doctor, doctor give me the news

“Baby.” Atsumu held up the fox plush like evidence in a trial. “What the hell is this.”

“It’s not what it looks like.”

“It looks like you’ve been collecting me.”

“I collect volleyball merch in general—”

“This is all me.” He dug deeper and pulled out a lanyard with his face on it. “There’s a whole section. There’s dividers. You colour-coded the photo cards.”

You made a noise like a dying kettle and tried to snatch the bin. Atsumu, still laughing, held it out of reach with one long arm and kept investigating with the other.

“Is this the exclusive one from the All-Star game? The one that sold out in four minutes?” He looked genuinely delighted. “You told me you were studying that night.”

“I was studying. And also refreshing the page every three seconds.”

Atsumu clutched the photobook to his chest like it was sacred. “You absolute menace. You’ve been datin’ me for a year and a half and I had no idea my own girlfriend was my biggest fan.”

“I’m not—”

“You have a plush of me.”

“It’s a fox!”

“It’s wearin’ my number!”

You covered your face with both hands. Atsumu finally took pity (slightly) and set the bin down, but he kept the fox plush tucked under one arm like a trophy. He stepped into your space, still grinning so wide his dimples looked permanent, and gently peeled your hands away.

“Hey. Look at me.”

You looked. Your face was on fire.

Atsumu’s expression softened even as the teasing light stayed in his eyes. “You know this is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, right?”

“That cannot be true.”

“Oh it is. My girl has a whole secret collection of me. She waits in online queues for my face. She colour-codes my photo cards.” He leaned down until his forehead bumped yours. “I’m never lettin’ you live this down. But I’m also gonna kiss you stupid for it.”

He did exactly that.

The kiss was warm and laughing and a little bit smug, the way most of Atsumu’s kisses were. You made a protesting sound against his mouth that melted into something softer when his hands settled on your waist and pulled you closer. By the time he let you breathe again he was still holding the fox plush.

“We’re displayin’ some of this,” he announced.

“We are not.”

“Compromise. The standee can live on the bookshelf. The photobook can stay in the living room. And the fox—” he held it up between you, “—sleeps on the bed now.”

“Atsumu.”

“He’s family.”

You tried very hard to look stern and failed completely when he poked your cheek with the plush’s tiny paw. Atsumu watched your reluctant smile appear and looked like he’d just won gold.

“There she is,” he said, softer. “My little collector. C’mere.”

He steered you both to the couch, bin dragged along like treasure, and proceeded to go through every single item with the glee of a man discovering buried gold. You sat beside him in mortified silence while he held up photo cards and made commentary.

“This one’s from the spring tournament. I look good here.”

“You look good in all of them, that’s the problem.”

“Damn right. Oh my god you got the foil version. Do you know how much these go for now?”

“Please stop narrating.”

“Never. This is the best day of my life.”

At some point he pulled you into his lap so he could keep examining the collection while also having you close. His chin rested on your shoulder as he flipped through the photobook, occasionally pressing a kiss to the side of your neck whenever he found a page he especially liked. The mortification slowly ebbed into something warmer — the quiet, ridiculous happiness of being so thoroughly known and still completely adored.

“Y’know,” Atsumu murmured eventually, voice lower, “I used to wonder why you’d always support the merch drops so hard. Thought you were just bein’ a good girlfriend.” He turned another page. “Turns out you’re a whole career fangirl. I’m flattered. Actually I’m more than flattered. I’m insufferable now. Osamu’s gonna be so mad when he finds out.”

“You cannot tell Osamu.”

“I’m tellin’ Osamu immediately.”

“Atsumu—”

He laughed, bright and loud, and tipped you sideways onto the couch cushions so he could hover over you, still holding the fox plush like a third wheel. His free hand brushed hair out of your face with surprising gentleness.

“I’m keepin’ you forever,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You know that, right? Girl who collects my face and still puts up with me in real life? That’s wife behaviour.”

Your heart did something stupid and soft. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m so right.” He kissed the tip of your nose, then your mouth, lingering. “Love you. Even more now that I know you’ve got a shrine.”

“It’s not a shrine.”

“It’s a little bit of a shrine.”

You flicked his forehead. He only grinned wider, dimples on full display, and settled his weight more comfortably over you, the fox plush squished between your chests like a very judgmental chaperone.

Outside, the evening continued like any other. Inside, Atsumu Miya — professional volleyball idiot, professional boyfriend, newly discovered limited-edition collectible — spent the next hour making you show him every single piece of merch while interspersing the entire experience with kisses and commentary and the occasional whispered mine against your skin.

You had spent months carefully curating a collection of the boy you loved.

It turned out the boy you loved was even happier about it than you were.

And if the fox plush ended up permanently on the bed, and if a certain acrylic standee appeared on the bookshelf the next day, and if Atsumu started referring to himself as “your favourite limited edition” in public with zero shame — well.

You had no one to blame but yourself.

And you wouldn’t have changed a single thing.

You definitely should leave. Microwaves exist for a reason. 

“I wasn’t going to let her get hurt.” 

There’s a sickening sensation simmering low in your belly, the same feeling that would settle in your bones if your mother called you by your full name, or if you were summoned to the principal’s office.

Instead of sending a signal to your feet to move, you stand still, digging your heels into the ground, pressing yourself up against the wall, your ear to the door. 

“I know, I know,” he continues with a sigh. You hear the hinges of his rolling chair creak, his feet shuffling beneath his desk. “But I’d rather get reprimanded than go to her funeral because I chose to follow orders instead of trusting my gut. We both know all they’ll give me is a slap on the wrist anyway. She’s worth it.” 

She? Is he talking about you? Perhaps in your dreams when you’re fast asleep and he comes to visit you in your subconscious–a figment of the real man, one that cares for you as more than just a partner. Who else would he be talking about? Your rational brain tells you there’s no chance it’s anyone else, but another part of you sows doubt, promising that you’re neither important enough or interesting enough to have caught his attention in that way.

Leon takes in a deep breath, and without thought, you mirror him, inhaling the stagnant hallway air as you ready your ear for the return of his voice. 

“They can take me to court, for all I care.” And then, a low, rumbling chuckle followed by a beat of silence. “Yeah, I do.” He clears his throat. “Whether or not she loves me back…that’s another story.” 

Your chest tightens, your ears ringing as the rest of his words attempt to break past the cotton in your ears. 

“Only time will tell, I guess.” The wheels of his desk chair squeak as they roll across the carpet, and as he continues talking about the report he’s working on, his voice draws nearer. 

You should move, make a break for the hallway, walk down a few feet and turn around to make it seem like you were on your way to his office…which you were…five minutes ago.

“I’ll get you that report to review in the morning. Goodnight, Ingrid.” 

As he nears his office door, your feet refuse to move, as though you’re sinking in quicksand, and right as you command your heel to lift, Leon emerges from his office, stopping in his tracks when his eyes lock with yours.

“Oh.” 

“Hi,” you squeak, handing him the cup of coffee, now lukewarm. Your fingers brush against his during the exchange, such a slight touch sending a pitter-patter of butterfly wings down your spine. “Just wanted to bring you this.” 

He nods slowly, taking in the scene, his cheeks immediately flushing rose. “How long have you been waiting out here?” 

Your gaze faults to the floor between your feet and his, the toes of your pointed heels nearly kissing the rounded sole of his dress shoes. He’s standing so close, you can feel the heat radiating off the patch of skin revealed by his lack of tie, and the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. 

“Not long,” you lie, voice ascending an octave, immediately betraying your dishonesty. 

“Right,” he mutters. 

When you glance back up at him, there’s a storm brewing in his eyes, the blue-greens and grays wracked with something altogether foreign to you. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I’m sorry.”

A smile–faint and toothless–appears at the corner of his mouth, and his hands slide casually into the pockets of his slacks. “So, you heard all of that?” 

“Some of it,” you say with a shrug, stepping back until your spine kisses the wall once more. The cool plaster meets your shoulder blades, sending a chill across your middle.

“Just talking with Hunnigan about the mission,” is all he offers. His gaze is directly pointed at you, sharp pupils drilling holes into the features of your face like he’s desperate for you to respond, quickly searching your face for an unspoken answer.

“Mmm,” you hum.

Maybe you should stay curious, letting the conversation dwindle into nothing but dust, seeping from your ears into the ether until you can no longer remember the details or the tone of his voice. It might be easier that way, instead of letting your hopes soar sky-high, only for them to be dashed and scattered like rubble. 

“Well, I hope you enjoy your coffee,” you start, each word weaker than the last. “I should probably head back to work on…something.” As you step aside to leave, a warm hand comes to your wrist, gently pulling you back. You land, once again, against the wall, caged by an arm Leon has extended upward near your head, palm pressed to the plaster, and another near your waist, his hand still holding the cup of coffee you’re sure has now turned frigid. 

“So what do you think?” He swallows, the ball in his throat bobbing up and down. His skin smells like soap and aftershave.

You gulp, nerves aflame as he steps closer, one foot between yours. “About?” 

“About what I said. What you heard,” he adds for clarification, though none is needed. The hand that was flush to the wall now comes down, his knuckle brushing the length of your jaw, stopping just beneath your chin to tilt your face up an inch. “What do you think?” 

Sucking down a deep, cleansing breath, you part your lips to respond, the words pouring out before you can stop them. “I think she’s a very lucky girl, whoever she is.” 

He nods once, eyes fluttering to a close as he dips his head down to plant a chase kiss on your mouth. You melt into his touch, fingers grappling for his waist, desperate to pull him closer. The marriage of your mouths doesn’t last long enough to sate the simmer in your belly the need coursing through your limbs, and when he pulls away, your body revolts against his absence.