⊹ ̊. ♡

You recall meeting him for the first time on your first day. You took this job the summer of your junior year at college to make some money, and despite him being the same age, he said he used this as a temporary gig to fund his traveling. One thing you noted was that he was really cute (though wouldn’t verbally admit that), and had a kind of pep in his step that made you think he was extremely passionate about the job.

At first, you assumed you were right. It took him approximately 20 minutes to figure out where everything was and thirty minutes to learn how to make all the drinks on the menu. But even though he was quick to learn and sort of understood the inventory system, it wasn’t long before he’d trail off onto the sand for thirty minutes, claiming he was “going to be right back.”

Then it kept happening. Someone called him to help them put up his umbrella—he’d end up surfing. Some kid asked him to open his juice bottle—he’d end up building sand castles. Some lady told him her hat flew away—he’d climb the lifeguard shack to get it!

As good a person as he was, you told your boss he was completely unfit. 

But she liked Nishinoya’s energy and his magnet potential to make new friends, which meant new customers, and more money. He was also your only coworker, and she wasn’t going to take any more.

So, unfortunately, you were stuck with a 160CM coworker who’d go and save people drowning at sea instead of tending the shack you were both assigned to.

Yet, after three weeks of him catching kites with kids running on the beach, throwing frisbees with college kids, and catching crabs in the sand, you saw the shack’s popularity skyrocket.

And that meant more tips for both you and Nishinoya.

Now, another day with the sun’s blaring heat, white sand spilling between the cracks of the shack’s wooden floors, you were practically sweating your skin off by the second. Even the paper fan you’d bought from the tourist store half a mile away from you, as you attempted to swipe away your hair sticking to your forehead.

Sitting behind the bar, glancing over at the unwashed cocktail shakers in the sink, then the line of customers leaving the bar stools in front of you, you figured you’d give yourself a break from running a one-man shop for the past two weeks. 

One man, at least until he decides to show up once in a while.

“Y/N! GUESS WHAT I BROUGHT BACK?”

Turning your head around to a familiar shout, you sigh.

“Yuu, you’re finally back.”

“Yup! And look what I found!”

Grinning with all thirty-two teeth, Nishinoya holds up a large fan that catches your attention almost immediately.

“W-what? Where did you get this?”

You drop your cheap, weak paper fan to the floor and gawk at the ventilator in front of you. Ribbed in front of a propeller, large and oscillating, and probably able to cool down the shack entirely with a few blows, you finally muster a smile after three hours in boiling shade.

Before Nishinoya left the shack twenty-three minutes ago, you had complained to him about the summer heat—and the fact that this shack was severely understaffed. After that, he told you to take a seat, finished tending the customers for approximately five minutes, and then left with another “be right back!”, leaving you to watch the shack alone once more.

Though you complained about him being awful about staying still, he had a way to win your heart back. By doing things like getting a fan for you in the blazing Californian heat.

“Okay, so came across this guy, right, and he had this super strong fan sitting in the back of his car, so I went up to him to ask—oh hey! Where’d you get that?’—then he pulled another one out of his car and just GAVE it to me! Pretty sure dude was high but honestly? That’s vibes,” Nishinoya rambled, plugging the fan into the outlet behind.

As warm air began to blow cooler, you practically squealed, placing a kiss on his cheek.

“You goof! Now we don’t have to die of dehydration and heatstroke behind this counter,” you said, holding our hands out to feel the breeze by, “thanks a ton!”

As a flush of pink came across his cheeks, he momentarily passed out on the floor before getting back up to laugh off your gratitude.

“HAHAH, NAHH, NO NEED! Look, the fan even has different settings if you look on the side,” he rinses the cocktail shakers in the sink swiftly, stacking the cups back up with ease.

“Ooh—you’re right!” you say, playing with the different wind levels and oscillation buttons.

As another customer comes to the bar, you get ready to get up to take the order, before Nishinoya takes a step before you, confidently working through their drinks without complaints.

You still stood by the fact that he was a terrible coworker, but he sure knew how to keep the shack down when it mattered. 

Though it was only temporary, once more, as a past customer approached Nishinoya with a dissatisfied look on his face.

“Hey—we ordered a couple of drinks, but they got knocked over. Ya think we could get a new one?”

In times like this, Nishinoya took care of unhappy customers and their inquiries, all with a grin on his face and a couple of chilled glasses. 

Fine, in that sense, you could kind of admit that Nishinoya took care of things.

Then, after that, you didn’t see him for another forty minutes.

Now, at 2 PM, the sun is at its highest point in the sky, and that fan Nishinoya got has been working at its highest setting for the past hour. 

Here, another customer comes, grinning at you before he even takes a look at the menu. Then, he slides you a twenty, asking for a margherita with a wink. You nod, raise an eyebrow, and then present a tight smile, before ringing him up at the register and handing the change back to him.

In times like this, you certainly feel that being a one-woman show at a shack like this was more annoying than not. Especially since you never knew what to do when it came to guys hitting on you.

You loved good eye candy, but when it came to actually talking to a guy, you felt awkward and unnecessarily shy. Well, with pretty much every cute guy except Nishinoya (you had the urge to yell at him more than anything). 

So at times like this, you’d kind of hope that Nishinoya was here to take care of them. 

As you went over to get a glass to start a drink, you felt the floorboards shift as someone else appeared behind you.

“Here, let me handle it, Y/n!”

Just your luck, Nishinoya is back, this time, his hair tousled with sea water and sand, and you widen your eyes in annoyance.

“Yuu, that’s totally a food hazard! At least dry your hair first,” you whisper-shout, grabbing your towel from the chair you were sitting on to wrap around his hair before your new customer even complained about the potential of him getting the Pacific Ocean in his drink. 

Diligently, he blends up the ingredients for your new customer’s margherita, as you eye him in confusion. For someone who spent more of the day playing on the beach, he suddenly felt the need to take care of every one of the orders coming in.

As more customers came in, you began taking orders with Nishinoya by your side. Yet, whenever it came to a college boy whose eyes seemed to brighten when they saw you, Nishinoya would see you laughing up with them, probably talking about college life and how cool it was, before impulsively stepping in and ask for their order instead.

You did appreciate his proactiveness, but he was making it slightly awkward.

Then, there comes a really cute guy. With an eyebrow piercing that glistened before he stood under the shack’s shade, a fresh tan that chiseled his chest, and wet hair that was quickly drying by the minute. 

You clear your throat, watching him check the shack’s menu for a second, before giving you a captivating smile. 

“Hey, can a guy like me get a sweet pĩna colada for a hot day like this?” Warm and soft, the guy says, sliding over a twenty-dollar bill.

The male laughs at your joke, taking another sip before furrowing his eyebrows with a look of approval. “No, really. This isn’t like any of the other pina coladas I’ve had. It’s amazing. Super refreshing and sweet,” he remarks, before gaining eye contact with you, “just like you.”

You smile at his compliment, giggling under your breath. “You’re a bit of a charmer, aren’t you?”

The male laughs, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Not usually. Can you tell I’m a little nervous?”

“Just a little bit.”

“Ah, darn,” he clicks his tongue, “I was hoping to come off as super confident. I’m Justin, by the way.”

You take his extended hand and shake it. “Y/n. And don’t worry, Justin—I’m just like you. Surprised we even talked for this long. Usually, I’ll be sitting in the corner on my phone by now.”

Before Justin can muster a response, a hand crosses over, grabbing one of the drinks in front of you. You glance to your right as Nishinoya smiles at your new friend. 

“What’s up, man! I’m Yuu,” Nishinoya holds out his hand for a dap up, which Justin willingly takes, “first time at our shack?”

Your eye flinches.

Our?

He was barely ever here.

Justin daps him up back, sipping a bit more of the drink. “Justin. And no, honestly. Been here a couple of times, but doubt your gorgeous coworker recognizes me. Been meaning to talk to her for a while,” he says, eyeing you as he finishes his sentence.

You’re a bit stricken by his answer, and part your mouth to answer. Yet, you quickly shut it instinctively after Nishinoya puts a hand on your back as he finishes making a drink for another customer.

“Oh yeah?” Nishinoya begins, seemingly gritting his teeth as Justin complimented you, “Y/n’s—I mean, obviously, look at her—she’s real popular! You’re not the first, just saying,” he huffs out, proudly speaking about you like he was you himself. 

You laugh at Noya’s praise, noticing his attention now on Justin.

“Well, looks like the guy is still waiting on their order, Yuu,” you tease, pointing out the male behind the bar, immersed in a phone propped next to his ear.

As Noya leaves to finish his drink, you continue your conversation with Justin about your ages and the fact that summer break for college students in California was basically an adult playground, before Justin finishes the rest of his drink.

“Hey, sweetheart, do you think I could get—”

“A water? I got you!” Butting back into your conversation was Nishinoya, preparing a plastic cup of iced water that looked perfect to take to go. Standing awkwardly next to him, you watch him work. 

“T-thanks, but I was going to ask for another—”

“Pina colada! You got it,” Nishinoya continued, beginning to take out another glass, rapidly going to cut a lime for the next drink, before you pinch the back of his arm, getting him to flinch.

“I just need a napkin,” Justin commented, watching you sigh at Nishinoya’s impulsiveness, and handing him back a couple of napkins.

As Nishinoya stopped the drink he was making, Justin pulled out a couple of dollar bills, gesturing for you to lean closer to him, which you reluctantly did.

At least, until Nishinoya held your shoulders back from leaning in too close.

At this point, you were actually starting to get annoyed at Nishinoya finally taking his job seriously. As crazy as that sounded.

Justin, just as shocked as you were, ended up leaving the dollar bills on the table before getting up from his seat.

“Look, man—not trying to steal your girl or anything. Just wanted to tip, and I’ll be out of your hair,” he hissed, offering one last glance and tight smile at you before he left the shack. 

As he left, Nishinoya stood, looking almost slightly proud at his work. And you, severely irritated, smacked the back of his head.

“OW!”

“Yuu! What the hell was that about?”

Nishinoya rubbed the back of his head, feigning innocence. 

“Huh? What was what?”

You poke your tongue into your cheek and scoff. “You practically stopping any of my chances of getting a boyfriend, maybe? Well, not like it was going to be anything, but he was cute!”

Nishinoya shakes the rest of a leftover drink, pouring it out into a fresh glass, and he downs the drink.

Out of all the times Nishinoya decided he wanted to be a good worker, it just so happened to be the one guy you started to actually feel a connection with. 

Nishinoya blinks sideways, wiping his mouth, before eyeing you up and down. 

“UGH—W-WELL—look, I just—YOU’RE REALLY—okay, fine, I was jealous. I mean, hell—you’re gorgeous a-and totally capable! But you’re my shack coworker! Do ya know how hard I've been working to make sure the guys who want your number don't even step foot by the shack?”

Did you hear that right?

Did Yuu Nishinoya just tell you he was jealous?

Your terribly cute coworker who had the most spontaneous lifestyle was acting out because he was jealous?

“W-what?”

Nishinoya scratched his lips, looking back at you with the most embarrassed you’d ever seen him in your entire three weeks of knowing him.

“Y-you know, I’m totally falling for ya’, Y/n.”

You turn red.

At least feel yourself turning red, in both annoyance and embarrassment.

And shyness.

Everything all at once, you feel, and you can only grab his nose firmly.

“OW!”

“W-what the hell are you saying?! You don’t even stay at the shack, you damn twit!” you huff, “Be a better coworker first!”

“W-WAIT! Okay—in my defense—you’re really fast, like stupidly fast! And I thought I probably shouldn’t get in your way! I was helping! Kind of. Okay, well maybe not, but—I PROMISE, I’ll be a better co-worker from now on!”

You pause, embarrassed, but still slightly annoyed.

Despite his compliment on your competence, the fact that he was MIA for the past three weeks still didn’t leave your memory. 

You shove him away, pursing your lips as he rubbed out the tip of his nose.

As you clear your throat, you mumble under your breath,

“Good. ‘Cause how can you fall for me if you barely even spend time around me?”

After meeting him from a mutual friend and finding out he was a diligent side-hustler, you found  potential in his little start-up company (which you spontaneously invested in), and had been playing poker at his place every week since then.

Kenma was good at poker. A smart player, who made the game all the more fun.

He strategized, and thought through bluffs to throw people off, all while painting the same expression on his face. And if there was anything you knew about Kenma, was he was just as good at recognizing it in other people as he was putting up the front himself (though, you knew it was just his natural face).

But even though Kenma knew how to read people, you were even more confident that your poker face was unbreakable.

Now, smoking the last of the cigarette you had in your hand, you finally debated on your last move on a ¥200,000 pot. 

“Check.”

You both showed your cards. A beat to analyze. Then, your thoughts.

As expected, you won—your flush against his two pairs.

“200,000 yen, all mine. Better luck next time, Kenny,” you teased, counting the bills as you began to stack them into your purse.

“Whatever,” he murmured, standing up to put his hoodie back on, “you really need to find a better coping method.”

You scoff at his comment.

“Oh, now you’re saying that because you just lost 200,000 yen. Who do you think I am? Obviously, I’ve got rebounds on the side too. Plus—what’s wrong with gambling if you have the money?” you chuckled, “There’s no stakes when you play with friends, we can agree on that.”

Kenma’s ears perk up to your remark, facing back towards you as you’re stuffing bills into your purse.

“You’re still doing rebounds,” he said, like a statement, but you knew it was meant to be a question.

“Well, yeah? Like whatever, they’re cute and you know, I get what I want from them so it works.”

Kenma glances at you with an annoyed expression, then insinuates an eyeroll as he walks over to his gaming chair. 

“Just stick with gambling.”

The thing about Kenma was he was the type to say whatever he thought, so you knew not to take too many of his words to heart. But this particular time, the way he said it annoyed you. Dismissive, uninterested, but almost judgemental. 

“God, Ken, have you ever even been laid? You’re judging me when your escape is playing video games any chance you get.”

Now, at this point, you were just trying to strike a nerve of his, after he unintentionally did for you. Moody, petty, you were, but you didn’t really care.

“I’m not judging you, Y/n. You just come back talking some bullshit in my ear about another trash rebound who ghosted you for the past three weeks, so I’m telling you to stick with gambling. ‘Cause at that point, anyone can be it. You might as well rebound with me, as bad as that sounds,” he muttered,booting up his computer with a few pressed buttons and his keyboard.

Your eye twitches at his last statement.

“What’s so wrong with doing it with me?”

He ignored that line. “Or you could stick with shopping.”

You wouldn’t deny it—Kenma was attractive, you knew that. He also happened to be incredibly disinterested in the social scene, whether that be finding certain girls cute or hot. He also was always unnecessarily unbothered about everything he said. So why was it that you were getting even more annoyed? 

So annoyed, that you felt the need to test him.

You walked over to him, hands on your hips, and irritation on your lips.

“Okay, then be my rebound.”

Kenma chuckled.

“I’m serious.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Kenma glances over at you briefly.

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m not your rebound type. Don’t have a six-pack—not an athlete, airheaded, or dying for a quick fuck or your attention.”

You roll your eyes at his characterization of your past couple of endeavors. He wasn’t wrong, you did like to find men within that realm. But to hear it in comparison to the guy in front of you—it made you feel like you’d mischaracterized him entirely (you thought you knew Kenma pretty well). So if anyone could be offended right now, it was most likely him (even though he rarely cared about what other people thought of him).

“Well, who said anything about having to stick with that type?”

“You’d genuinely consider using me as a rebound?” Kenma raised his eyebrows at his screen, moving his mouse in an attempt to speed up the reboot process.

“Yeah,” you clear your throat, “It’d work relatively well. We both stay detached, and I don’t have to go through the turbulence of masculinity since you basically don’t talk to other women.”

Kenma looked at you, this time straight in your eye with a snort. You couldn’t tell if he thought it was humorous that you were trying to convince him, or if he was annoyed that you were comparing him to all the scum you’d complained about in the past. 

But needless to say, it was too late to back out of your game now.

“Fine. Give me your hand.”

He furrows his eyebrows. 

“Why would I do that?” Then reluctantly offers over his hand.

You interlock fingers with his and observe his expression. Seeing that he slightly flinched to your touch, you look even harder, before he gives you a confused look.

“So you don’t feel anything even when we’re holding hands like this?”

Kenma sighs, “Do I have to explain myself? The point was rebounds aren’t a good idea, and you should give up on them. What’re you getting so moody about?”

“I’m not getting moody, I’m trying something.”

“By holding my hand?”

You narrow your eyes at him, waiting for some sort of crack in his composure, tightly gripping the sides of his fingers with yours every beat or so to remind him of your hand in his, but he rarely moves an inch. Still focused on rebooting his PC, adjusting his mousepad, waiting for you to finish your experiment like it was an everyday occurrence.

You give it another couple seconds.

You sway your arms momentarily, then inch closer to him.

The most he offers is a head turn to your direction.

Finally, you decide to pull back and head out for the night, groaning as you diverted your attention to the table to grab your purse.

“You’re so annoying.”

Yet before you could take another step, you feel a familiar pair of hot hands, pull your hand back momentarily, before weaving his slender fingers once back to the same position you were both in before.

This time, his hand was on top, and flushed red along with his ears.

“What are you-”

“You started it,” he mumbles, glancing over at you momentarily, before lazily smirking to himself.

Probably in recognition of the disbelief stricken across your face. Or the fact that you had parted your lips with no response.

And for someone who you were sure of not having feelings for, you felt an odd sensation burning beneath your chest. Half from the fact that he carried a hint of playfulness in his eyes, and half from the fact that you just were not expecting that.

As he finally locks eyes back with yours, you can tell he’s riling up a tease of his own. 

“Stick to gambling, then, won’t you, Y/n?”

You swallow. Then release his hand to take a last sip from the cocktail you hadn’t finished from earlier, before settling the glass down on the kitchen counter. God, this made you feel like a virgin. You’d held hands with guys countless times. Kissed and touched skin with plenty of partners, yet for some reason, this was all the more different.

And for some reason, you’d rather run than face whatever it was. 

“Ugh, don’t tell me what to do.”

You make your way to the doorway, bending to grab the heels in front of you when you hear one last call of your name from the living room. Your heart, pounding with vigor, and your cheeks, flushed with an unusual heat. You don’t turn, yet he talks.

“And I have been laid. Four times, actually.”

And then, he renders you speechless.

You met Keiji when the sky was low, the light posts were warm, and the British fog was humming around your shoulders, nudging you closer to his pristine semblance.

You had woken up on New Year’s Day that year on a bed with foreign sheets, and a window that peered over an unfamiliar city, bustling with two-seated automobiles circling around a road loop and pedestrians. You had done this twice before. A new city, a new time. Your parents either hadn’t existed yet, were too young, or were already years long gone.

You made out it was 1922 from the newspaper in the corner of the room, and you had gazed out in the distance to an iconic symbol: the Eiffel Tower.

London was a side quest, and so was meeting Keiji. It was February, and you decided Keiji would be your company for the next several months, before you knew you’d have to leave. 

“You’re a wonderful lady, Ms. L/n,” he’d buttered to you, kissing the back of your hand with a tip of his hat, so gentlemanly it almost felt like a dream.

You decided from that moment that Keiji Akaashi might’ve been a man worth meeting in a different timeline for. 

He’d brought you out to see the Eiffel Tower in autumn for the first time, gazing at the trees as the leaves fell and painted sidewalks with their colors. You shared your first kiss sitting on the bridge, watching the sun split into night.

“Thank you for such a beautiful night, Keiji,” you’d uttered between breaths.

And once again, his smooth charm, smiling at your gratefulness. “You’re worth all the most beautiful things in the world, Y/n.” 

A week later, Keiji pressed his lips to your forehead and told you his time would come to an end in December.

The timing was uncanny, yet the words he shared with you lifted guilt you were terrified would haunt you. 

From his confession, you promised to make sure he’d have the greatest last couple of months a sick man could ever have. The weekend you spent in Spanish waters, the food you tried under Italian umbrellas, the one good photo you took with newly invented cameras, and a visit to his childhood home in Japan. Those couple of months went too soon.

Because then you blinked, and you woke up in 1732 under the Tokugawa Shogunate in Edo, Japan.

Keiji was a few months of bliss before you faced another couple of years of unfamiliarity, dread, and struggle. Nothing ever moved with you other than the clothes and the belongings inside you’d wear the night before you’d time-travel, and the small picture you’d kept in your pocket of him. You never thought you’d see him again. 

You knew you wouldn’t.

You’d watch him drain himself to the brink of his bed, that when the New Year had come to you, he’d only have a couple of hours left alone before he went. A regret you had, that you couldn’t stay by his side until the very end.

You were sure you couldn’t relive those moments again.

So why was it at 36 years old, looking 26 forever, you were face to face with Keiji Akaashi outside the supermarket of a cyberpunk city in 4013, checking holographic screens in front of him like it was a foreign object?

You had seen dopplegangers before. Men who had haircuts too similar to his, glasses tilted the same way his once did, a walk that shadowed his almost perfectly, but never—never had you seen someone who held the same warmth he did those 7 years ago.

You called for his name, and he turned in shock. Then it morphed into something of recognition, relief, and acceptance.

You’d started the reunion with tight hugs, murmuring disbelief about his existence. He didn’t quite understand it either.

“How are you here? You’re really in front of me, Y/n.”

“That’s my question, Keiji,” you remarked, “You said you were ill, seven years ago. And now I’m standing in front of you, all better and more handsome than before.”

Keiji parted his mouth in embarrassment and in an attempt to answer, then sighed, softly playing with the ends of your hair as if they were something fascinating.

“I did. I did say that, didn’t I?” Keiji palmed your cheek, watching you look at him, narrowing your eyes in (somehow) both familiarity and skepticism at the same time. “And yet, I’m in front of you. Healthy and well, just like you wished for me all those years ago. I’m grateful for that, Y/n. And you deserve an explanation.”

“I do.”

Akaashi laughs—a laugh that sounds heartily to your ears and across the blade of pipes and wires beneath you two—the first genuine laugh he’s had in years, at the same snarkiness you bore so long ago.

“How about over some drinks at a place I know? My treat. For all the years we spent apart.”

“You still remember how to win my heart. Have you thought about me that often, Keiji?”

“Guilty.”

A reunion with drunken kisses and feverish accusations, before you promised to spend the year at each other’s sides. You found out you were in the same position, and it felt relieving. You found out a couple of things about Keiji that year.

One was that even though he tried to act like he was a responsible, reliable man, he liked to be praised by the people he cared about. You saw that when he talked about his best friend before he began time-travel (Koutarou was an enthusiastic man who loved to hear about his accomplishments from others), and the way he’d get embarrassed when you’d smother him with sweet words about his competence.

You’d spend your measly wages to indulge in life, buy stupid gifts you knew you’d both never keep, and kiss him, unlike anyone you’ve ever kissed before.

Keiji was your anchor. You weren’t quite so sure you were his, but you thought as long as he was there, it’d be enough.

Even though you knew to never talk of your futures. 

Never speak of your love. 

Never speak of what could be.

At least, you assumed that was the case.

The second thing that you found out about Keiji was that he was someone who thought of that forbidden future more than you thought about the past. He wasn’t afraid of those talks, but the distance always got to his head.

You couldn’t blame him—your fate was tragically separate, and even if you were to meet again in another lifetime, you knew it’d be years before you’d reunite. And even knowing this, Keiji didn’t want to let you go (and neither did you). He’d done calculations, seen the probabilities of the soonest you’d both meet again, and it began to consume him.

Hours became days, days to weeks. Then months passed of him dwindling on the opportunities of you two reuniting once the days wound down to December 31st. So much so that you began to resent him for wasting your moments together on such a fickle thing.

But you knew Keiji was a man who thought more than he acted.

So, you had proposed to Keiji that summer, a decision that cost a section of your body and a commitment of the heart. He finally tore those calculations aside and agreed. Deep ink in the crevice of both of your ribs, your names forever moving along life together. You vowed if you reunited, to spend every last second with each other once again. 

To you, there was no one like Keiji—no one who could come close to understanding you as deeply as him. You never told him that, but you were sure he knew it, and he felt the same way.

And even though you were hoping, praying, believing deep down that somehow this cycle of time-changing would end, circumstances proved you wrong.

New Year’s came, and soon enough, forty years passed without a glimpse of him.

Now, you were nine months into your seventy-sixth year, still twenty-six, exhaling smoke from an incessant attempt at burning out the cigarette as fast as possible, and attempting to feel some sort of relief from your day, only you disappoint yourself once more when smoke barely leaves your chest.

Nine months of routine nights, serving bars, teaching college students critical theory and the philosophical approach to the meaning of life, all without a degree but a willingness to prove other old-timers wrong. 

This unusually clear, autumn evening with orange hues on red leaves, blanketed in purples by the sun setting. A quiet bustle of ladies laughing with their husbands, skirts reaching their knees, pleated with pastel pinks and oversized trench coats. A few dogs barking at each other at the park nearby, and a breeze that blew softly against your chin.

The sparks of your cigarette, dying down with the tune of a faint guitar.

You peer up ahead of you. The Eiffel Tower is a beauty in your eyes (not exactly a wonder of the world), and a reminder of where everything began.

You’ve seen it too many times to count, in too many conditions to forget. Half-made, fully rusted, breaking apart, brand new—all of its forms in your memories. Something no person was meant to see in one lifetime.

You recall your conversations with Keiji, and both of your obsessions with seeing the Eiffel Tower, dreaming of an autumn together where you’d finally be able to watch the hues of the warm tones of the leaves reflect against the rivers that brightened the tower more than anything else in the world.

This autumn was particularly warm. Imaginably, from the scarf that wrapped around your neck, and your seven-month-old coat that draped around your shoulders. Nonetheless, you liked feeling the last bits of the sun’s warmth on your face, before the river’s breeze reminded you to head off to the bar for the night.

But something about tonight made you falter in your steps.

Maybe a sudden wave of seventy-six-year-old life crises, or seven years of no lovers, had done something to suddenly make your heart drop. 

Or maybe it was the fact that you were standing in front of someone whose face you remember immediately, despite years of longing and hearts centuries apart.

The same arch of his nose, familiar to those forty years ago, traced almost every day by your fingers so long ago. The same bow of his lips that you'd kissed over a hundred times. The same speechless eyes that rendered your heart fragile by the way he looked at you like you were all he’d ever wanted.

Black-rimmed glasses that never left his face, unless it was to rest. 

And the way he parted his mouth before he wanted to point out something important.

“Y/n. I’m here.”

But you’d rather jump into his arms than hear his voice over anything else.

“Woah—woah, woah! You’re gonna knock both of us over with that!”

You don’t even bother to acknowledge his complaint.“Where the hell have you been, Keiji?!” you whisper into his shoulder, “I’ve been waiting for you all this time.”

He embraces you back, softly ruffling your hair as he speaks into your ear.

“Algeria in 2018. The Netherlands in 3382. Switzerland in 1943. Many more times, I’m afraid, will take a week’s worth of nights to talk about.”

You pull back to see his face once more. Unaging, unchanged, still loving—still watching you. Yet with less than three months left on the clock, and no plans for the future, you don’t want to waste any more time with him. 

You clasp his hand, fingers intertwining with his as you both make your way down to watch the towering structure in front of you. Surrealness is a measly word for the way you truly feel, but you have no intention to dwell on feelings that have been established so definitely before.

You’re sure now. That Keiji Akaashi is someone worth traveling timelines for, all in the hopes of reuniting once more with a year’s limit of stories, heartfelt moments, and more.

So you say: 

“I’ve got the time to spare.”

And Keiji breathes a laugh that sounds like relief.

“I bet,” he remarks, grinning as you both caught up on 1957’s high, all in the heart of Paris, France.

© drm8ires / all rights reserved.

Tooru Oikawa was always like that; he’d butter up to someone with “intentions” as pure as gold, then treated it like it wasn’t worth batting an eye at. You weren’t that far off from that bucket of avoidance—only difference between you two was that you knew it well, and were horrendously aware of it.

Tooru always made one thing clear: he never wanted to date someone like you. You told him you wouldn’t take it personally, but reality was you definitely did. You couldn’t help that your massive crush on him wasn’t that far off from the next girl in line on his fan-girl list. The gap between you two was that you were nothing close to a fan, and everything more intimate to him.

Not quite his best friend (Hajime always stayed in that place), not quite his lover (even though you were both each other’s first kisses), not quite his friend. The cross section of those three, if you could even come up with a word for it. Albeit knowing this, you still bared your heart beneath everything to him.

Something about your brain felt wired to Tooru. Underneath your giddy laughs with other boys, Tooru always felt a part of it.

Your first boyfriend at fifteen was wealthy; his family doted on you (probably because you were sweet and talked up to people in your daily speech), and he liked you more than you liked him. He’d brush his fingers over your knuckles at night, and sneak out to see you at the park every Wednesday, where you two would talk about your fake futures on the swings. You liked him, but you knew you couldn’t love him.

When you fought with him, you’d find to Tooru while you’re stuck on the soft rug of his bedroom, and he’s setting a ball to himself and the walls, layering comments on your story. You knew what he would say every time. 

“Talk it out with him! He’s worth staying with.”

But you never noticed the way his smile would drop when you left, nor did you notice him chewing the inside of his cheek while you’d tell him the stories of your adventures with your lovers.

Your second boyfriend somewhat cared about you; his words showed more than his actions. He loved to shower you with language that made your heart flutter (somewhat), then ignore you for weeks. You’d argue with him, then find Tooru in the middle of the night with a simple text.

High school was like that, the cycle of your endless boyfriends. You’d break up with them because of “incompatibility reasons”, then go back to Tooru with a beer you stole from your mom’s fridge and pour your heart out, wishing Tooru were yours instead of anyone else.

Unfair, you knew, to all your exes to say the least. Tooru thought it too.

Then, the summer of 2013 came. It hit you like a truck—unexpectedly, unauthorised, unfairly. Tooru Oikawa wasn’t the healthiest boy. You knew that when you were young, especially from the white, circular pod that fit around his arm, but then moved to his stomach as time went on.

As if masking this given would erase the fact that he couldn’t ever fully play volleyball. The one thing you knew he loved more than anything.

Graduation had just passed, you knew he wanted to go to Argentina to play, and you were bound to attend university in Japan.

You were ready to say goodbye. 

Instead, you found yourself by his bedside every Sunday with white curtains around you, the smell of new medical equipment, and the frail arms of the boy you love in front of you.

He’d ignore you, pretend you didn’t exist when you came to visit, give you blank stares and tell the nurses not to bring you in. Yet, you somehow found your way back to him, waiting for him to at least accept your presence.

Like you always had been, waiting for him to take you, be with you. Yet it never came, and you knew it never would.

At least, until you found out what Hajime told him. Before your last visit to Oikawa, you waited outside his room after sneaking past the nurses, waiting for his best friend to finalise his visit as you hid behind another bed nearby.

“How much longer are you going to suffer like this? Pushing them away—you'd better stop it before it’s too late to take any of it back. A love like yours won’t die even after you pass, you might as well share the last of what you have.”

“Iwa-chan—that’s the point! I can’t give any more hope than there is. You just promise me that they’ll never find out, and that’s my last wish. You know how stubborn they are.”

“...I can only promise I won’t say a word.”

You stared at the wall like it was forbidden. What was it about Tooru’s words that shook you frozen to the point where you didn’t even know how to celebrate? You guessed because he was the boy who played around with everything that wasn’t volleyball—the boy who ended everything on his own terms.

Like how he liked doing everything, always intentional. 

Always about him. 

Always unfair.

You didn’t know how to be calm. Not when it came to Tooru, and you were damned if you were to keep quiet about it.

Stepping around the corner, rustling footsteps across the cold floor, you peeked around the corner to see Hajime and Tooru’s expressions, paling while you crossed your arms.

“You’re a liar.”

You accused him of all the following. Hajime knew to take his exit, but Tooru couldn’t muster the words to defend himself. You’re practically fuming for him to reveal it, what he truly thinks of you two, and you can’t understand what he’s thinking when he looks the other way with a prideful frown.

But when you force his face back to yours, you see welts of liquid streaming down from his eyes, starting some of your own, and then you have your answer.

“You’re a liar, Tooru. You’ve watched me all this time and made me think otherwise. God—to think you wanted to suffer alone,” you gritted, clenching your jaw to hold back choking words, “I’ve always been here, you know that. I’m always running back to you. Even when I was with all those other guys—I was always thinking of you.”

Tooru swallowed. 

“You shouldn’t be. Forget me, Y/n. You have to—I can’t be with you or give you what you want.”

You clenched your hands into a fist, sighing with a drop of your shoulders. “But, what if all I want—all I’ve ever wanted was to be with you?”

Tooru laughs. Half-laughs, because he knows it's not funny, but he has nothing else to offer.

“No, you don’t. You want a good life, with a good job and a good husband who’s not ill. You want a good man—who will take care of you and provide for you. Who will never ignore you, love, and care for you—”

“I want you, Tooru," you huffed, "I want to love and care for you. I want you to love and care for me, as you have from afar. I know you’re the one who gave me lunch money when I ran out of it during the week. I know you’re the one who put the extra gym jacket in my locker when I forgot mine at home. I know you used to wait for me to go back to my apartment before you left for the night. I’ve always been watching you, Tooru. Every little thing, I remember.”

"You don't even know if that's—"

"Don't. Don't push me away again, Tooru. I know you and I know this for a fact. It's always been for me."

For once, in the 19 years that Tooru Oikawa existed, he had nothing to say back.

It was all true, all observed, and all a given that Tooru could not deny. He knew you all too well, and your stubbornness was the moment of your downfall. He knew from this moment on that you were cursed to be bound to him for life. And with no turning back.

How unfortunate, after all the work he put in to make sure that you wouldn't feel that way.

But selfishly so, he liked it that way.

.   .   .

Tooru Oikawa passed away on August 12th, two days earlier than anticipated. You weren’t with him, but you held his hand the night before, and kissed his face too many times to count.

You always went back to Tooru when you were upset, when you wanted someone to talk to, or someone to see. Despite his twisted philosophy of living (pushing people he cared for away, overexerting his already fragile body), you had always come back to him. Yet now, it felt empty. 

Hollow? 

No, almost lighter. Like something that’d been fulfilled. 

The boy whom you’d spent countless summers with, sleeping on his lap after you ended relationships with your partners, playing with his hair before he went to practice, wiping down his face when he was half-asleep—all the while never being his, and him not being yours.

Something so unreliable—your moments with him, diminished with only you to remember. You wanted to curse him out, even passing his grave. But you knew all too well that all of it was always one-sided. Until Tooru Oikawa finally ran back to you, too.

And that was all you could be thankful for.

You can almost imagine Mei sitting up straight and giving you a glare by the clamorous sounds coming from the phone. 

“Are you kidding me, Y/n? You’ve been married to this man for almost a year, and you still don’t think you’re close enough to ask who’s coming in and out of your home?”

You stack the last dish gently into the cabinet. Then, start spraying water around the sink, parting your lips in an attempt to save your defeat.

“Like, we don’t really talk to each other. I settled on the terms and conditions when we signed our contract, and that’s pretty much it. I just live with him—sometimes see him in the morning. Sometimes not at all. Sometimes at night—”

“Okay, okay—I get it,” Mei sighed, “You guys are basically just roommates. But, like, are you going to live like this for the next four years—suspecting things, but never knowing?”

This was the reality of your situation. 23 years old, a well-acclaimed signed model, talking about the possibility of your husband bringing over a woman in the middle of the night without your knowledge.

Only the contract that binds you and him is strictly business, and you were very much still roommates with him.

It wasn’t like you liked Ushijima—hell, you barely knew anything about him. But the volleyball player was abnormally disciplined, very respectful, and has always been consistent with what you could expect from here, even 7 months into your “marriage”. 

So, when you started to suspect he might actually be bringing someone over without your knowledge, you couldn’t help but wonder if there really was someone seeing him.

“You know, you can’t blame me for hesitating. Sometimes I don’t even think he’s ever thought of a woman in any romantic way. He’s like a wall—I can’t read him at all, and I don’t know what he’ll think if I pry into his private life like that.”

Picking up the phone from the counter, you shuffle back into your room with your friend, humming her agreement with you.

“Why don’t you just observe him? Do you have a lot of shoots going on this week?”

“You’re right, I could,” you agreed, nodding your head in subtle affirmation, “and just camp out at home and stalk him whenever he leaves the house. That sounds like a great idea.”

Mei scoffs at your dry remark.

“If you’re so curious, you might as well. And do it for me! I want to know. Hell, who wouldn’t want to know what a pro volleyball player’s married life is like?”

You swallow at her comment, scratching your forehead with your nails.

“Fake married. Well, that’s besides the point. Okay, fine. I guess, I’ll try and figure it out—at least to ease my mind and to satisfy your curiosity.”

“Hey! I’ll incorporate this into my next novel! I need some more unique pieces, you know—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll call you soon. See you.”

“Wait—”

Tapping the surface of your phone to make contact with the red button on the center of your screen, you glance over at the red box sitting in the corner of your desk.

The symbol of yours and Ushijima’s legal binding, sitting safe in the velvet casing. Those gold rings you bought a year ago for a marriage that had no wedding, had not been touched by either of you since the courthouse ceremony.

Your life was rather private, with only a few close friends and your agent knowing the reality of your situation, and you needed it that way. For you, your career, and for Ushijima.

You knew you two were only indulging in this for professional reasons, but even then, you felt you had a right to know who was coming into your shared home. If you could even find out who this mysterious lover really was.

. . .

Your first course of action was to find out what time he would be coming home the next day. You’d memorized his schedule when it came to his games, almost completely, but the exact time he’d be back every day always varied.

Since this week was leading up to one of the Adlers’ biggest games, he’d typically come back around 1 to 2 AM.

Yeah, at that point, you were in bed, sleeping off to wake up for your commute at 5 AM the next morning. 

But your research calls, and you, as much as you tried to convince yourself you were merely doing this because you needed to know who was coming into your home, knew your curiosity was a more reasonable explanation for the planning that was about to go behind this plan.

So, you came up with an idea.

Dinner.

Was it weird that after 7 months of being married, you suddenly wanted to ask Ushijima if he was coming home for dinner?

Probably, but at least it wasn’t your very first time asking.

Married couples do that, you thought, and you and Ushijima would be like those married couples who could cook for each other once in a while.

At least, the fake married couples that would cook for each other once in a while.

“Hello, is there a problem?”

Standing with the phone pressed next to your ear, you part your lips momentarily as you stand in front of the open fridge, thinking of a response to Ushijima’s low voice.

“Yeah, hey. Sorry to bother you, but I’m making dinner. I was wondering if you’d be home for it later?”

You hold your breath, tapping your foot by the fridge door. The other side of the line is silent for a bit, until you hear Ushijima grunt in the background.

“You’re making dinner?”

“Yeah,” you sniffed, “I wanted to make some bone broth soup, so it’ll be in a big batch. Just wanted to know if you’d like some of it since it tastes better the first day. Maybe some curry, too, since I’m off my diet for now. But, if you’re coming back late, I’ll just leave some, and you can try it another time?”

The tone of your voice rises at the end of your sentence, and you can’t help but press your lips together as you add your final comment.

“And, you can bring anyone over since it’ll be a lot of food.”

You squint your eyes as you wait for Ushijima’s reply, practically burning a hole into the pack of refrigerated beef bones in front of you. That’s when you heard almost a confirming hum come from him, and your eyes perked up in satisfaction.

“I will be home at around 8,” he affirmed, taking a slight pause, “see you soon.”

You blinked as the line went dead. In all honesty, you couldn’t tell if that meant he was going to bring over someone or not, but you guessed that it would at least give you some sort of information. And if you could, maybe get a verbal confirmation if you pried hard enough.

So, you began on the bone soup.

It’s usually recommended to let the soup cook for around 12 or more hours, but you knew you didn’t have enough time for that. Some would say cooking is an intricate art, and the precise steps to take to get to the final product are what enhances the meal so much more.

But, whoever said a good shortcut couldn’t work?

Even though it was recommended that the soup cook for 12 or more hours, it usually only really took about 6 or 7 hours to get your bone broth. And in your opinion, it tasted just as nutritious as one simmering for more than 12 hours.

You grabbed carrots, added radishes, a few pieces of cut corn, and let the pot do its work. The curry was usually a bit easier, even going from scratch.

You didn’t particularly enjoy cooking that much, but it made you feel productive. So when you got to sit the people you cared about down to eat your food, it made you feel somewhat fulfilled, even if you didn’t think your food was all that good.

Hours passed, watching TV in the living room as you practically lazed your day off, waiting for the soup to finish, before it hit 6 and you figured you could start on the curry. 

If there was one thing you two also had in common, it was your emphasis on diet. You rarely cooked pre-packaged foods; it was part of maintaining your “health”, as your agents liked to tell you (even though half of the time, you were starving yourself). So you came up with your own, low-calorie curry recipe, and from scratch it was.

Ushijima had had it a couple of times before, but it wasn’t something you made often. You both knew how important dieting was when it came to food, and you knew to prepare a larger batch for him than you would for anyone else.

That man could eat.

By the time the clock hit 7:50, the rice was finished, sitting hot and fluffy in the cooker while you anticipated who would walk in the door in the next ten minutes. 

But as you stepped over to the window to open it for some more air, the beeps sounding from behind the front door played a familiar tune. The handle seemed to jumble as Ushijima pushed his way through, and there, in his hand, was a bouquet—fresh, magenta, and tainted with some purple. 

For a split second, you even thought it was for yourself, until you locked your eyes on the door, waiting for a companion behind him.

But the door shut, and it was just him, taking off his shoes at the entrance, before neatly placing them on the shoe rack and undressing his duffle bag from his shoulders.

“I am home.”

You don’t know if your expression is giving him some sort of confused look, but quickly diverge it into a smile as you prop the window up in place.

“Welcome home,” you cleared your throat, walking over to the kitchen to prepare your meals, “You didn’t bring anyone?”

Ushijima glanced over to you, placing bowls to prepare dinner as he took off his jacket, hanging it cleanly on his arm as he approached the counter separating the kitchen from the living room.

“No, my teammates all had dinner at home. I came straight from practice. I also picked these up on the way,” he stiffened, but held out the flowers in his arms for you to take a look.

You pack the remaining of his rice into his bowl, before looking over the counter, mouth parted with no response. Then you look at his face, then the flowers. Then back at his face.

He doesn’t move his stoic look.

“They’re for you. Do you not like them? I recall you liked taking care of plants and magenta flowers, so I brought some back for you.”

“No—Ushijima, thank you. I do. I like them,” you say softly, coming around the counter to pick the flowers from his hands, “And I only take care of them because you’re the one who suggested having plants in the apartment, but you’re not home enough to water them.”

Ushijima tilts his head slightly, but approaches his room to hang his jacket as you try to find a vase to fit the new bouquet into.

“I apologize, I will do better.”

“I’m joking,” you tease, placing the vase with the new flowers in the middle of the coffee table as you make your way back to bring over the dishes, “let’s just eat.”

Ushijima aided with serving the soup, while you portioned the curry. When you both looked at the portion sizes of your plates after, you couldn’t help but laugh at the difference. His rice plate, filled to the brim with meat and curry, while yours seemed normal enough for an average person.

Okay, so clearly bringing someone over for dinner wasn’t going to get him to reveal who his secret lover was. The rest of dinner didn’t help either, since all you both talked about was what he did at practice and his plans for the rest of the week (more practice). 

No mention of another woman, another girl—hell, he didn’t even mention going out or doing anything with friends. He basically had nothing to do except practice, eat, play, and sleep.

Though you guessed the one thing that came out of dinner was the fresh bouquet he had brought back for the apartment. 

Adding to your collection of 10 other plants.

. . .

So, you gave up on your first course of action. Ushijima came in at too many different times, and even if he came back early, he never brought anyone back with him.

Onto your second plan: the neighbor’s cameras.

Even though you and Ushijima lived in a gated community, there were only cameras in the lobby of your apartment, the public spaces, and the elevator. Your 70-year-old neighbor, though, had a doorbell camera you often passed when you’d drop off snacks and groceries, and when you had off-days.

Tatsuki-san had retired in his 40s and lived alone, with a 35-year-old son who would occasionally come to visit him. But Tatsuki was a relatively active old man, and liked to spend his days outdoors and by himself, even after his wife passed around four years ago.

And his apartment just happened to be right across from yours—facing right in line with your door. 

The only thing that was running into him was almost impossible. Some days, he wouldn’t be at his apartment for days, or come back at the crack of dawn, then leave just a few hours after.

But when you finally caught him one time, going up the elevator, you knew you had to take that opportunity.

Making it into the elevator, and reaching for the floor number, you breathlessly see the old man standing next to you with a warm smile.

“Ahh, Y/n-san! It is nice to see you again,” he reaches into his bag and pulls out a few candies for you, “why are you so out of breath?”

You bow, thanking him for the candies. Even at your age, he treats you as if you’re a child, giddy from receiving candy from the elders.

“I just—I didn’t want to wait too long for an elevator! And I saw Tatsuki-san on his way up, I wanted to talk with you again.”

Tatsuki-san chuckles at your statement and nods. “Oh ho ho, you don’t know how good that is to hear as an old man these days. I bet you’re a good daughter. Nowadays, you kids are so occupied with yourselves, you forget that your parents miss you! You know, my son, he hasn’t come in months, and I barely even get to see my grandchildren anymore. You know, it’s lonely being the only—”

Oh, and another thing. He was quite a talker. 

It wasn’t that what he talked about was boring, but even your grandma wouldn’t lecture you as much as he did. Every time you ran into him, he’d have a new lesson for you (they were, honestly, very helpful), but now was the time for you to figure out who Ushijima was bringing over.

In the most casual way possible.

“So make sure you’re watching your gut health, because sometimes if you have stinky breath, it might be something going on internally, yes?”

You nod along to his words as the elevator door opens.

“I appreciate the advice, Tatsuki-san. Your words mean a lot. Do you think I could come over for a bit to check out your doorbell camera? I’ve been meaning to get one with Wakatoshi, but we’re still on the fence about getting it since we don’t know if it works well.”

Tatsuki-san grins.

“But, of course, Y/n. Come inside, I’ll make you some tea.”

“That’s alright, I won’t intrude for too long,” you insist, as Tatsuki-san inputs his door code, “Also, Wakatoshi has been bringing over a friend these past couple of days. I hope the guests haven’t been bothering you or anything.”

Tatsuki-san stares with a blank look on his face, before lighting up in recognition.

“Oh, no, they have not. I do remember running into Wakatoshi on his way back home. Another good kid, he is very respectful.”

“That’s him, alright. Did you happen to remember who he was with, by any chance?” You’re practically begging at this point, trying to get any sort of information about this person. 

“Yes, he was with someone. But I did not get a good look because I was in a rush to go use the bathroom, so I left first. Also, that doorbell camera has not been working for the past month. I need my son to get me a new one.”

You close your eyes, inhaling a groan, as you step away from the doorbell camera’s screen, seeing a prominent “ERROR” message flashing on the screen.

“I see,” you sigh, guilty that you basically only came over for ulterior motives, “thank you for your help, Tatsuki-san. I suppose Wakatoshi and I will wait on getting the doorbell camera, then.”

“Yes, child. Here, take some of this tea back with you. I have too much in my house,” Tatsuki-san insists. As you take the bag with you, waving your way out of his apartment and across the hall, you sigh, rubbing your fingers on your temples.

Almost as if the universe was telling you this was meant to be kept a secret, you aggravatingly punch in your door code to your apartment in defeat.

You figured you had tried pretty much everything. Checking his social media for accounts he’d follow, except you remembered he barely even used it, and his following count is, in fact, 0. You even tried pretending like you had to come back home to catch him “in the moment”, only to see that he hadn’t even come home for the evening.

At some point, you realized you were putting in way more effort than you should be.

So, onto your last, final resort: staying up late.

You tried staying up late for the past three days, alright, but every time you’d doze off, Ushijima would be gone in the morning by the time you had woken up.

But this night—maybe, this night would be different.

You texted Ushijima you wouldn’t be home tonight, and ate your dinner early, turning off the lights to see if he would finally bring the mysterious girl over for the night. As if this were a normal routine, you sat in the dark, alternating between scrolling on your phone and doing work on your laptop as a distraction.

An hour passed. Then, two. Then, three.

You fell asleep.

You didn’t know exactly how long it was until you woke up to the sound of two people shuffling outside your door, and you blinked awake, checking the time on your phone. 

8:53 PM.

Probably, the earliest he’s ever been back this week.

You know it’s coming from the kitchen, based on the fact that you can hear the sink turning on, most likely Ushijima washing his hands, and plates clattering as he puts (probably) the dishes you left out to dry back into the cabinets.

You can’t quite make out what they’re saying, but you do hear voices. Pressing your face to the door, you somewhat make out their conversation about the apartment being nice and the plants being cute—whatever, you probably shouldn’t have been listening to it.

This was the best time, before anything escalated, you could still get away with seeing who the mysterious lover really was. Even with your heart slightly pounding, you reach for the doorknob to make your way out into the hallway, directing your eyes straight to the dining table where you found two people seated.

Ushijima and—

Another man?

You felt yourself flush a shade of red and mentally curse at yourself for being close-minded. But even throughout your months of marriage, you never got the sign that Ushijima liked men. He hid it pretty well, you had to—

“Oh? She’s home?”

You lock eyes with Ushijima, awkwardly standing in the hallway. Ushijima glances over to you, eyes widening, before looking back at the door. Then at you. Then back at the door. And then back at you.

“You said you were not going to be home tonight.”

You don’t respond, even though you’re trying to come up with something, and just look straight at the other man. An almost catty look on his face, flat, red hair, and large eyes. He was so cool. You figured if he was a model, he’d be cast for practically anything.

“This is Tendou. He’s been staying here a couple of nights. He’ll be in Tokyo for a couple of weeks,” Ushijima introduces, as the other male smiles with curiosity plastered on his face.

“Hey, hey! I am the wonderful Satori Tendou! Sorry for intruding on your home these past couple of days—I told Wakatoshi to tell you, but he’s been trying to keep us from meeting. That’s not so nice, is it? You were always a quiet little brute.”

That’s when it all starts coming down to you. You can’t even come up with a response because you realize that you’ve gotten it all wrong from the beginning. 

It wasn’t even a woman who was over these past couple of nights; it was a man. And Ushijima’s friend from high school, out of all people. Well, you couldn’t really blame yourself since Ushijima never talked about his “friends”.

Clenching your fingers against your palm, you glance over at Ushijima without a reply.

“She’s—”

“My wife,” Ushijima interrupts firmly, looking back at you when your eye slightly twitches to his comment.

“Well, I know that much, at least,” Tendou remarks, running his hand through his hair.

You sigh, shuffling over to the table in your slippers as you approach your husband.

“You know, you didn’t have to hide him from me if he was staying over. Could’ve just told me and saved me all this trouble,” you mumbled the last part, walking over to the kitchen to reach for your tea set, “did you want some tea, Tendou?”

Tendou affirmed positively while Ushijima nodded along to your scolding, watching as you poured water into the kettle. 

“I apologize, Y/n. I originally did not want to make you uncomfortable, so I was trying to refrain from bringing Tendou over when you were here. Unfortunately, he has overextended his stay in Tokyo and has nowhere to go, so I have been housing him for a couple of nights.”

“I see,” you glance over at your husband and his friend, exhaling in relief as you prepare the teapot, “Ushijima, could you come over for a second?” 

Like it was routine, Ushijima didn’t ask questions and walked over to you almost immediately, standing next to you as if he’d done it a hundred times before.

You couldn't tell what he was thinking, and you didn't think he could tell what you were either. In all honesty, you didn't know what to say or do. Laugh? Reassure him? Punch him? Maybe, not punch him—but you were conflicted. All the information at once, and all your embarrassment flowing at once, which you could feel rising to your cheeks.

But you opened your mouth, shifting your expression to your husband's expression.

“If you have people over, you can just tell me. I’ll give you the space, you know,” you suggested, inching closer to him to murmur, “and if you bring women over, just tell me. I’d rather hear it from you.”

Ushijima’s face slightly shifts from your last comment, but not enough for you to tell what he was thinking. He glances back at your face, you two locking eye contact.

It was moments like these (they rarely happened), where you two would stare at each other and not say anything. As if, you were trying read each other's minds, when both of you knew it was impossible. At least, mostly for you, when your abnormally disciplined husband would rarely even crack a smile.

Yet, this time, he cracked first.

“I will be more mindful in the future, so you are not confused,” Ushijima comments, holding out his hands in front of you without another word.

Confused, you put down the cups and put your hands in his, awkwardly trying to convince Tendou that you two are somewhat of a married couple.

“Y/n, the cups. I can bring them over.”

“Oh,” you mouthed, quickly going over to hand the cups to him as he walked back to the table.

Turning back to the kettle, you sigh in embarrassment, squeezing your eyes as you blink away the entire misunderstanding. You can’t tell which one you’re more embarrassed by—thinking he was having a romantic partner over at your place or reaching for his hands as if he was truly your lover.

“Also, Tendou knows of our arrangements,” Ushijima comments as he approaches you from behind, taking the hot teapot you prepared, instinctively causing you to glance over at his smiley friend, who sat smiling at you. 

You nod, somewhat feeling like a weight was lifted off your shoulders.

.   .   .

“Oh god—this is gold! You’re kidding, right, Y/n? Please tell me you’re not, though—it’d be so much funnier!”

On the other side of the phone, Mei cackles, wiping the tears from her eyes as you roll your eyes, fidgeting with the velvet box that was sitting at the edge of your desk.

“Oh, shut up, Mei. You’re the one who encouraged me to find out who he was really bringing over at night—I blame you for making me curious.”

Okay, well, that was just an excuse. You knew you wanted to find out yourself, but Mei’s influence certainly did encourage you to pursue the measures to find out who Ushijima was truly bringing over at night. Only, it wasn’t an “affair” as Mei liked to refer to it as, and just his best friend from high school.

“I’m just in shock that that’s all it was! You were so sure it was a girl, too!”

“Okay, well, he was being incredibly secretive,” you argued, opening the velvet box in front of you with a smile on your face.

“Bet you feel a little happy that he’s not bringing a woman over, huh?” Mei teases, watching your smile form into an eyeroll.

You let out a short laugh before you even think about it, shaking your head.

“God, no! I mean—what he does with women is none of my business. It’s hard to believe someone like him would never bring a woman over, too.”

Mei hums back a laugh at your response, licking her lips as she shrugs her shoulders.

“I mean, you never know! He could be saving himself for marriage or a committed relationship. Or maybe he's secretly in love with you and just waiting for you to realize his small efforts, becoming one of the longest yearners of eternity. What a tragedy that'd be. Ooh, that was good Mei, write it down, write it down.”

You sigh at your friend's antics.

“Okay, that's definitely not happening. He’s just always going to be abnormally disciplined,” you comment, observing the gold ring you started to twirl between your fingers. The symbol of your marriage, reliant on a small ring that neither of you wore.

You peer back at your ring finger, which should be bearing the ring you held in your hand, yet it was bare.

You can’t help but think, if you had gone the traditional marriage route, would you ever be pondering in your room, thinking about the women your fake husband had over? 

Probably not, but for some twisted reason, this felt a little bit more fun.

Even if you looked like a madman, going around trying to find out who your husband was really spending his time with at night. 

“So, maybe you could introduce me to his friend?”

“Mei—he lives in Paris!”

“That’d be so good for a new novel! Long-distance European relationship—”

“It’s not happening.”

“The Writer and the Parisian. Honestly, sounds like something I’d pick up at the bookstore.”

“Use your imagination.”

© drm8ires / all rights reserved.

Your first meeting was at an after-party. Your friend brought you as a plus one after the win of an international club's win who happened to be celebrating in Japan (she was dating one of the players). A cross-industry event, where you painted a smile on your face and stood in heels for three straight hours, waiting as sports figures and celebrities talked in your face about their incredible lives.

The kind of place where everyone was always performing.

Then, you spotted him. Tall, attractive—obviously, objectively—and tucked by the bar holding a glass while somewhat present in the room. Neutral expression, combed hair, and disengaged. That's when you heard his name: Wakatoshi Ushijima, Japan's Volleyball League. 23-years-old, and supposedly single.

Since then, you had your eyes set on him.

You had also met the actor before, but found him to be too chatty and emotionally involved, which wouldn't make do for a contractural marriage. Plus, it wouldn't be good for your career if all he cared about was falling in love. So, you turned to Ushijima. Stoic. Disciplined. Respectful. And most importantly, lived up to his word.

The perfect "husband". Or close enough.

So you proposed to him. With the contract of course.

You were 90% sure you were going to be rejected, but with a pause of silence and his eyes skimming across the pages of rules, he surprisingly agreed. You didn't bother to ask questions, only accepted the win after all the time and effort it took you to find the one.

And so, you both signed on your conditions. A marriage for the very in-love husband and wife, through high rent and public scandals, may you two be together for it all.

"I suppose we should look for a place to live together in, now. As per our contract."

Ushijima stared at you, the two of you disguised in the front of the office with your very secretive sunglasses and hats.

You zipped up your jacket and adjusted your hat, then pulled out a listing on your phone you found from two days ago.

"I was thinking this place," you began, reading him the details.

"It's closer to the station, so you can get to the gym easier. Relatively private, so we don't have to worry about paparazzi for you, and there are nice amenities in this apartment if we need it. There's also many units, so it'll be hard to find us even if there were people watching, sound-proofing walls, and our unit comes with two bedrooms and two baths. I negotiated with the agent and the sellers, and because we're married now," you paused to pull out a red velvet-covered box with a scripted Cartier on the top, handing it to your now husband, "we get a couple's discount. And that's your ring, which I took it upon myself to pick out."

Ushijima stares at the red box in front of him, opening it to reveal a sleek gold ring.

"Please send me the listing, and we can discuss it soon. As for the ring, I'll pay you back the amount."

You offer him a small smile.

"I'll get to it tonight."

As you two parted your ways, you both anticipate, for the next five years, what married life will be like, with a stranger and a roommate that you know barely anything about.

It took you a couple months for the two of you to finalize moving into the new apartment. Move-in was quiet, respectful, and private. You didn't receive any help from Ushijima, and vice versa. You both agreed on curfews for when you were even in Japan, and the spontaneousness of your career. You made a shared calendar, marking the days you two would be in the home and when you weren't.

It was a quiet yet busy apartment. And it grew into routine.

The first month, you were on top of your schedule. You left at 7 AM everyday, and came back at 8 PM. But as your modeling shoots started to pile, and seven hour nights of sleep started to turn into four, you started to do things more casually. Forgetting keys, leaving doors open, leaving your laundry in the machines—a bit of everything. And Ushijima noticed.

The honest reason was you weren't as disciplined as you looked.

Even though everyone expected it from you. You carried yourself with elegance, poise—that was what every high fashion model did. You walked around the city with a strut, and a resting face that seemed like you knew everything that was happening around you. It didn't help that you were also in runways, enforcing the habit of walking around with confidence and composure.

When it came to your home, though Ushijima didn't quite care about those things. Mostly since you two rarely ran into each other long enough for you to notice anything. But even on the weekends, when you'd both be in each other's presence within the apartments, Ushijima never batted an eye at your oversized pajamas, your face masks, or your messy hair.

He'd bow on his way out, and you two would go on your separate ways for the day.

Though, you did reckon he started to be a little more on top of your ass when it came to domestic things. With someone as disciplined as him, it was a given.

"Y/n, remember to take your clothes out of the dryer."

"The throw pillows should be washed soon. I'll do that tonight."

"The dishwasher is having some issues. I'll contact a mechanic tomorrow."

"Y/n, your sheets are still drying on the balcony."

The one thing you did remember was to water your plants though, even though he was the one who originally proposed the idea of greenery to give the place a more lively atmosphere.

And so, married life did have the benefits you anticipated, aside from the shared rent. And especially with a man like Ushijima, he kept you on top of your chores, never forgot his responsibilities, and knew your schedule well.

In return, you memorized his the same, and after a couple more months, it felt like you two had reached true roommate status.

Until you started thinking about other things.

Like who he would bring over in the middle of the night.