ki

Bone crushing against yours.

White nails pressing into your skin. Stinging of the scattered crescent moons drawn into you. Warmth as red pools beneath your thinning skin.

Your mother hands shake around you, cold, and you want to comfort her, despite the suffocation in your chest. You could justify her leash, because you love her. You understand her, because she is your mother, and you, her only child.

Life is not fair to anyone, but there was always good times within the bad. It wasn't too cruel, despite the small part of you that will forever remain trapped within that August summer day.

On an otherwise pleasant summer day, it was shining with childlike innocence — you, and the sound of your pink sandals flapping against the pavement, and the clear blue skies, and the familiar cicadas ringing in the distant that began to become distorted as red pooled your vision — your mother screams, yet sound does not come through.

The sky was beautiful, you remember.

—

Your room is on the first floor. Everything you need is on the first floor — navigating through the house is easy and simple, because you memorised the lines and how many steps it takes you to get from your room to the kitchen. Everything is organised in a way that makes sense to you and only you.

Your mother doesn’t like gazing upon the clutter, she says your room is a mess, but she doesn’t move anything. She hasn’t since then – that day – and the flooring has been renovated with different textures.

It is not easy loving you, you think. Not anymore, at least.

There was a time when the moon rose, and voices echoed through the halls of your home. Anger and frustration and anxiety lingered in every corner. The voices of your mother and father were only heard during the night — hidden hearts and blame — where burning love morphed into blinded hate.

(Fading hearts slipping away. You stand there cold.)

The click of your white cane tapping against the floor overrides their anger. Everything dies down, their voices, the owls, and you, who lied and said you needed to use the washroom. Their attention falls onto you — their voices soften, and loving hands touch you, but the atmosphere stays the same. One day, the argument died down completely, and for a moment, you believe everything would go to how it was back then — back before the accident.

A week from then your father had left with only a suitcase. Only the sound of wooden floors creaking and the faint click of the door as he slips away remains in your mind. Your mother hasn't talked about it. But it is your fault.

(A part of you and them remains trapped in that summer day, a memory that burns to the touch.)

It is not easy loving you, you know this, even when she says she does.

[They say the eyes are the window to one’s soul. You cannot see her eyes — even as they pierce into you.]

—

It is early in the morning when he wakes to the scorching heat. There are no classes today, or the weeks that follow (thankfully, and finally). Summer turns his room into a sauna, and he chugs the glass filled of lukewarm water on his nightstand. Yukimiya immediately regrets it, unable to soothe the dryness itching his throat.

His mother calls his name, yelling from the kitchen, to remind him of his afternoon appointment. 13:30. Luckily, it is only noon right now, yet his dreadfulness pulls at his ankles, and he does not want to take a step.

His mother places iced hōjicha instead of her usual homemade fruit juice in front of him. Yukimiya instantly understands without a word. She wraps her arm around his shoulder, and says everything will be fine.

The iced tea works on soothing the dryness. His nerves are not evident, and he feigns his usual cool, subconsciously rubbing his eye.

The specialist he goes to see was recommended by one of his father’s best friend. They say there has been nothing, but kind words said about the doctor. And Yukimiya thinks he understands. Dr. Motomura is an old man with gentle eyes, he makes him uncomfortable in the unfamiliar room, yet his next set of words feel like standing in January’s storm.

Optic Neuropathy.

[Everything will be fine.]

He suddenly feels so, so small. Surrounded by flashing lights, cameras and eyes focused on him and only him — the doctor’s gentle eyes feel magnified and they sit in every corner of this little room staring at him and his failure.

It is as if he, and his entire world [football], had become frozen. He, his dream, was stuck frozen in time with no way to move forward — no light shone at the end of the tunnel. And when he cries, Dr. Motomura’s words of comfort do not reach him.

—

“Hey, are you alright?”

The hallway lights are blinding — it takes a second for his eyes to adjust to the brightness. White light stinging him. He’s crouched down, a few feet away from Dr. Motomura’s office, his legs gave out and the remaining tears leaked down his face.

In his misery, he had forgotten he wasn't alone, and he failed to hear footsteps approaching him. His eyes are probably red and puffy and he doesn’t want anyone to see his face like this — tear-stained with snot.

Face to face, reddish eyes meet yours, or attempts to. Your eyes stay closed under this light, and he takes in your appearance. Eyes zeroing in on the white cane held in your hand. “You can’t see,” he blurts out without a thought before slapping a hand over his mouth.

Yukimiya quickly snaps his head up to guage your reaction at his insensitivity. Yet, there’s nothing on your face, and he suddenly feels so small and pathetic.

“As you can see,” you reply, unable to hide a small smile that tugs your lips — a joke, he thinks. Though, he can’t find this situation amusing, his heart aches with regret.

A quiet I am sorry falls from his mouth, ashamed. He wonders if you heard it, he attempts to repeat his apology a little louder, but a familiar, low tone calls out your name.

Mr. Motomura calls for you, and his apology dies right then and there.

“Here.” Your hand reaches out to him, closed-fist, and he meets you half-way. “Cheer up,” you say as hard candy is dropped into his hand, and you disappear down the hallway into the room he exited.

[It tastes like vanilla and condensed milk. Too sweet.]

—

It is a week before you meet again. He runs into you at Dr. Motomura’s office — that is when he finds out you are related to Dr. Motomura. Not by blood, you mention a little later.

You accept when he asks if he can talk to you. You end up sitting at a small park bench, only three minutes away from the office. And you mention that your mother will be here soon.

An awkward silence fills the air, not unpleasant, but not exactly comforting. “I hope you’re feeling better,” you began, taking the opportunity to comfort him once again. “Did you like the candy?”

“. . . I am,” he lies. Yukimiya takes a deep breath before speaking again. “I felt bad for what I said last time. I kept wishing to see you again to apologise.”

“Oh. Yes, he told me that you . . . Well, don’t worry. I wasn’t offended.”

“No, I was insensitive. I am sorry about that, please don’t pretend I didn’t do anything wrong,” he replies, disappointed in himself, his hands clutched together. Each night since that day, he laid in bed, his words and that interaction on repeat.

A light breeze picks up, your cane falls onto his thigh and he reaches for it before it clatters onto the concrete.

“Really, it’s not big deal.” He stays silent, a soft sigh escapes your lips. “Fine. I’ll forgive you if you tell me your name.”

“My name?” Eyes flicking to your face — nothing masked. He answers, “It’s Yukimiya Kenyū.”

You smile, asking, “As in . . . ?”

He stares for a second, before reaching out a hand, “Can I see your hand?”

Without hesitation, you place your hand in his, and honestly, his heart flutters at your trust in him.

Palm open, index finger traces feathery lines — burning to the touch. Sweat builds beneath, unsure if it from the summer heat or a strange collection of nerves — him, or you.

雪宮 as in a snow shine.

剣優 for gentle sword.

You’re giggling by the time he finishes the last stroke. Smile, showing your teeth. “You didn’t have to trace the kanji for me. I only wanted to know the meaning, but thank you.”

“Oh. I thought—no, nevermind . . .” He rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment, internally groaning.

And when you began to laugh, he turned his head away quickly — as if you could see [read] everything written all over his face. He's embarrassed, despite it not really being anything, it could mean something.

Then, you take his hand in yours this time, his palm faced up, and you don’t seem to be bothered by the sweat that had slowly built up from the previous touch. Your finger presses against his palm and when you began to trace, he attempts to memorise each stroke, except you draw dots.

He blinks.

And he is left confused. He wonders if it is in English or another foreign language, and he concentrates on your light touch (your skin against his), except it really is just dots you press into his skin. “What are you drawing?”

You simply reply, “It is my name in braille.”

“Braille?”

“Mhm. For people like me.”

Something flickers inside of him at this moment. A genuine curiosity for the person in front of his eyes — he wants to know you. “How do I write your name again?”

That night, the lamp in his room stays on. Only the faint click of the mouse is heard as his family is fast asleep. He spends a long time browsing through sites and YouTube, his finger tapping against a thick sheet of paper with cells of raised dots.

—

He gets a new pair of glasses. One more fashionable. His agency says it suits him and glasses are considered fashionable these days. Trends always come and go. But those words do make him feel more confident while wearing them. If anything, he thinks they frame his face quite well.

A magazine, one from his shoot from a few months ago, is shoved into his face. “My mother says you are on the front page. I know she isn’t lying to me, but I want to make sure.”

He confirms that it is him, but says he is not alone. It was a couple’s shoot for White Day. Upon seeing the pictures, Yukimiya realises that the fake glasses he wore in that photoshoot are similar to the ones he has on now.

You softly hum, as your finger glides across the page and when you turn to the next one. “Do you think the blue or brown shirt suited you better? The blue is so dark, but I am not sure how fair your skin is.” There are little scratch marks on his image, and his heart warms at recognition.

“Maybe brown? I prefer it over the blue. I like earth tones.”

“When I was a child, I think I liked yellow. Like dandelions, and the sun,” you tell him. In these little moments, he learns more things about you. It may not be much to anyone, but he likes the way he naturally learns without asking — you just speak, and he listens onto every word ever spoken between the two of you.

You like braille. You are learning how to cook, though your mother stays in the kitchen at all times. You ask him what his favourite dish is, and then he asks if he is allowed to be hopeful (you answer maybe, and to not blame you if it tastes terribly). You lost your sight when you were a child, it was an accident, and you never mentioned it again. He doesn't ask. And your childhood favourite colour is yellow of all things.

Admittedly, he does not know of anyone who likes or wears that colour, dandelion yellow, besides during photoshoots. “Well . . . I guess those could be consider earth tones, too.”

“I am pretty sure those don’t classify as earth tones.”

“It is considered part of the Earth, no?” And he knows he probably sounds so ridiculous, uncharacteristic of him, but your laughter makes everything worth it.

He confesses, “When I was a kid, blue was my favourite colour, like the sky.” He doesn't tell you that he went through a red phase during all of his years in junior high.

“The sky is beautiful,” you reply.

He gazes up to white clouds, and contrails on sky blue. It is beautiful, he agrees.

—

It becomes a routine: the gentle footsteps that stop five inches before reaching you, and the soft [tender] voice that calls your name. Soft and gentle, like cherry blossoms petals swaying in Spring.

“I am going to grab a petal that had fallen on top of your head,” Yukimiya states, smooth voice next to your ear, and it tickles — your heart flutters as he waits for your okay before moving.

Minimising the space between the both of you, yet his fingertips are barely felt against the little strands of your hair as he carefully picks up the flower petal.

Yukimiya is a gentleman, so sweet and kind, your best friend. He treats you so gently, as he does with everyone, and it makes you feel equal.

“Oh, thank you. Shall we go now?” You reach out your hand and he instantly catches it, allowing you to be the one to link your arm through his.

—

You seem to take more walks these days. Sometimes, you invite him and he accepts more often than not. But today is Thursday, and Thursdays are meant for you and your mother to go to the market together, except she had a sudden client meeting and could not reschedule.

Your name lights up on Yukimiya’s phone screen, and he answers on the second ring. Twenty minutes later, he is running out the door in his best outfit.

The two of you take a walk, chatting about random things that has happened since the last time you’ve seen each other [exactly four days ago], and he suggests stopping by a café for drinks and mini cakes to which you agree.

The whispers and noises within the café hush out everything, and he moves his chair closer to you to hear better.

“You must be popular,” you point out, twirling your straw in your iced latté, ice clinking against the cup.

“Hm?” Softly scratching his cheek — debating on what the proper reply to that would be. “Well, not really,” he decides to add.

“I feel a lot of stares when we go out together. More than when I am alone. It must be you.”

“Maybe it’s you,” he replies.

You softly giggle, tip of the straw pressing against your bottom lip. “No, these stares feel a little different.”

For some reason, he doesn’t like the way you said that, despite your face and smile looking so bright. Discreet glances thrown in this direction from a few school girls – maybe junior high – and you never once reacted to the growing stares.

“I want to know what you look like,” you say.

He replies before thinking, “You can touch me.” And you do just so.

Cold from the way your hands were cupped around your iced latté, he flinches at the first touch, and you softly giggle at that — the scent of the strawberry cake you had eaten mixed with caffeine surrounds you. He thinks you did it on purpose, but he doesn’t accuse you of so.

Your hand cups his cheek, thumb brushing over his skin, and his breath hitches as you run a finger over his jaw and he swallows harshly.

Yukimiya ignores the stares, or attempts to as he has always grown conscious of the way people look and perceive him, because this is what you have always done. You told him that your other senses are only stronger, because you have no choice, but to rely on them unlike your eyes, and he is sure you can hear the soft giggles and glances every so often as they’ve grown louder and more bold — he is envious that this doesn’t seem to affect you.

The closing distant doesn’t seem to affect you, nor does the way you touch his face — growing red from soft and lingering touches. You seem so unfazed, so concentrated on memorising the bones and blemishes that makes him him.

Your fingers rub along the black frames of his glasses, careful to avoid the lens. “Can you describe your eyes?” You ask, a little quieter than usual. A little drowned out by the sound of the coffee machines.

“My eyes . . . They are orange, I think they’re a little bigger than normal. I get it from my mother,” he slowly answers.

“Orange. Like the sun?”

Yukimiya lets out a quiet drone. “The sunset, I think.”

“Oh, wow. I can see why you're a model,” you reply. “I think these glasses look good on you.”

A ‘pfft’ falls from his mouth, a little less gentlemanly than he liked to be, all at your joke hidden within a compliment. But the noise makes you break out into a grin, and he can't help, but to smile at the sight of your smiling face.

He walks you home today — rare, yet not uncommon. He had memorised the direction to your home, the difference in what street you turn into depending on if you’re walking home or when your mother drives.

A soft, warm glow paints over the horizon as you reach your house. Before you reach the door, you turn around to say, “You’re beautiful, Yukki.”

Your features glowing against the memorising light. Golden, you and your smile. The sun is sinking down so slowly, reluctant to say farewell to this day, and he swallows down everything and anything he isn’t ready to admit.

And for the first time, in this moment, he is glad you can't see him. There's no way for him to hide the redness flowing onto his face and ears and quivering lips.

Even after you had disappeared inside, his eyes linger on the spot you had just been.

—

There is hope for him, his eyes and dream, though the chance is low. Dr. Motomura says, “It’s not a crime to keep on dreaming. No matter how dark it seems, never give up hope.”

And he thanks the elder, sincerity in his words and heart — his voice shakes a little at the end. “I feel like I’ve come to terms with my diagnosis.”

Dr. Motomura proudly smiles.

“Yukimiya-kun,” his doctor unexpectedly calls out from behind as he is about to step out of the office, one foot out the door.

He turns around, and the man’s smile is awfully gentle, yet sad. “I haven’t seen that child so expressive before.” So, so sad. And when the man thanks him for treating you normally — his eyes began to sting, though he does not cry.

—

A confession spills from his lips to you. About his dream. About football, and his worries.

You confess to him, too. You tell him you don't really have a big dream, and you just want to live a normal and happy life.

Smiles shared over secrets, fingertips that nearly touch, and mirror of hearts that feel like it – the two of you – means something.

He asks if you are happy.

Your throat tightens, barely missing a beat when you say yes, and he replies that he is happy, too.

A shooting star passes by overhead, Yukimiya points its location out to you. Shooting stars are meant to be wished upon, and you do just so — a blue streak of glittering hope left behind as it disappears from human eyes.

[Shooting stars are not stars at all. Just specs of dust turned into meteors. Burning up as they inevitably fall down, down, down.]

—

At Miyazaki Station, you wait for the train with him. It’s early, too early — the sun had only just risen, its soft glow barely seen from over the tall buildings surrounding the station.

You yawn beside him. Contagious, as he does, too. “You didn’t have to come,” he says to you, but is grateful all the same. Admittedly, it would’ve feel right if you weren’t here.

“I wanted to.”

And all Yukimiya can say is, “Okay.”

You held hands, not knowing who reached out first, and it fits together like puzzle pieces. Perfectly together. You held hands and didn't let go until the train stopped.

And that faint tremble of your hand causes his heart to ache in a way he had never experienced as he pulls away. Regret immediately comes, and suddenly, he doesn't want to leave. He hugs you first, so sudden and he hopes he did not frighten you, but you hug back instantly without a word. The surrounding noise dies out — the footsteps and voices of people drown out, as does the hissing of the train. Diseal fumes and metal in the air mix in with the sweet scent of your shampoo.

“I’ll see you later,” he whispers, and your arms tighten themselves around his waist as you nod into his chest, before you let go of him first — the warmth of your body vanishes, and he suddenly feels cold.

You don’t say goodbye. You only tell him to call you, and he turns to board the morning train to Tokyo.

He can't find it in himself to look out the window despite this growing need of wanting to catch a glimpse of you just one last time, because he knows you will still be there in the same spot he had left you. You won't leave until you don't the sound of the train slowly fades from your ears.

(You will still be there.)

Eyes closed, from tiredness and not wishing to look back, he lays his head against the glass — the coldness keeps him awake, there’s an ache. Yukimiya reaches into his pockets to grab him cellphone, maybe hoping there is a message from you or his friends, except his fingers brush against paper and he pulls it out in confusion.

White, thick card stock, no smell of ink lingers. Written in braille, his index finger gently glides over the cell of raised dots, careful to not leave even a scratch. Once. Twice. He swallows harshly.

Good luck, Yukki. I believe in you.

Words bubble up, and get trapped in his throat. and strangely, it makes him want to cry, despite his heart being filled to the brim — like a glass jar full of happiness, anticipation, and you.

[Everyone was hopeful.]

note. this was so rushed. i lost motivation and i gave up half-way through ;;; there is probably a ton of grammar and spelling mistakes as it’s unedited

A light snort slipped past your lips just as someone cleared their throat at the front of the room.

"Good morning, ladies!" the woman greeted, squaring her stack of agendas against the table with a couple sharp raps. "My name is Satō Sakura. I'm the Director of Development and a proud fifth grade parent here at Kimori, and it is my utmost pleasure to welcome you all to our first PTA meeting of the school year!"

A spatter of applause ricocheted throughout the room.

"I understand that some people are running a bit late, but we'll go ahead and get started," she said, smiling at the empty seat beside you. "Why don't we go around the room and introduce ourselves?"

For the next several minutes, you took a census of all the mothers in attendance: the business owners, the stay-at-home parents. A surprising amount of real estate agents, though you’d probably seen at least two of their faces on the For Sale signs staked across the neighborhood.

By the time your turn came around, a blush crept up the side of your neck.

"Um, hi." You cleared your throat, tucked a strand of loose hair behind your ear. "My name is Y/N. I'm a marketing and communications manager for the Japan Volleyball Association, though I'm really only in it at this point for the free courtside tickets."

Surprisingly, half of the room laughed at that.

"And my daughter Misa just started kindergarten here." You flashed them all a quick smile. "It's nice to meet everyone."

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” Sakura hummed, jotting down a couple notes about you in her planner. "Remind me to pick your brain about those courtside tickets come gala season. Those would make a fantastic auction package."

She smirked toward the young man now sliding into the seat beside you.

"I also understand you're not the only parent representing our kindergarten class.”

Your mind went blank as Osamu, dressed in his tell-tale Onigiri Miya uniform, slid a hot coffee and pastry sleeve in your direction before flashing a dimpled grin toward the rest of the room.

"Mornin’. Sorry I'm a lil' late," he admitted sheepishly, setting his own coffee down and scooting forward in his seat. "Not the greatest first impression of me, huh?”

"Oh, that's quite alright," the mother across from you breathed, practically blushing at his gentlemanly drawl.

"Where's our coffee order?" the one beside you joked.

A wave of laughter rippled throughout the room as you leaned in and hissed, "Is this why you were running late? You were on a coffee run?"

"I would'a been here earlier if Kina hadn't squeezed an entire chocolate croissant onto her shirt," Osamu muttered, quietly enough so only you could hear. "I sent her to class lookin' like a damn Jackson Pollock."

You mashed your lips together before taking a quick peek inside the pastry sleeve.

"You didn't have to get me anything, you know," you murmured, though your mouth watered at the butter croissant staring back at you. "How much do I owe you?"

"Don't worry about it," he whispered back. At your disapproving stare, he added, "It's not good to skip meals, right?"

You couldn't even open your mouth to protest before he turned and introduced himself to the rest of the room.

It had been a couple weeks since your and Osamu's daughters had gotten into trouble for sharing food — a couple weeks since you'd exchanged phone numbers in the pickup line and started texting each other back and forth. It started out small: questions about homework, reactions to the kinder group chat. The occasional parenting TikTok that had you chortling into your coffee.

You going to this? he'd pinged you last night, right after you'd tucked Misa into bed. He attached a screenshot of the Canva flyer Sakura had sent inviting new and returning parents to the first PTA meeting of the school year.

I wasn't planning on it, you wrote back, popping a handful of vitamins you hoped would help you sleep better. (They never did.) I don't see myself becoming a PTA mom, tbh.

You flinched as the phone in your hand started to ring.

"What d'ya mean, ya don't see yerself becomin' a PTA mom?"

"I dunno. I just don't think planning parties and debating the color of tablecloths is a productive use of my time," you drawled, collapsing onto your couch. "Besides, the hour between drop-off and my first meeting is sacred. I buy coffee, catch up on emails. Occasionally scream into the void."

"It's more than just party plannin', though," Osamu argued, though his voice wavered in amusement. "Don't you wanna know what's goin' on at yer daughter's school?"

"No?" You recalled the daily war reports Miss Yuki sent in the kinder group chat. "If anything, I'd like to know less."

You dragged a hand down your tired face.

"Look. I appreciate you trying to get me involved, but the last thing I want is to spend my Tuesday mornings gossiping with a bunch of rich moms."

"I'm not a rich mom."

Sighing, you asked, "You really want me to be there?"

"I just think yer makin' assumptions about who these people are without really gettin' to know them," he offered gently. "Who knows? Maybe you'll like plannin' parties and debatin' the color of tablecloths. God knows I might."

"I think that's the first time a dad has said that in the history of the Kimori PTA."

You could practically hear him grinning through the phone.

"So I'll see ya bright and early tomorrow mornin'?"

It unnerved you, how easily this man made you fold.

Now, you ate your croissant as quietly as possible as Sakura introduced each item on the agenda: teacher wish lists, free dress days. Updates to the student handbook and how to best get in contact with other members. You had to admit, as cushy and frivolous as you thought this group was, Sakura was sure as hell good at organizing it. It made you being there slightly more tolerable. Slightly.

"Okay," she said, clapping her hands at the head of the table. "Our last item of business for today: the fall bake sale. All proceeds will go towards repairs to our K-5th playground, and we're in need of two volunteers to coordinate it from start to finish."

Her gaze swept across the room like a floodlight.

"Any takers?"

"I would, but Mariko's tourney is at the end of October," the mother beside you sighed.

"The eighth grade moms are also touring a couple boarding schools this month, so I'm afraid we're out, too," another said.

An awkward silence fell upon the room before Osamu raised his hand and shrugged.

"Y/N and I will do it."

Your eyes went wide as a piece of croissant crumbled out of your hands and onto the table.

"What? Osamu — "

"Great!" Sakura beamed, writing your names down in her planner. "I'll send you both the planning documents later today. It should be a relatively low lift, but I'm happy to step in wherever needed."

She snapped her planner shut.

"Great to see our newest members stepping up this semester," she drawled. Her eyes flicked toward Osamu. "Not to mention the first father we've had in years."

You confronted him in the parking lot after the meeting.

"Why did you do that?"

"Do what?" he asked innocently.

"Sign me up for something without asking me first," you said through gritted teeth. It infuriated you, the way his dimples bracketed his lazy smile.

"Why? Ya ain't got time to do it between all those TikToks ya watch?"

"Of course I have time to do it, it's just — " You massaged the inner corners of your eyes. Tightened your grip around the coffee that now tasted like betrayal. "I don't even know how to bake."

The confession was softer than you'd intended it to be. More vulnerable. Osamu's shoulders slumped immediately.

"Look. I'm sorry for volunteerin' ya like that. Ya don't have to do it if ya don't want to,” he said in earnest. "I just figured it would be a fun thing we could do together. Ya know, as members of the Single Parents Club."

His words — the teasing, self-deprecating way in which he'd said them — burrowed straight into your heart.

"...fine," you snapped, rolling your eyes at the amount of effort you were about to put into this. "But I'm taking a majority of the administrative work, and you're baking whatever people don't sign up to bring."

"Deal," Osamu said with a grin. "I think yer gonna take this more seriously than I will."

"Of course I will. I am physically incapable of half-assing anything."

A blush rose into your cheeks as you met Osamu's humored expression.

"Thanks for the coffee and croissant, by the way. I needed it."

"No problem. It's the least I could do for draggin' ya here.” He checked the watch on the inside of his wrist and hummed. "And would ya look at that? Ya still got eighteen minutes to scream into the void."

It took every ounce of your self-restraint not to flip him off.

Later that evening, you pored over the documents Sakura had sent over: SOPs, blank sign-up sheets. Canva flyers from previous years and a list of students with food allergies. The more files you saved onto your laptop, the more amazed you were at how organized this all was. How well thought out.

Still, that didn't mean you couldn't do things your own way.

What if we had a theme? you texted Osamu, already knee-deep into making a Pinterest board. Café Kimori, or something like that. I think it'd be cute.

Your phone vibrated a few minutes later.

I think that's a great idea! I'll even whip up a couple fall-themed menu items.

The next couple of weeks passed by in a blur — you designing the promotional materials, Osamu curating the menu. You divvied up the emails asking parents to sign up for specific items, and you regularly met during your lunch breaks to take stock of what was left.

"What is that?" you asked him one afternoon, pointing your pen at the Tupperware container he’d placed on the table between you.

"It's the chai latte cupcake I've been workin' on this whole week," he said, snapping the lid off so you could see. "Wanna taste test it for me?"

You flinched back as he tore off a piece and held it out for you.

"Here," he said. As if feeding you Body-of-Christ-style were completely normal. "Lemme know what you think."

Before you could overthink it, you leaned over the table, opened your mouth, and tried not to lick him as he pushed the piece of cupcake past your lips.

“Holy shit.” Your eyes widened as a symphony of cinnamon, cardamom, and buttercream sank into your tongue. "Osamu."

“Y/N.”

"I didn’t know you were the male Mary Berry.”

"Please, I don't hold a candle to that gem of a woman,” he laughed, licking the leftover frosting off his thumb. "What d'ya think though? Is it too sweet? Too soft?"

"I think you could add a little less ginger, but other than that, you're good."

"Less ginger. Kina thought the same thing," he murmured, shaking his head. "Said it was muy caliente. Dunno where she got that from."

You watched in amusement as he slid an order pad from the back pocket of jeans and began scribbling down notes.

"Look at you, taking this bake sale so seriously," you teased.

"Hey, I'm not the one runnin' a whole marketin' campaign for it,” he drawled. You frowned at the assortment of flyers and color-coded spreadsheets splayed out before you. "How are sign-ups goin', by the way? Anythin' we're missin'?"

"Uh..." You flipped through the updated list you'd printed out at the office. "Acutally? I think we're in pretty decent shape."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah! I'm honestly impressed by what these moms volunteered to bake. None of it sounds easy," you admitted, scanning through the fine print. "Like, what the hell is mascarpone? And why is everyone so obsessed with it?"

"It's a type of cheese," Osamu chuckled. At the contemplative look on your face, he asked, "Why? Ya wanna take a crack at bakin' somethin', too?"

"And poison the entire school? No, thanks," you replied quickly, returning to your paperwork with a quiet huff. It didn't stop the way your jaw twitched at his suggestion, though.

Or the way you typed easy baking recipes into Google later that evening.

"Welcome to Café Kimori, ladies! What can I get for ya?"

You bit back your smile as Misa and Kina stared up at Osamu with wide, sugar-starved eyes.

"Two chai cupcakes, please!" Kina demanded, slamming a couple dollar bills onto the table like an old man at a bar.

Misa nodded furiously beside her, her enthusiasm clear-as-day despite her lack of words.

You left Osamu and the girls to their own devices and took another lap around the courtyard — clearing trash off of picnic tables. Crossing sold-out items off the collapsible chalkboards. Everyone and their mother had shown up to that afternoon's bake sale, it seemed, the surprisingly high turnout exceeding the expectations you and Osamu had set for yourselves.

"You really outdid yourselves on this one," Sakura said by way of greeting, joining you not a moment later with a cup of lemonade in hand. "I don't think I've seen this many people show up to this fundraiser in the entire time I've worked here."

"Yeah, well, Osamu's baking will do that to you," you chuckled, tossing a stack of plates into a nearby trash bin.

"Sure, but nobody would have known about it if not for you," she pointed out. "Seriously, Y/N. Your marketing abilities are nothing short of stellar."

"Well, I appreciate you saying that," you told her. You pushed your lips to one side and carefully considered your next words. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Go ahead."

"How do you do it?" You gestured to the courtyard buzzing with students, parents, and faculty members. "The year-round fundraisers, the headstrong personalities. How do you manage it all?"

"Ah." She nodded in understanding. "Is this in reference to some of the mothers on our PTA?"

"...maybe?" You winced. Sakura merely laughed.

"It wasn't easy," she admitted, taking a sip of her beverage. "In fact, I was rather intimidated by them when I first started. I told my wife I wanted to quit two months into taking the job."

"Really?"

"Oh, yeah. I had my resignation letter drafted and everything," she said, an amused smile on her lips. "You want to know what changed my mind?"

"What?"

"I realized it wasn't about them," she replied, shrugging her shoulders. "That it was only ever about my daughter."

Her words lingered in your brain long after you returned to Osamu's side.

"Yer brownies are doin' well, by the way," he said, jutting his chin towards the sheet pan you'd snuck onto the edge of the table when he wasn't looking. "Betty Crocker would be proud."

"I — " Your face reddened. "How did you know I made those?"

He shrugged. "A lil' birdie might have told me to try one when I got the chance."

"That little traitor," you gasped, whipping your head around to where your daughter sat giggling with Kina at a nearby picnic table. "She caught me picking eggshells out of the batter after dinner last night. It was bad."

"Well, ya haven't poisoned anyone yet, so I'd consider that a win," he joked. "You didn't need to go through all the trouble to make somethin', though."

"I know. I just...I didn't know what mascarpone was the other day, and I felt stupid," you confessed. "Next thing you know, I'm curbside-ordering boxed brownie mix and using my oven for the first time."

You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes and sighed.

"I just wanted to be useful, you know?"

Osamu looked at you as if you'd grown a third eye.

"Y/N," he said. As if you knew better than to underestimate yourself like that. "Yer the whole reason anyone even showed up today."

"I know, but — "

"So don't be so hard on yourself," he reassured you. "Ya don't need to be a baker or know what mascarpone is to be useful. In fact, ya were probably the most useful person on our entire PTA this month."

"Says the one shamelessly flirting with all the grandmas just to sell them more food." At Osamu's incredulous stare, you said, "Don't act like you don't know what your accent does to people."

He mashed his lips together to keep from smiling.

"Admit it. Ya like bein' a PTA mom."

"And you like making other dads look bad."

"It's not my fault they don't show up," Osamu pointed out.

You merely shook your head. Jutted your chin towards the group of elderly women who'd just walked through the school gates.

"Go. Convince them to buy the rest of my brownies. Flash your washboard abs at them or something."

Osamu snorted. "I haven't had washboard abs since college."

"Well, then, your raw animal magnetism works just as well," you told him sweetly.

"Unbelievable," he breathed, shaking his head as he rounded the table.

It wasn't your first choice, signing up to run a bake sale for Misa's school.

But as you watched her from across the courtyard, cackling uncontrollably as Kina stuffed the cupcake into her cheeks like a squirrel, you couldn't help but feel as though you'd done something good for her. Baking or otherwise.

That feeling was enough to convince you that maybe being on the PTA wasn't so bad, after all.

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.

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 a word. 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—soft and warm, 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."

If he was blushing before, now he was radiant.

"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 at that, 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, maing 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 a cloud passing over the sun.

He tried to hide it, but you saw it—the way the word friends tugged at something in him.

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—God, 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.

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."

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—him, 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, bright and warm, 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. And for a moment, the room no longer existed. The fans, the chatter, the clinking glasses—everything muted as if the whole bar held its breath.

"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. Music so soft and happy it seemed to float between guests.

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, as everyone danced barefoot on the grass, the kind of dancing that's more swaying than anything, warm bodies pressed together, everything blurry and golden. You were sitting alone beneath a string of lights, blinking rapidly to keep your emotions from spilling over.

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. He didn't believe you for a second.

Without hesitation, he sat beside you, legs brushing yours, shoulder touching your shoulder. Always touching. Always warm.

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.

You let yourself fold into her for just a moment. Just long enough to stop shaking.

Because what you'd meant was:

I miss him. I miss him so much I don't know what to do with myself. I don't know how to be me without him here.

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.

And everything stopped in that special, unmistakable way it always did between the two of you.

The team's chatter cut off mid-laugh. Cars faded into silence. Even the distant guitar down the block seemed to lose its melody. 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.

Not violently, but utterly.

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 shirt 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."

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.

But they didn't matter.

Not the neon, not the chatter, not the city that had folded itself around you, humming and alive and indifferent. For a few suspended seconds, there was only the two of you and this impossible, aching, long-awaited moment.

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, memorizing freckles, the curve of your lashes, the familiar shape of your mouth. As if he were committing you to memory all over again. As if he were afraid this was a dream he might wake up from.

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, a little dizzy—your heart caught somewhere between pride and a quiet, loving panic.

Dinner went on. Plates emptied. Drinks refilled. Bokuto grew louder. Atsumu grew smugger.

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. Heavier. 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. Reassuring.

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 something quieter. Something private. Like the world had dimmed around you both. 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.

And you had the strangest, most unsettling thought:

This feels different. This feels important.

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, the night air cooler now, clinging to your skin after the warmth of the restaurant. Neon still glowed above the street, softer somehow, like the city was winding down with you.

You lingered near the curb as goodbyes unfolded around you.

Yachi—cheeks flushed, balance a little questionable—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. 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.

The street felt quieter without everyone else—colder, too. 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. Of how heavy that touch had felt here, in Japan, like it meant something.

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?"

The combustion was immediate. 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. Close enough to smell that familiar mix of soap and something warm and human.

He swallowed. And then he looked at you. Really looked at you.

And your breath caught—because this time it was even clearer now. Intent. Your teasing smile softened.

This… this was it, wasn't it?

Whatever had been hovering between you for months. Whatever had grown quietly in shared caipirinhas, training at the beach, long talks at the beach. Whatever had survived distance and silence and longing.

Was this it?

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?" he asked, voice softer than you'd ever heard it.

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.