ive🏐

The difference is… noticeable.

And somehow that makes your face hotter than it should.

“Huh,” you say, way too quietly.

Sugawara hums like he’s considering something important. Then, gently, he shifts his hand so his fingers brush against yours—measuring without actually measuring, just feeling the comparison, then he gently takes your hand, lining up your palms. His hand is definitely bigger than yours, and your heart is in your throat.

“You’re smaller than I expected,” he says casually, like he didn’t just rearrange your entire nervous system.

Then he smiles. “It’s cute.”

You immediately regret everything.

Kuroo Tetsurou

He notices before you even say anything.

“You’re doing that thing,” Kuroo says, leaning back in his chair with that irritatingly confident grin. You pause, then look at him. “What thing?”

His eyes flickers to your hand. “The staring-at-my-hand thing.”

You scoff, but you’re already caught. “I’m not— I was just—”

“Curious?” he supplies, dragging the word out like he’s entertained by you already. Before you can escape the conversation, he leans forward, elbow on the table, and casually flips his hand palm-up between you both. “Go on then,” he says. “Compare.”

You hesitate for half a second too long.

That’s all he needs.

He shifts closer, resting his hand next to yours like he’s done this a hundred times just to mess with people. His fingers are longer, warmer, and annoyingly steady.

“You’re thinking too hard,” he says, watching your expression instead of your hands.

“I’m not thinking at all,” you lie.

“Sure,” he replies, smirking.

Then—just to make things worse—he lightly hooks his pinky around yours.

“Mine’s bigger,” he adds, smug as ever.

You immediately pull away, cheeks flushing. “I think it’s obvious enough without doing that.”

Kuroo laughs like he had just figured something out, and you already know from that grin that he really did.

Osamu Miya

It’s you who brings it up, in the middle of lunchtime, but only because the silence between you two feels too comfortable to waste.

“Let me see your hand,” you say suddenly.

Osamu pauses mid-bite of his onigiri.

He stares at you. “Why?”

“I just want to.”

That seems to be enough for him. He doesn't tease, nor comment on it. Osamu just sets his food down and holds out his hand like it’s nothing important.

You place yours beside it.

And immediately notice how small yours looks.

“…Huh,” you mutter.

Osamu glances down, then back at you. “What?”

“Nothing. Just… yours is kind of big.”

He shrugs. “I work with food all day. Prob’ly helps.”

You’re still staring when he turns his hand slightly, palm brushing yours—not dramatic, not teasing. Just aligning them properly like he’s actually trying to understand what you’re looking at.

His fingers curl once, absentminded.

Then he says, like it’s obvious: “Yours fits nice though.”

You blink. “What does that even mean?”

“It means what it means,” he replies, already reaching for his onigiri again.

But his ears are a little pink when he says it.

A groan rumbles in your throat as your eyes creak open. You hadn't meant to doze off. You've just been even more tired than usual, with a sudden influx of missions and written reports to balance between.

Part of you briefly feels bitter at the reminder of the last few missions you've had this week. They've taken away more time from you than you would've liked. It's been putting a limit on your time with Rafayel, much to both of your dismay. Though maybe a little more for him, if the pretty words he's been using to try to entice you to stay in his arms are any indication, to which he's had varying success (and only adds to his despair whenever you push him aside). Despite how much you want to relent and give in, you have to stand your ground. Sometimes, at least.

A displeased grunt leaves you. You should've gone to see him today. You were so tired, though, and far too spent to gather the energy to head all the way over to his place, wanting to seek refuge in the comfort of welcoming sheets as soon as you were dismissed. Now you wish that you could've taken a nap with him, though. Ugh.

As you silently mourn the chance loss, you instinctively reach for your phone.

Your eyes widen to an almost comical degree when you turn it over.

Twenty-three missed calls.

You don't even open the collection of texts piling on top of one another, your eyes barely latching onto the last few of the bunch as you scroll down. You brief a few of them, from please pick up soon and im omw over rn dont you dare leave your place (dont question how ik you're home rn kk bye).

The sudden panic building in your stomach sparks. You hardly spare the time to process them as you scramble to hit call on one of the missed attempts, hastily springing back to your tired feet to start preparing for the worst.

The first ring doesn't even finish its tune before he picks up.

"Rafayel," you hissed. You struggle for a moment, cursing under your breath as one of your well-used guns tumbles from your grasp through your distress. "What's wrong? Please tell me you're okay—"

"You got me a ring?"

"…Huh?"

Your mind completely halts. Nothing processes.

"In the mail," he breathes, ignorant of your dumbfoundment. You hear the distant sound of a swerving car in the background. "I swear that I actually didn't mean to open it. Well, alright, that's a lie, since I did mean to because you've asked me to open your packages for you the last few times you sent them here, so I decided—"

Wait. Wait. No. No, that can't be right. A sudden, cold feeling builds in the pit of your stomach as you gradually stop listening, because what?

Yes, you had a ring custom-made, molded to fit the build of his finger perfectly, with small but invaluable words engraved along its interior where they would press their reverent promise against his skin. Yes, you've been waiting since the day you were notified that its finalized form was on its way, impatiently fidgeting in what felt like every damn second, your nerves alight.

What it was absolutely not meant to do is be sent to him directly, because you were going to wait for when the moment aligned for it (in how long, you really didn't know: days? months? years? whenever the tide was right and your anxiety would dwindle enough to allow it, so probably forever), so you don't know why it would have gone directly to him when—

When you almost always ship your purchases to his place. Which is what you've been doing ever since he offered his house as a shelter for your things after you resided in how crammed your own place has become. So you likely didn't even think about the address you input, with impulse, and your head full of equal parts unrest and spellbound thoughts of what the future holds for you two, causing an error in your usual sharpness that would have otherwise made you double and triple check.

For a moment, your arms drop to your sides as you still.

Ah.

Well then. It's not like there's any use in denying it now, is there? Never mind how your heart is beating rapidly against the enclosure of your ribcage so vigorously, despite how irrational its aggression is. Your heart pounds tensely to the beat of familiar doubt, as if it doesn't know the answer to the question that's stuck itself against the roof of your mouth, waiting with a facade of patience to mask the restlessness that's been hiding beneath each layer of your skin since you had the damn thing made.

No, never mind all of that, because now it's also just setting in that he's accelerating on the road to get to you like a madman.

"For the love of everything," you grit through your lingering panic, pressing the phone back against your ear. "Focus on the road, Raf!"

"Focus, they say," he mutters incredulously, like you were the insane one here. "Focus. Like every crevice of my soul isn't beckoning me towards the call of your own to get to you faster than these stupid streets allow. Focus!"

He scoffs, but then there's a tilt in his voice. Something unbearably delicate leaks through his mock dramatics, soft, firm, yet unsteady, somehow all at once. "I'm focused on what actually matters, cutie, and that's getting to you, now, so that you can answer the question and tell me exactly what this means."

For a moment, you don't say anything. Yet, in your silence, something in you loosens in the wake of his own anxious hope even as he attempts to veil it with his pushiness.

"You know what it means," you eventually land on, because nothing else feels right to say. Not until he's in front of you.

"Yeah?" he asks. The lilt in his tone is still there, yet it sounds maintained. Like he's trying to ground himself. "I'm not so sure. I think I need my bodyguard to help me decipher it. I think I need to know if we agree on my thesis here."

He's teasing you, but you know it runs deeper than that. You can hear it. It doesn't matter how he tries to conceal it or if he tries to spin it back to you. Beneath the playfulness, you don't miss the emotion outlining the edges of his voice, and quietly realize that he must be feeling that same temporal, misguided dread. As if you would ever even think to give him this kind of false hope. As if your question and his answer, the one you know is waiting for you, would be anything other than what you're thinking right now.

There's a resolved shift in your heart. It barely slows, still thump thump thump-ing in its awareness, yet the mood of it swings as it's grounded in the certainty of what it already knew in its depths.

It just needed a quick reminder of the devotion that's long been embedded in it.

In your heart's confidence in the answer, your voice settles enough to lend to something more teasing, yet the tenderness of your affection seeps through.

"You're in luck," you start. "Because I think I can help you prove it. So, do me a favor and don't crash before I get the chance to ask you something really important when you get here, alright?"

There's a sharp intake of breath on the other end. A moment passes, then another, before you hear the shaky sigh that follows, sounding close to relief. In the backdrop of your mind, you take note of it and resolve to make sure that there'll be no more room for doubt of your loyalty when he gets here.

Something flutters warmly in your chest. You'll have all the time in the world to show even more of your love for him, and he for you.

"Got it, cutie," he finally wavers, nearly breathless. Somehow, you get the sense that he's grinning like an absolute love-stricken fool.

If your lips can't help but twitch to do the same, then, well. That's entirely for him to see when he gets here, and for him alone.

Trinity rolls her eyes, standing up from her seat as she starts tugging on your arm as well, while Victoria nervously glances around the bar, trying not to get kicked out because you’ve had too much to drink.

You stand up abruptly, faster than a drunk person should be able to move, which sends them tumbling into each other. Chugging down the rest of your drink, the dayshifters can only watch in horror as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand– a loopy grin forming on your face.

"Whadd’ya say this is called? Blue Lagoon? Get me anotha’ round of ‘em– for the ‘lot!” you exclaim, and Mel quickly shoots a glance at the bartender, shaking her head as she does a cutting motion with her hand.

“No, no– she- she doesn't mean that!”

“Yup, I defffinitely do– mmph!” A hand clamps over your mouth before you can continue bankrupting yourself at 10 PM on a Tuesday. Blinking, you’re met with Dennis’ sweaty face, a painful smile forced onto his face.

Of course, staying silent while a hand is physically blocking your mouth is only optional. 

Licking his palm, you sigh in content when he finally lets go.

Dennis jerks his hand back, eyes widening in horror at the slick trail of saliva now streaked across it.

“Oh what the fu–”

“I wanna’ dance,” you garble, stumbling on your feet as you shake off the hands gripping your frame.

“Absolutely not,” Trinity snaps immediately, already bracing herself as you attempt a very ambitious spin that ends in you nearly concussing yourself and her.

You pout, swaying awkwardly as you roll your eyes dramatically.

“But I feel the music!” you exclaim, and do a…shimmy?

“There’s literally no music playing,” Victoria mutters quietly, shrugging when Samira shoves her shoulder lightly. “What? It’s true, I mean– it’s a Tuesday– who gets blackout drunk on a–”

“Well…she did say she’s been having a rough week at work,” Mel softly interrupts, a gentle frown on her face as she watches Trinity wrestle yet another drink you’ve magically gotten, out of your hands.

Victoria grows silent, a slight regretful look on her face. 

Though whatever apology you might have gotten is long forgotten when you start doing the robot.

“There’s music in my bones– c’mon fruitcake, dance with me!” you holler, and Dennis sinks further into the wall, unable to watch anymore. 

He needed to look away if he wanted to be able to give you a semblance of respect tomorrow.

Samira sighs, giving you a pitiful smile.

“New plan– how about we head home, honey?” she speaks as gently as she can, slowly lowering your flailing arms, trying to preserve some of your dignity.

“No!” you gasp like she was suggesting something criminal, “We just got here–”

“No, we just got here– you’ve been here since 7 PM,” Trinity mutters, already reaching for your bag.

You can feel her irritation, despite the overflow of alcohol in your system right now.

Suddenly– you halt– slumping back in your chair as your lower lip wobbles, pathetic sniffles escaping you.

A collective, panicked rambling ensues, trying to prevent a drunken disaster.

“Oh no–”

“Hey, come on– you’re fine!”

“We– we were just joking–” Samira rushes, immediately crouching in front of you, hands cupping your face as your expression crumples further.

Your eyes glass over, lashes clumping together as your breathing hitches– dramatic and shaky, a complete overreaction.

“No you weren’t,” you mumble while shaking your head adamantly, voice thick. “You guys hate me!”

“We do not hate you,” Trinity says quickly, crouching beside you now too, her usual bite completely gone. “You’re just like, really drunk,”

“And kind of embarrassing,” Victoria adds quickly, before shrugging helplessly at the glares she receives “...But like, in a cute way!” she amends weakly.

That does not help.

A sob wracks through your body, and Mel looks about three seconds away from getting an Uber home and spending the entire ride looking at lava lamps. 

“I– I just–” you whimper, breath catching in your throat, “I’ve had a bad week–”

Dennis exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face before stepping closer. “Yeah, we know–”

You shake your head again, sniffing loudly.

“No– everyone keeps, like, leaving mid-conversation, or saying they’ll text and then not texting and– and I think this one guy blocked me before I even finished writing–” you babble, hiccuping in between words. 

“Honey, that’s not on you,” Samira quickly responds, her patient satisfaction skills working overtime. “They’re idiots– you’re a total catch!”

Despite your tear streaked face and bloodshot eyes– with mascara running down your face and your sorry attempt of reapplying your lipstick smudged way past the lines of your lips–  a soft, hopeful smile wobbles onto your face.

“Really?”

The four remaining dayshifters quickly perk up at the glare Samira, once again, sends them over her shoulder, a chorus of agreements suddenly being heard.

“Of course!”

“You’re, like, super smart too–”

“Y-yes, you’re a stunner!”

“Beautiful, honestly–”

You sniff, eyes darting between them like you’re trying to decide if they’re lying or telling the truth. Not that you would be able to tell anyways.

“…You’re not just saying that?” you ask, voice small, hesitant in a way that makes all of them soften instantly, despite the one man circus you’ve been running for the past few hours.

“Of course not!” Samira reassures, wiping the makeup smudging under your eyes. The rest of the group nods adamantly, Mel reaching for your bag, while Victoria grabbed your jacket, Trinity and Dennis already taking hold of each of your arms

You squirm out of their grip, stumbling on your feet.

“Okay…we can go, I just– I really need to pee…” you swallow thickly, wiping the snot from your nose.

Once they see the queasy look on your face and the drops of sweat forming on your forehead, they stop fussing– keeping you at arms length while they lead you towards the bathroom in the back.

“Are you sure you’re okay in there?” you hear Mel call out, though slightly muffled from the door you slammed shut in your hunt to find the nearest toilet to spill your guts into.

“Mmph– m’fine–” you manage to force out, before another wave of nausea washes over you, forcing your head back into the toilet bowl.

You hear the footsteps retreating over the sound of your heart beating in your ears, and end up slumping against the cool tile wall, sitting on the disgusting bathroom floor.

Groaning, you weakly tug on your phone that's currently digging into your hip– making the position even more uncomfortable than it already is.

You sink back against the cold porcelain, gaze unfocused when they land back on your phone.

Rubbing your bleary eyes, you grab it staring at the apparatus in your hands.

“Piece of crap, stupid assholes…” you snivel, angrily tapping on your screen as you scroll through the endless amounts of names in your contact list. “You–you’re all jerks!”

Your thumb keeps sliding across the screen, vision blurring every few seconds as fresh tears gather.

“Don’t need any of you,” you mumble stubbornly, hiccuping as your head thunks back against the toilet seat. “I have plenty of options,”

Your phone nearly slips from your grip before you fumble it back, squinting at the glowing names that refuse to stay still.

One contact catches your eye.

Jake.

One of your recent failures that spent the entirety of the date rambling about his failed career as an professional athlete, because of an injury he got in high school. 

When you explained to him that a sprained finger doesn’t result in never being able to play soccer again, he– for some reason– got upset and stormed off, leaving you with the bill.

You suspect he did it on purpose.

“Tch…he had the nerve to tell me I’m boring? I- I’m a fucking doctor– I need to tell that piece of shit he’s the boring one, I’m not boring at all–” you mutter lowly, a sudden determination in your veins as you tap on the call button.

Bringing it to your ear, you listen to the ringback– and the call connects within seconds.

Oh. You didn’t think he’d actually pick up.

“Hello–”

“Pfft…don’t ‘hello’ me you…you boring asshole!” you slur, words sticking together as you try and sit up straighter against the wall.

“I think you have the wrong numb–”

“Oh yeah? Real mature Jake–  I have the wrong number? I can’t believe you left me with the bill after I went with a salad and you ordered the fucking steak–”

“I think you should take another look at who you’re speaking to right now,” a gruff voice interrupts, and you falter for a moment. 

Huh, you think to yourself, Jake’s voice managed to get a lot deeper in a week.

You scoff, struggling to keep yourself upright as you start sliding down the wall again. 

“Geez, that sooooo scary– “

“I’m not Jake,” the voice huffs out, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was laughing at you.

You groan as you pull the phone from your ear, only doing it so that you can prove your point, before staring down at the called ID.

Jack Abbot.

“It literally says–” the words die on your tongue as you do a double take, bringing the phone back down from your ear and blinking at the screen

Jack Abbot–

You scramble to press the phone back to your ear, nearly dropping it in the process.

“I– Doctor Abbot?”

The line goes quiet for a few seconds, and in your drunken state of mind, you almost think he’s hung up on you. But then, you hear the sounds of sheets rustling on the other end, and a soft grunt as he speaks into the phone again.

“So, this Jake guy, huh? Seems like a real jerk,” 

You sniffle softly slowly letting yourself sink down against the wall again.

“Yeah…he was,”

“You okay, kid?”

“M’fine, my head’s just pounding” you mutter slowly, before sighing– immediately bouncing to the next subject. “You know, you have it so much easier, Doctor Abbot–”

“Jack,” he reprimands softly, and you adjust promptly, scoffing into the speaker.

“Whatever, Jack– you– you have, like, women throwing themselves at you from every corner!”

“Where did you get that idea from?” Jack replies, voice low, rough with sleep but unmistakably amused.

“Uhm, hello– do we not work at the same hospital? I’ve seen the way people go– Oh yes handsome doctor man– please save me–“ you say, voice pitching up as you reenact an overdramatized interaction that Jack can’t recall ever having. 

“And you’ve witnessed this happening?” his raspy voice crackles through the speaker and you subconsciously find yourself pressing yourself closer to the device, blinking sluggishly where you’re draped across the floor.

“I’m a victim of it, baby–” your voice comes through in a horrible southern accent, and Jack lets out a surprised laugh, which in turn makes you giggle as well, the sound echoing around the empty bathroom.

Jack Abbot is a fifty-year-old war veteran and amputee, currently laughing into his phone like some love struck teenager.

He’s been married once, then widowed. He’s been on the ledges of buildings, and pulled himself away from them– he’s lived an entire life keeping his guard up– only to have every wall he’s ever built torn down by his twenty-something-year-old, resident, currently in a drunken fit of giggles on the other end of his phone. 

At the realisation of how fucking stupid he should feel, his chuckles falter, eventually reaching an end, and the sound of your uneven breathing is all thats heard from the speaker of his phone, currently echoing in his otherwise silent room.

Jack knows better.

He knows he should probably hang up, to let you get home and forget all about this– to see you at work tomorrow and pretend like you didn’t shake his whole world view from just one phone call.

“Christ– how much have you had tonight?” he finds himself asking instead, ignoring the way his stomach stirs at the sound of your heavy breaths.

There’s a small pause on the other end, before another one of your soft giggles breaks it.

“That's not important,” you mumble, words slow and syrupy, like they’re melting together.

Jack huffs quietly, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself.

“Somehow, I doubt that,”

“Mmm,” you hum, shifting slightly. There's the faint sound of fabric dragging against tile, a soft thud like your shoulder bumps the wall again before you sigh loudly. “This is so not helping my crush on you,”

Jack freezes where he’s sitting against his headboard– heart thudding so loudly in his chest he’s thankful you’re drunk– convinced you might have heard it otherwise. 

“Alright, I think it’s time we–” he begins, only to be cut off by you.

“What, like you didn’t know? You’re like, the hottest man I’ve ever seen, I can barely even speak to you at work–”

Jack should not be feeling as smug as he is right now, sitting up straighter in bed at your words.

He needs to hear more.

“Yeah? I— is that why you keep avoiding me? You think I’m hot?” he finds himself asking, the words foreign on his tongue. He’s swallowing thickly in suspense as he awaits your answer.

It’s sick, honestly— the way he’s using your drunkenness to satiate his own greed, but Jack never claimed to be a righteous man.

If anything, he’d happily throw all his years of discipline and restraint away if it meant having you.

You snort, rolling your eyes at his words. In your intoxicated state of mind, his words don’t register as amused or particularly curious— just disbelieving, which you can not have.

“Pfft, seriously? You’re acting like you don’t walk around practically beggin’ for it in that SWAT-uniform,”

Jack laughs again, the sound crackling from your speaker.

“You’ve been thinking of me in my SWAT-gear?”

“Are you kidding? I love that stupid thing–”

A loud knock on the bathroom door interrupts your rambling, and you turn towards the noise sluggishly. Your phone drops to the floor just as the door opens, and Samira Mohan is the first to rush over at the sight of you sprawled over the bathroom floor.

“Holy shit– are you okay? Did you fall–”

“Wha– no, I just got tired…” you mumble, wriggling out of her hold on your shoulders. You let out a grunt, trying to reach your phone, but the dayshifters seem to have a different idea.

“Yeah, okay, time to go Frank Gallagher!” Trinity huffs, grabbing your arm as she and Victoria pull you to your feet. You lean your weight on them, motioning weakly towards your phone on the floor.

“Need…need my phone–” you mumble, arm flopping uselessly in its direction. “Wait– hold on, he’s still–”

“What?” Trinity frowns, following your half-hearted gesture before spotting it on the tile. “Oh, for fuck’s sake– huckleberry, grab her phone so we can go already!”

Dennis narrowly avoids your swaying figure, before he bends down and  picks your phone up off the ground. As soon as he grabs it, the screen flickers on, revealing an ongoing call.

Dennis reads the name on the screen, before his face drops, a panicked look forming on it as his head snaps up towards the rest of the group.

Samira is the first to notice, pausing in her action of wiping the dried vomit from your chin.

“What?”

“I– uh–” he stutters, looking between the phone and you, who’s currently wrapping yourself around Trinity, koala style.

“Don’t – uh– fuckleberry, move!” Trinity snaps, trying to keep you upright as you sag further into her shoulder.

“No, I,” Dennis continues to look between the phone and you, then back again, his expression twisting into something between horror and disbelief. “She’s…on a call,”

“So?” Victoria mutters. “Hang it up!”

“I don’t think I can!” he half whispers- half yells back at them, before turning the screen so that they can read.

Trinity lets out a disbelieving laugh looking down at you with an impressed look on her face as she holds you firmer against her.

“Holy shit– you’ve got balls!”

Dennis pales even further, clearly the only one worried about his future career as a doctor, now that his friend, and he says that very lightly after tonight, has drunk dialed their boss.

As in, the night shift attending they so frequently bump into at work.

Snatching the phone, Samira promptly presses the mute button, before looking around the room.

“Fuck– what do we do? Do we hang up?”

“We can’t just hang up!” Victoria exclaims, eyes wide. “...Can we?”

“I don’t think that's a good idea– hasn’t he already heard us on the phone?” Mel chimes in, only to frantically wave her hands around at the way everyone seems to further panic. “Or maybe he hasn’t! I just– I mean, since he hasn’t hung up, maybe he’s just…waiting for confirmation that she’s okay?”

The room seems to still at that, the rest of the group letting out a collective exhale.

Samira nods, still holding the phone as far away from her as possible, like it's an explosive.

“Okay– yeah, I mean– that makes sense. We can do that. Just…go ahead!” she waves the phone, motioning for someone to grab it.

No one steps forwards.

“Come on guys, we need to say something,” she laughs awkwardly, smile faltering when nobody moves again. “...Guys?”

“Jesus fucking Christ– give it to me!” Trinity sneers, snatching the phone out of Samira’s grip, dumping you onto Dennis, who scrambles to catch you before you face plant onto the floor.

She takes a deep breath, glancing across the room before pressing the unmute button, clearing her throat.

“Doctor Abbot?”

You wake up in cold sweats, neck cramping from where it’s bent uncomfortably on the armrest of the couch.

The feeling of your head spinning as you try and sit up, causes you to clutch it– your stomach grumbling loudly. Your eyes adjust to the darkness of the room, and you quickly realize you're in Trinity and Dennis’ apartment. Below you, Samira is passed out on the floor, Victoria on the armchair next to the couch. Mel must have taken the first chance she could to go home.

Good for her, your mind echoes.

Blindly reaching beside you, you feel for your phone, wincing when the screen lights up and the time flashes.

05:36 AM

Great, at least now you could try and cure this hangover before work.

Pushing yourself off the couch, you almost fall flat on your face as you try and avoid stepping on your friend whose long limbs are stretched across the space between the coffee table and couch.

Finally, you manage to make it past without waking anyone, pressing on your temples as you feel your way towards the bathroom, blinking blearily when you turn the light on.

What greets you in the mirror is a horrid sight– you, but after a night out. 

“Fuck me,” you mutter in disbelief, reaching up to touch your face. 

Your hair was a tangled mess, looking more like a bird's nest than something you have on your head, your makeup– what was left of it– had been smudged across your face, like you’d taken your makeup bag and just shoved your face in there.

At least you didn’t feel nauseous, but the thought leads you to wonder over just how hard your friends had to work to get you home last night.

Tip-toeing into the kitchen, you take the first of many aspirins that day.

The five of you walk into the ER, each one clutching a bottle of gatorade in one hand, and an iced coffee in the other.

You’re sporting a pair of sunglasses, and Dennis’ eyes somehow look even more sunken in than usual.

Victoria’s hair is sticking out of the ponytail she lamely attempted to throw together, and Samira just looks unfairly put together– ready as ever to work.

Trinity is the last to walk in, shivering into the collar of her jacket she’s pulled up over her lower face.

Robby stands by the patient board, eyes quickly moving over his residents– before stopping as he realizes the state you’re all in.

“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me,” he says, a wry cackle escaping him as his hands land on his hips, looking like a disappointed father.

You groan, shielding your already covered eyes from his glare.

“Please, Robby– I’ve already been verbally berated today,” you utter quietly, not trying to send Trinity into another fit of rage.

“Yeah, because you–” Trinity starts up again, only to be led towards the lockers by Dennis, her spew of insults fading away.

You dump your backpack under the desk, then slump over the counter, pressing the space between your eyebrows.

“Alright– is there anyone except Doctor Mohan that’s ready to work today?” Robby sighs, rubbing his forehead.

You glare weakly at him, straightening up.

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” you say firmly, though the slight tremble in your chin makes him sigh again.

“You’re on triage,” he points directly at you, and you splutter, trying to plead your case.

“But–”

“No buts!” his tone sharpens, “When you walk in like some kind of hungover “Breakfast Club”, you don’t get to choose your cases, and since I have a pretty good idea of who the bad influence was– you’re in triage!” Robby interjects, before grabbing your bag and then your shoulder, steering you towards the lockers. 

“Change your clothes, and if I hear that you’ve gone to the bathroom more than twice in an hour– you’re done for today– got it?” he gives you a menacing smile– then drops it immediately, walking back to start handoffs.

“I’m Michael Robinovitch– I’m the boss–” you mock, shoving your bag into the locker and slamming it shut with way more force than necessary. 

When you turn back towards the entrance, a yelp escapes you at the sight of the nightshift attending, standing by the doorway.

“Shit– you scared me Doctor Abbot!” you say through nervous laughter, hoping he didn’t just hear you make fun of his oldest friend. 

Instead, Jack leans against the entrance, toned arms crossing over his chest as his eyes roam your frame, studying your slow blinking and sluggish movements.

“How are you? Is your head feeling alright?” 

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion– did you look that hungover?

“Uh, fine, thanks. How’s yours…?” you ask awkwardly, 

“My head?” he repeats, a breathy laugh rumbling in his chest, “My head is fine,”

“Oh,” you blink, lips stretching into a thin-lipped smile as you nod. “That’s good,”

There's a beat of silence, before you shift on your feet, grabbing your zip up hoodie from the locker and clearing your throat.

“Well, I should probably…ya’ know…” you motion with your thumb vaguely towards the door. Then, just as you start to step past him, his hand shoots out, grabbing your arm and holding you in place.

His gaze lands on your forehead, more specifically, the redness above your eyebrow. In an instant, he’s sandwiching you against the locker, eyebrows furrowed as he runs his thumb over the scar.

“What’s that?”

Your breath catches at the sudden closeness, your back pressing flat against the cool metal of the lockers. Wincing at the reminder, you watch as his jaw clenches at the sound, giving you a slight nudge on the chin as he forces you to hold his gaze. 

“It’s nothing, Doctor Abbot–”

“That’s not nothing,” he mutters, his thumb brushing over the tender spot again, slower this time, like he’s testing how much it hurts. His brows knit tighter, jaw flexing. “Did someone do this to you?”

“What? No–”

“Are you sure?” he presses, gripping your chin as you try and avoid his gaze once again. “Hey– eyes on me. I need you to give me an answer,” 

You pause, overwhelmed by his sudden overflow of concern, and Jack takes that personally.

He looks about ready to drag you out of the ER and home, if you don’t give him an answer within the next minute–

“Yeah!” you say quickly, then correct yourself. “ I mean, yes– we all just had a little too much to drink last night, I must have just banged my head or something," 

 He watches for a second longer than necessary, and you can feel the doubt in his eyes. 

“I swear” you say, softer this time as you try to reassure him, though you don’t know why he suddenly cares this much.

Jack lets out a controlled sigh, biting his lip to keep himself from saying something he might regret– then let’s go, stepping just far enough so you still have to squirm to get past him.

“Alright, then. Go ahead,”

You nod, a little dazed and lingering for a moment, before walking into the ER.

Jack watches as the crowd of people working swallows you up, only slumping against the lockers when you’re out of sight.

Pressing a hand to his chest, he rubs gently– the pounding in his chest rivaling the one he only gets when working under active fire.

“Have you talked to Abbot yet?”

Victoria Javadi walks into the break room around noon, just as you’re downing your second aspirin of the day.

The memory of him pressing you against the locker flashes in your mind. His warm touch, his concerned gaze– the way his voice grumbled so low you were sure you could somehow feel it in your chest–

Grimacing as you down the painkiller, you shake your head.

“Doctor Abbot? Why would I do that?”

Victoria pauses halfway through opening the fridge, slowly turning to look at you with a perturbed look.

“…Okay,” she says carefully.

“What?” you frown, giving her a suspicious look before you take another sip. 

“Last night?” she asks, “You don’t remember what happened?”

Your face pales, heart dropping from your chest at her words– only the worst words to ever be uttered after a night out. 

“What are you talking about?” you ask slowly, water bottle lowering from your face.

Before she can reply, Perlah peeks her head in through the doorway, glancing between the two of you with a regretful smile.

“Incoming traumas from the SWAT-team– we need all hands on board,”

The two of you nod, and she leaves just as fast as she arrived.

“You’re telling me everything after we’ve dealt with this,” you whisper as the two of you head out of the room and back into the chaos of the ER.

“Somebody get me a clear view of this thing!” You call out, eyes narrowing as you try and see through the blood currently obscuring the wound.

A nurse moves in immediately, pressing down with fresh pads that immediately turn crimson. You lean in, jaw tightening as you finally catch a glimpse beneath the mess.

“Okay– gunshot wound, lower abdomen and looking…” you wait until they’ve flipped the patient slightly, before nodding “Penetrative– the bullet is still inside,” you confirm, glancing up at the loudly beeping screens.

“Vitals dropping!” someone calls out from behind you, a sigh escaping you.

“Someone get me Robby–” you say, hands moving fast as muscle memory takes over, despite the lingering headache from earlier.

“I’ll do you one better,” a gruff voice speaks up, and before you know it, Jack Abbot is by your side, dressed in his military green SWAT-uniform.

Tearing your gaze away, you gulp, focusing on the person in front of you instead.

“Talk to me,” Jack says, already gloved up, stepping in without hesitation.

“Penetrative gunshot wound to the lower abdomen,” you reply, voice steadier than you feel. “Vitals are unstable, possible internal bleeding,” 

“Alright,” he nods, hands moving alongside yours, “We’ll assume the worst then, that he’s hemorrhaging internally– what’s your next step Doctor?"

“Uh,” you sigh, before shaking your head– realizing there’s no time to doubt yourself. “Somebody page surgery, and I want blood ready!”

“Good,” Jack nods, before his gloved hand lands on yours, readjusting your hold. “Pressure here,” he corrects softly, watching the way your eyes flicker across the area, assessing every possible outcome.

Your eyes land on the patient, gaze softening at the sight of his frightened look.

“Stay with me,” you mutter, giving him a weak smile as his vitals turn steady, “You’re going to be alright, you hear me?”

He gives you a long, acknowledging blink in return.

“OR’s ready,” Perlah informs, phone clutched to her ear. 

You nod immediately, watching as they take over where you’re standing, moving the bed out of the trauma room and towards the elevators.

After taking a moment to decompress, you finally let out a quiet sigh, striping off your gown and gloves, and wiping the sweat off your temple.

“Good work with that patient,” Jack speaks up as you turn around to face him.

Without the adrenaline and distraction of trying to save a life, you can take in the full sight of him, dressed in that damn uniform.

“Thanks,” you say, the reply coming out a beat too late, than your usual quick remarks.

You keep your eyes on your hands, roughly rubbing hand sanitizer into them.

Jack steps closer, head dipping down to try and catch your averted gaze.

“I thought you said you liked seeing me in this uniform?”

You freeze at his words, brows knitting together as you search his face, trying to figure out how in the hell he could have known about that.

“You don’t remember?” His words cause a wave déjà vu, and before you know it, Victoria's words from earlier in the breakroom echo in your head.

Did you talk to Abbot?

Jack smirks at your panicked look, then takes a step back, moving towards the door.

“Alright then,” he chuckles, shaking his head as he walks backwards towards the exit, "Come find me when you do,"

With that, he leaves you alone to think about what the hell it was just happened.

“What the fuck happened last night?”

Your voice is sharp in the otherwise, finally calm, central station.

Samira pretends not to hear you, Victoria just laughs weakly– mumbling something about needing to run something past Robby.

Mel squirms uncomfortably, and you honestly don’t have the heart to interrogate her.

Dennis keeps his gaze on the computer at all costs, not even blinking.

Like a shark smelling blood, your eyes land on him.

“Whittaker,” you press, glare narrowing into slits. 

“Dennis, you keep your mouth shut–” Trinity points her index finger at him, but you grab the back of his chair, turning it so that he’s facing you.

“Spill!”

“Don’t you dare–”

“You drunk dialed Abbot last night, and he told us that if we keep quiet about it he’d buy us breakfast for a month!”

Dennis finally bursts out, as a collective groan spreads around the area you’re all occupying.

“You had one job, huckleberry!” Trinity grumbles, head falling into her hands.

Samira massages the bridge of her nose, not even bothering to look at him.

“Pathetic,” she mutters quietly, and Dennis physically recoils into himself.

You find Jack Abbot– thankfully in his scrubs this time– standing in the ambulance bay, squinting at his phone screen.

Clearing your throat, you watch as he glances over his shoulder, only to turn fully when he sees that it’s you.

“Doctor Abbot,” you begin, a shameful look on your face.

“Doctor,” he counters, a half smile on his face as his hands lock behind his back. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Your smile tightens, and you try not to react to his smug, frankly provocative, expression.

“I’m here to talk about last night,” you exhale, trying to relax your stiff shoulders.

“Last night?” He repeats it like he’s testing the phrase on his tongue, brow lifting just slightly, “You’re going to have to be more specific.

“Doctor Abbot–” you squeeze your eyes shut, unable to look at him.

“Jack,” he reminds you and you’re about two seconds away from running in front of the next ambulance that pulls in. 

“Jack,” you hiss, taking a deep breath, “If you’re going to hold this over my head, please just get it over with so I can get some peace of mind!”

“Why would I do that?” he asks, switching the weight between his feet as he looks down on you.

“What?” You blink, looking up at him. “Because, it’s the nice thing to do–”

“No, why would I hold it over your head?” 

You physically bite your lip to stop yourself from crashing out on your boss.

“Because you’re like– angry with me or something? Isn’t that why you told my friends to not tell me what I did? Because you’re going to take me to HR or, probably even straight to Gloria herself–”

You can feel yourself spiraling anyways, words coming faster now, defensive and messy– like if you keep talking you can outrun the embarrassment doing its best to chase you down.

“And I get it,” you add quickly, “I mean, obviously I crossed a line, I was drunk, I was being unprofessional, and I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, I just– I don’t even remember what I said exactly but I’m assuming it was bad enough, and really can’t lose my job over–”

Jack chuckles, and the sound stops you mid sentence.

Did he just laugh in your fucking face?

Thankfully, he speaks up before you can open your mouth and jump to any conclusions.

“I’m not going to HR,” he begins, taking a step closer, “Or Gloria,” another step, “And I didn’t stay quiet because I was planning on using it against you either,” 

He stops just an inch away from you, so close you can feel his warm breath fanning over your cheek.

Your eyes flicker across his face– from his hazel eyes, to the bridge of his nose, down to his moving lips and finally, back to his eyes again.

“I didn’t say anything, because I wanted you to know that when I finally asked you out,” his hand lands on your jaw, tilting your face up, “It wouldn’t be because of something you regret,”

You can’t find the words to respond, not after what he’s just revealed.

Your boss, the same one you've been crushing on since starting your residency six months ago, is telling you he liked you?

Jack takes your silence as rejection, and you can see the way his face crumbles as his hand drops from your face.

You panic at the defeated look on his face, spluttering as you try and come up with something, anything, to try and say to him. But your mind is blank, the shock of his sudden confession leaving you speechless.

Impulsively, in the only way you know how to convey your feeling for him right now– you press yourself into his arms, crashing your lips onto his.

Jack freezes at the action.

Then, almost instinctively, his hands grip at your waist, steadying you.

You can feel it in the way he squeezes you, like he's trying to hold back, to keep it contained. Something he can play off later, incase things somehow manage to go south– not for his own sake, but for yours.

That's not what you want.

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you tug him closer, lips moving with frenzy as you tug on his shoulders, let your hands grasp freely at the arms you've spent more time than you'd like to admit daydreaming about.

Jack slowly finds his restraint slipping, unable to resist with you, finally in his arms, in a way he'd thought he'd only get in his sleep. His hands glide along the expanse of your curves, grasping at whatever you’re willing to give him while you’re pressed against him.

His greed sickens him.

The world fades away around you, and all his senses are tuned into your every touch and sound, desperately wanting– no– craving more. 

Eventually though, the need for air burns at your lungs, and only when it becomes unbearable, do you pull away– Jack still holding you close enough to press his forehead against yours, heavy breaths mingling.

Your mind wanders as you collect yourself, remembering why you had hunted him down in the first place. 

Watching the way his eyes slowly flicker open, his disoriented gaze meeting yours, a soft smile twitching on the edge of your mouth. Leaning in again, you paus, just a breath away from his own waiting lips.

“...Did you really try to bribe my friends?”

☆END NOTE: Is it really one of my fics if it doesn't end on a fuckass question? I am also extremely sleep deprived, so excuse any typos, I'll come back and edit in a few<33

As you sit aglow in the bright light that pours from your phone screen, scrolling through a myriad of missed messages and emails, your stomach grumbles an insistent, petulant reminder that you fell asleep before making dinner. 

Unfortunately, the state of your kitchen reminds you exactly why you fell asleep on the couch in sun-baked defeat in the first place—your fridge and pantry both have a meager collection of combined offerings at best. And a nap had seemed far more appealing than sweating half to death on the sidewalk to trek to the grocery store earlier. As you frown while glancing back and forth between a jar of pickles and a half-empty container of hummus, your attention is pulled away by the telltale sound of floorboards creaking above you.

Your lips quirk upward slightly as you glance at the ceiling, tracking the noise across your living room and over in the direction of the sliding glass door that leads to your small balcony. 

There’s a slight breeze when you step outside, though even the wind feels sluggish under the heat wave’s humid, suffocating grip. You wince slightly as you take in the sight of your collection of potted plants that fill most of the space—their wilted, thirsty leaves rustle in your direction indignantly.

On the balcony above your own, you hear the sound of a door sliding open. You stand at the railing, looking upward as you call out, “Hey.”

A head of dark brown hair comes into view, and your upstairs neighbor peeks over his railing. “Hey.”

Something inside of you warms at the sight of Osamu, a type of heat wholly different from what clings to the tired city air. 

(It’s a familiar heat that you’ve come to associate with his presence, one that has a way of making you shiver right where you stand.)

“You busy?” you ask him, tone casual. 

He smiles, handsome and boyish and everything that makes you question the word friend. “Depends on who’s askin’.”

“Your favorite neighbor.”

Osamu raises a brow. “I think Doris is probably asleep by now…” he muses, referring to the perpetually miserable old woman that lives in the unit next to his.

You huff in faux offense. “In that case, I’ll just walk to the grocery store alone then.”

The humor rapidly dissipates from his expression, replaced by something that looks a lot like concern even with the deep shadows cast across his face. “Ha? Wait. You’re not walkin’ there by yourself this late.”

“Sure am,” you tell him cheerfully, giving him a little wave before heading back towards the sliding door. “I need food.”

“Ya better not leave without me!” he calls after you, and you hear the door above you slip back open as well. 

You grin to yourself while you find your wallet and keys and toe on a pair of sneakers. Once you swing open your front door, Osamu’s somehow already leaning against the opposite wall across the hall, arms folded over his chest as he waits for you. If he ran down the stairwell to get to your floor that quickly, the only sign of it is his slightly mussed, dark hair. It’s hard to pay attention to his face, though, what with the losing battle the sleeves of his white t-shirt are currently locked in with his biceps.

And his eyes—

It’s distracting, to say the least. 

He’s distracting. 

He offers you an amused smile. “Nice shirt.”

Glancing down, you feel a prickle of heat kiss the back of your neck as you’re suddenly reminded of exactly what you absently tossed on after shucking off your work clothes earlier: one of Osamu’s Onigiri Miya t-shirts. The one that ended up covered in cat hair the time he came over and spent an hour on your living room carpet fawning over said cat, which you were watching for a friend. The one you insisted on washing for him to save him the trouble of the hair mixing in with his own laundry load.

The one you’ve completely forgotten to return for the better part of a month now. 

And now you’re wearing it.

And he’s smiling at you like he thinks it’s funny when you quickly tuck your bottom lip between your teeth for lack of a better response and spin on your heel to lock the door. 

“Maybe I’m your newest employee,” you shrug once you begin to make your way toward the elevator. 

“Mm. Looks better on you anyway.” Osamu pushes off of the wall, gently bumping shoulders with you. “But we still gotta work on your rice balls.”

You bump him right back in return. “They fell apart once.”

He exhales a soft, dramatic sigh. “Still hurts me to think about what ya did to ‘em.”

Crossing your arms, you raise a brow. “I’m not baking for you anymore.”

He leans against you heavily when he reaches out to press the plastic down arrow on the wall, the elevator shaft immediately humming to life while it climbs its way to the fifth floor. “That’s just cruel.”

You catch sight of a flash of blue and yellow on his wrist in the process, and you decidedly pretend not to notice that he’s still wearing the silly little bracelet you made last week while the two of you were sitting on your couch. 

(Your heart sure notices, rattling against your ribcage.)

The elevator dings, and the doors slip apart. Osamu gestures with his hand for you to step in first. 

“Maybe I’ll change my mind if you’re good.”

Osamu leans against the metal railing that lines the walls, hands stuffed in his pockets, and he grins. “I’m always good for you.”

There’s something about you, Osamu Miya, and elevators.

When you moved into your apartment building just over six months ago, fresh out of a break up and still a little unsteady on your feet with a new job in an unfamiliar city, you weren’t expecting this.

You weren’t expecting him.

You were holding a precarious stack of boxes when you stepped into this very elevator, the top one tumbling over the edge when you reached for the button for the fifth floor. But despite the way you immediately cringed, waiting for the sound of something breaking, it never came.

Osamu, who had quietly slipped into the carriage behind you on the way up to his own floor, caught the box right before it hit the ground. Old volleyball reflexes, he’d said with a sheepish smile.

But rather than just putting the box back on top of the stack, Osamu asked if you needed a hand.

(A hand, as it turned out, was taking the entire stack from you and carrying it to your door, despite your protests that you could carry the rest. And then making five more trips back and forth to your car with you when he realized you were moving by yourself without any help.)

(And it was oddly easy, getting past the initial struggle of feeling like you were inconveniencing a complete stranger—)

(—accepting a type of kindness that asked for nothing in return.)

It was all so easy with him after that—

Conversations. 

Company. 

Friendship. 

Everything else you don’t quite let yourself acknowledge— 

Everything else that exists somewhere between the long afternoons spent with him crouched down on your living room floor with a screwdriver and a hammer and piles of IKEA boxes (he’d laughed when you tried to pay him for the help). Between onigiri lessons in his kitchen and late nights spent stargazing and drinking tea and talking about life out on your balcony.

Between the flutter in your heart when he smiles at you for no reason at all. The way your phone lights up with a message telling you to go to bed!! when he can hear you up and about into the late hours of the night sometimes (he’s become familiar with your early work schedule). The convenience store bag that you occasionally find hanging from your doorknob when you haven’t seen him in a few days, your favorite candy waiting at the bottom. The bad reality shows you watch together some nights (the way he doesn’t watch new episodes without you). 

The way he always seems to find himself downstairs in the building’s laundry room with you after that time you texted him to complain about the weird, pushy guy from the second floor who can never seem to take a hint. 

The way you’ve come to crave all of the different ways he says your name, soft and amused and happy and teasing and tired and raspy and imploring—

A distant rumble of thunder echoes across the sky as you hit the sidewalk in tandem, the undercurrent of static electricity that crackles carrying the promise of a storm in its wake. It feels a lot like the state of your nerves every time Osamu’s arm brushes against yours, the sensation sending a flurry of shockwaves to sink into the more tender parts of your chest.

You’re usually better at this—keeping your feelings at bay. But something about the heat has left you abnormally vulnerable, reflexes not quite quick enough to pull back stray thoughts before they take root. 

(Because despite it all, you don’t know how he feels.)

(And you’d rather keep it all tucked away, a slow, fading carbonation fizzing in your veins, than lose whatever this is that the two of you have.)

The relief that hits you the instant the automatic doors to the grocery store slide open, releasing a burst of cool air, has a pleased, excited sound tumbling from your lips before you can stop yourself. Osamu snorts beside you, veering off to grab a cart, and you blink a few times as your eyes adjust to the stark, white fluorescent glow that lights the inside of the building.

Despite the fact that it’s open 24 hours, the store is nearly deserted save for the few employees left milling about. Cheery music from the radio pours over the speakers, and the two of you mosey about down empty aisles, one rogue wheel on the cart squeaking in protest every so often. 

Osamu seems content to push the cart while you grab a few things—though it does a number on your knees when you whip around after going through an admittedly vigorous elimination process picking the perfect bag of oranges. You find him leaning down on the handle, forearms and all, chin atop his hands. Lips curved upward. Amusement sparkling in his eyes. 

You have half a mind to toss the bag in the vicinity of the cart’s basket, hope for the best, and scurry off to the safety of another aisle before he makes it worse and says something while he’s looking at you like that, too. 

(Does he even realize it? Does he know what he does to you?)

“Picky,” he teases when you approach, holding a hand out to grasp the netting that holds the oranges. Osamu puts them in the cart for you, even though you really could have done it yourself, and you have to firmly bite the inside of your cheek at the unintended domesticity of it all. 

“Have you seen yourself standing in front of the avocado bin?”

He purses his lips thoughtfully. “Fair.”

Osamu leads the way to the cereal aisle, remembering that you mentioned you were out of it, and you trail behind him, your tender mind caught on the sharp hook of an insistent thought that refuses to give way now that it’s made itself known.

You can’t help but try and think back to when exactly everything the two of you do started to feel like this.

(You’d be lying to yourself if you said it didn’t feel like this from the very start.)

You don’t know if you’re just imagining it, your heart caught in the crosshairs of the haze of your own rose-colored lens. If these touches and smiles and every easy little thing between you and him is perhaps nothing significant at all. 

If the weight of everything left unspoken between the two of you is yours alone to bear, the echoes and whispers of fondness and affection that live in the notches between your ribs. If you’re waiting on the shore and he’s still adrift in the tide. 

You’re still lost in thought and reaching for the cereal when Osamu’s hand suddenly comes to rest against your hip, the other one grabbing the exact box he knows you were going for as he hurriedly murmurs in your ear, “Do ya trust me?”

Your brain briefly short circuits as you try to process the feeling of his fingers, wondering if maybe, perhaps, you’re actually still just asleep on your couch. You nod anyway. 

Osamu exhales a sigh that might be relief and whispers, “I apologize in advance.”

Before you can try to figure out what he means, the cereal box takes flight as he launches it into the cart just as voice calls out—

“Oh my god, Bo. Are you seein’ what I’m seein’?”

You can hear Osamu take a deep breath beside you as he turns both of you around, pulling you even more closely against him. 

You’re met with the sight of what must undoubtedly be Osamu’s twin, Atsumu—who you’ve yet to meet but know plenty about. He runs a hand through his bleached blonde hair, elbowing the tall, silver-haired man standing beside him wearing a matching grin. 

“She’s real,” the other man whistles in disbelief.

Atsumu scratches his chin, head tilting to the side as he stares at the two of you for a moment. “She’s too hot for him,” he concludes.

Their comments leave you wholly confused, but you hardly have time to ponder over them when Osamu mutters under his breath, “Yeah ya are,” before he laces his fingers with yours and leans his head against you.

You feel hot everywhere he’s touching despite the frigid temperature of the store, and it takes everything in you to try and make it look natural when you let yourself sink against him in turn. And you think you imagine it—the quiet sound of him swallowing beside you. 

For all that Atsumu seems to delight in nagging his brother, in contrast, you would almost think he’s already somehow fond of you as he introduces himself and the man beside him, Bokuto Koutarou. You learn that they play on the same volleyball team. 

Bokuto’s enthusiasm is infectious, to the point where you forget that none of this is real for a brief moment. You feel an air conditioning vent kick on with a vengeance from somewhere up above, and a chill runs through you. Almost immediately, Osamu reaches up to rub your arm. 

“Ya know, I’ve been beggin’ Samu to let us meet ya for months,” Atsumu gripes.

Months?

Bokuto laughs, “Honestly, we were about to start a betting pool about whether you really existed or not.”

“Guess Akaashi woulda rinsed us all,” Atsumu sighs.

“Akaashi never doubted it,” Bokuto nods sagely. 

“You guys are so goddamn annoyin’” Osamu groans, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Atsumu slings an arm around his brother’s shoulders, turning to look toward where you’re still standing pressed up against his other side. “Blink twice if he’s got ya under duress. I can fight.”

You’re not exactly sure what compels you to make your next move—the long-suffering resignation on Osamu’s face, the teasing challenge on Atsumu’s. The fact that none of this is real, and you’re doing him a favor, so you might as well indulge in the moment and give them a show. 

Whatever your reasoning is, Osamu’s clearly not expecting it when you lean forward around him to look at his brother, only to turn back to him instead. His eyes widen just a fraction when you cup his face, your lips finding the corner of his mouth. 

The mint flavor of his gum tickles your lips.

“Nah,” you smile. And maybe it’s entirely self-indulgent, the way you reach up and card your fingers through his hair after for good measure while you continue, “I like him. I think I’ll keep him.”

Osamu stares at you long after your hand drops back down to your side. 

Atsumu sighs good-naturedly. “Well, he’s not allowed to hide ya from us anymore now. You should come to one of our games, I’ll make sure ya get a nice VIP seat.”

Osamu rolls his eyes. “Please don’t shmooze my girlfriend to come watch ya be a jackass on the court.”

Girlfriend. 

Girlfriend. 

A snort comes from somewhere in the direction of where Bokuto’s standing, scrolling through his phone. 

“Ah ah, I said seat,” Atsumu balks. “Yer ugly mug is sittin’ in the parking lot.”

Osamu mutters something under his breath about looking in a mirror, and the two bicker for a bit before Bokuto joins in to talk about their most recent game. Before the four of you part ways, Bokuto gives you a smile and tells you that you should come with Osamu to the team barbecue-slash-pool party that he’s hosting at his house next weekend.

(You’re already thinking about how in the world you’d manage to handle an entire fake dating escapade with a sun-kissed Osamu in a short sleeve, linen button down, sunglasses, and swim shorts.) 

Meanwhile, Atsumu sounds surprisingly sincere when he turns directly to you and says, “Ya know. My brother hasn’t shut up about ya since the day he met ya. I was about to come over there, find your place, and confess for him.”

Your heartbeat echoes in your ears as Atsumu’s words sink in, and you’re in the middle of trying to reason with yourself that you’re taking his words a little too literally in the context of this moment when he adds, “I’m real glad he found ya though. Don’t think I’ve seen Samu this happy in a long while.”

Osamu lightly punches his brother in the shoulder before he turns to leave and mutters, “Ya big sap.”

It’s only once you’re in the clear and heading toward the checkout that Osamu turns to you, scratching the back of his head. “Thanks for goin’ along with the whole…girlfriend thing. Sorry if it was weird.”

Putting your items on the belt, you shrug, not really thinking of the implications of the joke that leaves your mouth a moment later. “Congrats on registering for your free trial, just don’t forget to cancel it, or your credit card will be charged accordingly.”

Osamu pulls a reusable shopping bag out of his pocket—because of course he remembered to bring one. It’s dark blue and covered in a pattern of cartoony onigiri. You huff out a quiet laugh as you take it from him and begin packing it. When he replies, he’s far closer to you than you’re expecting, and your fingers fumble while reaching for your credit card. 

“Do ya accept payment in the form of dinner?”

Folding the receipt and putting it in your pocket, you turn to him, and he takes the shopping bag from you before you can object. The exit doors slide open, and the air outside feels marginally cooler. 

“Depends, will it be prepared by the Chef Miya Osamu?”

Lightning flashes across the sky, inky blank giving way to an indigo glow that lights up the semiopaque clouds that stretch overhead. A rumble of thunder follows, and raindrops hit your skin. 

“Anything for you.” He winks before looking up at the sky and adding, “But we should hurry up if we wanna stay dry.”

Staying dry, as it turns out, isn’t an option. The steady, cool droplets that dot the sidewalk quickly turn into an outright downpour before you’re even halfway home.

“My plants!” you yelp, watching the way the rain begins to slant sideways. Because while they could certainly use some water, you’re doubtful that the more delicate ones will survive the wind.

Once you get inside, Osamu makes a beeline for the balcony, wordlessly handing you pot after pot while you stand just inside of the door as he continues to get pelted with rain. When all of your plants are safely relocated, you scurry off down the hallway, returning wearing a dry t-shirt and tossing Osamu a towel.

Unfortunately, your hand eye coordination, despite the fact that he’s only standing a few feet away from you, leaves something to be desired when you finally get a good look at him. Osamu’s white t-shirt is nearly see through, the damp material clinging to his arms and chest in a way that’s practically obscene. 

He swipes the towel up from where it landed pathetically on the floor, and you quickly turn away to busy yourself with the groceries—it’s the only safe alternative to outright gawking at the way his muscles flex while he dries himself off. 

“Sure wish I had a spare shirt lyin’ around here somewhere,” Osamu muses, chin coming to rest on your shoulder as you make two sandwiches. 

Rolling your eyes, you turn around and push one of them into his hands before hopping up to sit on the counter and eat your own. Anything to put some distance between yourself and the temptation of the fluffy, messy strands of his towel-dried hair.

You both quietly chew, Osamu leaning against the countertop near your thigh as you slowly swing your legs and let the balls of your feet tap against the lower cabinets. Eventually, he breaks the silence, hands now working their way over the thick skin of an orange as he turns it in his palms. He begins to peel it with a steady, practiced ease, the rind giving way beneath the slow curl of his fingers.

He doesn’t look up at you when he talks.

“Tsumu wasn’t lyin, ya know.”

You inhale sharply, trying to cover it up with a soft snort. “About begging you to let him meet your fake girlfriend?

Osamu’s eyes find yours, and there’s something in his stormy gray irises that reminds you of clouds illuminated by lightning (something that sparks and fizzes on its way down your throat as you swallow the thought).

“Mm,” he replies, noncommittal, lips quirking in his usual half smile. 

He holds out a piece of orange.

You’re not entirely sure why, but instead of taking it between your fingers, you lean toward him. Just enough for him to get the hint. Osamu exhales through his nose, holding your gazes as he steps forward, fitting himself up against the counter in the space between your thighs. 

He presses the slice to your lips.

“I was thinkin’ about the bit where he mentioned how happy I’ve been.”

You bite down, mouth watering as the sweet citrus flavor floods your tongue. Your toes curl. Juice slips down your chin, and Osamu catches it with his thumb, carefully wiping it away. The digit ghosts over the curve of your jaw before he lets his hand drop back down at his side. 

You take your time chewing, if only to give your heart time to settle down in your chest, and Osamu eats a slice, too, before continuing, “But ya see, he’d definitely wring my neck knowin’ I still haven’t actually confessed.”

It’s a battle in and of itself to try and keep your expression neutral, despite the fireworks show currently going off in the vicinity of your heart. “To your fake girlfriend?”

He nods. “Ya see, I think maybe she thinks that she’s just my downstairs neighbor.”

“Isn’t she?”

“Well, she became my favorite person somewhere along the way, too.”

Heat engulfs your veins, a molten flash flood that leaves you swaying in place, and you try to keep your voice steady when you nonchalantly reply, “You should tell her.”

“What if she doesn’t feel the same and slams the door in my face?” 

You shrug, waving a hand dismissively. “Your face is too handsome to slam a door on.”

Osamu raises a brow. “Will ya kiss it better if she says no?”

Your chest lurches. Hard. “Why are you so convinced she’s going to turn you down?”

“What do you think she’s gonna say?” he asks, gazing at you imploringly. 

“You’ll never know until you try.”

Osamu leans in closer, close enough for the warmth from his breath to curl against your lips. “I really wanna kiss ya right now.”

“So why aren’t you?” you whisper.

Osamu cups your face in his warm hands, thumbs carefully stroking your cheeks, dragging his gaze from your eyes to your mouth in a way that feels like warm, dripping honey. Thunder rumbles on outside, flashes of lightning pouring in through the windows.

And when Osamu’s lips finally come crashing into yours, it’s an entirely different kind of storm that swells in your chest—

He tastes like citrus.

—it’s a searing, dizzying wave, one that curls and crests with the shape of his mouth moving against yours, with the feeling of his tongue slipping against the seam of your lips. 

He tastes like a storm.

Your fingers find their way into his hair, carding through strands that are still partially damp in places, and you part your lips for him. He groans, deepening the kiss, one hand sliding to the back of your head as the other slips down to curl against your waist. 

He tastes new and familiar all at once.

(Like everything you want and all that you need and what you’ve been too afraid to ask for even if he’s already had your heart in the palm of his hands this whole time—)

Osamu kisses you like he’s wanted this just as badly as you have all along.

And when you finally part for air, he doesn’t go far, forehead leaning against yours, thumb running over your bottom lip almost reverently.

“Can I keep you?” he asks softly.

An echo of your earlier words, though the weight in them is far heavier as his lips brush against yours while he speaks. 

this time it’s him that looks a little flustered, leaning against the doorframe. “gran’s told ya about me, has she?”

“oh, the whole town adores ‘yumie’s boy,’” you explain, the tips of his ears turning crimson. “i take it you’ve just come back from school? what did you take, if you don’t mind my asking?”

he lifts a hand to scratch the back of his neck, biceps flexing subtly. “promise ya won’t laugh?”

“please, i would never,” you dismiss, holding out the loaves of bread to him. “i mean— i went to culinary school.”

“is that so?” he seems to relax a little, his small, charming smile returning as he takes the bread from your hands. “well, i studied agriculture so i could come back to help out around the family farm.”

handsome, educated, and a dutiful family man? oh, you were in trouble.

“would you—” his voice comes out a little strained, so he clears his throat, trying again. “would you like to come in for tea?”

“i wish i could,” you sigh longingly, crouching to retrieve your crate of baked goods. “but i have a few other deliveries to make in town. i’ll see you around though? say hello to your gran for me—

“i can come with,” he says quickly. when you raise your brows in surprise, he backtracks just as fast. he looks a little sheepish, a little shy. “if…if that’s okay with you.”

how could you say no?

“sure,” you agree, letting him take the crate from your hands. “thank you.”

the two of you are quietly walking down the dirt path when he speaks again. “my gran told me about you too, ya know.”

“oh yeah?” you prod, nudging him lightly with your shoulder (mistake, because wow he’s built). “what’d she say?”

“that you make a really good sourdough and are really pretty.”

heat immediately blooms across your cheeks. he can’t just say stuff like that. he’s either really confident or just very blunt.

the corner of his lips quirks up a little. “i haven’t tried the bread yet, but i suppose the other thing is true.”

You've always hated him. You're not really sure why. You think maybe he might have always hated you, too.

You meet him in high school. He and his brother are in the same class as you, but you don't pay them attention at first. Not until you realize that Suna's started hanging out with them.

"Oh, that's lucky," he says, about a month into your first year. He's standing at the classroom door, phone in his hand as he peers at you and then drags his gaze to the twins on the other side of the room. "Less work for me."

Atsumu's easy enough to get along with. He matches your humor, though he jokes early on that you and Suna must be dating. When you both make matching faces of disgust — when you mutter that it's not possible to fall in love with a boy who burps in your face and used to put sand down your pants in the sandbox — it becomes clear that you and Suna will never happen.

Osamu doesn't find you funny. You don't need him to, but it grinds on your nerves to watch his empty eyes land on you, nothing forgiving behind them. When you ask him about it one day, catching him alone in the hall, he just lifts his brows.

"Nope, nothin' against you. Yer just kinda there."

You decide then, without meaning to, that you dislike him. "Just kind of there?" He nods, shrugs.

"Just kinda there."

"Are you projecting right now?"

You watch his eyes glint with something rude, his jaw clenching.

"What's that s'posed to mean?"

You lift a brow. "Nothin'. Just that your personality's just… kinda there."

His nostrils flare. It seems he's also decided. He dislikes you.

—

It continues through high school. You circle each other reluctantly, kept in place by Suna's insistence and Atsumu's childlike attachment to his friends. You all get into the same college, and you're forced to watch as Osamu agrees to sign the same lease that Suna had made you sign, the same lease that Atsumu managed to force Sakusa Kiyoomi to sign after learning that the man would be attending school with you all.

It's amazing, finding out that you can become such fast friends with someone you've just met but that you and Osamu can barely stand to be in the same room.

You find out that Osamu's a business major. You only find out because you are, too. Even if he wants to strictly sell onigiri and you want to strictly sell sweets — ice cream, cakes, sweet drinks to rot your teeth — it still feels like you're competing with him. Same classes, same projects, same extracurriculars. He's everywhere, for four years straight.

Same apartment, too.

He's not a terrible roommate, but he's your least favorite. Kiyoomi is tidy and respects your space, respects you. Suna categorically does not respect your space, but he's always been that way. Already lying in your bed when you come home, sitting at your desk when you need it most. He's like a cat in many ways, but you leave him to it because he's him. Atsumu matches your vibe no matter what, always ready to go out and party but also willing to sit on the couch with you if your energy's low.

But him. Miya Osamu? He's always got a problem with you. And you've always got a problem with him.

It's not about the roommate duties. Yes, you leave your shoes disheveled by the front door too often, and you aren't exactly sorry when he trips over them. Yes, he leaves too many dishes in the sink, and you've watched him pile them up when he's particularly annoyed at you. But, for the most part, he's clean, and you're clean, and you stay away from each other.

It's not about being roommates. It's about being near each other. All day, every day. It's about waking up every day knowing you're going to see Miya Osamu for more than half of your waking hours. It's about the fact that, even late at night when you're working in the dim light of the dining room, he's going to find his way to the same spot, claiming he can't focus in his room.

It's about the fact that, on the nights when he doesn't, you kind of wish he would.

You hate him.

You want to, at least.

You wish he didn't hate you.

But he does, so… you hate him, too.

—

"Alright, that's it for today. Don't forget that your proposals are due tomorrow at noon."

You sigh, packing your bag quickly. You hear Osamu behind you, talking to one of his friends. He should be lost somewhere in the lecture hall — he is lost, you can't see him even when you glance back — but you always hear him. Always recognize that low drawl, like your ears are attuned to him.

"Nah, nowhere close. Every time I try to work on it, I get stuck."

You listen, agreeing silently. The final project has been kicking your ass. It's the notoriously difficult capstone project for business majors, due just weeks before graduation. Design your business, from conception to execution.

It's the program's way of saying, "You want to own your own business? Prove it."

It should be a simple culmination of everything you've learned, but it feels like you're standing at the edge of a cliff and your program director is putting his foot on your back and kicking you off.

Find an open space and meet with the leasing agent. Report on the quote they give and decide its feasibility for your business, based on your projected profits and costs.

You have a full day of tours set up with an agent soon. They're all joint tours with another student, the agent claiming that this happens every year because your school is known for its gruesome expectations.

You sigh, standing and feeling the effects of the stress in your bones, your back, even the damn strain in your eyes.

You follow the long line out of the lecture hall, your gaze finally catching on Osamu, just a few people ahead of you. He's caught by an arm reaching out of one of the aisles, its fingers manicured.

"Osamu!"

You flinch. Whoever she is, her voice is too loud, too squeaky.

"Do you have plans tonight? I've been thinking-"

"Nah, I'm good." That low drawl cuts her off, quiet but sharp. "I've got this stupid proposal to do."

"Oh," she says, clearly caught off guard. You laugh under your breath, knowing very well how off-putting Miya Osamu can be. You see him clearer now, his frame blocking part of the aisle as he talks to the girl in front of him. He's glancing around like he's looking for any excuse to leave. You start to push past him, avoiding his eyes. "Well," she tries again. "Do you wanna work on it toge-"

There's a hand wrapping around your bicep, yanking you back. You make a noise akin to getting the air punched out of you, your balance thrown off as you stumble back into a solid chest.

"Wh-" You lift your head. Grey stares back. All too familiar.

"Nah," he says, eyes scanning your face before he turns back to the girl. "I've got someone. Sorry."

You want to rip your arm out of his grasp. You want to laugh in his face. You want to ask him what the hell he thinks he's doing, who he thinks he's talking to.

But you can't. You're just caught in his gaze, back on you and entirely him. Grey and deadpan, too close and too far at the same time. Looking at you like he knows you. Like he knows you better than you want to admit.

"I-" you fumble, eyes flicking between him and the girl who now looks like she's bitten into something sour.

"Oh," she mumbles. "I didn't realize you were taken. You're never together."

He's not taken, you want to say. Yell, even. But you're too flustered, glancing between them until you're dizzy.

He doesn't correct her, doesn't tell her that what he meant was that he has someone to work on the project with. Which he doesn't, if you want to really set the record straight. But that's not what she understood, and he doesn't correct her.

The girl steps past you both, nudging you with her shoulder much harder than necessary, but you don't get angry. You're still so lost.

Osamu unhands you, but he keeps staring. You blink once, and then you turn and walk away. Your head is fuzzy, static in your ears, but you just hike your bag up higher on your shoulders and follow the flow of students out the door.

You can feel him behind you. His warmth is familiar, like his clothes mixed with yours in the dryer. His scent is still washing over you, like the cologne on your bathroom sink.

You almost miss the hand that's waving you down, a few feet outside the lecture hall. It's one of the guys you did a group project with once, many months ago.

"Y/n, hey," he says, easy and calm and all thousand-watt smile.

You stutter to a stop, blinking rapidly. Why are you so caught off guard today?

"Hey," you say, approaching him. What's his name? "How are you?"

"I'm really good," he says, and then he laughs. "Besides this stupid proposal."

You laugh back, the sound empty. "Yeah. It's not great."

His eyes light up. "Well, are you doing anything today? I was gonna work on-"

His gaze finds a spot over your shoulder.

The cologne is on your bathroom sink, uncapped. You always nag him to put it away. You always tell him to stop putting his laundry in the wash with yours, too.

"She's got plans."

You should say something. But it's so damn hard sometimes.

"Oh," the guy says. "Didn't realize."

He wanders off before you can correct him. Because the assumption is still there, even when no one says it.

You never remembered his name.

You turn, finally ready to tell Osamu off.

He's already gone, taking grey with him.

—

"He's such a dick," you whine, tossing your bag down at the foot of your bed. Suna's sprawled across your comforter, scrolling on his phone.

"You say this every day," he yawns.

"He's a dick every day."

He just laughs, nodding in that placating way he's taken up every time you complain about Osamu. "You're so right, loser. When're you gonna fuck?"

You land a swing straight to his kneecap, silently setting up your laptop at your desk while he howls and clutches his limbs behind you.

"Get out. I have a proposal due at noon tomorrow."

He just whimpers pathetically behind you, and then you hear him rustling around in your bedside table. Something pink and solid smacks against your desk before tumbling to the ground.

It's your dildo, mocking you in the daylight.

"Take it," he whines. "You'll feel better after. Less violent."

You pick it up and clamber onto the bed, silencing his screams of terror with one of your many pillows as you hit him over and over again with the blunt side of the toy.

You door opens behind you after a few minutes, Suna's muffled cries for help inevitably drawing attention.

Atsumu stares blankly at you two, taking in the sight of you beating Suna's ass with a dildo. Osamu's behind him, gaze equally empty.

Suna's eyes catch on them. "Oh, thank god, you're here," he cries out. "The stress is getting to her. She needs to be fuc-agh-"

You've started beating him with the dildo again, your face burning because you'd caught the way Osamu's gaze had caught on the toy before flying away.

The door shuts behind you. You start to earnestly suffocate Suna with your pillow. His laughter a few minutes later is the only sign he's still alive.

—

Several hours and just as many cups of coffee later, you're slumped at the kitchen table, the rest of the apartment quiet and dark. Your head is in your hands, the proposal sitting open on your laptop and your notes scattered all around you.

This project has to be some kind of torture tactic. One last punch in the face between you and graduation.

A door down the hall opens. You know it by heart, even without the sound of his footsteps.

He's quieter than Atsumu and Suna, and Kiyoomi sleeps by ten every night without fail.

"What do you want, Miya?" you mumble, face still pressed into your hands.

"Nothin'," he mutters, dropping his notebook on the table lazily and taking the seat across from you. "Can't focus in my room."

"Can you focus in a different room than this one?"

He scoffs. You hear him start to type on his laptop. "Not tonight, Y/n, please. I'm not in the mood."

You sigh through your nose, trying hard to bite back a response. Knowing that he's going through the same things you are, that graduation is coming up for everyone and that you and Osamu have the same pressures weighing down on you these days.

You also know that the longer you talk to him, the more you'll want to bring up what happened earlier in the lecture hall. And you certainly don't want to do that. You don't have it in you to face whatever that was, not now and definitely not in front of him.

You choose to leave him alone for tonight, if only so you can get back to your own work. He sits silently across from you, typing on his laptop and taking notes on the page next to him. He sighs a few times, and so do you. You get up to make more coffee at some point, and he does the same a few minutes later. He taps one foot, knee bouncing, and your typing becomes louder.

It goes on for an hour.

"Could you quit it?" you finally snap, glaring at him. "You're shaking the table."

He just shakes his head, still working. "You're the one who's typing like you have a point to make. It's so fucking loud."

You groan, staring down at the time on your screen. It's almost three in the morning. The proposal is due by noon. You don't have nearly enough, and by the way he's been carding his fingers through his hair and tugging at the roots all night, you can guess that Osamu doesn't, either.

He starts to roll his neck from side to side, massaging at his shoulder with his eyes closed. He looks exhausted.

"Everything feels fucking tight," he complains. "I feel so wound up."

You wonder why he's telling you this, but you understand the feeling. "Yeah," you mumble, sighing quietly. "I feel like a rubber band about to snap."

"You act like it, too."

You scoff, starting to argue, but he's smirking to himself, eyes still closed. You sit back, eyelids heavy and head aching slightly.

"'m just so tired," you whisper. "I dunno if any of this shit's good enough."

He nods. You're amazed that he's being so easy about this, but you suppose you're being easy about it, too.

"Feels like they taught us what to do but forgot to warn us before pushing us out of the plane."

You laugh quietly, the image of a cliff coming back to you.

"Kinda wish I'd had more fun," you admit. "Slacked off more, gone to more parties, had more sex."

He doesn't even blink, completely unfazed by your crude thought. "Definitely wish I'd had more sex."

You laugh, self-deprecating. He does, too.

"Wish I found a situationship to keep on speed dial for nights like these," you sigh.

He makes a sound of agreement, doodling absentmindedly in his notebook. "Woulda made things more tolerable."

You both sit in silence, studying your respective laptop screens. Avoiding work, avoiding the part where you can only sigh and keep going.

But eventually, he stops doodling, his pen hanging there, suspended, while he stares down at nothing. You stare at the same spot, at the same nothing.

For all that you and Miya Osamu hate each other, eight years is a long time to learn a person.

"No strings," he mutters.

Your heart flies to your throat, lodging tight. You swallow around it and speak, a croak that cuts off at the end.

"No one needs to know."

He shifts. You feel his eyes on you, feel when they glance away. "Not tonight. The deadline."

Your knee starts to bounce. "But after tonight, it can be whenever we want."

His body twitches visibly. Your gaze finds him. His eyes are widening slightly, and there's a pink tinge warming his cheeks. He looks embarrassed.

"When you say 'whenever'…"

You stare. He makes eye contact and breaks it immediately, his gaze neutral but that warm embarrassment taking up way more space.

When it clicks — when you realize what he's saying — the embarrassment finds you, too. You didn't think you'd ever find out that this is a thing for him. You'd never really given it much thought before, to be honest. The idea of whenever, what that really means.

But now that you're thinking about it, giving it room to breathe… you can see why it's a thing. Why it's a thing for him, and why you don't hate the idea of it being a thing for you, too.

You clear your throat, swallow around the lump. "Whenever means whenever."

His eyelashes are pretty when they flutter like that.

"'Kay," he eventually bites, voice thick and heavy.

Yours is weak, fragile. "'Kay."

He stands, grabbing his notebook and his laptop and disappearing from the kitchen table. You hear his door close and lock.

Good lord.

—

You start to leave your bedroom door unlocked at night. He does, too.

During the day, everything is the same. He drinks the last of your milk and you drink his protein shakes. You argue over dishes in the sink and shoes by the door. But for the first few nights after that conversation, things are quiet. As the sun sets, you start to get nervous, quiet. He starts to hide in his room more.

Nothing happens, not for a week. In that time, not a single one of your roommates notices a difference. You take it as a good sign, take it as a silent kind of blessing that even Suna hasn't caught the lingering glances you keep accidentally throwing Osamu.

He must think the same, because your door finally cracks open in the middle of the night on Friday, after everyone's made it home safely from the bar. After Atsumu and Sakusa and Suna have all presumably fallen asleep or answered their booty calls' summons.

After you should be asleep. After you would be asleep, if not for the way he'd been looking at you tonight. Like it's okay to not be working just for tonight.

Your mattress sinks with his weight, and you feel him lay his fingers on your calf. He shakes gently.

"You awake?"

You find his eyes in the dark. "Need something?"

He sighs, the sound shaky. "Maybe."

Eight years is a long time to learn a person.

You don't question how easy it is to wrap your fingers around his wrist and tug him toward you, or how easy it is for him to cage you in and drop his lips to yours. You don't question why you don't feel uncomfortable or upset at the press of his mouth — warmer and softer than you'd expected — when everything else about him causes you such great distress. You don't question the quiet moans that pass through your lips when he slides his hands under your t-shirt, the low rumbles that get caught in his chest when he starts to touch you.

You just let yourself need him and don't question when he lets himself need you, too.

It's not prolonged, the first time you sleep with Miya Osamu. There's no extended foreplay, no jokes or moments of intimacy. It's sex, the kind you have when you're too drunk and desperate to bother pretending this is anything else.

Except you're not drunk, and neither is he.

So you're both just desperate.

You want to say it's a general feeling, that you just haven't gotten laid in a long time. But you can tell from how your body reacts to him — when he pries your thighs open with his, when his fingers card through your hair and tug hard, when the little sounds leaving his mouth make you clench hard around him — that this isn't about needing a quick lay. This is about him.

You should be embarrassed. Humiliated, even.

But it's him that's acting like that. Doing all this. Shoving himself between your thighs carelessly, his breath heavy. Tugging your head to the side with his fingers in your hair so he can press hickies into your throat. Moaning quietly when your back arches on a particularly hard thrust, the words 'fuck' and 'just like that' falling past his lips.

"You look good like this," he whispers at some point, his face flushed and his grip on your hips tight enough to leave bruises. "Full of me. Open for me."

His words speak of something more intimate than what this is, but it makes your tummy swim with feelings you don't want to think about. Your walls flutter around him involuntarily, and your head presses back into your pillow with a quiet whine.

His breath leaves him in one hard punch of air, and his eyes squeeze shut. His cock starts to throb inside of you, his arms trembling as he holds himself over you.

"Where d'you want it?" he bites, hips stalling.

You're panting, probably a lot louder than you should be. "Don't make a mess in my bed, Miya."

He laughs humorlessly, shaking his head. "Always so difficult," he breathes. "'s okay. I'll just make a mess inside you, instead."

You want to tell him off for enjoying this so much, enjoying the spill of warmth against your walls the way that he is. But you like how it feels, too, like how he pushes his hand down against your tummy as he rolls his hips flush into yours. Like how he looks, his mouth hanging open a little bit and his chest heaving unevenly as he stares down at you through half-lidded eyes.

You think maybe he's done, that maybe it's time to clean up. You wait for it, the inevitable emptiness and the cold that'll settle over your sweaty skin. The slight disappointment.

But he just pulls out and stares down at where his cum is dripping out of you. He catches it with the tip of his cock, making good on his promise not to make a mess. He pushes back into you slowly, nothing more than a sigh and slight shudder. His shoulders tense up slightly, and you see him shiver almost unpleasantly, but he doesn't say anything, just starting to roll his hips in the same pace as before.

"What…?" you whisper, staring down at the spot where his cock disappears inside of you.

Osamu just grabs you by the hips and starts to fuck you in earnest again. You gasp, clinging to him hard. His eyes are screwed shut, and his breath is sharper than before.

You realize only when he moans, slightly pained, that he's overstimulating himself to make sure you come.

That he's enjoying it.

You're smacked with a wave of arousal that manifests in your walls clamping down around him and your back bowing off of the mattress, nails digging into his forearms as you cling desperately to him. As you come, open-mouthed and starry-eyed.

The aftermath is humiliating.

You're both sweaty and panting. There's thumbprints bruising your skin. Scratches lining his. The air around you quiets, which means you'd both been louder than expected. Osamu stares down at you, half-exhausted and half-examining, like he's evaluating if this is what he needed.

It's humiliating to think that only you got what you needed. From Miya Osamu of all people.

But then his shoulders sag and his thumbs start to trace circles around your hip bones, almost like he's apologizing for the grip.

"You good?" he breathes, still out of breath.

You nod, sleepy but tense. Still tense around him, even after all this. "You?"

"Yeah," he chuckles. "Better than before."

It isn't comforting. It isn't what you want to hear. But it's Miya Osamu, and you know that neither of you is willing to say what the other wants to hear.

But then you catch it — the way he glances down, eyes tracing the cum that's starting to drip out of you again. Eyes registering that it's him that did that. He's the one who filled you up. He's the one who made you like this.

Something flickers in his gaze that you can't place, but your body knows what it is. Your body likes the look in his eye, so much that your hole flutters and clenches, right as he watching.

His eyebrows fly up and his gaze finds yours. It's heated. His face is warm.

You're reminded of the moment that you realized that there are things Miya Osamu is into. But now it's about you.

He doesn't speak, and neither do you.

He just notches the head of his cock against your entrance, the question lingering in the fact that he doesn't go anywhere.

Your breath catches, anyway. A grin flickers across his face, gone in a moment.

Not a single word passes between you, but the urgency — the desperation — is back. The things between you in this moment-

Overstimulation.

Possession.

-become clear. You hear them even without words. The smack of your headboard against the wall, stronger and louder. The panting, the heavy breathing, the choked moans that pass through both your lips.

It's a shame, really. There's no way your roommates can't hear this. You know you're in for the mockery of your life.

But you can't bring yourself to care.

What a shame.

You come first this time, loud and only muffled by the hand he clamps over your mouth. Your legs twitch and shake, fighting the slight pain of coming so hard so soon after the first time, but he just grips one of your thighs and bends you in half. It only takes two more strokes — hard, rough, sloppy — for him to come, too.

He makes a mess in your bed this time, cum pooling between your thighs and under your ass, but you don't care. You can't care. Even when he shudders and collapses on top of you, you can't care. You just need to sleep.

You do.

He's gone when your alarm goes off the next morning.

—

You don't see him until class, hours after waking up alone in your bed. Part of you — the part that craves touch and affection — had been disappointed, almost offended. But the larger, more rational part of you was relieved, because when you'd come out of your room, Suna had promptly bombarded you with questions of who you brought home last night.

"It sounded like a good time," he'd commented, seemingly unaware of who had visited your bed last night.

You'd flushed, humiliated, and muttered something about the noise, that you would be better about it next time. He'd lifted his brows and grinned.

"So there will be a next time."

You'd just flipped him off and gotten ready for the day, careful to cover the hickies lining your throat.

Now, several hours later, you're shocked to find Miya Osamu dropping down into the seat beside you with a sigh, his bag heavy at his feet.

You turn, wide-eyed, and take him in.

His clothes are rumpled and his hair is disheveled, like he'd rushed out of the house this morning. There are hickies in the crook of his neck.

But he looks good. There's a glow to his skin and he looks like he slept well. And a quick flick of his eyes to yours betrays that he's pleased you look the same.

"What's this about?" you ask, slowly turning to face the front of the lecture hall again. You feel him shrug.

"Nothin'." There's a long pause, and then he says, "It felt bad leavin' like that. This morning."

You blink rapidly, nodding. You wonder if this is already becoming more than what you agreed to. And then you wonder if maybe he's just that kind of guy — the kind that's incapable of being cold, even when he's the one who said 'no strings'.

It would be dangerous for you if he is. It would be bad for you to learn that he's a good guy, that he's able to give you what you need even outside of the dark of your bedroom.

"You good?" he mumbles, opening his notebook and spinning his pen around his fingers a few times.

"Yeah," you whisper. Your professor starts to lecture, something about the upcoming deadlines for the project. You swallow hard, feeling a strange urge to make Miya Osamu happy. "If you want-" You clear your throat. "Tonight. Whenever."

His knee jerks hard, knocking against yours accidentally, and his pen falls to the floor. He rushes to retrieve it, that word floating between you in the silence.

Whenever.

"If you want," you hurry to add, realizing it's been less than 24 hours and you're already propositioning him for another night. "Up to you-"

"Yeah," he coughs, glancing around. You peek up at him, a little pleased to see the burn of his cheeks. "Sure. Sounds good."

"… Okay."

"Okay."

—

At dinner that night, Suna catches onto the fact that something's amiss, and it's not hard to see that Atsumu's figured it out, too.

Maybe it's the fact that you and Osamu don't argue over every tiny detail — who's cooking, what the meal is, who sits where, whose turn it is to do dishes. Maybe it's the fact that you just start cooking silently, and he wanders into the kitchen when he smells the aromatics, vegetables chopped quietly behind you. Maybe it's the fact that you don't address each other at all during the meal, which means things are already two hundred percent more peaceful than usual. Maybe it's the fact that, when Sakusa asks that someone pass him the salt, both you and Osamu reach for it at the same time and then flush with warmth when your fingers intertwine.

Maybe it's any of those things. Maybe it's none of them. After all, Suna Rintarou needs no excuse to corner you in your room after dinner, whispering furiously.

"You fucked him!"

You whirl around, shocked that he's followed you into your room and locked the door. "What?"

"You fucked him, you fucking fraud!" he whispers again, grabbing you by the shoulders and shaking you. "What happened to you hating him?!"

"I-" You stare up at him, eyes wide. "It's complicated!"

He just deadpans at you. "It's probably not complicated."

"We're just-" you fumble, still being shaken by him. "I dunno! We're just relieving stress or whatever!"

He starts to laugh. "That's the oldest play in the book, babe."

You scoff, affronted. "That's all it is! We're both stressed because of the project-"

"Yes, yes," he says, that placating nod making its return. "You're just stressed, and it's just a little time to relax, and it's totally not going to lead to feelings, even though he's already acting different and it's making you act different, and-" His voice pitches up, mocking you. "-Why's he looking at me like that? Does he like me? Do I like him? Is this more than sex?"

You smack him hard on the chest. "Shut up."

He stares, following you to your bed, where you flop facedown and he flops sideways, still staring.

"It's already happening." He doesn't sound shocked, but he does sound amused. "You fall fast, I gotta admit."

"It's not already happening."

"Whatever you say," he sighs, relaxing on his back and extracting his phone. "Oh, Tsumu's asking me to save him." He stands, sighing.

"From what?" Your heart jumps, because you know already.

"Samu's beatin' his ass for asking too many questions."

Your face burns, even hidden in your pillow. "I should follow his lead and beat you, too."

"Yeah, but you won't," he sings, already unlocking your door. "Because I'm right."

—

You fall asleep with your door unlocked.

You're not alone when you wake up.

—

Your body reacts to him first. It only took one night with him, it seems, for your nerve endings to memorize his touch.

The line between dream and life is very thin, your mind wandering in dangerous directions that have everything to do with the circles being pressed against your most sensitive spot. His fingers are warm, warmer still when he buries them inside you. His mouth is the warmest, tongue searing hot as it traces the bruises he'd kissed into your throat just a day ago.

"Fuck," he whispers, and you hear the gravelly edge of it in your bones, echoing around your dream-state. "You're not even here and you're this wet?"

You whine, echoing in your head, and start to whisper his name, certain that if you say it loud enough in your head, he might just hear it in real life.

But it turns out you hardly need to try, because he's clamping a hand over your mouth and shushing you gently, fingers still working you open.

"Gotta be quiet tonight. They're dyin' to catch us."

The line between dream and life is very thin indeed.

His eyes are heated when you find them, his skin flushed as he lies behind you with his hand between your thighs. You wonder if he realizes just how pretty he is when he's embarrassed.

"Y'said it was okay," he starts, but he still looks a little nervous.

The idea that this is his first time trying something like this makes your tummy swarm with nerves, your walls clamping down around his fingers before relaxing.

"It is," you whisper, eyes half-lidded and ass pushing back against him. "Totally, completely okay."

He shoves his face into the crook of your neck and groans, shaking slightly. You take advantage of his weakened state and reach back, your fingers pushing against the band of his sweats. Your hand finds him easily — he's not subtle about the nervous jerk of his hips when you touch him or about the heavy, rattled sigh that falls past his lips when you start to stroke him like this.

For the first time in your life — today, in class, and right now, with your fingers wrapped around his cock — you want to make Miya Osamu happy.

"What is it, huh?" you whisper. "You like takin' advantage of me, Miya?"

He groans, his head shaking jerkily even as his cock twitches, like he can't decide what the truth is. You can tell there's something there, but that must not be it.

"You like knowing my body knows you, even after one night?" You're exposing yourself by saying this, and you both know it. He curls his fingers hard and pushes his thumb against your clit, his other hand still hovering over your mouth to catch you when you start to cry out.

"Think you like that part more," he grunts back, his laugh airy and tight. "Someone's got a crush."

"Fuck you," you whine, muffled by his palm and made even more laughable by the roll of your eyes into the back of your head. He must see it, because he's smiling against your cheek. You can feel his eyelashes on your skin, fluttering when you brush your thumb over the tip of his cock.

"Not tonight," he whispers, chest heaving against your back. "I don' need my brother knowing what you sound like when you fall apart on my cock."

You shiver, hearing that edge of possession in his voice. It showed itself to you in other ways last night, but this clearly isn't a one-time feeling.

"He already knows," you mock. And then you push in ways you shouldn't, and you know that. "Suna, too."

The effect is immediate, Osamu's grip on your mouth tightening. His fingers push deeper into you, curling and then spreading apart. Your muscles lock up, and you gasp pathetically into his palm. He pushes his hips against your fist, rough and rude.

"You done?" he bites. "You having fun?"

Yes, you think, your nerve endings singing for him. The most fun you've had in a long, long time.

But you know how to make it better.

"You know what I think?" you pant. "I think you like the idea of fucking me while I'm sleeping because it means I trust you."

Miya Osamu starts to break.

His breath catches and his cock grows heavy in your palm as you slide it along his shaft, wet and fast and loud.

You push.

"You like knowing I hate you and that I'd still let you do whatever you want to me."

He breaks.

You push.

"You like having me all to yourself."

He breaks and you push.

"That's what it is, isn't it?" you mumble, feeling him start to throb in your hand, precum leaking all over your knuckles. Your tummy swirls when he groans, when his sounds start to become open-mouthed and stupid against the side of your head.

You can't help yourself.

"Isn't it, Samu?"

Miya Osamu breaks.

You break, too. You don't want to admit that it's because he's moaning nothing but your own name into your hair, broken and depraved and carrying something you've never heard from him before. Something you never thought could happen between you.

—

He's still there when you wake up the next morning. Your face is pressed into the crook of his neck. You can feel the weight of his arm draped over you and the hard muscle of his thigh between your legs.

When you pull your head back to look at him, his eyelids flutter open.

You stare up into his eyes, and he just stares back. No words are shared, and neither of you moves to separate from this position. You just examine each other under the slivers of sunlight streaming through your curtains. You just let your gaze drift to his mouth and then away. Just watch when he does the same.

You're not dumb enough to avoid the fact that 'no strings' fell apart in under two days.

You choose to ignore it. For now, at least.

Two loud bangs hit your door, followed by three more, multiple sets of fists on wood. You jump, wide-eyed, and sit up.

"What?"

"Open up, loser!" It's Suna. "Samu's not in his room, so he must be in yours!"

"Damn near a decade of hell, and then you guys do this shit?" That's Atsumu.

A quieter voice, closer to the wood. "Might I suggest sex in Osamu's room from now on? You and I share a wall."

And that's Kiyoomi.

You groan, hiding your hands in your face. The mattress shifts beside you, Osamu mumbling a quiet 'I got it'. He yanks the door open, his frame taking up the entire doorway.

"Can you guys fuck off?" You watch him gesture somewhere to his right, where Kiyoomi is audibly protesting. "Not you, Omi."

"Is that a yes to the room change?" the man mumbles, deadpan as ever.

"Sure, Omi."

Suna's gasp is as dramatic as it's been all your life. "So you are in here!"

Osamu gestures to his own body. "You saw me open this damn door, di'nt you?"

"Don't do it, Y/n!" Atsumu yells, trying to break into the room. Osamu wrestles him back with a yell. "He's a bad lay!"

Suna slips through the door as Osamu gets distracted with fistfighting his brother. Your bed jostles under his weight.

"So?" he says with a grin, eyes sparkling with mischief as he leans back on his elbows. "Is he a bad lay?"

You roll your eyes, knowing you can't hide from him. "Of course not. Would I fuck him twice in two days if he was a bad lay?"

Suna's grin is that toothy, bright one that you grew up with. He lowers his voice. "And those feelings we talked about?"

Your knee starts to bounce. He snorts, shaking his head.

"Knew it," he sings quietly, satisfied.

"I didn't even say anything."

"Didn' need to."

You don't deny it.

—

'No strings' looks a lot like immediately falling into something with Miya Osamu. You want to blame him, want to say that he's the one getting attached, but you know that's not the truth.

Over the course of the next week, he sits with you in every class and you choose not to comment. If anything, you start to glance back at the door and around the room when he takes too long to get there. You start to get that funny little tummy swirl when he steps over people just to get to you, every time.

He starts walking with you to your next class together — or maybe it's you. Because you wait, hovering awkwardly by the door when he stops to talk to his friends briefly. You wait, wondering if you're waiting for nothing, if you're showing your hand by waiting. But every time you even start to think of walking away, of leaving first, you catch his glance. You catch the fond look in his eye, the amused raise of his eyebrows.

He's making fun of you, but there's something in it that tells you not to go.

So you don't.

You just give him the same look when you see him waiting for you outside of your last class every day, even though you've never given him your schedule. You just smile when he rolls his eyes and try not to look like you're rushing to catch up with him when he turns to leave.

You start seeing him in the doorway of your bedroom more often, his gaze curious as he hovers over where you're working at your desk. Your gaze just finds the laptop and notebook he has in hand, wondering if he'll ask the question on his tongue or if he'll just hover until you tell him it's okay.

He always chooses to hover, only moving when you give him a silent sign that it's okay. You don't tease, too busy trying not to get nervous when he closes and locks your door on his way to your bed. He takes up your space like it's his, for hours a day, and you just let him.

You let him take your space, let him see the way you struggle to focus on your work when his presence fills your room. You let him ask stupid questions — 'what'd you get for number six?', 'when's the paper due?' — because you know that he's doing exactly what you're doing: making excuses. He's making excuses to talk to you, making excuses to get your attention the same way you're making excuses to give it to him.

He just asks his stupid questions and grins, pleased, when you put your pen down and turn in your seat to scold him for distracting you. He just grins and says 'you gonna answer me or what?'. He just waits for you to get out of your seat and stomp over to your bed, where he's long made himself comfortable. And the moment your knees hit the mattress, that scowl painting your features like you aren't yearning to fill that spot next to him, he just reaches out and grabs you by the waist, dragging you in.

You just let him, the same way you let him do everything else.

You never notice the way the sun fades outside your window, never notice the time that passes with your hands buried in his hair, his lips pushing and pulling in time with yours. Even when you don't have sex — you can't actually remember the last time you had sex in this room — time passes with Miya Osamu.

He only leaves when everyone else is home, lips pink and swollen and sweats tented in the front as he kisses you one last time and heads to the kitchen to cook dinner. You just watch him go, glossy-eyed and nerve endings calling for him to come back. On the days that you cook dinner, instead, you always turn at the last second, catching the way he looks at you. Glossy-eyed and warm, like something under his skin might be calling for you, too.

Even the roommate-related arguments feel different. You do your best to keep your shoes organized, and it's not hard to notice that he keeps up with his dishes. But even when you do hear him trip on your sneakers, swears falling past his lips, you just stick your head around the corner with a sheepish grin and mutter your apologies. He just rolls his eyes and threatens to shove your shoes up your ass, amused exasperation lacing his voice. And when he lets his dirty plates stack one too many times, you just lean down in front of everyone and whisper threats of a sex ban into his ear. The dishes are always magically done within the hour.

Suna doesn't comment, and Atsumu doesn't comment. They just look on with interested, knowing expressions. Kiyoomi does comment in his own Kiyoomi way, pointing out dirty pots to you and pointing down at piles of overturned sneakers whenever Osamu's in earshot. You're perfectly happy to let him use the situation to his advantage, because anything's better than getting called out about the distinctly not casual way that you and Miya Osamu are behaving.

And then it becomes impossible to ignore, at an unimportant time on an unimportant Wednesday afternoon.

—

"Shit, shit, shit-"

You scramble off the crowded train and race out of the station, glancing at street signs and then the map on your phone before bolting in the right direction. You're late to your appointment with the leasing agent. You just hope she and the other student haven't already started the tour.

The other student, whose voice you can hear from around the corner.

"'s fine, we should wait for her."

"Well, okay. Just a few more minutes. I don't want to waste your time."

"I'd rather wait. She's never late fer things, so she's prolly freaking out."

"Oh-You know her?"

You skid to a stop at the corner, eyes wide. When you step out into view, he finds you immediately.

His brows lift, lips tugging at the corners as he fights an amused grin.

"Yeah," he says, looking over the agent's shoulder. "I know her."

You blink away the shock of seeing him and rush toward them, your face flushed and your appearance a complete mess from running. "I'm so sorry-"

The agent turns, smiling politely. "Lucky timing," she jokes. "We were just about to go."

You nod, apologizing again as you shake her hand. "Thank you for waiting." You direct your gratitude to her but mostly over her head at Osamu. "I couldn't find my application packet and missed the earlier train-"

She cuts you off again. You think you see Osamu's brows twitch in annoyance.

"Well, it is important to be prepared. Countless business deals have fallen through because of poor plannin-"

"She said she was sorry," Osamu comments. "And she's never late like this. Things happen sometimes." When the agent gives him the same look you are — dumbfounded shock — he just nods at the empty storefront before you. "Can we go in?"

She just gives a quiet scoff and mutters something about 'stupid kids' before heading inside. You plaster yourself to Osamu's side once her back is turned, his elbow in your grasp.

"Thank you," you breathe.

He just shrugs, planting his hand on the small of your back. "She's too uptight. 's not y'r fault."

You let him lead you forward, staring up at the side of his face. "How'd you know it was me on the appointment?"

"Saw your name on her clipboard. Knew somethin' wasn't right when you didn't show." He drops his hand when the agent glances back, and then he whispers something quick, sticking his hand out for you to shake it. "Let's find you your bakery, yeah?"

You take his hand, smiling politely at the agent as you shake it. "Onigiri Miya starts today, or whatever."

His laugh, pleasantly surprised, follows you through the door.

You're on your best behavior for the rest of the day, asking all the questions you've learned to ask and taking all the notes you know you'll need later. Osamu complements you perfectly, asking questions whenever you're busy writing and poking his head into corners when you're grilling the agent about downpayments and repairs and everything else.

When the agent gently suggests that you take a look around instead of asking her questions the whole time, you just nod at Osamu, who's crouched near a wall with some suspiciously exposed wires, the safe rubber part trapped between his knuckles as he examines the way they were cut.

"He's got me," you say, returning to your laundry list of questions.

You don't realize he'd been in earshot until two tours later, when the agent — by this point rather annoyed with the way you two have tag-teamed her — remarks that Osamu's not taking any notes. She asks how he possibly plans to keep track of the details and if he plans to run his business in the same way. Your back is turned, your notepad propped up against the wall as you jot more notes, so you don't realize that he's pointing at you.

"She's got me."

You glance over your shoulder at him, catching the look in his eye before he turns away.

The agent just sighs. "And when you're running your shop? Who's gonna have you then? Do you plan to open a joint shop where one of you takes care of the bills and the other takes care of the maintenance?"

She laughs, clearly expecting you both to look ashamed or even laugh along with her. But Osamu just finds your eyes.

You can see his mind start to work overtime, and you follow the thread he leaves behind for you.

"Maybe," you bite. "With the places you've shown us so far, it seems like there might not even be two viable places for us, anyway."

The agent is appropriately offended, but you've gotten tired of her attitude over the last few hours, and you know Osamu had lost his patience before the tours even started.

"Fine," she snaps. "There's two more places left, anyway. Maybe you'll find those viable."

You shrug, gesturing to the door. "Maybe. Shall we?"

Osamu is quiet on the drive to the next location. You would be nervous if you couldn't tell that he's thinking very hard about something. Not the life contemplation sort of thinking. More like he's doing calculations and needs to concentrate.

When you step out of the car, ignoring the agent's snarky comment about the day coming to a close, you see two empty storefronts lodged, side by side, in the middle of a strip of stores, just off of the main road.

The thought that crosses your mind — dangerous, personal — is reflected in the light that fills Osamu's eyes. Your gazes lock over the hood of the car. He flushes, and you do, too.

You follow the agent through the usual motions — downpayment, overhead rent, maintenance policies, repairs and renovations.

"It's the same for both stores," she says at one point. "All the businesses on this street are owned by the same person."

You try not to let your hopes get the best of you, but Osamu's completely ruining your attempts.

"So, in theory," he starts, walking around the space and nodding, seemingly pleased by what he sees. "We could knock a hole in the wall and put a door there?" He points at the wall connecting the two stores.

She lifts her brows, finally catching onto what he's planning. "In theory," she says slowly. "But I'd have to ask the owner. He has the final say."

He just nods. You're too busy glancing between them, your breath caught in your throat.

"Can you ask him how he feels about the whole wall comin' down?" he finally asks, a little quieter.

You swallow around the knot in your throat. "Samu," you mumble, a warning.

His eyes glint when he looks at you. "In theory, of course." And then he addresses the agent. "What was the downpayment again?"

She gives the number.

He looks to you, brows raised and that stupid, dangerous smile tugging at him again. "I have that."

You hold your notebook to your chest, knowing he can see the tremble of your fingers. "I have it, too."

He nods slowly. "You shook on it. Earlier."

You ignore the agent's look of confusion, just shaking your head and extracting your application papers from the packet in your bag.

Eight years is a long time to learn a person.

"Onigiri Miya, or whatever."

You turn away so he doesn't see the warmth in your cheeks when he addresses the agent.

"We'll take it. Both of 'em."

—

The front door slams and bounces off of the wall when you and Osamu burst through, your legs wrapped around his waist and his fingers tangled tight in your hair and your lips bruising from the pressure of his.

"Oh, hell no!"

You feel him wave off his brother, barely managing to let your own apology when your back crashes into Kiyoomi's arm as he's scuttling out of the way.

Suna calls out from the living room, laughing maniacally. "What the fuck happened to you two?"

You release the stack of papers that's crumpled in your hand, letting them fall to the floor. Osamu just uses one hand to shove your shoes off of your feet as he's kicking off his own, and then he stumbles down the hall with you in his arms. You hear Kiyoomi start to read off the papers.

"They signed leases?" The flip of more papers. "Oh. They're next door to each other."

Atsumu groans. "Damn near a decade of this shit-"

Suna just keeps laughing. "Congratulations, loser!"

Osamu's door slams and locks, your back pressed to the wood, just as Atsumu's suggesting they all go out for a few hours. You wait until the front door closes before you let yourself focus on the task at hand.

"So," he mumbles into your mouth. "You ready to talk about that little crush you got?"

You roll your hips into him, dragging your teeth down his throat and sucking bruises into his skin. "In theory?" you joke.

"Shut up," he grunts, yanking you off the door and crossing the room in two strides. Your back hits his mattress, and you can't help the sigh that falls out when you pull him down on top of you. His bed smells like him, and there's a tug of something more than lust when it hits you. You know what it is, that swirl of emotion that comes with knowing you're going to keep ending up here.

His mouth is urgent on yours, and his fingers are shaking slightly as he tugs desperately on your clothes.

"Keepin' these," he breathes, your panties yanked down and tossed across the room. You shiver, nodding.

"Yours," you breathe back, a moment of weakness.

Or maybe it's strength, because you feel invincible when you hear the moan that he presses against your throat when you utter that word.

"Mine, yeah?" he whispers after a moment, his jeans shoved down to his knees. You let him pry your thighs open, your nerves twisting and turning when you hear his question. Something tells you he's not asking about your underwear.

You nod, pulling him in for a kiss, but he stops at the last second.

"Say it."

You whine, biting down on your lip. "'m yours, Samu." When he grins, his smile bright and real and open, you turn your head, squeezing your eyes shut. "Fuck, this is so embarrassing."

He just laughs against your skin. "You have a crush on me," he teases. "That's fucking embarrassing."

You beat a fist against his shoulder. "You asked me to own a business with you."

"Yeah," he sighs, clearly pleased. "I have a crush on you."

You flush hard, meeting his eyes. You know he can see the affection you're all but radiating, because he just keeps beaming down at you.

"'s fucking embarrassing," you mumble fondly, searching his gaze. He lets you.

"You cool with it?"

You swallow your answer, gasping at the push of his cock past your entrance.

"Samu-"

"You okay with this?" he pants, bottoming out in one thrust. "You okay with me?"

Your back arches, unfiltered moans falling past your lips. "More than okay."

He fucks you hard, like he has something to prove to you. His whispers feel like honey on your skin, your name and his feelings mixing easily with moans he presses against the line of your throat.

It doesn't take long to fall over the edge with him. There's weeks of something between you, built into signs ignored and silences shared.

There's years, really. Years of nothing and everything, falling apart when you do. Words unsaid, bubbling to the surface when he moans your name but staying hidden all the same. Saved for later, when you're both ready to admit it.

Caleb avoids what’s uncomfortable and instead of speaking about it, he often separates himself if he feels like he’s not being understood. It’s never malicious, but this tendency of his does lead to more anxiety between the both of you.

When you show up at Caleb’s place after an especially rough day at work, all you want to do is relax and have a nice evening with him.

“Hey, wanna order something out tonight? Might be a little easier, and we can shower together,” Caleb suggests as he takes your bag from you.

“Yeah,” you reach down to pry your boots from your aching feet. “Sounds good.”

“Gotcha. I’ll take care of your clothes if you want to leave them on the counter and I’ll get ya some fresh ones of mine to sleep in. Cool?”

“Coooool,” you draw out the word with a playful eye roll.

Caleb snorts and bends to gently kiss your cheek, eyes swimming with joy. He’s always elated to see you and the fact that you’re that special to him makes you feel weightless; like the stress of the day is no longer hanging on to your shoulders.

Caleb busies himself with finding you something to wear, and you make the familiar path to his gorgeous bathroom.

“Rich Skyhaven boy,” you think to yourself fondly as you strip.

You neatly fold your clothing even though it’s going into the hamper and turn the shower on.

The water is a comforting embrace; an old friend’s familiarity and warmth that settles you as the temperature climbs. The knots in your back feel less painful, even if they don’t dig themselves out.

“You all settled, Pipsqueak? Okay if I come in?” Caleb’s voice is muffled by the door.

“Yeah, come in - Yanno, you never have to ask, especially if I agree to a shower together before.”

The initial squirt of body wash chills your hand, but you rub them together to warm them up. You see Caleb’s fingers curl around the side of the shower curtain almost as if to give you a second warning.

“Caleb,” you say incredulously. “Just come in!”

“I know, I know - Just makin’ sure you want company, is all.”

“You’re the sweetest, most maddening person.”

“You forgot ‘hottest’, though,” Caleb supplies, then tugs the curtain to let himself in.

When you look up at him, you see his smile has dropped.

“What?” You ask, suddenly feeling self conscious under his immediate scrutiny.

“What the fuck happened to you today?” Caleb demands, reaching out to lightly press his fingers against a giant bruise forming on your arm.

“Oh, that’s -“

“Why are you covered in cuts?”

“Caleb, it’s not like -“ you cut yourself off as you see dread color his features darker, and those eyes swimming with that bright joy from before are dull kindling with the faintest start of an angry fire.

“How many times have I told you that you need to be careful?”

“Caleb,” you say slowly, understanding where his concern is coming from, but feeling that familiar indignation burn the back of your throat like bile. “You know how it gets sometimes, it was a nasty wanderer, and I knew what i was doing -“

“Clearly not enough to keep yourself safe - Pipsqueak, this shit could get infected if you’re not careful.”

“I know that - you act like I don’t know basic safety and how to take care of myself! This isn’t the first time this has happened, and -“

“Not the first time, but you’re fucking covered in these!” Caleb insists, lifting your arm to your eye line so you can see what he means.

Unfortunately, Caleb is right. Your arm is littered with nicks and bruises and a particularly nasty gash you hadn’t noticed before sits just below your elbow.

Caleb lets your hand drop, then crouches, not caring about the water that’s beating down on his face, and looks.

“This is…” Caleb trails off, his shock melting into a quiet, simmering anger that makes you feel sick.

“I - I’m okay. I was cleared by medical, and no one told me that I had to go to a hospital -“

“It doesn’t fucking matter,” Caleb looks up at you, and his voice is an eerie calm.

“I’m okay,” you repeat, not really knowing what else to say or how to assure him.

“Right. Because you always know best,” Caleb stands. “Give me that sponge and turn around.”

“That’s not fair,” you try to deny, but Caleb doesn’t even attempt to argue with you.

He simply takes the sponge and begins carefully washing your scrapes and cuts.

“Caleb -“

“Arms up,” he cuts you off with an order that you immediately obey.

“I’m fine -“

“Okay,” Caleb says. “Whatever you say.”

Caleb cleans you silently, and even though you know that you haven’t done anything actually wrong, you feel like it’s your fault that he’s this upset.

With gentle hands, Caleb works to make sure you’re clean. When he’s finished, he washes himself, denying your offer to do so for him.

“It’s fine. Just get dry and wait for me to finish so I can get the first aid kit.”

You don’t have the energy to challenge him, and you know that this is his way of compartmentalizing; shutting things down before he can get too worked up over them. It’s never something you’ve talked about in depth, because it’s only happened a few times, but you know that he’s upset. His anger is never directed at you, and you know it’s the situation that he’s frustrated with, but you wish he would talk to you about it.

The heat that the towel provides is minimal, and despite doing your best to dry off as much as you can, the air feels like it’s freezing. Caleb steps out not long after you and dries himself quickly, not bothering with his hair, which he leaves damp.

“Counter. Sit please,” He works to keep his tone even.

“Caleb,” you try softly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know that things would get that dicey.”

Caleb says nothing as he digs for the first aid kit. He places it on the counter next to you and fishes for rubbing alcohol and ointment.

“Really, I -“

“Can you lift your arm for me?”

“Yeah,” you concede and do as he asks.

“This will sting a little,” he warns, and even the burn of the rubbing alcohol can’t rival the anxiety clawing its way up your throat.

Caleb doctors your wounds, and you can gradually see why he was so shocked when he saw you. They’re everywhere.

Most of your cuts are manageable and light scratches, but three rather large gashes decorate just beneath your elbow, the back of your thigh, and right at the base of your neck that your hair and uniform had covered.

“I’m going to put some gauze on the bigger ones, and I think we should change them out every few hours depending on how messy they get,” Caleb decides. “I think that’s what Zayne would do.”

“That sounds -“

“I’ll give him a call after I finish here. Takeout should be here in a few.”

“You’re going to call Zayne?” You squawk. “Surely it’s not that serious.”

“I’d feel safer with an actual medical opinion and by the state you were left in and none of those useless fucks on your team thought you should get a second opinion, it seems like Zayne wasn’t informed.”

“They would have sent me if it was necessary -“

“AND,” Caleb presses on. “I doubt you showed them the extent of the damage, ‘cause it seems like you didn’t even realize it was as bad as it is.”

You feel like you’re being scolded, and suddenly you feel about as big as a bug.

“Go make yourself comfortable on the couch,” Caleb says, resigned. “I’m going to call Zayne and then we can decide what the best course of action is.”

“I’m fine,” you mutter.

If Caleb heard you, he doesn’t respond. He packs up the kit to put away, then leaves you in the bathroom to go make his call.

The chill in the air feels suffocating, and the cold does little to help the ache in your throat. You dress in Caleb’s comfortable fleet sweatpants and a hoodie that you know is too small for him, but he keeps because you like it.

By the time you’re finished, the doorbell rings.

“Right, so none of the team spoke with you about what happened today?” Caleb’s voice comes from the next room as you accept the bags of food.

You hastily thank the delivery person and hand them a large tip that you know Caleb would insist on if he were paying, trying your best to catch the end of his conversation.

“So she is meant to check in with you if there are injuries to that extent, no matter if she thinks she’s fine or not?”

You cringe. In your defense, you hadn’t known they were that bad.

“Okay, I’ll keep you updated. She seems alright otherwise, and I think her heart is fine,”

“Yeah,” Caleb continues in a low voice, clearly not intending for you to overhear. “She’s just being a little stubborn, and I don’t think she wants to make it a big deal, but - yeah, I got it. Do you need pictures of the injuries? Right. Okay, I’ll try my best.”

Caleb’s footsteps grow louder, so you busy yourself by setting the table and acting like you weren’t eavesdropping.

“Thanks for setting the table,” Caleb says woodenly. “I just got off the phone with Zayne. He thinks you should send pictures of your injuries for tonight and get a check up tomorrow just in case for your heart.”

“I’ll -“

“I can take the pictures for you - some of the worst ones you won’t be able to get. So, you knew that you were supposed to get looked at?”

“I didn’t think it was that bad.”

“Pipsqueak,” Caleb sounds hoarser, more affected this time. “You need to do what’s best.”

“I know, I just didn’t realize I had that many and if I had known, I would have told someone. Clearly, I didn’t know. You KNOW that I didn’t keep that from you on purpose.”

“If they’re THAT bad, then the fight was bad enough for you to know that something might have been up.”

“Caleb, I -“

“You’re so much smarter than this, you know that?” He shakes his head in disbelief as he speaks. “Do you know how many people care about you? Your condition? Do you realize how critical it is to fuckin’ - take care of yourself? At all?”

“How dare you talk to me like I’m some kind of child?” You find yourself saying back, your pride hurt and your ego clawing its way out of your chest.

“Like you’re a child? Basic decency and giving a fuck about your well being is treating you like a child?”

“You’re getting mad at something I can’t control!”

“I’m not getting mad at something you can’t control, I’m fucking frustrated that you never listen to anyone because you think you can handle everything on your own and that you always, always know what’s best!”

“Caleb, that’s not true, and -“

“Yes, it is, and you never want to hear anything about it!”

“I always go to my appointments, and Zayne knows that I wouldn’t disregard something like that on purpose, and -“

“Really?” Caleb cocks his head to the side, the corners of his mouth curled into an almost mocking smile. “Interesting that you say that, because Zayne told me this isn’t the first time you’ve done something like this.”

“So you’ll listen to Zayne but you won’t listen to me when I’m telling you that I truly thought I was fine?”

“He’s your fucking primary care doctor and the one that knows the most about your condition. Remind me, how many years of medical school did you attend?”

“Fuck you.”

As soon as the words leave your lips, you wish you could suck them back in and swallow them so the digestion process can begin.

Caleb just looks at you.

“Okay,” he says after a moment. “Alright, then. Look, just … eat whatever you want. I’ve got paperwork to do.”

“Caleb -“

“Finish up, and when I’m done, I can take the pictures for you. Unless you’d rather take them yourself, I don’t really care anymore.”

He cares.

You can see it in the tense set of his jaw and hear it in the rasp that hijacks his voice.

“I’ll… I’ll wait for you here.”

Caleb doesn’t nod or speak. He doesn’t acknowledge you in any way. You see his hands clench into fists at his sides, then unfurl slowly, his palms red from the way his fingernails were biting into the skin.

He’s self-soothing.

Caleb takes one of the food containers without looking at its contents and disappears into his bedroom to focus on the paperwork.

You feed yourself because you know your body needs it, but the food settles in your stomach like cement, churning and heavy as it mixes with your dread.

Caleb is holed up in his room, and you know that he really is working on paperwork, because he’d mentioned to you earlier that day he was going to need some time to work on it, but he usually does it on the couch.

After finishing your food, you collect the leftovers to fit into Caleb’s fridge, but when you open it, you see that it’s completely barren.

A few bottles of water stand on the bottom shelf, and there’s a half-drunk container of milk that you squint to find the date on.

It’s expired.

That’s why he’d insisted on takeout. He’s been working so much lately he hasn’t had a moment to get to the store.

You wonder how long it’s been like this.

There’s plenty of space for the leftovers, so you separate them by type. A half-dried up marker rests on a magnet on Caleb’s fridge, so you mark the date on the containers, hoping it’ll be easy for him to see when he needs to toss them.

The rest of the night is quiet, and part of you wonders if you should leave. You don’t know if Caleb wants to be around you right now, but you worry that he’ll think your leaving is out of spite.

You wish he’d just talk it through with you.

His couch provides a bit of comfort after you finish cleaning up in the kitchen, and the blanket he keeps folded on the right end smells like him.

Wrapping yourself in the soft velvet gives you a sense of his presence. All you wanted today was to come to his apartment and unwind.

Despite your anxiety, exhaustion builds in your chest and breaks off to seep into your limbs and extremities. Sleep claims you with greedy hands that pick and pluck at your nerves and dreams to leave you restless. The arm of Caleb’s couch serves as a hard, unforgiving pillow.

“Bed,” Caleb’s voice swims in your ears and pries you from the clutches of irritating nightmares.

The wanderer you faced today had been right in front of you, a foreign, snarling noise emanating from its throat. Caleb’s face comes into view.

“You fell asleep,” he says as he nudges you.

“Sorry,” you murmur. “Didn’t know when you’d be finished with your work.”

“Sit up for me,” Caleb instructs, hands firm on your waist to steady you as you shake the sleep from your body. “Gotta get those pictures to Zayne. Can you stand?”

Your legs protest with an ache that hadn’t been there before, but it’s not entirely unbearable. Caleb leads you to his bedroom.

“Sit down, should only take a few seconds, then you can go back to sleep,” Caleb guides you to the bed, then reaches for his phone on the nightstand.

“Do I need to stand up for the ones on my legs?”

“No,” Caleb shakes his head as he delicately lifts your arms to snap the pictures. “I can crouch down and get them that way.”

“Are you sure, because -“

“Zayne’s only really concerned about the gashes, pipsqueak. Just let me take these and then you can get the rest you need.”

The room is quiet for a moment, and not even the shutter sound of Caleb’s camera offers any kind of distraction, because his phone is always on silent.

“Should be good,” Caleb says after he gets what he needs, then double checks his gallery to make sure everything is okay to send.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“All good, you can get into bed, and -“

“Wait, you’re not coming to bed, too?”

Caleb avoids your eyes and busies himself with his phone, though you know he’s already done what he’s needed to do.

“Caleb, why aren’t you staying?’

“I’ve got more paperwork, and I don’t want to bother you, so…”

“Bulllshit,” you blurt. “That’s bullshit and you know it is.”

“Look, I think you need rest, and -“

“And I think you need to actually listen to me!”

“I don’t want to fight about this,” Caleb says with a sense of finality that makes your blood boil.

“No, you don’t want to fight about this. Apparently, you don’t want to talk about this at all. What about what I want?”

“Pipsqueak -“

“Caleb, I did everything you asked me to today.”

“You don’t understand,” Caleb snaps, that last thread of his patience fraying beyond recognition.

“Then help me understand,” you insist. “You didn’t listen to me once earlier when I told you that I DIDN’T know that my injuries were that bad. So, what, I’m a liar?”

“No, I didn’t call you a liar, I just -“

“You may as well have,” your voice climbs in pitch with your frustration, your words tumbling from your lips and scrambling over each other like they’re afraid they won’t be heard.

“I just need you to understand that I care about you.”

“Right,” you scoff, unable to keep the sarcasm at bay. “Because I think you don’t care about me. Did it ever occur to you that I know what my body can handle? That this was something I can take care of?”

“You have a fucking heart condition,” he stands, no longer masking his own frustration.

“That I have dealt with for a long time. I know my body. I know my injuries. I know that I didn’t push myself beyond what I can handle today. Do you just think I can’t take care of myself? That I need you to protect me from everything? I don’t need you to do that, Caleb!”

Caleb’s expression blanches, and whatever color that had been taking residence in the scarlet roses of his cheeks evacuates. When that passionate anger melts into a profound, overwhelming sadness, you can see just how exhausted he’s been lately, too.

“You don’t need me?”

“Caleb,” you say firmly. “Do you realize that even just then you didn’t listen to what I was saying?”

“You said -“

“I said that I didn’t need you to always protect me. I don’t need you to fight all of my battles,” you cut him off, giving him a taste of his own medicine.

The violet in Caleb’s eyes has faded, and you can see that lonely wallflower that craves to be needed draining the bright bliss from earlier as it plants insatiable seeds of doubt.

Your reassurance, though well-intended, eats at him.

“Caleb, I love you. I love you more than anything.”

“I know that,” Caleb says indignantly, sounding more like he’s trying to convince himself more than he’s trying to convince you.

“Do you?”

You lift your injured hands to his face and cup his jaw to make him look at you.

“I do,” Caleb murmurs. “You do know that I love you, too, right? That I only say these things because I care about you so fucking much that I’m constantly worried you’re going to leave me somehow.”

“I would never leave -“

“That’s not… that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“What do you mean, Caleb? You’re stuck with me, it’s not like I’m going to get upset by a little argument and just take off.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Caleb repeats with a little more force. “I can’t be around you every second of every day and… when you come home like this…”

“It’s just a few scratches -“

“This time,” Caleb croaks. “It’s just a few scratches this time, and who cares about a deep gash, right? They have stitches for that? And… and who cares about a broken leg, those heal, right? Who cares about a … a missing arm? They’ve got technology for that, right?”

“Caleb, that’s -“

“Who cares when the fucking ECG goes flat and there’s no more next time?”

Your words catch in your throat.

“Sweetheart,” Caleb forgoes using his usual nickname for you, the gravity of the situation too intense for him to break it out. “I … I want as much time as I can get with you, and even then, it won’t be enough. Forever won’t be enough. I need you so badly that it hurts when you’re not there.”

Caleb pulls you into his arms and sits with you on the bed so your legs drape across his. He rests his forehead against yours.

“Every second of the day that I can’t see you, it’s a kind of agony that I can’t explain, and - and I know it’s too much. I know it’s intense. It’s not… normal.”

“It’s okay,” you try to say, but Caleb makes a noise in the back of his throat.

“It’s not. I know it’s not. I’m working on it and I have been for a long, long time. I know that you can fight your own battles. I know that you’re strong. You are the most capable person I know.”

“You can talk to me about this, Caleb. I know, because I feel the same way about you. I hate that I can’t know you’re safe all the time, especially when you’re away.”

“I - I know. I don’t mean to be selfish.”

“You’re not being selfish, I just need you to trust me a little more.”

“I do trust you, honey. It’s every one else I don’t fucking trust.”

Caleb pulls you even closer so he can rest his head on yours shoulder.

“I’m okay, Caleb,” you say softly as you delicately trail your fingertips up his back. “I promise. I will get be more careful next time.”

“I don’t want to be a prick, but can you just get a second opinion next time? Just let the medical team examine you a little more?”

“I will,” you compromise. “You may have not reacted the right way, but you were right. I should have let them be more thorough.”

“Let them?”

“I might have…” you trail off, then wince at your own stupidity. “I might have told them it wasn’t necessary.”

You feel Caleb inhale sharply, but instead being angry, he simply lets that held breath puff out.

“Yeah. Okay, let’s - okay. We’re good?” He asks a little tightly, but pulls back to smile at you.

“We’re good,” you assure him. “You still have paperwork to do? Are you sure you can’t come to bed?”

“I’m mostly finished,” Caleb admits. “I just wanted to let you rest on your own and I wasn’t really… sure you wanted to see me after how I acted.”

“I’ve been wanting to see you all day, and here you are telling me it hurts when I’m not around but you’re gonna sleep on the couch? What’s with that?”

“I’m a stupid, stupid man.”

“Beyond stupid. Mega stupid.”

“The most stupid, legend says,” Caleb nods and pouts.

“Lucky for you, I like guys that are a little dumber than me, you know?” You tease.

“I know, I’m just a trophy husband to you,” Caleb scoots back on the bed and pats your thighs for you to lift up.

When you do, he parts your legs and motions for you to straddle him.

“Yeah? Think you gotta propose to me first to earn that title,” You giggle, but allow him to position you as he likes so you can be as close to him as possible.

“And it won’t be the first ring you’re getting from me,” Caleb promises. “Such a shame I don’t get a little trinket to wear before it’s all official.”

“You want a little trinket?”

“Not so much thaaaaat,” Caleb drawls. “Just that I want people to know that I’m YOURS. Want something to mark me.”

“Guess I’ll just have to keep you covered in marks until then, hm?”

You feel his cock twitch against your thigh.

“Seems like you wouldn’t mind that?”

“Pipsqueak,” Caleb clears his throat. “You’re hurt, and -“

“I seem to recall, Colonel,” you lean forward to whisper into his ear. “That you agreed to start listening more.”

“I’m listenin’, I promise. What do you need from me?” Caleb asks.

“I need you to just… sit like that for me and keep your hands to yourself.”

“That’s not -“

“Listen, Caleb,” you pull back to look at him. “I’m speaking, right?”

“Yes ma’am,” Caleb nods quickly, worried you’ll decide to not touch him, then realizes he’s made a mistake by speaking.

His cheeks puff out comicallyas he shows you he’s zipping his lips and holding his breath.

“Very good, I think I’m gonna start… here.”

Caleb gasps as he feels your lips press against his throat. Deciding you like those little sounds he’s making, you cover the skin there in sweet, soft kisses.

Caleb’s body trembles as he works to keep his hands at his side so he’s not disobeying you.

His effort is so delicious.

You begin to use your lips less and your tongue more, and it drives Caleb to the brink of his restraint. He does everything he can to keep from speaking, worried you’ll take his words as an act of defiance.

“You can speak,” you assure him sweetly between licks and sucks. “I like that filthy mouth of yours.”

“I’ll do anything,” Caleb gasps out. “I’ll do whatever you want, let me apologize, please? Command me.”

His cock presses against you through the thin fabric of his sweats, and you know he’s not wearing any underwear because you can feel the full length of him.

“Just sit there for me, okay? I think… I think I want to take care of you a little bit, hm?”

“What? I don’t deserve -“

“I’m commanding you, Colonel. Take those sweatpants off and show me how much you need me, okay?”

You lift up so he can obey, unable to tear your eyes away from the sight. He’s so eager to feel you against him with no barriers that he doesn’t bother removing the pants, just lets them bunch at his ankles.

Caleb groans as his cock bobs free and slaps against his shirt, drooling and leaving a stain on the heather gray fabric.

“Lean back against the headboard for me, please?”

“Don’t even have to say please,” Caleb chokes, doing exactly what you say.

“But you’re being so good,” You coo. “And I know you’re sorry.”

“Sooooo sorry,” Caleb groans.

“You want me to touch you?”

“Only if you want, I -“

“I asked if you wanted me to touch you,” you repeat, then settle between his legs so you’re lying on your stomach, eye level with his cock, but not touching it quite yet.

“I do, please,” Caleb nods, spreading his legs wider to accommodate you - always worried about your comfort.

“Gooood,” you praise, curling your fingers around his cock to bring it closer to your lips.

A small bead of wetness rests at the tip, which you spread around with your thumb.

“Please,” he begs. “I’ll - can you please -“

Teasing him is fun, but you want to put him out of his misery. You take his head into your mouth and swirl your tongue, the taste faintly salty, but clean.

“Ffffuck,” he stammers. “That’s - thank you, thank you so much -“

You take his cock out of your mouth and laugh.

“You don’t have to thank me, dummy.”

“Yessss,” he hisses at the loss of your mouth and trembles. “Yeah, I do. Never gonna get over that, f-fuck,.”

“Get over… what? My hands… my lips… my tongue..”

“You,” Caleb bites out, hands digging into the bedsheets to keep himself grounded as you slowly stroke him. “Never gonna get over you. I just can’t believe you’re real - can’t believe that you love me.”

“I do,” you affirm, then stick out your tongue to drag it down the length of him, reveling in the way he writhes under your touch. “You’re so cute, Caleb.”

“H-how?”

“Responsive - like everything I do is the best thing you’ve ever felt.”

“That’s ‘cause it is - ah -“

You wrap your lips around the head of his cock again and slowly begin sinking down as you use both hands to touch what your mouth can’t reach.

Caleb is big, but he isn’t unmanageable. He’s just thick enough the slight stretch of your jaw is more exhilarating than it is unpleasant.

“So - So good,” Caleb lets out a strained groan, unable to keep his voice to himself.

You take as much of him in your mouth as you can until the head of his cock hits the back of your throat and taps at your gag reflex. Swallowing helps with the feeling, and it makes Caleb whine.

You’re not as practiced as some might be, considering Caleb is the first and only man you’ve ever given a blowjob, and he hardly lets you do it. Caleb is always hell bent on focusing on your pleasure and making you feel good that he often shrugs off or outright rejects your advances.

“It’s okay, pipsqueak,” he’d say. “I’d rather us just feel good together.”

Or your favorite,

“I get pleasure from you getting pleasure.”

You know both are true, but you also know that he’s holding himself back for your benefit even though you’ve never asked him to.

Caleb has only recently begun initiating sex, and it’s not because he doesn’t want to do it, but wants to make sure it’s something YOU want. If it’s YOUR idea, he feels less guilty, even though he has no reason to feel that way to begin with.

He feels greedy; undeserving.

Getting to touch Caleb this way makes you understand what he means when he says he gets pleasure from your pleasure. The knit in his brow and the way those painfully dry, but pretty lips of his part makes you ache.

You want to show him how much he means to you and treat him the way he treats you.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, sweetheart,” Caleb struggles to say when you choke a little bit to take him deeper. “It all feels good, I just like you touching me, d-don’t hurt yourself, don’t -“

You squeeze his thigh with insistent fingers to make him quiet down.

“It’s - if you keep going like that, I’m not gonna get to make you feel good.”

You pull off, mostly to catch your breath, but also to ask if he’s okay.

“You don’t want -“

“NO, no, oh - fuck, no, that’s not what I meant, it’s - it’s too good,” he rushes to get out, terrified of hurting your feelings. “I love it, but I like feeling YOU more.”

You croak out a laugh, your throat beginning to ache from the stretch.

“Is my mouth also not a part of me?”

“You’re meeeeean,” Caleb pouts. “You know damn well what I meant.”

“Mm, greedy man. Is it not enough?” You tease, but sit up so you can take your - his - hoodie off.

“Can I touch now?” He asks as your naked torso comes into view, mesmerized like he is every single time he’s seen you naked.

“I guess so,” you grin. “You don’t have to be afraid of hurting me, most of the scratches and bruises haven’t bothered me all day.”

“Don’t say that for my sake,” Caleb frowns once you mention them, and you regret it immediately when you watch his eyes scan your body for ones he might have missed earlier.

“Stop that,” you chide. “You fixed me up really well earlier and I’m as good as new, okay? Now can you please take these stupid pants off of me?”

Not wanting to reignite an argument put to bed and made better through intimacy, Caleb chooses to believe you and resigns himself to healing you in the best way he can think of.

“Lift up for me, baby.”

“Ooh, careful,” you laugh when he loses his balance in his attempt to sit on his heels.

“Don’t make fun,” he grumbles, taking his frustrations out on the waistband of the sweatpants he’s leant you.

They come off easily, along with an ill-fitting pair of the briefs he lets you wear when you have nothing else.

“Fuck, you’re s’fuckin’ gorgeous,” he marvels, making sure to pull the fabric off of you completely so you’re able to move freely, unlike him.

He kicks his sweatpants off for good measure, tired of his ankles being trapped.

“Gonna leave that shirt on, or am I allowed to see your chest?”

“You’re a perveeeeeeert,” he accuses melodically, drawing out the jab with a sharp lilt.

“Got you here leaking all over yourself and I’m the pervert? Okay, Caleb.”

“Fiiiiine, I guess I can show you the goods. ‘Sides, it’s getting… really hot in here.”

As Caleb tosses the shirt to the side, you climb into his lap to press yourself against his chest. You feel his cock against your stomach, rigid and drooling precum.

“Feel so good, Caleb,” you sigh. “Been wanting to do this all day.”

“Fuck, me too. I hate that we wasted so much time, I’m - I’m so -“

“Don’t,” you lean in so that your lips are mere centimeters apart. “We said our sorries, right?”

“Mhm,” Caleb agrees, blinking at your proximity, then moans into your mouth when you part his lips with your tongue.

You grind against Caleb, and your kisses devolve into primal, sloppy licks. Caleb steadies your hip with one hand and uses the other to grasp your jaw to hold it there so he can pry your lips apart with his.

“Fuuuck,” he groans when you part for breath. “I need to be inside of you, can I - can I please?”

“Y-yeah,” you manage, not any better off than he is.

You’re avoiding looking between your legs on purpose, because you know the bedsheets are stained with a combination of your fluids.

“Is it okay like this? Can you be on top? I’ll do all of the work, truuuust me, I’ll make you feel so good, but I like hugging you like this.”

“Y-yeah, just don’t stop kissing me,” you slur, drunk from the pleasure and unable to right your mind when his cock is pressed against you like this and you can’t move.

“Up, sweetheart - can you just… yeah, like that,” Caleb encourages you as you lift yourself just enough that he can slip his hand between your legs.

You cry out as he toys with your clit with the pad of his thumb and slips his middle finger inside of you.

“So wet,” he observes, testing the waters by thrusting his finger inside of you a few times before deciding you’re ready for another.

Caleb’s fingers are thick and calloused, rough enough to add to your pleasure, but not so much so that it’s uncomfortable.

“Theeeere she is,”

“Missed me today, didn’t you?” Caleb continues, knowing that you have a thing for his voice.

He’s been self conscious about talking dirty to you in the past, always worried he’s coming off too strong, but notices how much it affects you and how quickly you come when he dooesn’t hold back.

“I missed you so much,” you admit, though you know the question is rhetorical and meant to tease you.

“Mhm, so wet and so eager for my fingers - bet I could just… sliiiiiiide inside of you right now and you’d be all ready for me, yeah?”

“Y-yes, yes please,”

“I don’t think so,” Caleb says with a mock pout. “I think you need a little more preparation - can’t just go rushin’ it, you know?”

“Caleb, please -“

“Nun-uh, gotta get you niiiice and readddyyyy,”

Caleb slips his index finger inside to join the other two, and the stretch combined with the way he’s pressing his thumb on your clit is dizzying.

“Woah, you’re okay, I’ve got you - I’ve got you, just let go for me, okay? I know you can.”

“But -“

“Noooo buts, it’s your turn to listen to me now that I’ve listened to you, hm? Just feeeeeeel that, feel the way my fingers streeeetch that pretty little cunt of yours, hm?”

His voice is doing dangerous things to your libido, and you’re starting to worry that you might be up all night.

“C-Caleb,”

“I know, oh -“ he lowers his head to murmur in your ear, his voice a low, pleasant purr. “I knooooooow.”

That’s all it takes for you to come part at the seams, thighs wet and trembling as fresh gush of arousal coats his fingers and drips from your cunt.

“That’s it, that’s fuckin’ it, good girl,” Caleb praises as you shudder. “So good for me, just relaaaax like that.”

Caleb’s fingers don’t stop until he feels your tears of pleasure drip onto his face.

“So good you’re cryin’? Sweetheart, ohhh, you’re so needy. Let’s take care of you, okay?”

Caleb pulls his fingers out of you then lifts them to your quivering lips. He presses them against your bottom lip until it gives, then against the soft padding of your tongue so you can taste yourself.

“Good, now suck for me? I know you’re good at that.”

You wrap your tongue around his fingers and Caleb’s eyes go slightly unfocused at the sight of you being so good for him. When you lick his fingers clean, Caleb continues to press them on your tongue to keep your mouth open, then slips his tongue in against yours.

Caleb pulls his fingers from your mouth so he can situate you as he likes, but continues to kiss you senseless. You feel yourself being lifted a little higher, then feel the crown of Caleb’s cock nudge your entrance. You’re so pliant and open from his attention that he slips inside of you easily until he’s buried to the hilt, able to hit you a little deeper from the angle.

“Oh, fffffuuuuuck,” Caleb chokes out. “You feel so fu-fucking good, I can’t - fucking focus,”

“Dirty m-mouth,” you manage as you wriggle your hips, thankful he’s giving you a moment to adjust.

“Don’t act like you don’t love it - squirted th’last time I called you a good girl when I was fuckin’ you in your bed.”

“Aiming for a repeat?” You laugh breathlessly.

“Guess we’ll see, huh?”

You both dissolve into fits of giggles, unable to control yourselves, and the coupled vibrations from the sound make yours ebb into soft, needy moans.

“It’s okay,” he repeats. “I’m gonna take care of you, ‘Kay? You don’t have to do anything, just - ah - like that,”

Caleb lifts you by the hips, taking care to make sure he’s not gripping too tightly in case he touches one of your cuts or bruises, then pulls you back down to thrust up into you.

Caleb rolls his hips against yours, controlling your movements with his hands.

“So good, that’s so good,” he continues to encourage you, keeping up a babble of praises and sweet comments to show you his appreciation.

“R-right there,” you whimper.

“I know, I know…”

“A-are you -“

“Do you need me to be?” Caleb lowers his voice so he’s being gentle - less teasing and full of concern.

“It’s not that, I just - you must be so …”

“Yeah, I am, don’t worry - I’m right there, okay? You’re doing so well,” Caleb presses harder into you. “So warm and tight…”

“I l-love you,” you stammer, words scrambled with the force of his thrusts as he picks up speed.

“Love you more, I love you so much - never gonna get used to this, never gonna - fuck,” he pants. “I’m so sorry, I’m sorry for everything, I just - need you, need to protect you,”

“I know, Caleb, I kn-know, I’m sorry too, I’m so sorry -“

“Shh, just - fuck, I’m close, I’m so close - are you close again? What can I do? I w-want you to come again before I do,” Caleb insists, so exhausted from the exertion of his efforts that his hair sticks flat to his head.

“Don’t worry about -“

Caleb cuts you off by slipping his hand between your legs again, so hell bent on getting you there that he’s ignoring the painful ache in his both of his arms. He’s no longer moving you, simply rolling his hips up against yours, but it’s so intense that your vision begins to spot.

“C-Caleb,” you choke on the words.

“Come on, you can do it, come for me, okay? You can do it, you’re soooooo good.”

You tighten around his cock and a sharp cry escapes your lips as he presses his thumb against yours clit. He stills inside of you, focusing on your pleasure and how you fall apart from him.

“So pretty, so fucking pretty,” Caleb croons, his cock pulsing inside of you as you milk him.

It’s not just the feeling of you coming apart or the way you cry his name so prettily - it’s the tears rolling down your face and that gorgeous expression that only HE gets to see.

“All mine, just mine - never gonna leave me, right? You’re all. Fucking. Mine.”

Caleb punctuates his words with small, deliberate pumps and groans as he fills you.

It’s your turn to talk him through it - encourage him and make him feel good the way he did for you.

“All yours, just like you’re all mine, too,” you assure him, then lift your hands to push the sweaty hair back from his forehead.

“Pr-Promise?” He asks shakily. “Through it all?”

“And beyond that,” you murmur before pressing a kiss to his sticky skin.

You melt into each other, desperately trying to catch the breath you’ve lost to moans and sighs, then when you look at each other, dissolve into another fit of giggles.

“We’re disgusting,” you manage. “So gross.”

“Heeeeey, that happens to be the beautiful -ah,” Caleb slips out of you. “Um… essence of our love.”

“Alright, wordsmith - get me a towel to clean the ‘essence of our love’ off of me?”

“On it.”

After you’re both cleaned up and in fresh sets of Caleb’s clothes, he picks you up, his own legs shaking from the exertion, and carries you to the couch.

“Don’t feel like washin’ sheets right now. Wanna watch a movie? You can fall asleep on my chest in the first thirty minutes like you usually do.”

“Call me out,” you say, offended, but yawn. “Alright.”

“I’ll wake you up in the morning and take you to Zayne, okay?”

“You’re really -“

“Please? Just for my peace of mind? I’m not trying to be overbearing, but some of those gashes looked pretty bad, okay? Just to make sure nothing is infected?”

You sigh.

“You’re right.”

“Has been known to happen on occasion,” he chuckles, then pulls you closer to him so he can rest his chin on your head.

“Yeah, yeah. Just don’t wake me up too early? It IS my day off, after all.”

“I’ll give you a solid eight hours, I promise.”

“Caleb?”

“Huh?”

“I,” you trail off for a moment, looking for a way to phrase what you’re going to say, but settle for a simple, “I really am sorry.”

“Me too, pipsqueak. It’s in the past, and we’ll talk to each other from now on, okay? I’m never MAD at you, just…”

“Worried?”

“Yeah.”

“I worry, too,” you admit. “Just … don’t go silent on me, okay? I like knowing what you’re thinking, and I wanna be better for you just like you are for me.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too. Now pick a movie before I pass out on you.”