, pressing her cheek to your temple.

And you hated yourself a little for feeling so deeply when the entire time you'd been 'just friends', so broken when on occasions you'd denied it yourself, so betrayed, when you'd been the one who stopped your own words when you were about to confess.

But grief doesn't care about labels, does it? It doesn't care about deadlines, or longing confirmation, or cowardly loves that never get to be and stay in stories you'll tell friends once the wounds heal and in soft bossa nova songs you cry yourself to sleep to while they haven't.

You closed your eyes, breathing in the familiar salt of the sea. The night breeze lifted your hair, warm in that uniquely Brazilian way that always felt like a gentle embrace. You wished for the hundredth time that Hinata had stayed to watch the sunset with you just one more time. Just one more golden hour with him laughing beside you. Just one more evening where you could pretend he'd never leave.

Little did you know, all the way back in Sendai, in a room still half-filled with unpacked suitcases, Hinata Shōyō curled forward on his mattress, phone clutched to his chest like it could anchor him to the life he'd left behind.

Bossa nova trickled softly from the tiny Bluetooth speaker on his nightstand. The same songs you'd played for him on the beach, watching the sun hide behind the waves, explaining what saudade meant while he rested his head on your thighs.

He understood it now. He understood it too well.

His chest tightened, and his eyes stung, then overflowed—sudden, embarrassing, and impossible to stop. He swiped at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, but the tears kept coming, dropping onto the album cover glowing on his phone screen.

Outside, the snow poured steadily, softening the world into pale silence. The quiet Sendai landscape felt suddenly so small compared to the vastness of the sea he'd fallen in love with—that sea that smelled like salt and sun-warmed skin and the laughter of strangers who welcomed him like family.

He missed Brazil.

He missed the freedom in the air, the warmth of its people, the open affection he'd never experienced so deeply before.

But mostly…

God, he missed you.

He curled in tighter, shaking a little and letting the quiet guitar and soft Portuguese vocals wash over him.

If anyone asked, he'd say it was just jet lag.

Not heartbreak. Not loneliness. Not the ache of missing you so much it hurt to breathe.

Because the truth was cruel and simple:

Japan had his dream. Brazil had you.

And he didn't know how to live in a world that kept both so far apart.

"Nii-san! Christmas dinner is ready!"

Natsu's voice rang from the living room, pulling him back. He swallowed hard, wiped his face again, and prayed he could sit at that table and tell his family all the stories they were waiting to hear about Brazil—without breaking down in tears and admitting in front of all of them just how badly he wished he'd brought you with him.

But life kept happening, the show must go on.

Time didn't heal everything, but it softened the edges. Slowly, too slowly. Clumsily. Like both of you were learning how to walk with a bruise you kept bumping into.

Hinata threw himself into volleyball the way he always had—with every atom of energy his body could muster. Morning runs in the cold, solo drills before sunrise, practices that left his legs trembling. Scrimmages where he pushed himself until his lungs felt like fire.

Tryouts began. Then callbacks. Then more training.

His body grew steadier, sharper, stronger…but the ache in his chest stayed the same.

And every night, when he finally collapsed onto his bed, Brazil crept back in—and he would always dream of that same sand under his toes, the warm press of your thigh under his cheek, and the sound of bossa nova floating through the breeze.

Sometimes he'd open your chat.

Not to send anything. Just to look.

Your last conversation full of cheerful emojis and polite support, both of you pretending not to read between the lines.

Every now and then he'd send you a picture—a snowy street, some silly food he tried, a selfie where he looked unbearably homesick but smiled anyway.

You always replied. Not instantly, maybe not in paragraphs. But always there.

And that was enough for him to breathe again. Sometimes.

Your days went back to being what they'd always been—classes, studying, part-time work, your language group… the things you used to love without thinking.

But now everything carried the faint aftertaste of him.

A stray volleyball on the beach made your heartbeat stutter and then hurt, someone laughing brightly made you look twice. Bossa nova felt like someone had unfolded those origami shapes in your ribs into sheet music.

You finished your study program. Your friends celebrated you. You smiled and danced.

But every night, when your painted and decorated apartment went quiet, you'd open Hinata's messages and read them again.

And again.

And again.

You sent him pictures too—sunsets, your group's goofy outings, Nina hugging the general while he pretended not to blush.

Short messages, kind, warm.

Careful.

Always careful.

Neither of you mentioned the beach. Or heartbreak. Or how much it hurt when you accidentally said saudade in front of someone else and had to swallow tears.

But you sent him a voice note once—just you laughing at something your group did—and Hinata listened to it seven times, smiling so hard his cheeks cramped.

So you both kept going.

Life kept happening, the show must go on.

But your routines had a new, quiet rhythm.

Shōyō☼: Good luck on your exam tomorrow! : Ganbatte on your tryouts! You're going to crush them. Shōyō☼: Look at this curry I made! It's kind of ugly www. : Looks delicious???? Don't disrespect the curry like that. : Nina and the general won a trivia contest today. Shōyō☼: Ehhhh so cool!! I wanna see you guys again. : Saudades. Shōyō☼: (typing… deleting… typing again…) Me too.

Hours. Days. Sometimes weeks between messages. But the connection never faded.

It was quiet and gentle, as it always had been. Like a low tide that never fully receded.

One quiet Wednesday night, you were on your bed, half-studying, half-asleep, half-bored, when your phone buzzed.

Shōyō☼: Today was kinda rough.

You paused.

He rarely said things like that. Not without stuffing them between emojis and sunshine.

: You okay?

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Then came back.

Shōyō☼: Yeah just… tired. I miss Brazil a lot today.

Your chest tightened softly.

: Brazil misses you too. Some days will be heavier.

A minute passed.

Then:

Shōyō☼: Is it weird that I miss talking to you the most? Even when we text all the time it feels like… I dunno… not the same.

Your breath stilled.

It wasn't a confession. But it was definitely close enough to hurt a little.

You stared at the screen, heart thumping painfully with that familiar mix of joy and sorrow curling in your stomach.

And then typed carefully, fingers trembling:

: Not weird at all, Shōyō. I miss you too.

He didn't answer right away, and it made you wonder if you said too much. But then your phone buzzed again.

Shōyō☼: Oh!! Also!! I have my official debut next week!! Like… my actual first pro match! MSBY Jackals vs Schweiden Adlers! I'll finally show Kageyama what I can do.

You smiled—a real one, warm and involuntary.

Shōyō☼: I wish… I wish you could see it. It'd calm me down a lot if you were in the crowd. I don't get stomach aches before matches anymore tho, don't worry.

Your eyes softened, drifting instinctively to the corner of your room, where an already-packed suitcase sat.

Your flight was in three days.

And the tickets to the match were bought weeks ago—courtesy of Oikawa Tōru, who had somehow gotten your number and sent them with a cryptic:

"He'll want you there. And you'll want to be there. Don't be late. And don't spoil the surprise~ (๑>؂•̀๑)"

Your fingers hovered above the keyboard.

You almost told him. Almost typed: I'm coming, you dummy. I wouldn't miss your debut for anything. I miss you too much to stay away.

But you swallowed the confession.

Instead, you wrote:

: You'll do amazing. I'll be cheering for you, don't worry.

He responded immediately.

Shōyō☼: Haha sorry for being clingy! Just thinking a lot today. But thank you… hearing from you always helps.

You held the phone to your chest with a fluttering heart. He didn't have to thank you. In three days, you'd be close enough to touch him again. Close enough to feel the warmth of him, to hear his laugh in person, to see that first brilliant spike with your own eyes again.

And maybe… maybe this time you wouldn't look away when the feelings got too big.

Maybe neither would he.

You hadn't been that nervous since finals week—maybe ever.

Your hands were sweating, your heart was dancing frenetically, and the stadium lights felt too bright—like they knew you were hiding a secret under your jacket:

You were here for him.

For Hinata Shōyō.

Your sun. Your saudade in human form.

The arena buzzed around you as you waved through the crowd to your seat, warm and alive, filled with gold, black, and white. Flags waved, fans shouted chants you didn't know, and your seat vibrated faintly from the bass of the speakers. You sat down, curling your fingers around the strap of your bag like it could anchor you to something, anything. You inhaled slowly—

—and then froze when you heard a familiar name.

"You think Hinata is at the toilet right now?" a small blonde girl whispered, hiding a small laugh behind her hand.

"He said he didn't get stomach aches anymore..." the freckled boy beside her murmured.

"You think that's even true?" came another, unamused voice from behind them.

You turned your head just an inch.

And recognized them instantly—not from real life, but from Hinata's wallpaper.

Yachi Hitoka—tiny, blonde, and vibrating with anxiety. Yamaguchi Tadashi—kind-faced, freckled, and clutching a Jackals towel a little too tightly. Tsukishima Kei—tall, blond, and unimpressed by the entire world.

They were talking about him.

Their Hinata. Your Shōyō.

A strange dizziness hit you, and you laughed to yourself. The universe had a sense of humor, and tonight it was being loud. Out of the entire stadium… You were seated next to the people who shaped him, who loved him, who knew him in ways you only saw glimpses of.

You were trying very hard not to stare when Yachi bent down too quickly, panickedly searching for something in her bag, and elbowed you right in the arm.

"AH—! I'M SO SORRY!" she squeaked in English, bowing so fast she nearly headbutted you next.

You quickly shook your hands. "No, no, I'm okay! Don't worry!"

She sagged in relief—mostly because you were chill about it, partly because you answered in Japanese.

"…Thank goodness. I would've died if I bruised a stranger before the game even started…"

You smiled, soft and warm.

"Are you... Hitoka by any chance?"

She blinked. "…Y-yes? Do we know each other?"

"Oh! No, I just recognized you from some photos. I'm a friend of Shōyō's. From Brazil"

And all three of them went completely still.

Yachi's mouth fell open. "Are you... Are you Y/N?"

When you nodded, their shock only grew. Yamaguchi's eyes widened comically. Tsukishima choked on absolutely nothing.

You stared at them, suddenly a little confused.

"…Um. All good?"

They exchanged looks—silent, intense, chaotic telepathy happening in real time. Then Yamaguchi, bless his sweet heart, blurted:

"Hinata talks so much about you."

Yachi nodded violently.

"Like—so much. You're gorgeous by the way!"

Tsukishima groaned, burying half his face in his scarf. "Oh my god, he actually didn't make you up.”

"I—he… talks about me?"

"Constantly," Yachi said, small fists clenched to her chest. "He won't shut up about you—uh—sorry, that sounded rude—! He's just—happy? Like really, really happy when he talks about you."

Yamaguchi tilted his head, careful, but so curious he couldn't afford to not ask right now, with you right in front of him.

"Are you two…?"

"Oh—no, no," you said quickly, waving your hands, heart hammering. "We're just friends."

They all shared a look, and it suddenly felt nostalgic, seeing that look again. That loud, judgmental, liar look you got used to back when Hinata was in Brazil.

Your heart stuttered so hard at that you almost missed the lights dimming. You cleared your throat, staring back down at the court as the Jackals jogged out for warm-ups.

And then—There he was.

Same bright hair. Same brilliant energy. Same smile that hit you like summer.

He looked… different. No—he looked the same. But also so, so different.

The boy you met in Brazil had been bright—all potential, all warmth, all eagerness. The man warming up on the court now was that same brightness distilled into purpose. Focused. Sharper. Radiant.

His body moved like it knew exactly what it was made for. His smile lit the entire stadium.

And your heart… oh, your heart hurt. It swelled. It cracked. It overflowed.

Because he looked so happy. Because he looked like the dream you used to fall asleep next to on the sand. Because distance hadn't dimmed any feeling you thought it had—not about him, not for you.

Your chest tightened at the sight of him jumping, running, laughing with his teammates like your world hadn't tilted the day he left.

Tsukishima noticed. Because of course he did. And seeing those eyes, the way they shone, following Hinata's every move, made him smirk faintly and mutter:

"…Sure. Just friends."

Yamaguchi elbowed him. He smirked harder.

The match finally started, and every jump made your pulse spike. Every receive made you exhale in relief. Every spike made your whole body react—muscles tightening, breath hitching, the kind of involuntary joy that comes from watching someone you love do what they were born to do.

And you reacted exactly like someone who knew just how many dawns he trained through. Someone who witnessed the first steps toward this very court.

He was brilliant, beautiful. And you were so proud you thought you might cry.

Hinata spiked—and scored—and you nearly jumped to your feet.

Yamaguchi grinned. "He improved that angle."

"He improved everything," Yachi agreed, eyes shiny.

Tsukishima glanced your way again, noticing how emotional you looked.

"He's been different since he came back from Brazil," he said casually.

You swallowed.

"Yeah," you whispered. "He's worked really hard."

Tsukki hummed—a knowing, almost annoying hum—and looked back at the court.

The match ended in roars and applause. Your ears rang, your cheeks were wet, and you didn't even remember when you started crying.

Yachi tapped your shoulder gently.

"Um... Y/N-san?"

You wiped your eyes quickly, hoping you didn't look as wrecked as you felt, and smiled at her.

"Y-yes?"

"We're all celebrating Hinata's debut later... Would you like to come?"

"It's a Christmas party!" Yamaguchi added.

Your answer was instant.

"Absolutely. I'd love to. Thank you, Hitoka-san."

The night air outside the restaurant was cold in that late-December Japan way—sharp enough to sting your lungs when you breathed too deep, clean enough that the city felt awake and hushed all at once. Your breath fogged faintly in front of you. Strings of Christmas lights spilled warm gold across the sidewalk, reflected in the thin sheen of melted snow and afternoon rain that still clung to the pavement.

The street smelled like fried food and sugar—karaage and something sweet and seasonal you couldn't quite place. Somewhere down the block, a busker strummed a slow, melancholy tune, the notes wobbling gently through a portable amp, half-swallowed by traffic and winter coats.

You'd been standing there for ten whole minutes. Maybe fifteen. Maybe an hour. Time lost all its meaning when your heartbeat was trying to escape through your ribs.

Yachi had stayed with you, sweet and chatty, filling the waiting silence with little stories about the first time she'd met Hinata—how he'd given her courage she didn't know she had, how he made people feel braver just by being there. She talked about university, about design projects, about life moving forward.

You nodded. Smiled. Tried to listen.

You felt a little guilty, because your nerves wouldn't let you be fully present. Your attention kept slipping back to your phone, to the familiar name lighting up your lockscreen again and again—messages stacked like tiny, impatient bricks:

Shōyō☼: Did you watch the stream?? God, I'm so tired www DID YOU SEE THAT LAST POINT THO??? ARE YOU AWAKE?? HELLOOOOOO

You didn't respond. Not because you didn't want to—but because you didn't trust yourself not to type out the truth the moment your fingers touched the screen.

I'm here. I'm already here. Where are you?

The surprise felt worth the guilt—right up until now, when your brain started whispering doubts in the spaces between breaths.

What if he's too tired? What if this is weird? What if he's moved on?

Your stomach twisted so tightly it felt like your ribs were holding their breath. You pressed a hand to your sternum, fingers curling into your coat, and inhaled slowly—repeating the small prayer you'd picked up in Brazil without ever meaning to.

Calma… calma…

Headlights swept over the sidewalk. A van rolled to the curb. Laughter spilling before the doors even slid open—voices overlapping in post-match chaos.

"Ah! It's them!" Yachi chirped, and the sound sent your pulse into overdrive.

Bokuto jumped out first, already mid-sentence, hooking one arm around Hinata's neck even before his feet hit the ground.

"YOU WERE AMAZING OUT THERE!" he boomed, messing with his hair and shaking him like a bobblehead.

"Bo—Kuto—san—stop—" Hinata wheezed, laughing that loud, sun-crackling laugh you had replayed in your head a thousand times with his hands fumbling uselessly as he tried to pry Bokuto off.

He looked a little tired, a little sweaty, hair mussed from all the movement—but he was glowing in that particular way only Hinata managed: like he'd swallowed the sun and it leaked out in his grin.

You drank him in the way parched people drink water. You drank the sight of him in like someone who's been wandering in total darkness, and finally got a sight of the sun again.

Your sun.

Then he turned.

His eyes swept over the small cluster of smokers huddled outside, the street slick with melted snow, the warm glow of the restaurant window—and then they landed on you.

His smile collapsed like a dropped curtain, and his whole body went still—jaw slack, shoulders folding inward, as if the cold had suddenly reached straight through his chest and knocked the air out of him.

For one terrifying second, he looked almost… lost.

Atsumu, halfway behind him, followed his frozen gaze and let out the most obnoxiously delighted, "Ohoooo?"

Kiyoomi paused mid-step, one eyebrow lifting slowly. Bokuto's hand slipped from Hinata's head, forgotten.

Meian frowned faintly.

"What's up? What are we staring at?" he muttered, craning his neck. Because Hinata was looking at you the way people look at miracles, and that in itself—his shiny eyes, his rising chest as he held in his breath—was a sight for sore eyes.

"…Hi," you managed, the word barely more than fog in the cold air.

But something in the sound of your voice broke whatever fragile spell had frozen him. Tears pooled in his eyes so fast that a surprised gasp escaped you.

"Shōyō—"

But you barely managed to let a sound out, barely managed to open your arms before he was crashing into you.

You stumbled back a half-step from the sheer force of it and let out a tiny, startled laugh as his arms locked around your waist with a force that was half joy, half desperation. His face buried into your neck, and you felt the dampness of his eyes against your skin.

His hair tickled your ear. His heartbeat felt like a hummingbird trapped against your chest.

You didn't realize you'd started to cry, too, until you felt his fingers fist the back of your coat after a first sob broke through you.

He held you like he'd been drowning. Like he'd forgotten how to breathe without you. And when he finally spoke, it was a whisper—ragged and trembling against your neck, in that accent you'd missed so much it hurt to even remember, but was now right here.

"Senti... tanta saudade de você…" [I missed you so much.]

The breath on your skin sent a chill down your spine. His scent—sweat from the match, a hint of citrus shampoo, and something unmistakably him—fled your senses until everything hurt in the sweetest way.

Your voice broke as your hands curled up his back, pulling him impossibly closer.

"Eu também, Shōyō… tanta, tanta saudade." [Me too, Shōyō. So, so much.]

He exhaled like he'd been waiting years. Centuries to hear that.

Behind you two, the team was very much staring.

Atsumu's grin stretched wide, sharp and triumphant. "Is that the Brazil girlfriend?" he called, eyes wicked.

"I KNEW THEY WERE REAL!" Bokuto crowed, beaming.

Meian sighed, long-suffering but smiling despite himself, and planted a hand on each of their heads, making them yelp.

"He said she was not his girlfriend," he hissed under his breath.

"But he said—"

"Well, well," Meian cut in, already steering them toward the restaurant, "let's celebrate inside. Give them some space."

The two rascals protested loudly as he ushered them away, murmuring a few indulgent 'there, there's like he was corralling overexcited children.

Hinata pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still warm against your cheeks, palms cradling your face as if afraid you might vanish if he blinked too hard.

You were certain he was going to kiss you.

Everyone was.

Even Meian paused at the door, eyebrows lifting as he took in the scene, before Sakusa nudged him sharply in the side with a dry, unimpressed, "Get on with it."

Meian only shrugged, a knowing smirk tugging at his mouth, and finally turned away.

Hinata's eyes were glossy with tears as they traced your face slowly, revisiting freckles, the curve of your lashes, the familiar shape of your mouth. As if he were committing you to memory all over again.

His voice trembled when he spoke again.

"I thought—I didn't— You didn't answer— I thought maybe—" He swallowed, breath shaky. "You're really here. What are you doing here?"

You blinked hard, chasing away the sting in your eyes, forcing a smile that felt a little fragile around the edges.

"I came to see your match, dummy!" you said, letting out a small laugh to steady yourself. "Aaand to apply for a work or study visa. Something like that."

His expression shifted in a blink—concern, then hope.

"Where are you staying?"

"At a hotel. I'm looking for somewhere to rent while I get all the paperwork ready—"

"Come live with me."

The words landed between you like a dropped glass. You froze.

"Eh?"

"I have space, stay with me—" His words tumbled out, urgent and sudden.

"Shōyō—I—"

It was too much, too sudden.

You hadn't seen him in so long, and in the span of minutes he had cried into your neck, held you like he was afraid to let go, and now he was asking you to live with him?

With what intentions exactly? He couldn't have possibly been thinking straight.

And you knew. You knew if you moved in with him now, the careful boundaries you'd drawn would evaporate, and every feeling you'd repressed during his stay in Brazil would bloom open again and probably swallow you whole.

Your mind was a thousand tiny images at once: moving boxes, nights you had spent cuddling with him in Brazil, another "we're just friends" that would tear you apart, the terrifying thought of confessing and losing him, and above them all—the wild, shimmering possibility of waking up next to him every morning.

You couldn't survive the heartache, the uncertainty; you couldn't let him play with your heart again without meaning to.

But god save you—

His eyes, his face in that moment—begging for an answer, begging for a yes.

They made it very hard to not give in.

Yachi, who had witnessed the entire moment with the wide-eyed devotion of a rom-com extra, finally stepped in—like a saving beam of awkward, earnest sunlight.

"Hi-Hinata! Um—maybe you two can talk about this later?" she said, hands fidgeting nervously in front of her coat. "People are waiting for you inside. We'll celebrate first, then—after—talk?"

Her voice carried the careful gentleness of someone trying very hard not to intrude.

Hinata blinked, as if the world snapped back into focus. His shoulders relaxed, eyes softening.

"Right. Sorry."

You offered Yachi a small, grateful smile—one edged with something fragile—and she returned it with a knowing nod that felt like a promise: "I've got you."

You needed to think. Think about it well.

So you swallowed the moment whole, tucked it somewhere deep in your chest like a secret you weren't ready to open yet, and followed Hinata inside. The noise was welcoming and terrible and perfect all at once.

Inside, the restaurant buzzed like a living thing.

Paper lanterns glowed softly overhead, their golden light spilling across polished wooden tables already crowded with food and laughter. Someone had strung up subtle Christmas decorations—pine sprigs, red ribbon, tiny bells that chimed whenever the door opened. Outside it was winter, sharp and cold, but in here, everything steamed and hummed and lived-in.

Plates arrived in waves—grilled meat, steaming rice, shared bowls that vanished as quickly as they appeared. Hungry athletes and proud families clinking glasses. Toast after toast rose into the air, voices loud and a little tipsy as they praised Hinata again and again.

Your head spun a little. In a good way, though. Not from the alcohol—you'd barely had any—but from sheer fullness of it. And from the amount of Japanese your brain was computing and interpreting in your head.

Hinata was everywhere, and he brought you everywhere with him. Laughing, bowing awkwardly at congratulations, waving his hands too much when people praised him, cheeks warm with beer and excitement. He looked lighter than ever, like something in him had finally clicked into place.

If he was disappointed about you sidestepping the conversation earlier, he didn't show it. Not even a crack. No hesitation, no shadow behind his smile. And that eased the tight coil of anxiety in your chest just a little.

For tonight, at least, he was simply happy.

Because of course he was enjoying himself. Hinata Shōyō didn't know how not to.

He introduced you proudly to everyone, hand resting at the small of your back whenever he pulled you into conversations, touch familiar and grounding.

"This is Y/n! From Brazil."

From Brazil. Not my friend. Not the girl I like.

Just enough distance to be safe. Just enough closeness to make your chest ache.

Everyone reacted the same way—eyes widening in recognition, faces lighting up like they'd finally put a voice to a name.

"Ah! From Brazil!" "So you're real." "You're gorgeous!" "How long are you staying?" "He talked so much about you!"

Every time, Hinata laughed and rubbed the back of his neck, ears turning red in a way that felt painfully familiar. You smiled through it—warm and a little dizzy—your heart caught somewhere between pride and a quiet, loving panic.

Dinner went on. Plates emptied. Drinks refilled.

Bokuto started recounting Hinata's every point in the match with wild arm movements. He knocked over a glass, then deflated instantly when the man beside him—his friend with glasses—scolded him under his breath. Then Bokuto leaned in, his friend whispered something in his ear, and then he lit up all over again, cheeks pink, grin soft and unguarded.

You filed that away absently.

Akaashi, you learned, worked as an editor for a shōnen manga magazine. He was soft spoken, but there was a steadiness to his voice that carried easily across the table.

"Hinata mentioned you know many languages."

You smiled, shaking your head. "He's being too nice. I just love learning any language I can get my hands on."

"Have you ever done translation work?" Akaashi asked. "We're currently looking for a localization specialist at my company."

You blinked, caught off guard, then shook your head again.

"I haven't. And I can't really work on a tourist visa, can I?"

Akaashi hummed thoughtfully, nodding as if turning over a puzzle piece.

"That can be arranged."

You laughed softly, unsure if he was joking. "Would you… would you really do that for me? A complete stranger?"

"Only if you plan on staying for a while," he said easily.

He threw a fond look at Hinata, who was chatting with Bokuto next to you.

"And we really hope you do."

Heat rushed to your cheeks. You looked down for a moment, then back up, offering a genuine smile—careful to avoid the knowing glint in Akaashi's eyes.

"Thank you, Akaashi-san."

"There's no need," he replied. "Call me when you've made up your mind. I'll hold the position until then."

His words settled over you quietly as you exchanged contact information.

Everyone seemed to expect you to stay in Japan. Everyone seemed to want you to. You liked that.

Somewhere in the middle of conversation, in the middle of celebration and happiness, and without any ceremony at all, Hinata's hand found yours beneath the table.

You startled a little. Not enough for anyone to notice—but enough that your breath hitched, sharp yet quiet.

His fingers slid between yours easily, like they'd done this a thousand times before, like it was muscle memory—the most natural thing in the world.

At least in Brazil, it was.

There, touch had been light. Casual. Sun-warmed and easy. It never felt like a statement—just affection, just comfort. Just friends who were a little too close, in a place where closeness came easily.

But here?

Here it felt denser. Like this small, hidden contact carried weight. Like every inch of closeness was… deliberate, on his part.

You suddenly became acutely aware of everything all at once: the people around the table, the way his thumb pressed gently against the side of your index finger and traced the skin there, slow and absent-minded. The way his knee bumped yours—and stayed. The fact that no one else could see it, and yet it felt like the loudest thing in the room.

Hinata didn't look at you right away. He kept listening to Bokuto talk, nodding along, smiling politely at the right moments. But his grip tightened just slightly—grounding.

Then, finally, he glanced down at you—just for a second—and his eyes softened instantly.

Not the bright, explosive joy he showed the rest of the table, but the kind of look that said 'I'm glad you're here' without using words.

The kind of look that said something else entirely, too.

Something you couldn't quite name. Or maybe didn't want to—because naming it would mean hoping, and hoping meant risking disappointment.

Your stomach flipped, and for the first time since you'd met him, you looked away first, suddenly fascinated by your drink.

He squeezed your hand once more, gently, and didn't let go.

You swore you heard him laugh softly.

"Too cute," he murmured against the side of his other hand.

You knocked your knee against his in flustered protest and tried to slip your hand free.

But he didn't let you.

The night rolled on like that—celebratory, loud, and impossibly warm.

And through it all, Hinata stayed exactly where he was supposed to be: laughing, shining, alive. But every now and then, beneath the table, his fingers would tighten around yours.

As if reminding himself. As if reminding you.

Of what, you didn't know.

The celebration dissolved slowly, like sugar at the bottom of a glass.

People filtered out in small, noisy groups—laughing too loud, swaying just a little. Bokuto declared he was not drunk (he absolutely was). Atsumu tried to start a chant that Meian shut down immediately, with the van keys already in hand and Dad Mode fully activated.

"Everyone who's riding with me—now," he ordered.

Groans followed, but compliance followed faster.

Hinata walked you outside with the others, and the night air was cooler now, clinging to your skin after the warmth of the restaurant. Neon still glowed above the street, but softer somehow, like the city was winding down with you.

You lingered near the curb as goodbyes unfolded around you.

Yachi— with flushed cheeks and questionable balance—hugged you tight and exchanged contact info with you, whispering something sweet and earnest you promised yourself you'd remember. Yamaguchi waved with a wide, drunken grin, slurring his farewells, and Tsukishima, sober as ever, gave you a brief look that felt suspiciously like approval before turning away and getting into the car with the other two.

One by one, engines started. Doors shut. Laughter faded.

And then it was just you and Hinata.

He rocked slightly on his heels, with his hands buried deep in his pockets and suddenly shy in a way that made your chest ache with recognition.

"Ah—um," he started, then stopped. Cleared his throat. "So… where are you staying again?"

"At a hotel," you said, smiling. "Still."

He nodded, eyes flicking away, then back to you. There it was again—that look. Like he was standing at the edge of something and deciding whether to step forward.

"Do you—" He inhaled. "Do you wanna… come over?"

You thought of your suitcase, abandoned and lonely in a generic hotel room. Of the way he'd introduced you to everyone he loved, of how his hand had fit so easily in yours under the table. And before your courage could falter, you tilted your head and let a teasing smile curl your lips.

"Wow, Shōyō," you said lightly. "We just saw each other again and you already want me at your place? Japan really turned you into a player, huh?"

Hinata made a noise somewhere between a squeak and a choke.

"EH?! N—NO—THAT'S NOT—!" he rushed, face going nuclear red as his hands flew out of his pockets to cover it. "I didn't mean it like that! I just—I mean—I thought—you're tired—and the hotel is—and my place is close, I—I have space—!"

You laughed softly, stepping closer, saving him from his own spiraling.

"I'm kidding," you said gently. "Relax."

He froze. Because you were close now. Close enough to see the faint shadows under his eyes. And your breath caught—because this time it was even clearer. Intent. Your teasing smile softened.

This… this was it, wasn't it?

Whatever had been hovering between you for years. Whatever had grown quietly in shared caipirinhas, training sessions, and long talks at the beach. Whatever had survived distance and silence and longing.

Your heart beat loud in your ears.

"…Okay," you said. His eyes widened.

"I'll stay with you," you added, quickly, before fear could steal it from you. "Just tonight."

Hinata blinked, momentarily stunned—even though he'd been the one to ask.

"R-really?"

You nodded.

"Really."

He smiled then, small and breathless.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. Yeah. Just tonight."

Famous last words.

Hinata's apartment was small.

Not cramped—just… compact. Thoughtfully lived-in.

You slipped your shoes off at the door, instinctively lining them up before you even realized you were doing it, and stepped inside. The place smelled faintly of clean laundry and a lot like him. A narrow hallway opened into a combined living space and kitchen, everything neat in that slightly chaotic way that screamed busy person who tries his best.

By the window, perched on a low cabinet, stood a small Christmas tree—barely taller than your thigh. Simple. A little crooked. Decorated with mismatched ornaments: a few red and gold baubles, a string of warm fairy lights, and what looked suspiciously like a tiny volleyball charm hanging from one of the branches. No topper. No presents underneath. Just… there.

It felt very him.

A low table sat by the tv, in front of it, a small couch. Volleyball gear was stacked carefully in one corner—knee pads, shoes, a worn duffel bag with fraying straps you recognized from Brazil—while another corner held a bookshelf that surprised you. Manga spines. Training manuals. A couple of Portuguese textbooks, dog-eared and heavily annotated.

Your heart squeezed.

The kitchen was tidy but clearly underused: a rice cooker, a frying pan hanging from a hook, instant noodle cups stacked on the counter like a guilty secret. On the wall above the sink, taped slightly crooked, was a photo. A group picture—blurry, laughing, and familiar.

Brazil.

The beach. The sun. Nina. The general.

You.

"—I, um," Hinata said behind you, scratching the back of his neck, ears already pink. "It's not much. Sorry."

You turned, smiling softly. "Shōyō, this is cute. It's so you!"

That only made him blush harder.

You glanced toward the sleeping arrangements, and there it was—one futon, neatly folded in the corner.

You raised a brow, slow and deliberate.

"Only one futon?" you asked lightly.

Hinata combusted.

"I—I mean—! I was planning to sleep on the couch! It's fine! I usually do when Bokuto-san crashes here, and—!" He gestured wildly, then froze. "…You're teasing me again, aren't you?"

You laughed, warm and easy, and his shoulders finally dropped.

"Relax," you said.

You both settled on the couch eventually, the city lights spilling in through the window in soft amber stripes. The television played something mindless—variety show chatter fading into background noise as you both talked over it, filling in the blanks of months spent apart.

At some point, without really thinking about it, you shifted.

You sat between his legs with your back resting against his chest, his knees bracketing your hips. It felt natural. Your bodies remembered this shape from Brazil, even if your minds pretended not to.

Hinata inhaled as you settled, slow and deep, and then sighed.

"I missed you," he said quietly, voice warm against your hair.

Your chest ached most sweetly.

"Yeah," you murmured. "I missed you too."

Your phone buzzed. You frowned slightly and lifted it.

Akaashi Keiji: Spoke to my boss. The company can sponsor you for a work visa if you decide to accept. We'd need to start the process soon—let me know when you want to talk details.

You huffed a small laugh, looking at the time on your phone and wondering how and why he'd talk to his boss right after a celebration, and at these hour of the night.

"God. He's efficient."

Hinata peeked over your shoulder, half-reading the message.

"That's Akaashi-san for you. I think he works even when he sleeps."

You smiled, then grew quieter as you locked your phone.

Hinata hesitated for a second, then squeezed you a little harder without noticing.

"…Are you going to say yes?"

You leaned back a little more into him, eyes on the ceiling. "I don't know yet."

He nodded, though you felt the motion more than saw it.

"I have time," you added gently. "Tourist visa's ninety days. I want to think. Properly."

Silence settled—not uncomfortable, but heavy. The kind that pressed against your ribs and waited. Hinata's arms rested loosely at your sides, not holding you, not letting go either. His chin hovered just above your shoulder.

You didn't know it yet—but somewhere in that quiet, with the city breathing outside and your heartbeat syncing with his, Hinata Shōyō was already standing at the edge of a decision he'd been building toward for months.

Your weight against his chest, the steady rise and fall of your breathing, the warmth of your body fitting against his like it had always belonged there—it was almost enough to make him forget how fast his heart was beating. Almost.

"The next time I see her, I'll tell her."

He'd said it so casually in the locker room after practice, sweat-soaked and laughing, Sakusa shoving a bottle of water into his hands. Bokuto had been talking too loud, Atsumu had been annoying as usual, and Hinata—still riding the high of being back, of finally standing on this side of the net—had said it without thinking.

The room had gone dead silent.

Then—

"Ohhhhhh?" "Brazil girl?" "Knew it." "GO SHOYOU! BE BRAVE!"

He hadn't taken it back. He never would.

Brazil had been a slow, beautiful undoing.

He remembered you walking ahead of him on the beach, barefoot, dress fluttering in the wind, turning back just to smile at him—bright and teasing and so warm it made his chest ache. The sun had painted your skin gold, and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

He'd wanted to reach for you then. To lace his fingers through yours. To pull you close and feel if your heart raced like his did.

It happened again and again.

You laughing, head tipped back. You calling his name across the sand. You brushing sunscreen onto his shoulders like it meant nothing. You curling into his side on the couch, soft and sleepy and there.

Every time, something in him screamed mine—not in ownership, not in entitlement, but in certainty. In recognition.

But he never crossed that line. Because he knew himself.

If he kissed you, he wouldn't stop there. If he held you, he'd want to hold you forever. If he loved you—he would do it loudly. Openly. With his whole chest and no shame.

And he was leaving.

He couldn't ask you to come with him, nor could he ask you to wait for him. He couldn't ask you to stretch yourself across an ocean just to meet him in the middle.

Long-distance wasn't just hard—it was cruel. And if it broke, it wouldn't break quietly. It would tear.

So he'd chosen silence.

He'd told himself it was kinder, that you deserved freedom, that loving you from afar was better than risking hurting you.

Even if it meant suffering anyway.

Now, sitting here in his apartment. In Japan. With you wrapped in his arms and a message glowing on your phone that could change everything—

He couldn't wait anymore.

If you stayed. If you chose Japan?

Then he wanted you. All of you. Not in pieces. Not in almosts.

He couldn't stand the thought of you belonging to a future that didn't include him. Couldn't imagine holding anyone else the way he held you now.

There was no one else in his heart.

Hinata lowered his chin, resting it gently on your shoulder, breath steadying as he made his decision.

No more guessing. No more assuming. No more silence.

If you stayed, he would tell you. And if he could do anything to convince you to stay, he would take his chance at it.

And if you would take him, he would love you the way he always had: completely.

He didn't move for a long moment.

He just breathed you in.

The quiet of his apartment hummed around you—the low whirr of his fridge, the distant city noise softened by the winter air and the snow that was starting to fall. The glow from the TV painted everything in muted blues and golds, flickering gently over your skin.

You were warm in his arms. To warm. Perfectly so.

The decision settled and solidified, unshakable in his chest. He whispered your name like it pained him, but in the way only a beautiful ache was leaving him.

And then carefully, he leaned in. Breathing you in, brushing his lips on the skin where your shoulder met your neck. They made their way up, softly caressing the skin and leaving the heat of the sun in their wake.

Then, barely there. A soft, lingering press just below your ear.

Your breath caught. You felt him smile faintly against you at the reaction.

Then, in a voice so quiet it felt like a secret meant only for your skin, he whispered:

"Would it be okay... If I asked you to stay?"

His lips lingered there after the question, unhurried, as if granting you time to think. As if offering himself completely and waiting to see if you would take him.

Your eyes softened.

Because you knew.

You weren't an idiot. You'd known, really. In the way he had looked at you all night—soft and awed and like there was something lingering at the edge of his tongue. In the way he had introduced you to everyone at the restaurant, and the reactions of his team. In the fact that you'd been offered a job by one of his most trusted people. In the way his hand hadn't once let go of yours under the table.

This was it.

This kiss.

This plead against your skin.

You slowly turned in his arms until you were facing him, and cupped his face in both hands.

He looked into your eyes like he had been waiting his entire life to be allowed to. Half-lidded, shining eyes. The windows to his soul were open and earnestand utterly unguarded. Lips parted, just lightly, breath shallow. Every thought was written plainly across his face without even trying to hide it.

You smiled. Gentle. Fond. Teasing, if just a little.

"Took you long enough, Shōyō."

His eyes watched your lips as you spoke, and before he could even attempt to respond, you leaned in to kiss him.

The kiss was soft, at first.

Your lips met like they were checking. As if asking permission to one another though you already had it. A careful press, warm and sweet and full of restraint that lasted exactly half a second before he exhaled your name into your mouth like a prayer.

Then it turned a little clumsy. Both of you figuring out the right timing to match eachother.

He was hungry, but unrushed, reverent. Like he was afraid it might be a dream and he didn't want to wake.

His hands came up to your waist, with fingers that trembled just slightly as they anchored themselves on the plush of your flesh. He kissed you deeper, pouring everything he'd held back into the way he fit himself into you.

You tasted home on his tongue.

Brazil sunsets and shared breaths and all the words he'd never said.

Your thumb brushed his cheek, your other hand travelling to the back of his neck, and then melted into you, pressing closer, a quiet helpless sound slipping from him before he even realized it. His forehead pressed against yours when you pulled back for air, breath warm and uneven.

He smiled softly. Shaky. Real.

"I love you."

Always the simplest truth in the world.

And outside, it was cold, so cold. The kind of cold that crept into bones, the city wrapped in silver and stillness as snow fell quietly against the windows.

But in here, in between his arms, in his hands and his tongue as his breath traced along your skin, in the feeling of his skin on yours as layers of clothing fell under tenbling hands, it was warm.

So warm.

Like melting under the sun in the most delicious way.

With Hinata sleeping beside you, breathing slow and even, with one arm heavy around your waist like it had always belonged there, you reached for your phone.

The screen lit the room softly. You opened your messages and typed:

: Thank you so much, Akaashi-san. Whenever you have time, I'd love to meet for coffee and talk about the job.

It was the easiest text you'd sent in your life.

Hinata shifted beside you, pulling you closer in his sleep and pressing his forehead lightly against your shoulder with a quiet hum—like he sensed it even then, even in the arms of Morpheus.

You smiled in the dark, slipping the phone away and sinking back into him, pressing a soft kiss on his forehead.

There was no ache pressing at your ribs. No doubt tugging at the edges of your thoughts, no weight of everything left unsaid in Brazil. Of late nights and unasked questions and longing that had nowhere to go. No weight of the years and miles you'd survived apart.

No coldness, even if snow fell outside.

Only the warmth of the sun.

Your sun.