#love letters

“Not until the twentieth,” you say, not turning away from the omelet you’re folding carefully in the pan. You should add “no early morning dramatic declarations” to the list of roommate rules tacked up on the fridge, but you know it would join “no volleyball in the house” and “no drinking on weeknights.” You also know that, like the latter two, the ignorance of the rules would not be entirely Atsumu’s fault. “Please do not be so stupid when it’s so early and I am so, so hungover.”

“Really?” Atsumu’s voice is as bright as his hair. “I feel fine.”

“That’s because,” you roll your eyes as you turn around, sliding the omelet around in the pan in a practiced maneuver as you prepare to flip it. “You have a ridiculously athlet—”

The omelet splatters on the ground.

The hand that’s not holding the now-empty pan comes up and slaps over your eyes, even as you peek through your own fingers.

“It’s the first day of summer,” Atsumu says, clearly pleased to have your full attention and then some. “Because I found my hot boy summer shorts.”

The inseam can’t be longer than five inches. The sun has kissed him all over; with a shudder of disgust (that’s what you’ll call it), you realize you want to too. What a horrifying concept. You’re already mentally carving a place in your to-do list for it.

“Those are obscene,” you say. “What is a hot boy summer? You are not a hot boy. You are an average man.” You are clinging to the edge of a cliff and he is prising your fingers off one by one.

“They’re a little tighter than they were in high school,” he says thoughtfully, flexing his thighs. One, then the other. Then both. The seams are going to pop. Those poor shorts are going to bust. You gape at him, caught between terror and hope.

“What is wrong with you? What is your problem?” You demand, the pretense of hiding behind your hands dropping.

“You’re bein’ mean,” he complains. “You don’t like my shorts?”

“I hate them. Take them off,” you say imperiously. You are going to fire him from being your roommate if he wears those around you ever again. You are going to vote him off the island. You are going to do something so, so inadvisable, and embarrassing, and un-undoable.

“Fine,” he shrugs, and hooks a thumb into his waistband.

“Not what I meant!” You shriek. Your volume startles even yourself and you cringe at the desperate scratch of your voice. His thumb is still just under the fabric, which is forcing your gaze along his hand to his loosely curled, long, lithe fingers, and then to—

Oh, sweet corn on a cob, how did you miss seeing that. You cover your eyes again.

“Are you alright?” He asks. You turn around and face the cabinets with your hands still over your face. You can tell from his tone that he knows the direction of your thoughts. And your line of vision.

“No. You made me spill my omelet.”

“I didn’t make you do anything,” he says. “You did that on your own.”

“It was your fault. Walking around my home looking like a slut—”

“Our home,” he corrects. You splutter wordlessly. When you turn around, he’s standing over you, a smirk toying with his mouth, his eyes dropped to half-mast. You keep your head up, gaze fixed firmly on his face. “Are you objectifyin’ me?”

“No,” you say, eyes dropping. You raise them again with Herculean force. “No. I think of you as a whole person with your own thoughts and-and decisions—“

As you speak, Atsumu steps toward you. You step back.

“What if I decide to do this?” He murmurs, putting a hand on your cheek. He’s warm, like he just stepped out of the sun. “Your face is awful hot.”

“I’ve fallen terribly ill,” you say. “If I faint, you may need to catch me.”

He’s caged you against the counter. You panic, groping to the side to turn off the stove.

“Gonna faint from seein’ my ankles, huh,” he looks supremely self-satisfied, leaning back momentarily to admire the much-more-than-just-the-ankles he has on display.

You seize your chance and lift the hem of your shirt with both hands, pulling it up to your chin.

He stops and reels back, eyes bugging out of his head. You make a break for it, pushing past his arm and running down the hall.

“Oh, you are gonna get it when I catch ya,” he shouts after you, thought he’s still rubbing his eyes in a daze when you glance back.

You laugh to yourself, slowing to a stop just around the corner, out of his line of sight.