𝜗 naia

he toes off his shoes, shoulders relaxing from practice, and calls out:

“love? I’m home.”

usually you answer immediately.

today?

silence… and a faint hum from deeper inside the house.

Sakusa walks into the living room—

and stops dead.

the couch is gone.

not moved. not pushed aside. gone.

the coffee table is gone too. the floor lamp in the corner? gone. the dining table? also gone.

the TV is on the floor like it’s been exiled from its kingdom.

Sakusa blinks slowly, arms at his sides, mask dangling from one ear.

he inhales.

exhales.

“…okay.”

he steps forward, eyes drifting across the now-almost-empty house until he sees movement. in the center of the living room, on a brand new rug he’s never seen before, is you — barefoot, vacuuming with intense focus.

you’re glowing. in a feral, nesting, “I have rearranged the whole trajectory of our lives in six hours” kind of glow.

he approaches cautiously.

“hi,” he says softly.

you turn, smiling like nothing is wrong at all. “omi! you’re home!”

his eyes flick to the vacuum, the rug, the barren house, then back to your very cheerful expression.

“…where,” he begins slowly, “is all of our furniture?”

you shrug enthusiastically. “sold it.”

“sold it,” he repeats.

“yup! today. online.”

he stares.

you look very proud.

“it wasn’t family furniture,” you explain, hands on your hips. “we need… you know… family furniture.”

“family furniture,” he echoes, trying to catch up.

“yes. furniture for a family.” your voice cracks slightly, emotion creeping in. “for… us. and the baby.”

his chest softens instantly.

because oh— that’s what this is. that feverish nesting instinct he’s read about. the one that makes you want everything to be new and clean and safe.

he drops the subject entirely.

instead?

he walks over, pulls the vacuum gently from your hands, and sets it aside.

“omi—”

“love,” he says quietly. “your feet are swollen.”

you blink. “they are?”

he kneels, takes your ankle in his hand, and brushes his thumb along the puffiness. “you’ve been on them all day.”

your face crumples with guilt. “I didn’t even notice…”

“yeah,” he murmurs, rising to kiss your temple, “I did.”

you lean into him, suddenly exhausted.

he wraps an arm around your waist, steady and warm.

“we’ll get new furniture tomorrow,” he says softly. “anything you want. baby-friendly everything. it’s fine.”

you sniff. “you’re not mad?”

“no.” he kisses your forehead. “I’m not mad. I love you. and I love the baby.” a tiny, wry smile touches his lips. “even if the baby makes you sell our entire house while I’m gone.”

you laugh, burying your face into his chest.

he holds you close, gently steering you toward the bedroom.

“come on. since you sold the couch, we’re gonna have to lie down.”

he pulls back the blankets, helps you settle in, and slides in beside you — warm arm around your belly, cheek tucked against your shoulder.

you whisper, “omi?”

“mm?”

“thank you for not freaking out.”

he kisses your shoulder softly. “my job is to keep you calm. not the other way around.”

a pause.

“besides,” he adds, dry as ever, “I actually like the rug.”

you snort, and he smiles — small, private, meant only for you.

Komori Motoya

you’re curled up on the couch, scrolling through Komori’s phone because he handed it to you to show you a meme.

except — the meme is the second item in his notes app.

the first item?

BABY NAME MASTER LIST ⭐️ curated by Komori Motoya ⭐️

your eyebrow twitches.

“Motoya,” you call, voice flat.

he pokes his head out of the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel. “yeah, babe?”

you turn the screen toward him. “what is this.”

he beams. oh no.

“my list!”

“your LIST,” you repeat, scrolling. scrolling. scrolling. “your… three. hundred. name. LIST.”

Komori trots over, plops beside you, peering at the phone with innocent pride.

“I wanted options!”

you gape at him. “Motoya, there are sections.”

“mhm!”

“‘Soft names.’ ‘Strong names.’ ‘Names that look cute on tiny jerseys.’”

he nods harder. “that one’s my favorite category.”

“‘Names with good rhymes.’”

“for lullabies!” he says, as though it’s obvious.

“‘Names that match sibling names.’ Motoya. there aren't SIBLINGS.”

he blushes deeply, rubbing the back of his neck. “yet.”

you stare.

he fidgets, cheeks pinking more by the second.

“look, I know it’s a lot, but… I got excited.”

there’s something so earnest in his voice that your irritation cracks.

you scroll again — past color-coded labels, past starred favorites, past names with notes like ‘cute’, ‘fast-sounding’, and ‘sounds like someone who would have good receives.’

you try not to smile. “you worked really hard on this.”

he shrugs, suddenly shy. “I like planning stuff. and… I want everything to be perfect for the baby.”

your chest warms.

“and for you,” he adds softly, eyes dropping. “I want to help. even if it’s with something small and silly like names.”

you lean against him, resting your head on his shoulder.

he melts instantly, nuzzling your hair.

“Motoya?”

“mm?”

“this list is insane.”

“yeah,” he says proudly, “but it’s organized.”

you laugh — and he slides his arm around you, pulling you close.

“pick any you like,” he murmurs. “or none. I’ll make a new list.”

“no more lists.”

“…one more list?”

“Motoya.”

he grins, kissing your temple.

“fine. but only because you’re cute. and pregnant. and cute while pregnant.”

you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.

and Komori looks at you like he’d make a thousand more lists if it meant making you smile like that again.

Hoshiumi Korai

you don’t tell him you’re coming.

he’s at Schweiden Alders practice, in full competitive goblin mode — diving, spiking, trash-talking people twice his size — when the gym door opens and you step inside quietly.

he sees you immediately.

he freezes mid-sprint.

eyes wide. mouth open. energy shifting like a wild animal spotting its mate.

“BABE?!”

he rockets across the court like someone fired him out of a cannon.

you laugh— right up until he gets close enough to see your hand on your lower back.

Hoshiumi screeches to a stop.

the joy gets replaced with pure horrified concern.

“what— what’s wrong? Why’re you holding your back?? Did you sit too long?? Did you stand too long?? Did someone bump you? Did a door hit you? Did you TURN WRONG???”

“Korai, I’m fine,” you laugh.

he does not laugh back.

he throws his practice towel around your shoulders like a cape, grabs your elbow, and marches you toward the bench like you’re carrying the holy grail.

“sit. sit down. SIT.”

you sit.

he crouches in front of you instantly, hands hovering over your knees like he doesn’t know whether to touch you or build a protective barrier around you.

“Korai—”

“DO YOU NEED WATER?”

“no—”

“SNACKS? I have snacks! Someone give me my bag!”

half the team watches, amused.

“MORE WATER?? OR LIKE… A MASSAGE?? OR A DOCTOR?? DO YOU NEED A DOCTOR??”

“Korai, my back is just a little sore. Normal pregnancy stuff.”

he freezes.

blinks.

then— with incredible seriousness— stands and turns toward his teammates.

“EVERYBODY SHUT UP.”

the gym goes silent.

“MY PREGNANT PARTNER’S BACK HURTS, AND YOU ARE ALL TOO LOUD.”

“what—?” one teammate starts.

“TOO. LOUD.”

they stare.

he glares.

then he spins back to you, dropping into a squat so deep and perfect it would make a gymnast shed a tear.

“okay,” he says softly, softer than you’ve ever heard him on court. “tell me how to fix it.”

your chest warms.

you brush a hand over his hair.

“I just need to sit for a minute.”

he nods fiercely.

“I’ll sit with you.”

and he does — right beside you on the bench, pressed close, one hand over your bump, the other rubbing small circles into your lower back with surprising gentleness.

“next time?” he murmurs, voice low and protective, “you call me before you walk across a whole gym alone. I’ll come get you.”

you smile, leaning into him.

and Hoshiumi Korai, tiny powerhouse of the Alders, grins like he’s exactly where he wants to be — guarding you like you’re more important than the entire league.

Hirugami Sachirō

the appointment is routine.

quick. simple. nothing dramatic — just another ultrasound check before you go home.

the tech hands you a strip of printed photos and wipes off the gel. you thank her, tuck the pictures absentmindedly into your bag, and don’t think much of it.

it’s only later that night, when you’re both sitting on the couch, that Hirugami asks softly:

“can I… see the pictures?”

you blink. “oh— yeah, of course.”

you pull the strip out and hand it over casually.

he takes it carefully, two hands, like it’s delicate. fragile. important.

and then—

he goes completely still.

his eyes soften instantly, the way they do when he sees a newborn animal at his clinic — that quiet awe that almost looks like heartbreak.

he turns the picture slightly toward the lamp, studying every tiny detail. a faint outline. a curve. a shadow that only makes sense if you know what you’re looking for.

you watch his throat move as he swallows.

“Sachirō?” you ask gently.

he doesn’t answer for a second. not because he didn’t hear you — but because he’s somewhere else entirely.

finally, he exhales.

“that’s… our baby,” he says quietly.

his voice isn’t shaky. it isn’t dramatic.

it’s reverent.

he holds the photo the way he holds rescued kittens — slow, careful, with a tenderness he rarely shows out loud.

you scoot closer, brushing your knee against his.

“yeah,” you whisper. “that’s them.”

he shakes his head faintly, like he can’t believe it.

“I know we’ve seen scans before,” he says, thumb brushing the edge of the picture, “but something about this one… it just feels real in a different way.”

you lean your head on his shoulder.

he lifts an arm instantly, pulling you into his chest.

no big inhale. no sudden squeeze.

just a gradual, gentle enveloping, like he’s been waiting to hold you like this all day.

you murmur, “are you okay?”

“yeah.” he lowers his face into your hair, breathing you in. “I’m… overwhelmed. In a good way.”

you slide your hand over his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and warm beneath your palm.

“Sachirō?”

“mm?”

“you’re going to be such a good dad.”

his breath catches — a tiny hitch, the smallest crack.

you feel it.

and then he presses a slow kiss to the top of your head, lingering there, voice dropping into something that melts every part of you.

“I just want to do right by both of you.”

you curl into him and he holds you closer, the ultrasound picture resting against your belly like he’s already introducing himself properly to the little life growing inside you.

Terushima Yuuji

you’re lying on the couch together, half-watching some dumb show you’ve both seen a hundred times. Terushima has his arm thrown around you, hand resting over your belly like it’s the most natural place in the world.

he’s talking about something completely unrelated — ranking the top ten coolest baby items he’s ever seen, number six being a tiny leather jacket he found online —

when it happens.

your belly shifts. just slightly.

then—

kick.

a real one. strong enough that you gasp softly.

Terushima goes silent.

his eyes widen. his whole body freezes like someone hit pause on him.

“babe?” you whisper.

very slowly, like he’s afraid to spook the baby, he lifts his hand from your belly then places it back down gently.

“…did they just HIT me?”

you snort. “it’s a kick, Yuuji.”

he says nothing. he’s too busy staring at your stomach like it just personally challenged him to a duel.

another kick.

Terushima inhales sharply through his nose.

okay. maybe too sharply.

“…that was— that was to me, right?” he whispers, voice cracking like a teenage boy.

you bite your lip to hold back a smile. “yeah. they’re reacting to you.”

his mouth falls open.

like he’s witnessing something sacred.

the baby kicks again — a tiny thump under his palm.

and Terushima—

breaks.

his eyes go glossy. his breath stutters. his lower lip wobbles.

you sit up a little, concerned. “Teru? hey, are you okay?”

he shakes his head violently. “no. no I’m not.”

he blinks rapidly. once. twice.

“they’re— they’re sayin’ hi,” he whispers, voice all shaky and soft and overwhelmed. “they KNOW it’s me.”

you stroke his cheek. “of course they know you.”

he sniffles.

SNIF-FLES.

Terushima Yuuji, grown man, former playboy, current menace-to-society, sniffles like a kid who just dropped his ice cream.

you smile. “are you crying?”

his head snaps up, eyes shiny, expression offended.

“NO.”

“Teru.”

“I’M NOT.”

“you’re literally crying right now—”

“I’M SWEATIN’ FROM MY EYES, BABE, LEAVE IT.”

you giggle, pulling him closer.

he presses his forehead against yours, breathing unevenly, still stunned, still overwhelmed, still trying so hard to pretend he isn’t emotional.

“they kicked me…” he murmurs again, softer this time. “…my baby kicked me.”

you kiss the tip of his nose. “yeah. they love you.”

his face crumples in the BEST way — all soft edges and warmth and pride he doesn’t know how to contain.

and he holds you closer, hand firm over your belly, waiting for another kick like it’s the greatest honor he’s ever been given.

Meian Shūgo

you’re exhausted.

not the dramatic kind — the slow, heavy, full-body tired that comes from a day of just… existing while pregnant. your shoulders ache, your lower back pulls, your belly feels heavier than usual. and even lifting your arms to wash your hair feels like too much.

you stand in the warm shower, shampoo in your hands, staring at your reflection in the steamed-over glass, trying to convince yourself you have the energy.

you start scrubbing.

your arms burn almost immediately.

you grit your teeth, trying again, trying to push through — because it’s just washing your hair. you used to do this in thirty seconds. you used to never think twice.

you don’t hear Meian open the bathroom door.

you only notice when his voice — that low, steady rumble — comes from behind the curtain.

“baby…?”

you jump slightly. “I’m fine. Just— my arms are tired.”

there’s a pause.

then the curtain pulls back a few inches and his warm, worried face peeks in, hair still damp from his own shower earlier.

“move forward,” he says gently. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Shūgo—”

“love,” he murmurs, stepping inside before you can protest, “let me.”

he kisses your temple — slow, grounding — then reaches for the shampoo bottle like he’s done this a thousand times.

his hands are huge. warm. gentle.

he rubs the shampoo between his palms first, warming it, then brings his hands to your hair.

and the moment his fingers slide into your scalp, you exhale.

not just a regular breath — the kind that leaves your whole body, the kind that makes your knees soften.

he massages carefully, slow circles at your temples, then your crown, then the base of your skull.

his voice is low against your ear.

“you’ve been pushing yourself all day.”

you blink tiredly. “how do you know?”

he hums.

“the way you held your shoulders. the way you walked. the way you didn’t come sit on my lap while I was reading.”

your cheeks warm. “you noticed that?”

“of course I noticed.” his thumbs sweep down behind your ears. “I always notice you.”

you lean back into his chest, letting the water run through your hair as he rinses it. every movement is patient, controlled — like he’s afraid of hurting you, even though he never would.

he takes conditioner next, working it through the ends in slow, methodical strokes.

you close your eyes. “this feels so nice…”

he presses a kiss to your damp shoulder. “good.”

after rinsing, he wraps his arms around you from behind, hands sliding over your belly with a quiet reverence that makes your heart ache.

“next time?” he murmurs into your neck. “call me before you get this tired.”

“you were at practice…”

“and you come before practice.”

the words hit you — gentle, certain, absolute.

he kisses your cheek, then your jaw, then rests his forehead against the side of your head as the water rains down around you.

“you’re doing so much,” he whispers. “let me do the rest tonight.”

you turn in his arms and let him hold you, his big hands splayed across your back and belly like he’s shielding both of you from the world.

and in that quiet, steamy warmth, with his heartbeat steady against your cheek, you melt completely — safe, loved, cared for.