Hello!!! My name is Loey!
I donât know how to shut the front door up..!
And I talk about books!!! âď¸
Current read: The Housemaidâs Secret by Freida McFadden
I also collect Calico Critters and Sonny Angles!!!
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
I'd rather be in outer space đ¸
Not today Justin

Product Placement
RMH

pixel skylines
cherry valley forever
Jules of Nature
$LAYYYTER
styofa doing anything
art blog(derogatory)
ojovivo

blake kathryn

@theartofmadeline
Xuebing Du

⣠Chile in a Photography âŁ
Acquired Stardust
Game of Thrones Daily
occasionally subtle

seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia

seen from TĂźrkiye

seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from Norway
seen from South Africa
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from Italy
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Brazil
seen from Italy

seen from Netherlands

seen from United States

seen from Spain
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United Kingdom
@keepingitundercover
Hello!!! My name is Loey!
I donât know how to shut the front door up..!
And I talk about books!!! âď¸
Current read: The Housemaidâs Secret by Freida McFadden
I also collect Calico Critters and Sonny Angles!!!

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
ai could never outdo my beautiful perverted mutuals
I finally caved and got a kindle (and ofc itâs pink)
fuh iâm sick
I want a clingy dog this. I want a clingy dog that. I have not showered alone in 2 years .. now donât get me wrong, I love this baby but so help me lord I just wanna relax.
Todayâs Interaction:
Loey: Iâm sitting in my bathtub on my phone and i look over
Mr. W: Eating a sucker stick.. (bro where did you even get that..?)
..: oh and heâs currently wedged his way into t shirt and yelling because I wonât put him in the bath tub

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
How wrong would it be to drop out and become a burlesque dancer ..?
Also, I just finished the first book out of 5 I have picked for my road trip ughhhhh it was so good
update: 3 books down !!! i miss my bedroom and my jelly cats
I think people would be less suicidal if they were allowed to talk about being suicidal without risk of being sent to the Torture Dungeon
iâm currently reading the into darkness trilogy and iâm about to start the second book. I literally do not want to leave Aly and Josh (fred my baby) we desperately need a novella for them ughhhh
yall pagent life is not for the week bc what do you mean im getting home this late at night
i literally just want taco bell đ
IM STARTING COLLEGE EARLY đĽšđĽš

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
your inner child is so proud of the writer youâve become
all (i think so) of shawn hatosy mirror selfiesđ¤¤
god damn hes the only man ever to take good mirror selfies
Sing to Me | Masterlist
Azriel x Mermaid Reader | A series of interconnected one-shots/drabbles.
a/n: These are all listed in chronological order. The one-shots important to the storyline are denoted with the starfish & drabbles/one shots with the fish are cute, filler parts (there will still be plot mixed into these.)
If there is anything you'd like to see between this mermaid reader & Az, lmk! I am open to drabble/headcannon requests for this series <3
read this if youâre curious about updates.
đâ.Ë A Mermaid's Song | the story behind the song mermaid sings.
đź ˰ I. Sing Me to Sleep | Az's pov | In which a heartbroken Azriel is sent to the Summer Court to unwind and accidentally finds himself engaged to a mermaid.
đź ˰ I. Sing Me to Sleep | mermaid's pov | In which a lonely mermaid is caught in a storm and swept away into the Summer Court and ends up engaged to Azriel.
đâ.Ë bonus scene with Tarquin
đź ˰ II. Only One for Me is You | Azriel has no choice but to accept the consequences of his actions, starting with bringing you back home with him.
đâ.Ë Shell We Walk? | Azriel gives you a lesson on walking.
đâ.Ë bonus scene | based off a request of mermaid adjusting to land
đâ.Ë Dear Cod | A misunderstanding between you and Azriel leaves him flustered. aka the clothes drabble
đâ.Ë Fishing for Trouble | Azriel gets to know you more during breakfast. aka the fork/dinglehopper incident.
đâ.Ë Sleepless | You haven't been sleeping and Azriel catches on.
đâ.Ë Seas the Night | in which Azriel follows through with his promise to get you a night light.
đâ.Ë Fry Me to the Moon | You and Cassian bond over Azriel while he makes you some french fries.
đź ˰ III. Staring at the Sun | Azriel finally takes you to Velaris, where you bump into someone unexpected. non-context spoilers
đź ˰ IV. If He Only Knew | Az's pov | Azriel has a talk with Elain that brings rise to startling changes.
đź ˰ IV. If He Only Knew the You That We Know | mermaid's pov | Azriel's shadows and a few friends comfort you. sneak peak
đâ.Ë Be the Ocean, Where I Unravel | Azriel has a wet dream about you.
đź ˰ V. Where Is My Mind? | You are upset, feeling a little discouraged and Azriel realizes that the true mistake, was not believing you in the beginning.
đź ˰ VI. I Follow You, Deep Sea Baby | It's the first full moon and you're hit with a sudden sickness that Azriel blames himself for. *coming soon
đâ.Ë untitled drabble | drunk drabble based off of this request. *coming soon
đâ.Ë Untitled | Azriel calls you 'baby.'
đâ.Ë Untitled | Someone calls you "smokin'' and you're mortified.
đâ.Ë One Kiss...is all it takes | You tease Azriel with a kiss.
đâ.Ë A Little Flounder | Azriel cleans you up after you fall and scrape your knee.
đâ.Ë Unsteady | Azriel notices you admiring a pair of heels and surprises you with them.
ŕźË・âđď¸â・Ëŕźđđ E S T A B L I S H E D R E L A T I O N S H I P / B O N U S đđŕźË・âđď¸â・Ëŕź
đâ.Ë A Sea-riously Frightening Pumpkin | When Feyre tells you about pumpkin carving, you interpret it a little differently.
đâ.Ë You Can Have Me All You Want | You and Azriel have one too many drinks and end up dancing like no one's watching.
đâ.Ë Very Demure | Azriel comforts you after your sister gets on your last fin.
đâ.Ë Untitled | Azriel rescues a drowning child, based on a request (kinda.)
đâ.Ë And They Were All Yellow | Azriel being a doting husband and staying atop of his wife's pregnancy cravings.
random HCs: modern Az, mermaid appearance, random, dancing, az , mermaid fashion/wedding ceremony, mermaid, mermaid's curiosity (she asks what the word 'ass' means), protective Az
text/sm au: [1] [2]
Tag list: @breathingstarlight @my-venus @xxbelaa @bravo-delta-eccho
@booksbypisces @marina468 @pricklepearbloom @blackgirlmagicforever @cleverzonkwombatsludge
@ashduv @thisfireheart @matildagirl1 @lilylilyyyyyy @teenagellamaangel
@slut4acotar @acotar-thirst @ms-dont-care @bakersbucky @greenmandm
@whyispetrichortaken @littlefairybrooke @shinyghosteclipse @rosaaeles @imaginesmai
@casey1-2007 @florabelll @awkardnerd @readinf @giovax
@zuhashah-09 @lady-of-tearshed @chicaconfundidaycuriosa @wintermaee @trash-queen-33
@workof-a-rr-t @bunnyredgirl @yearninglustfully @paankhaleyaaar @fuckingsimp4azriel
@olive-main @lahoete @universallyrascaldreamercookie @justtryingtosurvive02 @jtheteenagewitch
@amelya5567 @willowpains @twismare @nickibunny23 @theancientlady
@batgirliee @weezystevie @step-intoyour-power @honeycriess @paxtonpaige
@i-am-infinite @katarina1224 @average-bisexual-panic
PSA DO NOT USE PORTABLE GAS HEATERS INDOORS!!!
Hi this psa is brought to you by my boss nearly killing us via carbon monoxide poisoning.
Heaters like this are labelled for Indoor/Outdoor usage, however that indoor label is misleading af.
Indoors in this context means a drafty garage or car port, not your living room or bedroom. Unless the room you're in is well ventilated with fresh air, don't use this fucker indoors.
Please reblog for visibility, this could quite literally save a life.
Me seeing that the last chapter of the most perfect, toe curling, well cooked fic it's titled "sorry guys" or "important plis read"

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
StopNCII.org is operated by the Revenge Porn Helpline which is part of SWGfL, a charity that believes that everyone should benefit from technology, free from harm. Founded in 2000, SWGfL works with a number of partners and stakeholders around the world to protect everyone online
Sounds legit
StopNCII.org is operated by the Revenge Porn Helpline which is part of SWGfL, a charity that believes that all should benefit from technolog
everyone reblog this!!
[Image ID: screenshot from TikTok(?) containing the following text:
Cousins, if someone ever edits your photo with Al or Photoshop to create a nude photo, then you go to www.stopncii.org/and submit the original photo and the edited photo, then they will remove the edited photo from all the places on the Internet. You don't need to talk directly to anyone for this and your identity will remain confidential
/end ID]
Per StopNCII.org, only their partner sites will remove the images, not âall the places on the Internetââbut thatâs better than nothing.
⢠ROMAN HOLIDAY â NISHINOYA
⌠synopsis. the plan was simple: go on a three-week getaway your friends had planned so you can get over your ex. falling for a complete stranger is not part of the itinerary.
⌠content. 13.6k words. nishinoya yuu x f!reader. strangers to lovers. fake marriage. noya asks you to be his fake wife to score lodging discounts lol. reader is a med student. good guy nishinoya. fluff. yearning. mild angst. happy ending.
⌠foreword. this is a little fic dedicated to @megapteraurelia for the hq club room secret santa event organized by our lovely @sodaneko (thank you lale!!!) to jelly, i've been admiring you from afar for a while now, and was glad to have you as my giftee :D your prompts were all very fun to experiment with, and i hope you don't mind my pitiful attempt at personalizing this for you specifically! ofc i made this as general as i could for a reader-insert, but every minute detail was definitely written with you in mind <3 happy holidays, friend!
⌠p.s. the fic doesn't rly take place in rome but we're in italy so. CLOSE ENOUGH LOL
⌠p.p.s. i made a playlist for this fic here!
READ ON AO3
You are fairly certain that if you had stayed home, none of this would be happening.
You wouldnât be sweating through your shirt at ten in the morning. You wouldnât be dragging a wheeled suitcase up a staircase that looks like it was designed by someone who actively hated travelers. You wouldnât be standing in the middle of a narrow street in Amalfi Coast, blinking up at pastel buildings stacked like theyâre daring gravity to do something about it.
When your phone buzzes against your palm, the group chat lights up with a flurry of messages from the girls. They want to know if youâve landed yet, demanding pictures and insisting that you breathe in the sea air because itâs healing.
You slip the device back into your pocket.
This trip wasnât your idea. You didnât wake up one morning and decide to become the kind of person who books a solo vacation to Italy after a breakup. You are not that self-possessed nor are you brave in that aesthetic way influencers always seem to be.
Your friends, however, are relentless.
Theyâd booked the flights while you were still in the foggy aftermath of your split. Youâd laughed it off and started listing reasons the way you always did. You couldnât just disappear for three weeks. You had work. Your passport might be expired. It was too much money. You didnât even like traveling alone.
They dismantled every excuse with alarming efficiency, not because they wanted to win the argument, but because they loved you and had been watching you slowly fold in on yourself for months. Your boss would understandâtheyâd already checked. Your passport was fine. Theyâd split the cost because they were terrifyingly serious about this. And traveling alone, they told you gently, was the whole point.
You remembered staring down at your wine glass that night, watching condensation trail slowly toward the table. You thought about how every corner of your apartment still felt haunted by your exâhow the silence he left had stopped feeling peaceful and instead had grown sharp and invasive.
So now youâre here. Alone. With a suitcase that weighs too much and a heart that feels oddly hollow despite being freshly broken.
Youâre following directions you only half-remember, replaying the boatmanâs kind but rapid English in your head as you wind your way away from the dock.
Walking distance, heâd said, smiling as he pointed vaguely uphill. Youâd just nodded along because that felt easier than admitting you were already overwhelmed.
The harbor fades behind you, replaced by streets that get narrower the farther you go. The sound of the water gives way to the scrape of luggage wheels against stone, and each bump jars all the way up your arms. You stop once, then twice, pretending to admire the view while your legs scream in protest.
So much for walking distance.
Your suitcase feels heavier by the minute, as though itâs actively punishing you for agreeing to this trip. Sweat clings uncomfortably at your back, and youâre acutely aware that everyone passing you looks relaxed and sun-kissed. Like theyâre not dragging baggageâliteral and otherwiseâup a hill that feels endless.
By the time you finally spot the hotel sign, you could cry. You almost do.
The lobby is quiet and mercifully air-conditioned. You approach the front desk with fragile optimism as things start to look up. The receptionist stationed there greets you politely, asks for your name, and starts clicking away at the computer.
But then her smile falters.
She clicks again. Frowns. Tilts her head.
âIâm very sorry,â she says carefully. âBut I donât see your reservation.â
The silence stretches just enough for her words to register.
âWhat?â You snap up, bewildered. âThatâs not possible. I booked it weeks ago.â
She asks for confirmation. You pull out your phone, fingers growing clammy as you scroll. The charge is clear as day in your phone gallery, reflecting the exact amount deducted from your account. You hold it out like evidence, like this should fix everything because it should.
The receptionist studies it before nodding sympathetically. âI understand. But the payment did not register in our system. You will need to contact your bank.â
Something cold drops into your stomach.
Your friends had sent the money they all pooled together that same girlsâ night. You remember them watching you book the hotel in real time, cheering when the confirmation page loaded. The transaction had reflected immediately on your end.
This wasnât supposed to happen. This couldnât have happened.
âI-I canât possibly pay for three weeks up front,â you stammer. âThat money is already gone.â
âIâm very sorry,â she tells you, palms folding together on the counter. Her voice lowers as though sheâs speaking to a child on the verge of tears. âBut there is no active reservation under your name. Without confirmation from our system, I cannot check you in.â
You wait for an exception, a workaround, anything.
But the receptionist only offers you a small, helpless shake of her head.
Not wanting to inconvenience her further, you mumble a quick thanks before lugging your suitcase outside. You end up walking until you see a small cafĂŠ tucked just off the main road, shaded by an awning and mercifully empty compared to the others. Inside, itâs cool and smells faintly of roasted beans and sugar. You drag your suitcase in after you, parking it awkwardly beside a table like it belongs there.
You order an affogato because it feels safe. Because ice cream drowning in espresso seems like something meant to fix a bad day, even if only temporarily. When it arrives, you stare at it for a moment before taking a spoonful. Cold. Bitter. Sweet. The contrast makes your chest ache in a way thatâs almost welcome.
Then you pull out your phone.
Lale picks up on the second ring.
âHey,â your best friend greets groggily. You can picture her already sitting up in bed, hair a mess, worry written all over her face despite the harrowing time difference between here and home. âWas wondering when you were gonna check in. Everything alright?â
You close your eyes.
âThe hotel didnât have my reservation,â you tell her, the words tumbling out now that youâve started. âThey said the payment didnât go through on their end, and⌠I donât know what to do, Lale.â
Thereâs a pauseâbrief, but loaded.
âThey what?â she says, sharp with disbelief. âBut we watched you book it.â
âI know,â you sigh as you press the heel of your hand into your forehead. âI showed the receipts and everything, but apparently it didnât go through on their end. They told me to talk to the bank.â
âOh my god,â she exhales. âOkay. What did your bank say?â
Chewing on your bottom lip, you tell her the truth. âHavenât reached out to them yet. I just know itâs just going to make me even more stressed.â
âCanât argue with that.â Lale gives a sympathetic, lighthearted chuckle. âWhere are you now though? Have you figured out where youâre staying?â
âA cafĂŠ. Where Iâll be staying is still up in the air though.â
âAt least youâre safe.â
You huff out a weak laugh. âI mean⌠relatively.â
Silence falls over the line, the sound of sheets shifting on her end of the line. When Lale speaks again, her voice is calm in that way sheâs perfected over years of being the level-headed one.
âListen to me,â your best friend starts. âFlying back right now would be a nightmare. Last-minute tickets out of Naples are insane, and youâll just be tired and miserable and crying in an airport for twelve hours.â
You glance down at your melting affogato. âSo what, I just⌠stay?â
âYou find another place for a few nights. I can help cover it if you need.â
âWhat? No. You guys already paid so much for me. I canât ask for more.â
âDonât be silly,â Lale beseeches gently. âThatâs notââ
âI still have savings,â you cut in, forcing steadiness into your voice. âIâll figure it out. I just needed a minute to rearrange my thoughts.â
She hesitates. You can hear itâthe way she wants to push, the way she knows you too well.
âAre you sure?â she asks quietly. âThe last thing we want is for you to end up broke in Europe with no way home.â
âI wonât,â you insist as you sit up straight. âI promise. Iâll be fine.â
Another pause.
ââŚOkay,â Lale sighs finally, still not convinced. âBut you call me if anything changes. Anything.â
âI will,â you promise. âThank you.â
After you hang up, the silence rushes back in.
You stare at your phone for a long moment before setting it down. Around you, the cafĂŠ hums softly with conversation and clinking cups. Even outside, people pass by unburdened, laughing and moving with purpose while your own world is just shy of collapsing in on itself.
It takes you seconds to open your phoneâs browser.
Hotels near me. Cheap accommodation Amalfi Coast. Last-minute stays.
The prices make your stomach drop all over again.
You close the tab.
You have no plan. No backup. No idea where youâre sleeping tonight. You sit there with your suitcase at your feet, affogato half-melted, telling yourself over and over that youâve got this.
Even though you absolutely, unequivocally, do not.
Youâre still staring at the screen of your phone, thumb hovering uselessly when a voice cuts gently into your spiral.
âIs this seat taken?â
You answer without lifting your head, the response automatic as muscle memory kicks in before thought has a chance to intervene. âNo, go ahead.â
Itâs only after the words leave your mouth that you clock how something feels weird. Your gaze drifts upward, confusion blooming a second too late, and you realize with a faint jolt that the man before you just spoke to you in Japanese, and youâd replied in turn.
Thereâs a light tan to his skin, one that suggests time spent outdoors rather than a single reckless afternoon in the sun. He settles into the seat with easy familiarity, setting down a compact backpack at his feetâthe same kind youâd noticed slung over the shoulders of other travelers on the boat ride youâd just disembarked from, people unburdened by excess.
A small portion of his bangs is dyed blond, the color catching the cafĂŠâs warm light, while the rest of his hair sticks up in unruly black spikes. Thereâs a band-aid stretched across the bridge of his nose, slightly off-center, as if itâs been reapplied more than once. When he smiles at you, itâs open and unguarded, an expression that feels like it might get him into trouble more often than not.
He glances down at the affogato slowly losing its shape, espresso bleeding into pale ice cream. âThatâs melting,â he remarks casually, still speaking Japanese as amusement threads through his voice.
You follow his gaze, momentarily flustered, and scoop up a hurried spoonful as if caught neglecting something important. Only then do you look back at him properly, the reality of the situation finally settling in.
ââŚAre you from Japan too?â you ask, still half-expecting the moment to dissolve.
He hums, lifting his own drink and taking an unhurried sip before answering. âI used to be. But Iâve been traveling for a while now. I havenât been back in years.â
The way he says it is neither regretful nor proudâjust matter-of-fact, as if home has become a flexible concept. You nod slowly, eyes flicking down to your oversized suitcase beside the table and then back to his lone backpack, suddenly aware of how conspicuous your presence must look.
Of all the places for this to happen, you think this feels absurdly, inconveniently well-timed. You glance at him again and the thought arrives almost fully formed.
ââŚDid you overhear me on the phone just now?â
Thereâs no point pretending otherwise. The cafĂŠ is small. Your voice hadnât been as quiet as youâd wanted it to be. He doesnât dodge it; doesnât even look sheepish. He just exhales through his nose, a sound halfway to a laugh, and nods.
âA little,â he admits easily. âNot everything. Just enough to tell you were having a rough day.â
You should feel embarrassed. But instead, you feel tired enough that honesty slips out before caution can stop it.
âThat obvious?â
He shrugs. âItâs happened to me before. Places like this mess things up all the time. Payments donât go through. Reservations disappear. Somehow itâs always the travelerâs fault.â
You let out a breath you hadnât realized you were holding.
âYou sound like youâve got a lot of experience being screwed over.â
He laughs at that, head tipping back slightly, and when he looks at you again his smile is wider, warmerâcrinkling at the corners of his eyes in a way that catches you completely off guard. Itâs disarming. Annoyingly so.
âWell,â he drawls with an unapologetic grin, âthatâs kind of the only thing traveling guarantees. You mess up enough times, you start collecting experience whether you want to or not.â
You huff a quiet laugh despite yourself.
Thereâs a pause then, the comfortable kind, filled only by the din of the cafĂŠ and the clink of a spoon against porcelain. He watches you for a moment before speaking again.
âIâm Nishinoya,â he says, offering his name like itâs nothing more than another small courtesy.
You hesitate, just briefly.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, Laleâs voice pipes upâdonât tell strangers your name, reminding you that shared language doesnât equal shared safety. That youâre still alone in a foreign country with a suitcase and no plan.
Still.
You tell him your name anyway. Partly out of politeness. Partly because he doesnât feel like a threat. Mostly because youâre too exhausted to guard every inch of yourself anymore.
He repeats it once, like heâs testing the sound of it. âNice to meet you.â
You talk a little more after that. Nothing heavy. Where youâre from. How long youâre supposed to be here. He doesnât pry when you skirt around details, doesnât ask anything too personal, and you realize eventually that your shoulders have dropped, and you feel lighter than youâve been all day.
Itâs only when the conversation lulls that he shifts in his seat, expression turning thoughtful.
âThe inn Iâm heading to is doing couples discounts right now,â Nishinoya begins casually. âHoneymoon season and all that. Apparently if youâre married, everythingâs cheaper here at Amalfi.â
You blink. âOh. Thatâs⌠considerate of them.â
Something flashes across his face thenâsomething like mischief, unmistakable and utterly unrepentant. His grin returns, brighter than before, all bad ideas and confidence, and it makes your heart stutter traitorously in your chest.
âSo,â he says as he leans forward, brown eyes catching the light as they lift to yours
âWanna be my wife for a few weeks?â
The place Nishinoya leads you to looks like it belongs in a movie.
It isnât polished or minimalist like the hotel you initially booked, but the place feels lived in, rustic and sun-warmed. The stone exterior is worn smooth with age, pale bougainvillea climbing its walls in lazy bursts of color. Wooden shutters sit open, catching the light, and somewhere inside you can hear the low hum of conversation, the clatter of dishes, and domestic noise that makes your chest ache.
Your âhusbandâ steps in beside you without hesitation, fingers brushing yours just once before settling properly in the spaces between yours. The gesture comes to him easily, as though he has always belonged there. Youâre acutely aware of the matching wedding rings on your fingersâsimple, unassuming bands of gold that catch the light every time you move. They feel heavier than they have any right to be.
âWelcome, welcome!â the owner greets warmly. Her smile only widens when her gaze catches on your intertwined fingers. âNewlyweds?â
âYes,â Nishinoya answers smoothly in English, squeezing your hand once. âWe just arrived today.â
You nod as you force your own smile into place. Husband and wife. Right.
The owner (Chiara, as she introduced herself) seems delighted when she ushers you both inside with an enthusiasm that leaves little room for questions. As she walks you through the inn, she points out the dining area firstâwooden tables, mismatched chairs, candles already lit despite the lingering daylight.
âYou may order until two in the morning,â she tells you cheerfully. âBreakfast begins at six. Oh, and you must try the pastriesâmy sister makes them from scratch!â
Chiara then leads you past a small hanging garden with herbs spilling over clay pots, leaves brushing your arm as you pass. Then she opens a set of doors that lead out onto a terrace, and you stop short.
The view stretches out endlesslyâthe coastline laid bare beneath a sky just beginning to soften into evening. The sea glimmers far below, rooftops stacked and scattered like something from a storybook rather than built with real human hands. The air here smells like salt and citrus and something faintly floral.
âItâs beautiful,â you breathe before you can stop yourself.
Nishinoya grins, and you try not to stiffen when his arm loops around your waist.
After the tour, Chiara finally brings you to your room, unlocking the door with a practiced twist of her wrist. You and Nishinoya step inside together, still playing your parts, still holding hands as your âhusbandâ helps wheel your luggage inside.
The room is warm and close, wrapped in pale wood and softened by age. Sheer curtains lift and fall with the breeze slipping in from the open balcony, carrying with it the distant hush of the sea.
And there, unmistakably in the center of the room, is the bed.
One bed.
Large. Immaculate. Soft-looking in a way that feels vaguely threatening.
You keep your expression neutral, nodding along as the owner explains where everything is. You even murmur something about the immaculate view, and how perfect it all is. As a married couple, this should be unremarkable. Expected, even.
When Chiara finally leaves, the silence rushes in.
Nishinoya exhales before immediately blurting in Japanese:
âI can sleep on the floor.â
You turn to him, startled. âWhat? No.â
âIâve slept in worse places,â he adds quickly, already glancing around like heâs assessing the terrain. âTrains. Park benches. Even under a bridge onceââ
âAbsolutely not,â you interrupt with an insistent shake of your head. âItâs fine. The bedâs big enough. We can just⌠stay on our own sides or something.â
He pauses to study you for a moment before shrugging. âAlright then.â
Thatâs it. No argument or awkwardness on his end. Just agreement, like this is another simple problem with a simple solution. You, on the other hand, are too hyper aware of everything elseâof how close the bed is, of how small the room suddenly feels, of how real this arrangement has become in the span of a single afternoon.
You excuse yourself to the balcony under the pretense of wanting air.
The sky has deepened into soft gold and blue in the faraway horizon. You rest your hands on the railing, breathing in the salt air slowly as you try to steady yourself. Your gaze drifts down without meaning to, catching on the band of gold around your finger.
Your âwedding ringâ.
It gleams softly in the fading light, and the weight of it settles somewhere deep in your chest. The mere sight of it makes you wonder what exactly youâve gotten yourself into.
Wanna be my wife for a few weeks?
For a moment, you just stare at him.
At the ease in his posture, and the way his brown eyes are still warm with amusement, like heâs fully aware of how outrageous that sounded and has decided to say it anyway. The cafĂŠ noise fades into the background, replaced by the dull rush of blood in your ears.
ââŚSorry,â you say finally. âWhat?â
Nishinoya doesnât repeat himself right away. He watches you with patience, as though he knows you need the time. You take it and do a quick, ruthless inventory in your head.
You have no hotel. Flying home would be worseâexpensive, exhausting, humiliating. Your savings exist, but they are not infinite. Heâs Japanese, which helps in ways you donât want to admit. Heâs also a stranger, which absolutely does not.
And then thereâs the word he used.
Wife.
Your exâs voice rises unbidden in your memoryâhow he used to introduce you, how he liked the way being with him seemed to define you more than you ever meant it to. With him, marriage had always been framed as inevitability, not choice. Until you broke up, sure. But the thought of being perceived that way again, even as a joke, even as a lie, makes your stomach turn.
âYouâre joking,â you say, though it comes out more uncertain than youâd like. âRight?â
He tilts his head. âOnly a little.â
You blink. âThis is something youâve⌠done before?â
âYeah,â he says easily, like youâve asked whether heâs taken this bus route before. âA few times.â
A few times.
âFake wives,â he continues, ticking it off on his fingers. âFake husbands too, a few times. It really depends on the situation. Tourist places like this love couples, especially married ones. Itâs basically a free discount code.â
You stare at him, mildly horrified.
âThatâsââ You stop, recalibrate. âThatâs insane.â
He grins. âEffective, though.â
Your instinctive reaction is to shut it down. To laugh it off. To stand up, thank him for the sympathy, and return to panicking alone like a normal person. That old reflex whispers that itâs safer not to belong to anyone, even in name. Safer not to let yourself be folded into someone elseâs story again.
But practicality creeps in, unwelcome and persistent especially under that hazel-eyed stare of his.
ââŚYouâre serious about this,â you say slowly.
âAbsolutely,â Nishinoya replies. âBut only if you are. I donât push. Ever.â
He leans back in his chair, giving you space instead of crowding you with enthusiasm.
âDonât get me wrong, we can set rules if it makes you feel better. A few boundaries,â he adds. âWe decide everything beforehand. You can back out whenever you wantâno explanations, no guilt. Same goes for me.â
You study his face, searching for something reckless, something slippery.
You donât find it.
âAnd the lying?â you ask. âWonât that get us in trouble?â
âDonât worry, sweets. This isnât airport immigration. They wonât ask us for our marriage certificate as proof,â he laughs cheekily, a sound that warms your cheeks. âWe can just show them a matching set of wedding rings, and weâre home free.â
You try not to dwell on the way he calls you sweets.
Before you can respond, he reaches down and unzips his backpack, rummaging briefly before pulling out a small pouch. It looks worn and well-traveled. He opens it and tips the contents gently onto the table.
A handful of rings scatter softly against the wood.
Theyâre simple bandsâgold, silver, one slightly too big, another thinner than the rest. None of them flashy. None of them new.
âSouvenirs,â he explains, nudging one aside. âA couple were given to me a few years back. Some I bought just in case.â He glances up at you with his lips curling into a sordid smile. âI try to be prepared.â
You let out a startled laugh before you can stop yourself.
It bubbles up unexpectedly, real and unguarded, cutting through the tension youâve been carrying since you stepped off the boat on the way here. It surprises you both.
âThis is unbelievable,â you mutter.
He slides the rings toward you. âYou can pick. Or not. No pressure.â
You hover your fingers over them, suddenly aware of how absurd this all isâand how carefully heâs making room for you to decide. Your ex had always decided for you, always framed choices like conclusions already drawn. The contrast makes your throat tighten.
When you finally select one, itâs the simplest of the lot, cool against your skin.
It fits.
That shouldnât matter. Yet it does.
âOkay,â you say slowly, exhaling. âLetâs sayâhypotheticallyâI agree.â
Nishinoya nods, an implicit tell for you to keep going.
âWe keep our finances separate,â you continue. âNo touching in public unless itâs absolutely necessary. We donât share a bed if it the circumstances allow it.â
âAgreed.â
âAnd if either of us wants out,â you add, meeting his gaze, âweâre out. No questions.â
âRight on the money.â
You hesitate, then add the last conditionâthe one that matters most. âThis is temporary, okay? Just until I get back on my feet. I donât want to inconvenience you during my entire stayâŚâ
He smiles, soft and knowing, and agrees without hesitation. âOf course. Although I do think Iâll be staying here longer. In fact, how long are you here for anyway?â
âThree weeks,â you admit somewhat sheepishly.
âOh? Three weeks is no time at all, sweets. Donât worry about it.â
You donât notice it thenâthe way he says it like he already knows how this will go. So you slip the ring onto your finger, heart pounding, and glance up at him.
âSo,â you start. âYouâre my⌠husband.â
Nishinoya grins even wider, looking far too delighted for his own good.
âAnd you are my wife.â
On your very first night, dinner ends up somewhere in Ravello.
Nishinoya recommended a bistro tucked away from the main road where the tables spill out onto stone pavement and the lights are strung just low enough to feel intentional rather than touristy. Itâs affordable in a way that feels like a small victory for your budget.
You half expect your companion to excuse himself the moment you two leave the innâs line of sight and reclaim whatever distance this arrangement is supposed to have. But he doesnât. He walks beside you easily with his hands in his pockets, matching your pace without comment as if the idea of splitting off hadnât occurred to him at all.
Once youâre seated, Nishinoya starts talking.
Not aimlessly but with the confidence of someone whoâs walked these streets before. He points out which bakeries open earliest, which restaurants water down their wine, which viewpoints are worth the climb and which ones only look good on postcards. Nishinoya even shares which ferry schedules are a gamble on a good day.
Nishinoya talks like someone whoâs learned things the hard way and you listen with your elbow propped on the table, chin resting in your palm. Itâs easy to forget, for stretches of time, that this began as a negotiation. He isnât performing expertise; heâs sharing it, passing it along freely, like information is meant to be used rather than hoarded.
âAnd never buy souvenirs near the docks,â he adds, spearing a piece of pasta. âThey jack up the prices. Youâll find the same stuff two streets over at half the cost.â
âYou sound like a tour guide,â you remark.
He grins. âIâve been accused of worse.â
Between bites, he tells you about other placesâcrowded hostels, missed trains, nights spent sleeping wherever there was space. He talks about it all lightly, but not flippantly, like someone who knows the difference between hardship and adventure. Every so often, Nishinoya pauses to ask about you, and the questions arenât cursory. He waits for the answers.
You find yourself telling him things you hadnât planned to.
That you have always liked the sea. That youâre the kind of person who could stand by the water for hours and never feel bored. That sea creaturesâbig, small, strange, unseenâfascinate you in a way that feels silly considering your age, something that Nishinoya refutes immediately with a shake of his head.
âI was a volleyball meathead in high school. Still am now,â he shares with a quaint little grin. âSo donât call the stuff that makes you happy silly.â
âIf Iâd had it my way,â you admit, swirling your drink absently, âI wouldâve studied something like marine biology. Anything that let me stay close to the ocean.â
âBut you didnât.â
You shake your head. âIâm in med school.â
He perks up immediately, eyes bright. âOh? Is that so?â
You give him a wary look. âDonât.â
He laughs. âWhat? Iâm impressed.â Then, with a grin that tells you exactly where this is going, âGood to know weâve got a doctor in our midst then, sweets.â
You smack his arm without thinking, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to get your point across. âIâm not a doctor yet.â
âStill.â Nishinoya shrugs, unfazed. âFuture doctor. Even better.â
You roll your eyes, but youâre smiling, and you hate how easy it feels. How natural it is to sit here with him, trading stories over shared plates, the salt air brushing past your ankles like it belongs.
The two of you walk back at an unhurried pace. Evening has settled comfortably over Ravello by the time you climb the last set of steps. The air is cooler now, kinder, and the ache in your legs feels earned rather than punishing. When you make it inside, the lobby is quietâlights dimmed, voices lowered, the kind of hush that signals the day is officially over.
Once youâre inside the room, Nishinoya hesitates by the door like heâs waiting for a cue.
âYou go first,â he says, already reaching for a towel. âBathroomâs all yours.â
You blink at him before murmuring a quick thanks as you retreat.
The shower you take is longer than necessary. You let the water run until your thoughts finally slow, then go through your nightly routine with careful attentionâcleanser, toner, moisturizer, one step after another until you feel like yourself again.
When you finally step back into the room, Nishinoya is still there, rifling quietly through his bag as he sets out fresh clothes. He looks up when he hears you, gives you a brief nod, then heads towards the bathroom you just emerged from.
You change into sleepwear and perch on the edge of the bed, taking in the room again now that the dayâs chaos has dulled into something manageable. The balcony doors are still open, and the curtains stir lazily with the breeze. After a moment, you hear the muted rush of running water.
By the time he returns, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, a towel slung loosely around his neck, you realize youâre staring.
His hair is usually styled upward, all sharp edges that reflect his endless reserve of energy. Now it hangs softer, dyed blond bangs slipping down across his eyes, giving him a gentler look that feels unfairly distracting.
You look away quickly, pretending to fuss with your phone.
âSo,â Nishinoya asks, toweling his hair as he moves to the other side of the bed. âWhatâs the plan for tomorrow?â
You ponder about it for a moment before telling him about the guided tour youâve already booked in advanceâhow it covers the coast for the first week and that everythingâs scheduled down to the hour. As you speak, you realize how defensive it sounds, like youâre bracing for judgment. He was a seasoned traveler, after all.
But Nishinoya only listens.
When you admit you donât have much planned beyond thatâtwo weeks intentionally left open, meant for wandering and figuring things out as you goâhe exhales through his nose and shakes his head.
âGuided tours,â he says mildly. âTheyâre kind of a scam.â
You wince. âI thought so.â
âThey mostly bank on tourists being afraid of getting swindled,â he continues, tone thoughtful rather than dismissive. âWhichâokay, sometimes thatâs fair. But most of the time itâs just capitalism trying to mess with you.â
He glances at you, expression softening. âThat said, itâs already paid for. No reason not to enjoy it.â
You relax at that.
âIâll just⌠do my own thing while youâre on the tour,â he adds. âWait for you to finish each day. Butââ He pauses, eyes flicking to yours, a spark of something playful there. ââonly if you agree to try the Nishinoya Yuu Grand Tour after that planned itinerary of yours.â
You snort. âIs that included in the honeymoon package?â
âVery exclusive,â he says solemnly. âNo refunds.â
You consider the idea of having someone show you around without an agenda after a brief pause. Heâs proven to be great company so far, and youâre free to jump ship whenever you please.
âAlright,â you agree. âDeal.â
âNice,â Nishinoya grins, satisfied.
You settle into bed after that, each claiming a side without discussion. Thereâs a noticeable gap between youârespectful and intentional. As you lie on your back, staring at the ceiling, you are made even more aware of his presence without feeling crowded by it.
The sea murmurs somewhere beyond the balcony doors. The room smells faintly of soap and salt. Your counterfeit wedding rings sit together in a dish on the nightstand. You turn onto your side eventually, careful not to cross the invisible line between you, and let your eyes close.
Tomorrow will come soon enough.
Nishinoya was right. Guided tours are an absolute scam.
You learn this within the first hour, when youâre told not to stray more than five steps from the group, not to take photos without permission, not to ask questions until the end. Restrictions are fine. Sensible, even. But this feels excessive, like the experience has been vacuum-sealed for safety and convenience until thereâs barely anything left to enjoy.
By the time the shuttle pulls over near a statue the guide announces as historically significant, youâre already drifting. He speaks in a steady monotone that suggests he never wanted this job in the first place and has long since stopped trying to pretend otherwise. The statue itself is weathered and solemn, positioned dramatically against the coastline, and you know you should care more than you do. But you donât.
So you find a spot a little ways off, close enough to still be counted, and pull out your phone.
Itâs a terrible idea. The time difference flashes across your mindâeight hours ahead, dead of night back homeâbut boredom outweighs caution. You tap Laleâs name before you can overthink it.
She picks up on the third ring.
ââŚDo you know what time it is?â she murmurs groggily.
Relief floods you anyway. âYouâre awake.â
âI am now,â she sighs. âWhy havenât you updated us? Do you know how worried Iâve been?â
You smile faintly. âIâm fine. I swear. Iâve got everything under control.â
A scoff. âYou always say that.â
âIâm staying at this inn in Ravello,â you continue, eager to redirect. âIt overlooks the whole coast. Itâs⌠a really beautiful place. Kinda glad you guys roped me into this whole thing.â
She hums, the sound softening. âRavello, huh. Sounds expensive.â
âItâs not,â you say quickly. âShockingly reasonable, actually.â
You talk her ear off for a few minutes, but you do not mention Nishinoya. You absolutely do not mention the fake marriage, or the ring on your finger, or the single bed. Lale does not need that information at two in the morning.
Thereâs a pause on the line, one that makes your shoulders tense.
ââŚAre you sure youâre alright?â she asks carefully. âNo weird people trying to sidle up to you or anything?â
âNope. Just a very boring guided tour I shouldnât have splurged on.â
She laughs, the sound bright even through the phone. âFigures. At least tell meâhas it helped? Are you thinking about him less?â
You blink.
You think back to how youâd left things behindâthe apartment that felt too small once your ex was gone, the silence that pressed in on you from all sides. Youâd spent so long turning conversations over in your head, replaying endings like they might soften if you examined them closely enough. But now, standing here by the sea, you realize you havenât done that once.
âIâŚâ You trail off. âI actually havenât thought about him since I got here.â
Thereâs another beat, then Laleâs laugh turns soft and satisfied. âGood. Thatâs really good.â
âYeah. I guess it is.â
âEnjoy the rest of your vacation,â your best friend implores. âAnd update the group chat, at least. Weâre living vicariously through you.â
âI will,â you promise.
You hang up just as the guideâs voice drifts back into focus, still droning on about dates and names that refuse to stick. As the group starts moving again, you follow along, but your mind wanders.
Unbidden, you imagine Nishinoya at the front insteadâgesturing animatedly, pointing things out not because he has to, but because he wants to. You can almost hear him explaining the statue in his own way, weaving some ridiculous anecdote into it, somehow making even this feel alive.
You shake your head, catching yourself.
The thought slips in and out just as quickly, and you donât linger on it. You fall back in line with the rest of the group, climbing onto the shuttle and claiming a window seat as it rumbles to life. The coastline rolls past in familiar blues and greens, pretty but already starting to blur together.
Whatever this arrangement you have, itâs temporary. Even if, inconveniently, youâre already looking forward to telling Nishinoya just how boring your day was without him.
The tour finally spits you back out where it found you when the shuttle wheezes to a stop at the small waiting shed just outside town. You step down with the rest of the group, legs aching despite the fact that youâve done little more than stand, shuffle, and take photos youâll later send to the group chat as proof that youâre having a great time. The heat clings to you in a way that feels heavier than summers back home, the air thicker, saltier, and harder to ignore.
Youâre tired in that particular, useless wayâexhausted without feeling accomplished.
It takes you a second to spot him.
Nishinoya is already there, standing beneath the shade of the shed in what can only be described as full fisherman gear. Boots. A khaki vest over a loose, sun-faded shirt. Something slung over his shoulder that looks like itâs seen real work today. Heâs mid-conversation with a cluster of elderly women, all of them animated, hands moving as they talk over one another. He laughs easily, bright and unrestrained, like heâs known them for years instead of hours.
You slow without meaning to.
Heâd been gone when you woke up that morning, your shared bed empty and sheets cool on his side. Youâd realized, belatedly, that neither of you had exchanged contact information, and had spent the rest of the day reasonably assuming that the oversight mightâve been a mistake.
Apparently not.
It takes him no time at all to notice you. His gaze flicks up, locks onto yours, and his face brightens instantly, like someoneâs turned a dial all the way up.
Nishinoya excuses himself with a few quick words, tossing a quick, âThank you! My wifeâs here!â in English, waving once before turning fully toward you.
You freeze for half a second. He doesnât need to pretend out here. The agreement only extends as far as the inn. Yet heâs already crossing the distance with a skip to his step like he was actually excited to see you again.
Nishinoya reaches you, slips a hand into yours, and presses a quick kiss to your cheek.
Itâs brief, warm, and utterly casual.
âHow was the tour?â he asks, eyes crinkling.
You blink, caught off guard, and scramble for something that sounds normal. âOhâum. It was⌠good,â you say, then wince internally and tack on, âVery⌠educational.â
Nishinoyaâs grin deepens, clearly unconcerned with the quality of your answer.
Behind him, you hear a chorus of soft chuckles.
âAh,â one of the women says, eyes bright as she looks between the two of you. Another hums approvingly, her gaze dropping pointedly to the ring on your finger before sliding back up to Nishinoyaâs face. She says something in Italian that earns a round of knowing laughter.
You shift on your feet, suddenly hyper aware of his hand now holding yours.
The woman nearest you smiles and switches to English. âYou should leave the tour,â she says kindly, as if offering advice sheâs very confident in. She gestures at Nishinoya with her chin. âSpend time with Yuu instead. He makes everything fun.â
You let out a nervous laugh, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. âI-Iâll think about it.â
They seem satisfied with that.
By the time you start walking back toward the inn together, your hand is still in his, and you donât comment on it. Nishinoya launches into his day without prompting, words tumbling over each other as he tells you about heading out to sea with a few local fishermen that morning.
âAnd thenâokay, youâre not going to believe thisâbut I actually caught a marlin,â he boasts.
You snort. âYouâre bluffing.â
âI would never bluff about this sort of thing,â he protests immediately, affronted and already digging into his phone. He thrusts it toward you as the screen displays a photo of him beside an insanely large marlin, pride written all over his face.
You stare for a moment, then laugh. âOh my god.â
âI brought it back to the inn after lunch,â he continues. âChiara and her sisters are already figuring out what to do with it. Pretty sure dinnerâs going to be⌠excessive. Could feed all of us for a week if they froze some of it. â
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, as he launches into stories about the morning. How he nearly lost his grip when the line first jerked hard enough to rattle his shoulders. How an argument broke out on the boat over whether the marlin was luck or skill. Nishinoya reenacts it all with broad gestures and poorly contained excitement, voice rising and falling as if the moment is still unfolding in front of him.
By the time he finishes, youâre laughing softly, the image of it vivid enough that it feels like youâd been there with him. And somewhere between his animated storytelling, you realize something:
Maybe you wonât be finishing that guided tour after all.
Unlike your carefully color-coded itinerary, the Nishinoya Yuu Grand Amalfi Tour appears to run on an entirely different operating system.
Namely: vibes.
He never tells you whatâs planned ahead of time. Any attempt to coax details out of him is met with a grin that suggests heâs enjoying your mild irritation far too much to give it up now. âTrust me,â he keeps saying, like that alone should be enough to override years of habit and common sense.
At the end of your first week in Amalfi, youâre starting to suspect it might actually be the case because thatâs the day he wakes you up at four in the morning.
You surface slowly, still disoriented, the room still dark and cool, and the sea outside nothing but a low, distant hush. For a blissful half second, you think youâve imagined itâuntil the bedside lamp flicks on and Nishinoyaâs face appears in your line of sight, far too alert for an hour that is meant for sweet, undisturbed REM sleep.
âMorning,â he whispers loudly in Japanese, like he always does when itâs just the two of you.
You squint at him. âItâs⌠still night.â
He checks his watch theatrically. âTechnically, yes.â
You groan and roll onto your side, pulling the pillow over your head. âNishinoya.â
âCâmon,â he cajoles, poking your shoulder. âThis oneâs important. Once-in-a-lifetime timing.â
âI am an early riser,â you mumble into the pillow before stealing a glance at the time on your phone lockscreen. âBut four a.m. is a little ridiculous, donât you think?â
He laughs, unabashed. âYouâll forgive me later.â
That remains to be seen.
Still, you drag yourself up, shuffle into the bathroom, and go through the motions on autopilot. You splash water on your face, tie your hair back, pull on clothes that feel only marginally appropriate for whatever fresh madness heâs orchestrated. When you step back out, Nishinoyaâs already ready, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet like this is Christmas morning instead of ass oâclock.
You leave the inn at five while the streets of Ravello are hushed and half-asleep, shutters still closed, the sky a muted blue-gray that promises dawn but hasnât delivered yet. Nishinoya stays infuriatingly tight-lipped the entire walk downhill, humming to himself while you trudge along beside him, trying not to trip over your own feet.
At one point, you consider texting Lale your locationâjust in case. Heâs charming, yes. Friendly. Endearingly unhinged. But youâve also watched enough documentaries to know better.
That thought loses steam the moment you reach the harbor.
Itâs already alive with motion. Tourists mill about in small clusters, some yawning openly, others clutching steaming coffee cups. A few couples pose for photos against the faint light creeping over the water. The presence of people loosens something in your chest.
You board the boat with the rest of them, the engine rumbling to life beneath your feet. Nishinoya claims a spot along the side and pats the bench beside him. You sit, tucking your hands into your sleeves as the boat pulls away from the dock.
As it picks up speed, the coast slips past in quiet silhouettes, cliffs softened by shadows, and the sea smooth and dark and endless. The wind is cold enough to wake you properly, threading through your hair, carrying the clean, briny smell of open water.
Itâs peaceful in a way that feels almost unreal.
You glance at Nishinoya, whoâs leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees, watching the horizon like heâs greeting an old friend. The light catches his profile and something about it nudges at you.
âSo,â you yell over the roar of the engine. âWhereâre you from? In Japan?â
He blinks, then looks at you, surprised but not guarded.
âSendai,â Nishinoya answers easily. âMiyagi Prefecture, specifically. Born and raised.â
You nod. âThat tracks.â
âYeah?â He grins. âHow so?â
âYou did call yourself a volleyball meathead,â you point out as you try to recall some things that Laleâs partner, Kiyoomi, once shared in passing. âI heard Sendai had some strong teams.â
Nishinoya snorts, but the expression that crosses his face afterward is⌠complicated. Fond, definitely. A little sad, maybe. Itâs there and gone so quickly you almost think you imagined it.
Instead of addressing it, he straightens, grin snapping back into place like itâs muscle memory. âBest high school volleyball team in the world,â he announces proudly. âI was the libero. Got called all sorts of stuff: Guardian Deity, Savior of the Court, One in a Million Defenderââ
âYouâre making those up.â
âI am absolutely not,â he insists, offended. âOkay, maybe some of them. But the Guardian Deity thing was real.â
You smile, listening as he launches into story after storyâabout impossible saves, roaring crowds, teammates who trusted him with everything. You picture it without effort: him younger but no less electric, throwing himself across varnished wooden floors, fearless and unyielding.
When he finally pauses for breath, you ask carefully, âSo⌠whyâd you stop?â
The shift is subtle, but you feel it. Nishinoyaâs shoulders relax, his gaze drifting toward the horizon where the sky has begun to lighten, the deep blue thinning just enough to hint at whatâs coming.
âI just⌠thought I needed to see what else was out there,â he says after a moment. His voice is quieter now, but no less sure. âFigure out who I was without all that, and Iâm glad I did.â
It sounds genuine. It feels genuine. Yet, thereâs something unfinished about it, like a sentence deliberately left without its final clause.
You donât push. Some things arenât yours to pry open.
Instead, you sit beside him as the boat cuts through the water, the air cool and briny, the world holding its breath in that fragile space before morning. The sea stretches on in the slowly receding darkness and for the first time since you arrived, you donât think about where youâre going next.
You just let yourself be carried by the tide.
You finally find out where heâs been taking you when the boatman throttles down and calls out their arrival, voice ringing clear across the water.
âCapri!â
The name lands with a strange mix of familiarity and disbelief. Capri Island was printed neatly on your abandoned itinerary, a crucial part of the guided tour youâd ditched without much remorse. Youâd assumed youâd get here eventually, just⌠not like this.
The boat nudges up against the dock, ropes thrown, planks set. People begin to disembark in a loose, unhurried line. You step forward with them, misjudging the distance between the boat and the wooden platform by just a fractionâ
âand your foot slips.
The world tilts off its axis. Salt air rushes up to meet your face.
But then a hand catches your waist, yanking you back before your brain even has time to panic. You collide lightly with a solid chest, fingers clutching instinctively at the fabric of his shirt. For a heartbeat, everything freezes.
You look up.
Nishinoya is already looking down at you, eyes wide and bright, breath warm against your cheek. Youâre close enough to count the freckles dusted across his nose, close enough to feel the steady strength of the arm still braced around you. The noise of the harbor fades to a dull hum, replaced by the thunder of your pulse.
Then he clears his throat and gently sets you upright, hands lingering just long enough to make sure youâre steady before pulling back.
âCareful,â he says lightly, like he didnât just pluck you out of mid-disaster.
Behind you, the boatman lets out a sharp whistle, laughing as he rattles off something in rapid Italian. You donât catch the words, but the tone is unmistakably impressed.
Nishinoya beams and shoots back a reply just as animated, one hand gesturing wildly as if reenacting the whole thing. He offers you his arm as you step down the plank properly this time, steadying you until both your feet are safely on solid ground.
Your face burns.
âThâthank you,â you manage, mortified and relieved in equal measure.
He just laughs, bright and unbothered. âHey, I canât have a future doctor drowning on me. My conscience would never let me live it down.â
You huff a shaky laugh as the two of you head toward town, the early morning still quiet enough that your footsteps echo faintly against the stone. After a moment, you add, almost offhand, âIt was a⌠nice save. By the way.â
âMm?â he hums.
âI, uh. I donât know how to swim.â
He stops.
You take two more steps before realizing heâs no longer beside you and turn back to find him staring at you like youâve just told him the sky is green.
ââŚI thought you liked sea creatures,â Nishinoya says slowly.
Your face goes even hotter. âLiking them doesnât mean Iâm good at swimming. Thatâs actuallyââ You hesitate, then sigh. âThatâs part of why I never pursued marine biology.â
The words feel fragile once theyâre out, like glass set carefully on a table. You brace instinctively for the familiar dismissal, the way your ex had always waved it off like a childish phase best forgotten.
Instead, Nishinoya just smiles.
âThen Iâll teach you how to swim,â he chirps.
You blink. âBut Iâm unteachable.â
âThereâs no such thing.â
âNo, Iâm serious.â
He only grins wider. âThen Iâll be the judge of that. Soon, thoughânot now, âcause we gotta take a chairlift up the mountain.â
Before you can argue, heâs already tugging you along, leading you toward a small building with a sign proudly declaring ANACAPRI CHAIRLIFT above the entrance. To which Nishinoya helpfully supplies that Anacapri means 'top of Capri', implying that youâre in for a view. Thankfully, youâre the first ones there, the teller barely looking up as he recites the price.
You reach for your wallet automatically, but Nishinoyaâs hand snaps out, stopping you mid-motion.
âI got it,â he says.
Before you can question that, he leans forward and produces something from his small packâa small glass bottle sealed with wax, pale yellow liquid catching the light. Limoncello. The homemade kind, not the mass-produced stuff lining souvenir shop shelves. The tellerâs eyes flicker with recognition. He glances once toward the door, then accepts it discreetly, sliding two tickets across the counter.
Free of charge.
Nishinoya ushers you out toward the lift before you can even process it.
âDid you just bribe that guy?!â you hiss in Japanese as an attendant begins strapping you into your seats.
From the chair behind yours, Nishinoya snickers. âHey, itâs just a well-known custom around these parts.â
âYou really are a cheapskate.â
âImplying limoncello is cheap?â he shoots back, mock-offended.
âYes,â you say flatly. âThatâs exactly what Iâm implying.â
He laughs from the chair behind yours, the sound carried easily through the cool morning air.
Youâre still mildly grumpy about itâabout the bribe, about his infuriating ease with things, about the way he keeps pulling surprises out of thin airâwhen the chairlift lurches forward and begins its slow ascent. The motion pulls a small, involuntary sound from you as your feet lift off the ground, dangling freely over the slope below.
âRelax,â Nishinoya calls. âItâs sturdy.â
âThatâs what everyone says right before something goes wrong.â
âHey, if we die, at least itâs scenic.â
You huff, gripping the edge of the seat a little tighter than necessary as the lift carries you upward, the forest rising to meet you. The path cuts straight through a stretch of trees, branches brushing close enough that you can hear leaves whisper against one another. For a while, all you see is green and shadow and the pale steel line stretching endlessly above.
Then the trees begin to thin.
You hesitate, then let your gaze drift outwardâand stop breathing for a second.
Capri spreads out beneath you, smaller than the main island along the Amalfi Coast but no less striking, its rugged cliffs catching the first real light of morning. The sea beyond it is an uninterrupted expanse of blue, darker near the shore and slowly lightening as it stretches toward the horizon. The sun hasnât fully crested yet, but its presence is unmistakable now, gilding the edges of everything it touches.
âOh,â you murmur.
You instinctively reach for your phone, then freeze, suddenly very aware of the fact that youâre suspended hundreds of feet in the air with nothing but open space beneath you. The idea of fumbling your grip and watching it tumble into oblivion is enough to make you tuck it safely back into your pocket.
Nishinoya laughs softly. âYeah. Probably not worth the risk.â
You donât answer right away. Youâre too busy watching the light shift, the colors deepen, the island slowly wake beneath you. The earlier annoyance fades, replaced by a quiet understanding that settles in your chest.
So this is why he woke you up at four in the morning.
By the time the chairlift reaches the top of Monte Solaro, you feel almost weightless, like the ascent has shaken something loose inside you. You step off carefully, legs a little shaky, and follow Nishinoya toward the edge of the viewing platform.
The ocean stretches endlessly in every direction, an unbroken sheet of blue that makes you feel very small and strangely unburdened all at once. The breeze up here is stronger, cooler, carrying the clean scent of salt and sky. Below, the island curves and dips, rooftops and paths reduced to tiny, orderly shapes.
You stand there in silence, taking it in, letting the view settle into you.
After a moment, Nishinoya glances over, grin softer than before as he takes your hand in his. You let him.
âWorth it?â
You exhale slowly, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.
ââŚYeah,â you admit. âWorth it.â
Sometime later, you wander through narrow streets lined with shops selling hand-painted ceramics, linen scarves, little blue-and-white magnets shaped like fish and lemons and cliffs. You linger, compare prices, pick things up and put them back down again, trying to imagine your friendsâ faces when they open these pieces of a place you hadnât known you needed so badly.
Nishinoya trails along beside you with easy patience, hands tucked into his pockets or hooked through the straps of his pack. He doesnât buy anything for himselfânot once. Instead, he steers you subtly toward stalls tucked a street away from the main drag, murmuring, âThis guyâll knock ten euros off if you smile first,â like itâs insider knowledge meant only for you.
It strikes you, somewhere between haggling for a set of hand-glazed espresso cups and picking out a ridiculous keychain shaped like a squid, that he doesnât leave pieces of himself behind the way most travelers do.
No trinkets. No keepsakes. No little proof that he was here.
He travels lightâjust his backpack, his clothes washed and rewashed at Chiaraâs inn, possessions reduced to what he can carry without thinking. Itâs not that he seems detached from places. If anything, heâs deeply present, absorbing details, collecting experiences with an intensity that makes everything feel brighter. Itâs just that once he leaves, he doesnât cling to physical reminders.
Like he trusts himself to remember.
Or maybe like heâs learned not to anchor himself to any one place for too long.
The thought lingers with you as the afternoon heat presses down, and by the time you end up at a quirky seaside restaurant, youâre still half-lost in it.
Youâre staring absently at the water when Nishinoya leans forward with his elbows on the table, that no-good grin sharp enough to cut through your thoughts.
âYouâve been spacing out,â he observes. âDid souvenir shopping tire you out that much, sweets?â
You blink and refocus on him.
He looks⌠unfairly good like this. A little rumpled from hours in the sun, shirt clinging slightly at the collar, a thin sheen of sweat catching the light across his brow. His dyed blond bangs have fallen out of place, curling softly against his forehead, and he looks energized rather than worn down, like the heat only feeds whatever keeps him moving.
Your gaze drops without permission to the space between your hands on the table.
They arenât touching. But theyâre close enough that the fake gold bands on your fingers sit side by side in your line of sight, matching and unmistakable. The sight of them sends an unexpected warmth creeping up your neck, settling in your cheeks before you can stop it.
What is wrong with you today?
âI-itâs not like that,â you say quickly, lifting your eyes again.
âOkay.â He nods. âThenâis the Noya Tour at least enjoyable for you so far? You seemed to have a great time playing pickleball with the seniors at the Ravello rec center the other day too.â
A laugh slips out of you before you can catch it. âYeah. I donât think any guided tour wouldâve let me go toe-to-toe with locals in pickleball.â
âExactly,â he says triumphantly. âThatâs the secret. You gotta earn your fun.â
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.
âWell, thatâs great,â Nishinoya continues. âBecause we still have a lot of things to cross off your bucket list.â
You eye him warily. âIâm afraid to ask.â
âTeaching you how to swim,â he says immediately.
You groan. âYouâre not letting that go, are you?â
âAbsolutely not,â he agrees, pointing at you with mock seriousness. âI take promises very seriously.â
You laugh again, and the sound surprises you with how natural it feels. Sitting here with him, watching the sea lap lazily against the shore, youâre struck by the quiet improbability of it allâthat of all the people you couldâve met on this trip, of all the versions of escape this vacation couldâve turned into, itâs him you ended up with.
You glance at Nishinoya again, still talking animatedly about some other half-baked plan heâs already dreaming up, and feel something unfamiliar stir beneath the surface.
You donât give it a name just yet.
For now, youâre content to sit here, letting the day stretch on, grateful in a way you donât quite have the words for that you met Nishinoya Yuu of all peopleâand that, somehow, he chose to stay and weave himself into the tapestry of your life.
The rest of your stay doesnât unfold so much as it happens to you, one day bleeding seamlessly into the next under Nishinoyaâs cheerful, utterly unapologetic direction.
Somewhere along the way, he takes full control of the reinsâand you let him.
Thereâs a day trip to Pompeii that starts with an obscenely early train and ends with you sunburned, dusted in ash, and laughing so hard your sides hurt. Nishinoya navigates the ruins like heâs been there a dozen times before, ushering you out of crowds and into pockets of quiet where the air feels more reverent. He insists on taking photos of you, angling himself low, then high, then darting sideways with startling speed.
âTrust me,â he says every time you protest.
And annoyingly, every time you look at the results, you do.
He makes you stand framed by crumbling archways, catches you mid-laugh when a gust of wind sends your hair flying, snaps a candid while youâre reading an inscription with furrowed concentration. When you accuse him of secretly moonlighting as a professional photographer, he just shrugs.
âI like catching people when they forget to pose.â
Then thereâs Amalfi Cathedral, where you barely get three steps inside before Nishinoya tilts his head back, cups his hands around his mouth, and shouts just to see what happens.
You stare at him, horrified.
âOh my god,â you hiss. âYou did notââ
âI had to know if it was true that it only echoes once!â
Youâre escorted out less than a minute later, the attendant visibly unimpressed, but Nishinoya only laughs, apologizing profusely in a way that somehow makes it impossible to stay mad. He makes it up to you by taking you to a tiny seafood place by the docks that evening, the kind that smells like salt and garlic and butter before you even sit down.
Itâs there he discovers mid-bite that you donât like peas.
He stares at your plate. Then at you. Then back at your plate.
ââŚAre you serious?â
You bristle. âTheyâre mushy.â
He doesnât say another word. Just calmly reaches over with his fork and starts picking them out of your dish, piling them neatly onto the edge of his own plate.
âWhat are you doing,â you ask weakly.
âProtecting you from suffering,â he replies gravely.
You laugh, mortified, as he proceeds to tease you about it for the rest of the trip. Any time peas appear on a menu, he shoots you a look of exaggerated concern. Once, he even asks a waiterâentirely unpromptedâif a dish is âpea-free.â
By the second week, you find yourself at Spiaggia Grande, standing at the edge of the beach in a fully modest bathing suit and wondering how you let this happen.
âI still think this is a terrible idea,â you say, arms crossed tightly over your chest.
Nishinoya, already barefoot and ankle-deep in the shallows, grins. âThatâs okay. You donât have to like it. You just have to trust me.â
You hesitate. Then, against your better judgment, you step forward.
Teaching you how to swim is⌠an experience.
You panic. A lot. One second youâre fine, the next youâre flailing, convinced the sea has personally decided to have you as a snack. Nishinoya stays close the entire time, steady hands at your elbows, voice calm and unwavering even when youâre anything but.
âIâve got you,â he keeps saying. âIâm right here. Youâre doing great. No, seriously, you are.â
You alternate between sputtering protests and intense focus, brows knitted, teeth clenched, refusing to give up even when your muscles start to burn. And somehowâsomehowâit works.
When you finally manage to float on your back, arms loose, body supported by the water instead of fighting it, Nishinoya freezes.
ââŚYouâre floating,â he gasps.
âI am?â you squeak, immediately tensing.
âNo, noâstay like that!â He throws his arms into the air. âYOUâRE FLOATING!â
The celebration he throws would make you think youâd just broken a world record. He whoops loud enough to earn looks from nearby beachgoers, claps like a proud coach, nearly trips over himself rushing back to you.
âI told you!â he beams. âI knew you could do it! Come on. Freestyle next!â
Youâre breathlessânot from fear this time, but from laughter and the warmth blooming in your chest that has nothing to do with the sun.
There are smaller moments too.
Sharing leftover pastries from Chiaraâs sisters at midnight on the steps outside the inn. Falling asleep on the ferry back to Ravello, your head tipping against his shoulder without either of you acknowledging it. Waking up early just to watch fishermen haul in their nets, Nishinoya translating bits of conversation with exaggerated flair. And lying awake just a few inches away from his snoring form on your shared bed, wishing so badly that you were brave enough to reach out.
Somewhere between all of it, you realize youâre no longer counting down the days.
Youâre counting memories instead.
You canât remember the last time you felt this lightâthis seenâwithout bracing for it to disappear. But when Nishinoya laughs, when he looks at you like the world is brighter simply because youâre standing in it with him, you feel something settle into place all the same.
Quiet. Certain. And growing.
Your last night in Amalfi arrives quietlyâalmost deceptively so.
Youâd known it was coming, of course. The date has been sitting in the back of your mind like a tide chart youâve been refusing to check. Still, when Nishinoya finally mentions it aloud over breakfast, the words land heavier than you expect.
He breaks the news to Chiara first.
Itâs done gently, earnestly, his Italian rough but enthusiastic as he explains that his wife has to return to Japan earlyâmedical school waits for no one, apparently. Chiaraâs hands fly to her mouth immediately. One of her sisters clicks her tongue in sympathy, another shakes her head like this is a personal injustice.
âNo,â Chiara says firmly. âWe send her off properly.â
You think she means a hug. Or a nice dinner. Maybe a shared bottle of wine.
You are not prepared for a farewell banquet.
By sunset, the outdoor dining area behind the inn has been transformed. Long tables are draped in white cloth, fairy lights strung overhead in soft golden arcs. Someone has hung a banner between the olive trees that reads Arrivederci, amica!, the letters hand-painted and slightly crooked. The air smells like grilled fish and lemon and rosemary, dishes laid out generouslyâfresh hauls from the sea you and Nishinoya had helped reel in days earlier, alongside plates of pasta and sides youâd offhandedly mentioned youâd miss once you left.
The other guests are invited, too. Laughter spills easily between languages. Glasses clink. Music drifts through the warm night air.
Nishinoya is in his absolute element.
He talks and laughs and gestures wildly, weaving himself into every conversation, making sure no one feels left out. He retells stories from your weeks here with dramatic flair and embellishes just enough to earn laughs without crossing into nonsense. Every so often, he slides an arm around your waist or presses a kiss to your temple, easy and affectionate and convincing.
Too convincing.
You keep reminding yourself that this isnât real. That itâs gratitude and kindness and performance, that it has to beâbecause the alternative feels too fragile to touch. Still, your heart doesnât seem to care. It stutters every time he leans close, every time he smiles at you like this night belongs to the two of you.
Near the end of the evening, Chiara claps her hands loudly to get everyoneâs attention.
âDance!â she announces, pointing at you and Nishinoya. âUnder the stars. Itâs only right.â
One of her sisters is already seated at the vintage piano near the wall, fingers hovering expectantly over the keys.
You sputter. âOh no, thatâs really notââ
Too late.
Nishinoya grins, grabs your hand, and pulls you forward before you can finish the sentence. The guests cheer, clapping in rhythm as the first notes spill out, soft and lilting.
âNishinoya,â you hiss.
âTrust me,â he murmurs back, squeezing your hand.
Of course he says that.
He draws you close, one hand settling at your waist, the other warm and steady around yours. You move together easily, swaying more than dancing, the world narrowing until itâs just the two of you beneath the lights.
You look up, only to lose yourself.
His brown eyes are warm and intent, reflecting the glow of the fairy lights overhead. Thereâs something unguarded there tonight, something gentler than his usual mischief, and it makes your chest ache. You think of the past three weeks in a rush: sunrises and sea spray, laughter and late nights, the way he made space for you without ever asking you to earn it.
Lale and the others had been right. This trip was exactly what you needed.
You just hadnât known it would come with the quiet, devastating side effect of falling in love with a stranger you were about to leave behind.
The song ends too soon.
Applause erupts around you, cheers and whistles echoing into the night. Someone pops confetti, bits of silver and white fluttering down like celebratory snow. Chiara laughs, wiping at her eyes.
âItâs like a wedding reception!â Nishinoya jokes, breathless and bright.
Chiara beams. âThen you may now kiss the bride!â
The words catch him off guardâyou can tell by the way his grin falters, just for a second. His gaze drops to yours, searching, careful.
He leans in, close enough that only you can hear him.
âI wonât actually kiss you,â he whispers. âOkay? Just⌠trust me.â
You nod.
You always do.
He presses his forehead to yours, breaths syncing, his arms tightening around your waist as the space between you disappears. Slowly, tenderly, he tilts his head and places a kiss at the corner of your mouthâclose enough to feel, distant enough to remain an illusion.
The crowd roars.
When he pulls back, the noise fades again, replaced by the dull thud of your heartbeat in your ears. Confetti still drifts through the air, catching in his hair, on your shoulders, around your feet.
Nishinoya smiles at you like he loves you.
And all you can think is that this is the kind of smile you might never see again once you leave, the kind that exists only here, under Amalfiâs stars, in this borrowed moment you didnât know how to ask to keep.
Narita feels⌠ordinary.
Thatâs what gets you. After weeks of light and noise and salt in the air, thereâs something almost jarring about how everything here simply works. The floors are clean. The lines move. Announcements arrive on time. You step forward when youâre told to, wheel your luggage, keep going.
Youâd thought twelve hours in the air might be enough to put some distance between you and Amalfi. Enough time for the memories to blur at the edges.
It wasnât.
Lale is waiting just beyond the gates, eyes already searching the crowd. The moment she spots you, her face breaks into a smile, arms lifting in greeting like nothing has changed. You return it automatically, the expression practiced enough to pass.
âThere she is,â she gushes as she pulls you into a hug. âWelcome home.â
Home.
You nod, letting yourself lean into the familiarity of her for just a second too long.
âIâm back,â you greet her brightly. âI have so much to tell you.â
And you do. Stories spill easily as you walkâabout the food, the views, the absurdity of the tours you ditched. You talk about Pompeii and Capri and the ridiculous number of photos you took, about how Italy somehow managed to live up to the hype. You laugh at the right moments. You sound, by all accounts, like someone who had exactly the kind of healing vacation her friends had hoped for.
What you donât talk about is your last moments at the harbor.
You donât talk about how Nishinoya had walked you there that morning when the sun barely crested the water. How you returned the ring he let you borrow. How heâd pressed a small bundle into your hands at the last secondâa mess of candies, some wrapped in crinkled paper, others clearly from different places, different days.
âWhy these?â you asked, startled.
He just grinned, that familiar, lopsided thing.
âBecause youâre a sweet person, sweets,â he said simply. âAlways remember that.â
Youâd stood at the edge of the boat afterward, eyes fixed on the dock as it pulled away from the shore. Nishinoya had waved until his arm mustâve hurt, until he was nothing more than a blur of color against the stone, until even that disappeared into the horizon.
You hadnât asked for his number. Hadnât asked if he was coming back to Sendai. Hadnât asked for anything at all. Because some things were easier to carry if you never let them turn into hope.
Lale listens beside you as you talk, nodding, smiling, and occasionally bumping her shoulder against yours like she always has. At some point, her gaze lingers on you a fraction longer than usual, sharp and knowing in the way only hers can be. She doesnât comment on the way your voice softens when you mention Amalfi. She doesnât ask why your hands keep worrying at the handle of your suitcase.
She just says, âIâm glad you went.â
So are you.
You go back to your old life like nothing happened.
Classes resume. Syllabi pile up. Your days are swallowed whole by lectures, labs, late-night study sessions where time blurs into caffeine and fluorescent lights. Med school is merciless in the best wayâit doesnât leave much room for wandering thoughts. There are always terms to memorize, pathways to trace, exams looming close enough to keep your mind occupied.
Hazel-brown eyes donât belong here. Neither does the endless ocean, or the sound of laughter carried on salt air. So you tuck Amalfi away. You tell yourself it was simply a fleeting season, something beautiful because it ended. You move through your routines with quiet competence, smiling when appropriate, answering questions, showing up exactly where youâre supposed to be.
You pretend you havenât lost something.
You do such a good job of it that even Lale never pushes. She notices, youâre sure of that, but she lets it be. Sheâs never been the type to pry unless sheâs certain somethingâs wrong, and you give her nothing concrete to grab onto. Just a version of you thatâs functional, composed, unchanged.
Weeks pass and then somehow, itâs December.
Tokyo turns cold in earnest, winter settling into your bones with quiet determination. Snow becomes a regular companionâsoft at first, then insistent. You finish your final exam of the semester in a haze, fingers stiff as you clutch the paper, relief dull rather than triumphant. By the time you make it back to your apartment, all you want is to disappear beneath your kotatsu and let the world wait.
You shower. You change. You sink briefly into stillness.
Then your phone buzzes.
A group chat lighting upâLale and the others inviting you out, insisting itâs almost Christmas, and that you canât keep hiding in your apartment forever. You stare at the screen longer than necessary, thumb hovering over the keypad as you roll some words of declination in your head.
In the end, you go.
You bundle yourself against the cold and head for the station, breath fogging in the air as you board the train into the city. Tokyo feels sharper in winterâsteel and glass made colder by the season. You watch the snow blur past the windows and think, unhelpfully, of how different it was from the heat of the Amalfi Coast.
From the way the sun used to cling to your skin.
From him.
Normally, you donât let yourself linger there. Itâs a thought you banish quickly, like touching something you know will burn. But tonight, exhaustion lowers your guard.
You wonder where Nishinoya is now.
You wonder if heâs somewhere that snows. If heâs warm. If heâs laughing with strangers the way he always does. If heâs already convinced someone else to play pretend spouses with him just to save a little money.
The idea makes you snort softly.
A high schooler leaning against the wall near the doors glances at you, confused. You bow your head in apology and look awayâonly to catch sight of the poster behind him. It was an ad about the decisive match between two Division 1 volleyball teams, scheduled for later this week.
You sigh and turn your gaze elsewhere.
Not tonight. You really canât afford that tonight.
You disembark at Tokyo Station to a barrage of messages asking where you are. Instead of replying, you make a small detourâa habit youâve picked up since coming back. Your favorite sweets shop sits tucked between larger storefronts, warm and dimly lit, familiar in a way that feels comforting.
You ran out of the candies Nishinoya gave you months ago.
What they left behind, however, is harder to quit.
You browse the shelves, selecting your usual favorites, barely noticing that someone else is in the storeâa lone figure with their hood pulled low and a large backpack slung over one shoulder. Probably a tourist, you assume, murmuring a quick excuse me as you pass.
You donât see the way his head snaps up.
At the counter, the elderly shop owner smiles when he recognizes you. âBack again, huh?â he says fondly, already reaching for an extra handful to toss into your bag.
âYou really donât have to,â you protest automatically.
Before you can even reach for your wallet, another hand appears, placing additional items on the counter.
âHey, gramps,â a voice says easily, familiar in a way that makes your chest seize. âCan you add these onto the receipt? Iâll pay for it all.â
You turn.
For a split second, your brain refuses to cooperate.
Because Nishinoya Yuu is standing barely an armâs length away, the hood of his jacket pushed back just enough for you to see him clearly. He grins at you like he always does, like he hasnât been living rent-free in your memory for months.
The shop owner looks between the two of you, confused, but shrugs and rings everything up in one transaction when you donât respond.
You canât speak. You canât even breathe properly. You simply let Nishinoya guide you outside with a bag of sweets in hand like youâre afraid youâll shatter if you resist.
It takes a few steps before your voice finally catches up to you.
âWâWhat are you doing here?!â you blurt.
For a moment, he just stares at you until he laughs, snow already beginning to gather on the hood of his jacket. âMy pals have a pretty big game coming up this week. Thought Iâd fly in to watch it myself.â Then his grin softens. âDidnât think Iâd run into my wife the moment I got back, though.â
Your face goes absolutely red. âIâm not yourâ!â
âWell,â Nishinoya cuts in cheerfully, âwe never divorced. And I never took another wife or husband after you.â He tilts his head, eyes bright with something you cannot name. âSo that still makes you my wife, sweets.â
You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again.
Something in his gaze makes your stomach twistâtoo sincere to be brushed off as a joke, too careful to be casual. You canât tell what it means, and that terrifies you.
âIâI have to go,â you say weakly, taking a step back. âMy friendsââ
You donât get far.
Nishinoya steps forward and pulls you into him without hesitation, arms wrapping around you in a tight, grounding embrace. Your brain short-circuits. For a heartbeat, youâre frozenâ
Then you melt into him.
You cling to his jacket, fists twisting into fabric as if letting go might undo him. You hug him back just as fiercely, breath hitching as the truth settles fully into your chest.
You missed him.
You missed him so much.
Snow falls quietly around you, the city fading into a blur as you stand there holding each other like this is the only place youâre meant to be. You donât know what this means. You donât even know what comes next.
But right now, with his arms around you and his warmth seeping through the cold, all you can think about is how impossibly, overwhelmingly glad you are to be here again.
Right where you left your heart.
Me: Rain check? Ran into an old friend. Gotta catch up.
Lale: What seriouslyyyyy
Lale: Bring her to girlsâ night.
Me: Thatâs the thing. Heâs not a girl.
Lale: Oh? đ
Lale: And Iâm guessing not just an old friend?
Me: âŚHow did you know?
Lale: Iâm your best friend, babes. I just do.
Lale: Have fun out there. Stay safe.
Me: WE ARE NOT DOING ANYTHING LIKE THAT
Lale: HAHAHAHAHA OKAY!!
Lale: Just introduce him to us sometime, yeah?
Me: âŚ
Me: No promises.
Lale: Good enough for me đ
⌠afterword. you made it to the end!!! thank you so much for reading, friend! i hope you liked this because it was such a tremendous joy to write HEHE i felt like i was writing some mamma mia-adjacent fic or something!! and please do forgive any errors i might have missed ! am only human T_T ++ thank you again to lale for giving me some important feedback abt some details here and there, and for letting me cast her into this fic as reader's best friend NYAHAHA! slowly but surely, i'm getting back into the grove of writing for haikyuu again, it's amazing! that said, happy holidays to all of you <3 (and if you don't celebrate, i wish you have the greatest day ever!!)



