somewhere in between

When he catches your eye, he lights up. “There’s my favorite person in the whole damn room.”

You sigh, amused. “I think you’re just drunk, Miya.”

“Atsumu.” He corrects, slurring slightly. “And maybe. But ya gotta admit, I look real good in a tux.”

He’s not wrong. The black suit fits him unfairly well, all sharp lines and messy charm. You cross your arms, trying to maintain the professionalism you’re known for. “You were supposed to stay near the sponsors, remember?

He hums, stepping closer. “Yeah, well. Sponsors don’t laugh at my jokes like you do.”

The air shifts. The playful edge in his voice falters into something quieter, rawer. His gaze drops to your lips, then back up again—like he’s fighting with himself.

“I shouldn’t say this,” he murmurs.

You tilt your head. “Say what?”

He licks his lips, breath hitching. “That every time ya walk by in those heels and that perfume, I forget what I’m supposed to be doin’. That I think about ya when I’m servin’, when I’m runnin’ drills, when I close my damn eyes at night.”

Your heart stumbles. “Atsumu—”

“—and I know I’m drunk,” he cuts in, voice low, “but that don’t mean it ain’t true.”

The music swells, laughter echoing from across the room, but it all fades around you. He takes another half-step closer until you can smell the warmth of his cologne and champagne on his breath.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he whispers.

And before you can think, he leans in. His lips find yours—soft, eager, tasting of sugar and something dangerously honest. You freeze for a heartbeat before melting into him, his hand curving around your waist as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It’s not frantic; it’s slow, dizzy, filled with every unspoken word he’s been holding back. When you finally pull away, your lipstick is smudged, and his grin is boyish and unguarded.

“See?” he says, breathless. “Told ya. Too honest for my own good.”

You exhale a shaky laugh, cheeks burning. “You’re going to regret this tomorrow.”

He shakes his head, smile softening. “Not a fuckin’ chance.”

⸻

★ SAKUSA KIYOOMI — “The Things I Shouldn’t Say Out Loud”

The night hums with elegance.

Strings play softly from the stage, champagne flutes clink, and every inch of the ballroom glows with luxury. The MSBY Black Tie Charity Gala—an event meant to impress sponsors and donors—has everyone dressed to kill.

You’ve never seen the team like this before. Bokuto with a bow tie, Atsumu actually behaving (for now), and Sakusa—

Sakusa looks devastating.

Black suit tailored within an inch of perfection, crisp shirt open just enough at the collar to reveal a line of warm skin, curls perfectly in place. He’s talking to a sponsor, expression polite and unreadable, but his gaze keeps flicking to you across the room.

You feel it every time.

You’re wearing a floor-length satin gown that hugs you in all the right places. The color catches the light like liquid fire, and when you laugh at something a coworker says, Sakusa nearly drops his drink.

He’s been careful all night. Careful not to linger. Careful not to stare too long. But a few glasses of champagne have chipped away at his restraint, and when he sees you slip out toward the balcony for a breath of fresh air, he follows without thinking.

You’re standing there, the city glittering below, cool air brushing your shoulders.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he says quietly.

You turn, surprised but smiling. “Didn’t think I’d find you leaving the safety of indoor air conditioning, Sakusa.”

“I made an exception.” His voice is low, rougher than usual.

You raise an eyebrow. “An exception? For what?”

His jaw flexes. “For you.”

You laugh softly. “You’re drunk.”

“Tipsy.” He corrects automatically, but his eyes are softer than you’ve ever seen them. “And I don’t usually do this.”

“Do what?”

He takes a slow step closer. “Say too much.”

The words slip out before he can stop them, his fingers twitching against the railing like he needs something to hold onto. “You looked—when you walked in tonight—I forgot how to breathe for a second.”

Your pulse jumps. “You did?”

He nods once, gaze tracing the line of your collarbone like he’s memorizing it. “You’re just…you’re always put-together, but tonight you look—” He breaks off with a small, helpless laugh. “It’s ridiculous how beautiful you are.”

You blink, stunned. “Sakusa—”

“I know. I shouldn’t be saying this here. Not like this.” He rubs the back of his neck, a rare flush creeping up his throat. “But I can’t—every time we talk, you get stuck in my head. I notice when you’re not in meetings. I notice when you are. I shouldn’t, but I do.”

There’s a long silence. Only the hum of the city and the faint buzz of champagne between you.

“You’re going to regret this tomorrow,” you whisper.

He shakes his head, stepping in until you can feel his breath against your cheek. “No, I’ve regretted not saying it for too long.”

You don’t even remember who moves first. One heartbeat, you’re staring at him; the next, his hand is cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing your lower lip like he’s asking for permission he doesn’t need. The kiss that follows is soft at first—hesitant, testing. But then he deepens it, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

When you finally pull away, he exhales, forehead resting against yours.

“I don’t do this,” he murmurs, voice barely there. “But for you…I think I’d make the exception.”

Your laugh is breathless. “You already did.”

He smiles then—small, real, and so heartbreakingly human.

⸻

★ BOKUTO KOUTARO — “You Make Me Feel Like Electricity”

It’s supposed to be a simple team dinner.

No press, no formalities—just MSBY sprawled across a long table at a cozy restaurant downtown. Plates of grilled meat, laughter bouncing between walls, Atsumu halfway to drunk already and Hinata trying to outdrink him (bad idea).

You’re sitting at the end of the table, nursing a cocktail and laughing at Bokuto’s dramatic retelling of a match from three years ago. He’s animated, gestures huge, eyes shining. His voice cuts through the noise like sunlight.

Bokuto when he’s happy is infectious. But Bokuto when he’s tipsy?

He’s dangerous.

He’s looser—his smile a little too bright, his hands a little too touchy. His arm drapes across the back of your chair like it belongs there, and every time you lean in to say something, his breath catches like it’s the first time he’s ever heard you speak.

By the time dessert plates hit the table, you can feel his gaze like a pulse.

“Hey,” he murmurs, leaning close enough that his voice hums against your ear, “you wanna get some air?”

You glance at him, heart jumping at the look in his eyes—mischief laced with something molten. “You okay?”

He grins. “Better now.”

You roll your eyes, but follow him out anyway. The air outside is cooler, quieter. The restaurant’s back patio is dimly lit and mostly empty. Music hums faintly through the glass.

He runs a hand through his silver-streaked hair, exhaling a laugh that’s just a little too nervous. “You look really, really pretty tonight.”

“Bokuto—”

“No, wait, lemme finish.” He steps closer, eyes locked on yours. “I’ve been trying so hard not to say anything ‘cause you’re—you know—you’re you, and I’m me, and we work together, and it’s messy and I didn’t wanna mess it up. But—”

He stops, chest rising fast, lips curling into a crooked smile.

“—I’m fucking obsessed with you.”

Your breath catches. “What?”

He laughs again, low this time, voice thick with something that feels like confession and surrender all at once. “You make me feel like electricity, like every time you walk into the room, the world gets louder. I can’t focus, I can’t think straight, and I don’t even wanna try anymore.”

“Bokuto, you’re drunk—”

“Maybe,” he admits, stepping into your space until his chest nearly brushes yours. “But drunk me’s just honest me without the brakes.”

He’s close enough now that you can see the faint gold flecks in his eyes, the way they dart to your lips before flicking back up. His hand finds your hip, fingers curling like he’s trying to hold onto something real.

You should stop this. You both know that. But when he murmurs, “Tell me you don’t feel this too,” your resolve cracks.

You don’t answer with words.

You grab his jacket, tug him down, and his mouth crashes into yours—warm, hungry, sweet. The world blurs out. Just the scrape of his stubble against your skin, the low sound he makes when you kiss him back.

When you break apart, both of you are breathless, laughing quietly like you’ve just done something terribly wonderful.

Inside, the team’s laughter is muffled behind the wall. You can still hear Atsumu yelling about dessert.

Bokuto brushes his thumb across your cheek, grin softening.

“Think anyone saw?”

You shake your head. “Not unless they have x-ray vision.”

He laughs, pressing a quick, lingering kiss to your forehead. “Good. ‘Cause I wanna keep this part just for me—at least for tonight.”

And under the amber glow of the patio lights, with the sound of distant laughter and the faint taste of whiskey between you, it feels like a promise neither of you are quite ready to let go of.

⸻

★ OIKAWA TOORU— “When the World Finally Goes Quiet”

The bar has long since blurred into noise.

His teammates are still there somewhere—laughter, clinking glasses, the faint thud of music through the floor—but Oikawa’s half-slouched in the corner booth, collar undone, eyes glassy from too many drinks and not enough victories.

It had been a bad game.

Every missed serve, every bad set still sits heavy in his stomach. He hates losing more than anything; it feels like failure and all the noise that comes after.

His phone is in his hand before he really thinks about it. Your name glows on the screen—saved with a little star next to it. He stares at it for a long time before hitting call.

You answer on the third ring, voice soft and surprised.

“Oikawa? Is everything alright? Are you okay?”

He exhales a laugh that sounds a little broken. “You always answer like that. So responsible.”

“…are you—you sound drunk.”

“Mm. Maybe just a little.” His voice wobbles between playful and tired. “The guys thought I needed cheering up. But now the room won’t stop spinning, and all I can think about is you.”

There’s a pause. “Oikawa…”

“I know, I know. You’re the team manager, and I’m supposed to keep things professional, but you’re the only one who ever really listens when I fall apart.” His words start tumbling, softer now, like he’s afraid they’ll dissolve if he stops. “You remember last week? You handed me water after practice and told me to breathe? I didn’t tell you, but you saved me a little that day.”

You can hear him smile faintly through the receiver.

“I shouldn’t say this. You’ll think I’m pathetic.”

“I don’t.”

He goes quiet for a moment. The sound of a car horn echoes in the distance, the low buzz of the bar behind him.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he finally says. It’s almost a whisper, almost lost in the static. “And I hate that I’m saying it like this—half drunk, probably slurring—but I am. I love how you look when you’re trying not to laugh at my jokes. I love that you never treat me like I’m some stupid celebrity. I love that you make me feel like I can still be someone good.”

You don’t speak. You can hear his shaky breath, the quiet clink of his glass being set down.

“I’ll regret this tomorrow,” he murmurs. “But tonight…it feels good to tell the truth.”

Your voice is soft. “Then sleep, Tōru. We can talk when the sun’s up.”

He chuckles, warm and low. “You called me by my name.”

You smile despite yourself. “Yeah. Go home, okay?”

“I will. But just so you know—when I win again, you’re the first person I’m taking to dinner.”

He hangs up before you can answer.

And when you put your phone down, there’s a lingering warmth in your chest—like his words are still echoing there, suspended between confession and promise.

⸻

★ IWAIZUMI HAJIME — “The Things I Can’t Keep Quiet”

The night should’ve been perfect.

The bar’s low-lit, the laughter steady, his friends are celebrating a hard-won victory, and he’s finally had time to breathe. The music’s good, the drinks are strong, and he’s even smiling—until he glances toward the door.

You walk in.

You’re dressed up—nicer than he’s used to seeing you at the training facility—and there’s a man beside you. His hand is hovering just a little too close to yours, and it makes Iwaizumi’s jaw tighten before he even realizes it.

He shouldn’t care. You’re a coworker, a friend. You handle the team’s athletic program, and he’s supposed to be focused on recovery schedules and game prep, not on how your laugh slides under his skin.

But then he hears the guy order for you, and something in him snaps.

He doesn’t even think. He’s on his feet, weaving through the crowd, the buzz of whiskey pushing him forward until he’s standing right at your table.

You blink up at him, startled. “Iwa? What are you—”

“Hey,” he cuts in, voice rougher than he means it to be. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

Your date frowns. “We were—”

“It’ll only take a minute.” There’s steel in his tone, the kind that doesn’t invite argument.

You shoot an apologetic glance to the guy before letting Iwaizumi lead you toward the back hallway, away from the noise. He stops under a flickering light, running a hand through his hair, trying to catch his breath.

You cross your arms. “You wanna tell me what that was about?”

He exhales, shoulders still tense. “Didn’t like the look of that guy.”

You stare. “You don’t even know him.”

“I don’t need to.” His eyes finally meet yours, dark and unsteady. “I just—couldn’t sit there and watch you with him.”

You take a step back, heart pounding. “You’re drunk.”

“Little bit,” he admits, mouth twisting into something like a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Makes it harder to shut up about the things I usually keep down.”

“Iwa—”

He steps closer. The hallway’s narrow; you can smell the faint spice of his cologne, the warmth of whiskey on his breath.

“I see you every damn day,” he says quietly. “And I tell myself it’s fine, that we’re coworkers, that I shouldn’t cross that line. But then I see you laughing with some guy who doesn’t even know you the way I do, and I—” His voice cracks; he huffs out a humorless laugh. “I just lose it.”

Your pulse skips. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” His hand lifts like he might touch your face, then stops halfway. “You drive me crazy. The way you care about the team, the way you yell at me to rest, the way you look when you’re trying not to smile— I’ve been holding it in for months.”

The words hang there between you, warm and raw and a little bit terrifying.

You swallow. “What if I was happy with him?”

He shakes his head. “Then I’d still have to tell you. At least once. Just so you’d know.”

For a second, neither of you move. The only sound is the faint hum of the bar beyond the wall.

Then, softly, you say, “You’re an idiot.”

He laughs under his breath, eyes flicking down to your lips. “Yeah. Yours, though?”

You don’t even answer. You just grab the front of his shirt and pull him down. His mouth finds yours—rough, desperate, honest. The kind of kiss that leaves no room for words. When you finally pull back, you’re both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.

“You’re gonna regret interrupting my date,” you murmur.

“Maybe,” he says, thumb brushing your cheek. “But I’m not gonna regret this.”

⸻

★ KUROO TETSURO — “Something I Shouldn’t Say Out Loud”

The party’s half-over when he finally finds you again.

It’s one of those post-match celebrations that’s somehow gotten bigger than anyone planned. The music’s loud, the lights are low, and Kuroo’s been everywhere—talking, laughing, clinking glasses. He’s magnetic in a suit: hair messier than usual, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie long gone.

You’ve been keeping yourself busy—networking, pretending not to notice the way his eyes keep finding you through the crowd

He corners you near the drink table.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he drawls, leaning against the counter beside you. His grin is crooked, his eyes warm with that familiar spark. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Avoiding you would mean you weren’t following me around, Kuroo.”

He pretends to be wounded. “Ah, ouch. You wound me.”

“You’re drunk,” you tease.

He tilts his head, smirking. “Tipsy. There’s a difference. I’m still charming, just… with fewer filters.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “That sounds dangerous.”

“It is,” he says softly, the playfulness fading a little. “Because then I end up saying things I’ve been trying not to.”

Something shifts in the air—lightness fading into quiet tension. The noise of the room seems to fade behind him.

He sets his drink down, eyes searching yours. “You know I joke around a lot, right?”

“That’s an understatement.”

“Yeah, but I mean it when I say you make it hard to focus. You walk into a room and I forget what I was talking about. You smile, and I—” he laughs under his breath, rubbing at the back of his neck, “I just lose the thread completely.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Kuroo…”

“I like you,” he says simply. “There. Said it.” His grin is small now, almost shy. “Been trying to keep it to myself because I didn’t want to make things weird. But maybe I’m a little too drunk to keep pretending I don’t think about you all the damn time.”

You can feel your heart stutter. “You’re serious?”

He shrugs, stepping closer until the heat of him wraps around you. “Dead serious.”

For a second, you can’t breathe. He’s watching you—really watching—like he’s memorizing every reaction.

“Say something,” he murmurs.

You manage a whisper. “You’re trouble.”

His grin widens, slow and knowing. “Maybe. You look like you don’t mind.”

He’s close enough now that his breath brushes your cheek. You should step back. You don’t.

When he finally kisses you, it’s careful at first—his hand sliding up your arm, his mouth moving against yours with the kind of restraint that feels like he’s been holding this in for too long. It deepens by degrees until you’re both smiling against each other, laughing into the kiss like you can’t quite believe it’s happening.

He pulls back, forehead resting against yours. “Told you it was dangerous.”

You laugh, breathless. “You’ll blame the drinks tomorrow.”

He shakes his head, that lazy grin returning. “Nah. I’ll thank them.”

⸻

★ OSAMU MIYA — “Spilling What I Keep to Myself”

The restaurant’s closed, but the lights over the counter are still on.

He’s sitting there with a half-empty glass of sake, sleeves rolled, apron still tied around his waist. You’ve stayed behind to help him lock up, laughing through the last of the night’s work, stacking chairs and wiping down tables.

It’s quiet now. The kind of quiet that hums.

He’s watching you as you count out the register. You can feel it—the weight of his gaze, steady and unhurried. When you look up, he doesn’t look away.

“What?” you ask, smiling.

He shakes his head, a small smile ghosting across his mouth. “Nothin’. Just thinkin’.”

“About?”

He hesitates, swirling the liquid in his glass. “How you make this place feel warmer. Even on nights like this.”

You laugh softly. “That’s the sake talking.”

“Maybe,” he admits, eyes dropping to his drink. “But maybe it’s just the truth I don’t usually say out loud.”

You set the cash drawer aside, leaning on the counter. “You’re full of those tonight, huh?”

He huffs out a laugh. “Guess I am.” He’s quiet for a beat, then glances up at you again. “You know, I see people come in and out every day. Different faces, same stories. But you—” He stops, searching for the right words. “You’re the one I look for. Every time the door opens.”

Your chest tightens. “Osamu…”

He shrugs, looking suddenly shy, the tips of his ears going pink. “Didn’t mean to make it weird. I just—had a bit too much, I guess. Makes me honest.”

You come around the counter, taking the stool next to him. The smell of rice and smoke lingers in the air, mixed with the faint sweetness of sake.

“You really mean that?” you ask quietly.

He turns his head toward you, eyes soft but steady. “Yeah. I mean it.”

You don’t know who moves first, only that he’s suddenly closer, his hand finding yours on the counter. His thumb traces the edge of your palm, slow and sure. “You’re trouble, y’know that?” he murmurs, voice low and rough.

You smile. “So I’ve heard.”

When he kisses you, it’s unhurried—just a warm press of lips that tastes faintly of sake and something steady underneath. He pulls back barely an inch, forehead against yours, smiling in that quiet, certain way of his.

“Guess I’m glad I said it out loud,” he whispers.

“Guess I am too.”

The lights hum overhead, the city soft outside the window. The world feels smaller, safer—just the two of you and the faint clink of empty glasses.

⸻

there’s only one bed. one.

a singular, pathetic rectangle of fluff sitting in the middle of the room like it knows exactly what it’s done.

“...we can share,” you say, voice easy, unconcerned, like you haven’t just ripped suna’s soul straight out of his body with a smile.

“yeah,” he replies, and if his voice sounds slightly strangled, that’s between him and god.

the air feels thick. like soup. anxiety soup. desire soup. pure suffering stew. suna stands there, arms limp at his sides, staring at the bed like he’s trying to math his way into celibacy.

he’s been through volleyball finals, national tournaments, and atsumu’s questionable karaoke nights—but nothing has ever tested his mental endurance quite like this.

you toss your bag onto the nightstand, turning around to grin at him. “you’re okay with that, right?”

no. he’s not okay with that. he’s so far from okay that okay has packed its things and moved to another continent.

but he nods anyway, because the sight of you smiling at him makes his brain short-circuit.

“sure,” he says, monotone, trying to hide the way his pulse sounds like a heavy metal drum solo in his ears.

you, in your oblivious glory, hum and start changing into your pajamas. in the same room. like it’s no big deal. like you’re not the most dangerous creature alive right now, soft and unbothered and trusting him.

he turns away instantly, jaw tight, eyes on the wall like it’s the most fascinating object in japan.

the wall doesn’t judge. the wall doesn’t tempt. the wall doesn’t have your laugh, your warmth, your everything that makes him want to tear his hair out and scream into the pillow.

“you can look, i’m not naked,” you tease, voice light.

oh, good, suna thinks blankly, so i can die with my eyes open then.

when you finally crawl into bed, you take the side nearest the window, tugging the blanket around yourself. suna hovers for a moment, debating whether he should sleep on the floor, where at least gravity will keep him humble.

but then you look up at him, eyes sleepy and trusting, and murmur, “come on, rin. it’s cold.”

and that’s it. that’s his downfall.

suna gets in carefully, like he’s defusing a bomb made of feelings and poor impulse control. the mattress dips under his weight, and suddenly, he’s too aware—of your warmth, of your scent (why do you smell like comfort and disaster mixed together?), of how close you are.

there’s maybe a handspan between you. maybe less.

he stares at the ceiling. doesn’t breathe. can’t breathe.

you shift, soft and sleepy, muttering something unintelligible before tucking your head against his shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

his entire nervous system just shuts down.

his heart? gone. replaced by a foghorn of panic and devotion.

his soul? left the chat.

his brain? buffering. endlessly buffering.

“you okay?” you mumble, voice muffled against his shirt.

he makes a noise that’s somewhere between a cough and a desperate cry for help. “yeah. fine. totally fine. i’m thriving.”

“you sound like you’re dying.”

because i am, he thinks, but all that comes out is, “mhm.”

you smile, half-asleep, and he feels the curve of it against his collarbone. “you’re warm. i like that.”

oh, cool. great. phenomenal.

you like his body heat.

he likes you so much he could combust and haunt this room forever.

suna has officially lost every shred of dignity he’s ever had. he’s lying perfectly still, trying not to move, breathe, or exist too loudly.

but then your hand—your traitorous hand—finds his shirt, fisting it lightly, keeping him close even in your sleep.

he thinks his heart skips a beat. then another. then maybe four.

you make a soft noise, snuggling closer, and suna’s entire body tenses like someone plugged him into a power outlet.

he wants to hold you back.

he wants to wrap an arm around you, bury his face in your hair, maybe whisper things he shouldn’t.

he wants to keep you like this forever—warm, peaceful, tucked against him, where no one else can touch you or even think about you.

he doesn’t. he can’t. because that would make him dangerous.

and he’s already toeing that line like a man who’s forgotten what boundaries are.

but then, you shift again, throwing one leg over his, effectively ending him.

his eyes fly open. “...oh, my god.”

you blink up at him sleepily. “hm?”

he looks at you—your messy hair, your sleepy eyes, your half-smile—and something snaps.

“nothing,” he whispers hoarsely, “just… trying not to pass away.”

you laugh, the sound soft and lazy, and it hurts.

it physically hurts to love someone this much.

“you’re so dramatic, rin,” you murmur, yawning. “goodnight.”

“yeah,” he breathes. “goodnight.”

he doesn’t sleep. not really.

he spends the night staring at the ceiling, every time you shift, he flinches like you’re detonating his nervous system.

when you breathe against his neck, he swears he sees god.

and then, around 3 a.m., something happens.

you murmur his name, voice fragile and drowsy. “rin?”

“yeah?”

“can you—hug me? just for a bit. can’t sleep.”

it takes him exactly zero seconds to comply. he moves like he’s been waiting all his life for this moment. his arm slips around your waist, his hand resting against the small of your back, pulling you close.

you sigh contentedly, pressing your face into his chest, and he melts.

completely. utterly. spectacularly.

you whisper, “you’re comfy,” and he swallows hard.

“yeah?” he murmurs, voice trembling slightly. “you too.”

“you smell nice.”

he might actually cry. right here. right now.

you drift off soon after, breathing soft and steady, while suna stays wide awake, mind spinning in a thousand directions.

you trust him so much it makes him feel sick with affection. it’s the kind of trust that makes his hands shake, that makes his heart ache with something sharp and unspoken.

he buries his nose in your hair. just once.

inhales quietly, reverently.

you smell like sleep and sweetness and something that feels like home.

he knows he shouldn’t think about keeping you here forever—wrapped up in his arms, safe and untouchable—but the thought creeps in anyway, soft and dangerous.

when morning comes, sunlight spills through the curtains, golden and gentle. you stir first, groggy, and realize how tightly he’s holding you.

“rin?”

he opens his eyes, blinking slowly, caught like a criminal.

“you’re... kind of hugging me like i’m gonna float away,” you mumble, cheeks pink.

he grins lazily, voice low and unapologetic. “yeah. can’t help it.”

you stare at him, half-amused, half-flustered. “you’re ridiculous.”

“probably,” he admits, tightening his hold for just a second. “but you’re warm.”

and when you laugh again, when your hand gently pats his chest and you don’t pull away—

that’s the moment suna rintarō decides that if he ever has to share a bed with you again, he’s not leaving a single inch of space between you.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

the hotel room checked out at noon, but suna checked out of sanity somewhere around 11:47 p.m.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a: sorry everyone! i fell down 2 flights of stairs while i was omw to class but i still finished the day 😛

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@cvntyandfasionable @the-bloopsters @moon-blizz0 @trulyylee @nelinkythoughts @kukikoooo @averys-place @sxnnee @anzuuhoshi @evilari111 @tetsurae @rabbitcola @nivabiva @yeonette @forgottensniper @michexoxo @katzline @pelicanpizza @george-russell-defender @han0vyc @knkzshx

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

On the bus ride home—the same one you usually take—you’re even quieter. You sat beside him like always, but you seemed to fold inward, as if trying to take up less space. Your bag is clutched loosely in your hands as it rests on your thighs, your gaze unfocused on the scenery passing outside.

After a few minutes, he hears a soft breath escape you—not annoyed, not amused, just tired. The kind of tired that sinks into the very being of someone.

“…You’re awfully quiet,” he says without looking at you, eyes still fixed on his phone screen. “Did someone mute you?”

You gave out a small laugh, but it’s thin. “Funny.”

“It was,” he replies, dry but oddly gentle. “You’re just too tired to appreciate my humor.”

“Mhm.” You lean your head back against the seat, eyelids drooping.

He glances sideways.

Your face looks… exhausted, really. Like, more than the usual exhaustion. Not in a dramatic way—just in that subtle, heavy way he’s seen on teammates who push themselves too far. And the thing is, you aren’t the type to show it unless you’re at your limit. Tsukishima hates that.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah,” you murmur, though you don’t give much effort to make it sound convincing. “Just… sleepy.”

He narrows his eyes. “That’s the third ‘just sleepy’ you’ve said this week.”

“I don’t keep count,” you mumble.

“Well, I do.”

You sigh. “Of course you do. You do what you want.”

Your bus rumbles along, rocking gently. He's prepared to say something else—probably something sarcastic—but you shift in your seat, just slightly, and before he realizes what’s happening, your head slips to the side and lands on his shoulder.

He froze.

Not dramatically—he’s not Hinata, who had a knack for making a big deal over the mundane—but enough that his breath hitches for a moment, his muscles going still. He looks down at you, brows knitting together as he sees your eyes fully closed now, your lips barely parted. Soft breaths. Completely out.

“Seriously?” he mutters under his breath. “You fall asleep on people now?”

But there’s no bite to his tone.

The weight of your head is warm against him—heavier than he expected, but not in a bothersome way. Tsukishima feels like he’s on fire. More like… you’re finally letting yourself rest, and for whatever stupid reason, you decided his shoulder was safe enough to do it on.

Tsukishima sighs.

Carefully—extremely carefully—he shifts his position so your head is resting more comfortably, not at an awkward angle that’ll give you neck pain later. He even moves his arm so it’s not pressed stiffly against his side.

“There,” he murmurs, almost too quietly to hear. “If you’re going to sleep on me, at least don’t drool.”

You don’t respond, of course, completely knocked out.

He glances out the window, tapping his foot lightly. After a moment, he scoffs to himself and shrugs off his jacket. With practiced nonchalance, he drapes it over you, letting it fall around your shoulders and settle against your chest.

When it’s in place, he mutters, “You’re lucky no one else sees this. I have a reputation, you know.”

You shift again, burrowing just a little into the warmth of the jacket.

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Like something out of the romance novels he vividly remembered you rambling about.

“...You idiot,” he says softly, but not unkindly. “If something’s wrong, you could’ve said something."

The bus sways again, and he steadies you without even thinking about it.

“You keep pretending nothing’s wrong, but it’s obvious. At least to people who are paying attention.” His voice is low, quieter than usual. “And unfortunately for you, I am paying attention. What an idiot.” Tsukishima doesn’t know whether it’s you or him he’s referring to when he says the word idiot.

He glances down at you again, the hard lines in his expression softening, even if only for a moment. “Always disappearing in your own head,” he says. “It’s annoying.”

You don’t hear any of it. You just breathe slowly, peacefully—for once not holding yourself together with shaky effort.

Tsukishima looks out the window again, jaw relaxing, eyes half-lidded as the bus carries them closer to your stop.

He doesn’t move you away.

If anything, he sits a little more steadily, making sure you don’t jolt awake or fall over.

And though he’d never admit it out loud, he doesn’t mind at all.

the door swings inward with a creek, and you’re both flooded with the cool air inside. he kicks off his shoes, you lean down to unclasp yours. iwaizumi reaches over after a few steps and pulls the switch for the nearest lamp. the room becomes bathed in warm-toned light—the familiar little place he can afford on an athletic trainer’s budget; a couch that squeaks when you sit down, a coffee table he haggled for online, a kitchen filled with too-nice appliances he buys himself with the money he gets from his dad on his birthday.

he leans over his kitchen counter, rests his forehead down on one arm while the other splays out in front of him. behind him, with his eyes closed, he can hear you padding across the floor—the soles of your feet making contact with the hardwood. then, the low ‘pop’ of his freezer door, the sound of overly-iced plastic shuffling against itself, the freezer falling shut again.

“you forgot,” you say, and there’s almost a tone of humor in it—a lilt he didn’t expect as you slide something cold across the counter to him. he glances up from where his head rests on his arm just in time for the bag of peas to hit him, sending a little shock of goosebumps down his back. he grabs it with his left hand and rests the bag loosely around his knuckles. his whole body shivers.

“no,” he says, and shifts a little uncomfortably, “i was stalling. this thing’s fucking freezing.”

“i thought you’d be grateful for the break from the heat,” you reply. he watches as you lean your hip against the counter, cross your arms over your chest—it’s a little too reminiscent of the bar you were just at, and the memory makes his vision go white hot in something that feels an awful lot like embarrassment. he moves his weight from one foot to the other.

“hey i’m uh-“ he starts, and he wants to look at you while he says it, but he ends up hanging his head over the counter, leaning a little too much on his forearms to be comfortable. “i’m sorry, about tonight. i didn’t mean to ruin your night.”

you make a noise that lands somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “you didn’t ruin my night, hajime. that guy was an asshole.”

“sure, but-“

“no, don’t start that. he had it coming, i just wish you’d, i don’t know, let me handle it.”

“that sounds like i ruined your night,” he replies, and now you walk over—he knows because he watches your shadow move towards him—and then you lean down, twisting your neck to look up at him from where he was once staring at the faux-granite marks in his countertop.

“will you stop?” you ask. you’re looking up at him in that way that makes his chest feel too large for his ribcage. your gaze is hardened against his, but your lips are tugging upwards, like you’re holding back a smile. he lifts his right hand on instinct and brushes a strand of hair out of your face. your eyes flick towards his fingers, narrowing up at them, your brows furrow ever so slightly. before he can fully grasp the expression, you’ve turned yourself around and leaned over his kitchen island to grab the almost-abandoned peas. you wrap your fingers around his wrist and settle the bag against his hand, holding both of you in place.

“and stop stalling,” you say.

iwaizumi is staring at you. he’s not sure that he could move, even if he wanted to. he feels the same rush he did at the bar—the swell of energy sitting at his fingertips. the tinge to it is different here—light instead of uncomfortably hot.

you’ve both been here so many times he could find his way to a drink with his eyes closed. you looked so pretty, your hair falling around your cheeks in little wispy strands. he didn’t tell you because he’s pretty sure that’s the norm these days—he thinks it and he thinks it and he thinks it and he’s sure if he says anything, his tongue will fall out of his mouth onto the floor. you linger on his arm anyway, lean up and whisper into his ear, close enough that he can feel the way your lips move against his skin when you say ‘back in a sec?’

iwaizumi leans forward now, presses his forehead into the cool countertop, lets his nose get just a little crushed by it. he takes over nursing his own hand, and stretches out and across until he’s sure his shoulders take up the majority of his kitchen island. your hand lands on his back, coaxing your way up to his shoulder blades. you press your middle finger a little harder than the rest, then guide your hand back down with the heel of your palm.

“i don’t think i’ve said thank you yet.” you almost whisper it, almost lose your voice halfway through the sentence. iwaizumi doesn’t say anything in reply. he listens to his own heartbeat in his ears, feels the aching throb in his hand, tastes the remnants of tequila—somewhere in the back of his throat. your hand lifts, ever-so-slightly, and without thinking he chases back after it, pulls himself away from the counter by not even an inch, but it’s perceptible. you both know to stay close.

you get stopped about halfway between him and the bathroom. a man a little taller than iwaizumi, who leans down when he grabs you by the elbow. he catches it out of the corner of his eye, and then wholly, as the man slips a hand around your waist. you reel back, putting an arm’s length between you and him, and he goes to pull you back in. iwaizumi can hear you a little better with every step—‘fuck off,’ you say, ‘your breath smells like shit,’ you say, ‘get your fucking hands off of me.’

you laugh—though it feels a little heavy—lean in close to iwaizumi, your temple hitting against his shoulder. “god,” you breathe, “i really did like that bar though.” he cracks a smile, lifts his head from the counter and angles it to glance back at you. he has to squint one of his eyes against the light. “you think they’ll let us back?” you ask, with a tilt to your head and your teeth just barely poking out in a smile.

“no,” he half-huffs, half-laughs. “think they’ve got my picture up on the wall now.”

you half-heartedly wince, pull a rush of air in between your teeth, and then bite down at the flesh of your lips. “i bet it’s a nice picture.”

when iwaizumi reaches you, his hand slips up your back, his thumb pressing softly into the bare skin beneath the hem of your shirt. neither of you have ever done this another way—but this routine, the way ‘is there a problem here?’ slips so easily out of his mouth, is horribly familiar. you’ve circled around each other for long enough now that you both know this little dance—the guy will take his hands off, he’ll mumble an apology to iwaizumi, not to you, you’ll both leave the bar feeling sick; like there’s a ghost that’s followed you out and has started closing its hands around your neck. neither of you will speak about it afterwards and he’ll sleep on his couch while you take the bed.

the man keeps his hands tight on your wrist. iwaizumi can see where his nails dig into your skin—a buzzing starts in his ears. when the man speaks, the scent of vodka wafts out with his breath, ‘this your bitch?’

“maybe you should ask,” iwaizumi replies, “get a copy of it. hang it on your fridge.”

you slide your way forward onto the counter until you’re level with him. “what should i write on the back of it? the guy who threw a punch for me before i got a chance to?”

he knocks his shoulder into yours. “oh, fuck off,” he says. he thinks you both know he doesn’t mean it. you’re staring at each other, and he's realizing that his a/c is set a degree too cold, and he’s wondering if you’re ever planning on calling that ride, or if he should grab an extra blanket and his favorite pillow (too expensive, a gift his mother got for him because he complained about his neck the week before his 21st birthday) for the couch tonight.

“you would’ve laid him out,” he says anyway.

you’ve wrangled your wrist away from the man and iwaizumi steps between him and you—he’s maybe an inch or two away. there’s a bachelor party trying to walk around you. ‘go for a fucking walk, man’ iwaizumi says. you’re just behind him, your fingers barely brushing at the back of his shoulders.

‘oh c’mon man,’ he replies—he dips his head down to iwaizumi, and he can smell the heat of his breath when he speaks, ‘let me take her for a spin.’

this is new—the way his hands have started to shake, the way he’s clenching his jaw because otherwise, he’s afraid his whole body might just explode—it’s powerful and overtaking and for a moment, he swears he goes blind. he takes one step forward. ‘the fuck did you just say?’

‘i’ll bring her back nice—promise. i’ll bet she likes being hit-‘ he leans around iwaizumi, a smile morphing his face when he says, ‘-you like being hit, bitch?’ he remembers things in flashes now—‘don’t fucking call her that’ and you saying his name, the man’s tongue darting out to wet his lips before he reached over iwaizumi to grab at your wrist and then the feeling of the man’s shoulder under his palms. ‘hajime,’ you had said when he shoved him off of you once. ‘hajime,’ you repeated when you grabbed his shoulders to pull him back. ‘hajime,’ you said, when the man leaned into his ear and said, just low enough that you couldn’t hear, ‘how good does she look on her knees?’

iwaizumi grabbed him by the collar first. he was wearing a cotton t-shirt and he could feel the way it wrinkled in his fist. he pulled him in front of him, his knuckles made contact with the man’s nose—something cracked. you yelled his name and pried his fingers out of the man’s shirt, pulling both of you up and off of the floor that smelled an awful lot like leather and spilled drinks. someone pulled the man into the crowd while you dragged iwaizumi away. there was a flash of a camera when he stepped outside—a bartender pointing at him to get the fuck out of there, a chill along his spine when you pulled your hands away from his back.

“could i sleep here?” you ask finally. your hair hangs in your face when you tilt your head to say it.

“of course,” he replies. he keeps thinking about tucking your hair behind your ear, so instead he starts thinking: he washed his sheets last night, he has a throw blanket sitting in the dryer—hopefully it’s actually dried—his back will be sore from the couch tomorrow… where did he put that heating pad?

“could you sleep with me?” you ask. there’s a beat between the two of you. “in your bed. don’t take the couch.”

he tries to think of a reason to say no—i have a terrible habit of star-fishing, I’ll steal all the blankets, i think i’m a little in love with you some days and that’s really weird to grapple with tonight, right now. “yeah,” he says instead, “yeah okay.”

and then you lean into him, and you rest your head on his shoulder, and the pain in his right hand starts to feel a little dull in comparison to the pressure of your cheek against him. he abandons the ice pack, and half of him forgets to deal with the bag of frozen peas thawing on his counter, the other half doesn’t care as you pull him towards his own bed, your hand wrapped around his arm.

i would’ve punched the guy even if i didn’t feel this way, he thinks, i think i could’ve killed him, if you asked me.

you pull on one of his t-shirts, slip under his sheets and drag him down with you. when you curl into him, place your head on his arm and, wordlessly, press your lips into his skin, he chooses not to say a word.

Your short huffs and the click, click, click of your heels were the only sounds on the concrete of the parking lot as you made your way to your car. The night air was particularly still today, causing you to build up a sweat within minutes of being outside. You fumbled with your tiny purse to pull out your keys, settling into the driver’s seat before sighing and letting your shoulders slump. You closed your eyes and leaned your head back against the seat, feeling your lips turn into a frown.

This did not go how you thought it would.

Your date was nice enough. He was kind and asked all the right questions. He hummed in all the right places and told you enough about himself and his life to get you intrigued. You were feeling very happy with how the night was progressing. You were sure, positive, that there would be a second date. How could there not? You both were vibing like crazy.

It seems you had completely misread him though.

Right outside the restaurant, just as you were about to suggest you two go for a little walk and continue talking, he had raised a sheepish hand to rub the back of his neck, apologizing that you just weren’t his type. He thought he was being subtle when he looked you up and down as he said it, but you knew what he meant immediately.

He didn’t find you attractive.

If this had been a few years ago, you would’ve been crushed at the thought. But you were no longer the timid girl from high school anymore. You were a grown woman with a good career. Things like this didn’t faze you much now. You were more annoyed than anything else at having wasted your one free night on something like this. Dating wasn’t something you were particularly interested in at this point in your life, not when you had finally started settling in at your job. And the thought that tomorrow at work a certain blond setter would ride your ass until you told him how the date went made you scowl even harder.

Sometimes you wondered if Atsumu had ever heard the word ‘professionalism’ in his life. He sure as hell didn’t show it. Especially when it came to you.

You had joined MSBY as their brand new manager seven months ago. You had been slightly timid at first, and way in over your head, having to manage a V1 Volleyball team right off the bat. Combine that with how hyper some of the members could be, and you had the perfect recipe for chaos. At that time, you hadn’t anticipated that these boys would become some of your closest friends. And you couldn’t have ever dreamed that Miya Atsumu of all people would be the one you’re most fond of.

Atsumu loved to claim that you had caught his eye as soon as he saw you, boasting that he had seen your potential and that you would be sticking with them for a long time. He had been right, of course. MSBY was notorious for going through managers like they were candy. No one stuck around after the first month. Except you, and Atsumu liked to think it was because of him.

True to his nature, he had flirted with you endlessly since you joined the team. If it wasn’t corny one-liners that showed you just how much of a dork he was, it was stupid and sleazy innuendos that made Sakusa groan and glare at him in distaste every time. Nothing deterred Atsumu though. He was hell bent on reminding you that you were the ‘prettiest manager we ever had’. And he thinks it’s because he made you feel so welcome (his words not yours), that you had stuck around for so long.

You didn’t have the heart to tell him that his incessant flirting had actually made things much more difficult for a while.

It was Atsumu who had hyped up the prospect of you going on a date. He had ranted and raved that your date was a ‘lucky son of a bitch’ and how you would blow him away the minute he saw you. He had gone on and on until you were red in the face and scolding him to stop and get back on the court to practice.

You blamed him for your current predicament actually. No matter how much you ignored him or shot him down, his constant compliments had gotten to you. How could they not? You were still human, and Atsumu was, by your own admission, an attractive guy. Him telling you that you look beautiful more or less every day had given you this false confidence in yourself and that’s why you had agreed to go on a date in the first place.

(You knew your reasoning was a stretch. But blaming Atsumu felt good so you went with it.)

Your phone pinged, shaking you from your thoughts. You narrowed your eyes at the phone screen. Speak of the devil.

Miya: How’s it goin’? Ya gettin laid tonite? ;)

You rolled your eyes at the text. Thumbs typing a reply quickly.

You: Make me something to eat. Preferably ramen.

Miya: Aw no :( That bad?

You didn’t reply, putting the car in gear and heading over to your new destination.

……………………………..

A steaming bowl of beef noodles waited for you at the Miya residence, which you slurped down even though you had dinner not even an hour ago. Atsumu puttered around in the kitchen behind you as you half-focused on whatever volleyball game he was going through on the TV. You had hiked your dress up to your hips, Atsumu’s gray sweatpants covering your legs. Your hair was pulled into a messy knot on top of your head to keep it off your sweaty neck.

He finally sat down next to you with his own bowl, and the sounds of slurping and gulping overtook the thumps and cheers coming from the screen in front of you. For a minute, you two basked in the silence.

“So what happened?” He asked with a full mouth, voice slightly muffled. His eyes were still focused on the screen before him.

You sighed and chewed. “He said I wasn’t his type.”

Atsumu rolled his eyes at that and made a face. “‘Course yer not. Yer way too much for him ta handle.”

You gave him an offended look. “Huh?”

Atsumu nodded. “I mean, look at ya.” He gestured vaguely with his chopsticks. “And in that dress? Phew.”

You rolled your eyes. “You always do this, Miya. You always say all this mushy crap. This is all your fault.”

That made him pause, wide brown eyes looking at you. “Ha? How is it ma fault? What did I do?”

You glared down at your bowl as you thought of your next words. “You always talk about how beautiful I am,” you cringed. “Saying all these things to make me feel confident. Then I talk to an actual guy and realize you had built me up for nothing.”

Silence filled the space between you two as you stuffed another generous helping of noodles into your mouth, glaring at the TV and trying to ignore Atsumu’s stare on the side of your head as he set his bowl down on the coffee table.

“Okay, first of all, what do ya mean by ‘actual guy’?” He pouted in indignation, crossing his arms. You nearly snorted at the image. “Second, I never lied to ya! Not once! Well-” he stopped abruptly and pursed his lips in thought. “That dress ya wore for Bokuto’s birthday last month was fuckin’ hideous but-”

“Hey!”

“But that’s the dress’s fault, not yers!” He finished loudly. “I mean, ya still looked fuckin’ gorgeous-”

“Stop-” You held a hand up, placing your bowl next to Atsumu’s before frowning at him. “That’s what I’m talking about. Why do you keep doing that?”

He let out a frustrated huff. “Ya think I’m lyin’? Ya think yer not pretty?”

You shrugged. “I mean, I’m okay.”

Atsumu was already shaking his head at you, still scowling, his arms crossed. You trailed off and stared at him. It felt like you were being scolded like a child.

“I wouldn’ lie to ya, Y/N.” He said quietly. “Ya gotta be one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen. Like for real.” He ruffled his hair a bit, sighing. “That jerk made ya get all insecure ‘bout yerself. I gotta fix this.”

You could feel your neck heat up at his words, looking back at the TV when the sight of him became too much. This is exactly what annoyed you about Atsumu. He was too blasé about saying this stuff. He came off as so intimate at times, his words crossed so many boundaries. He didn’t even realize how much you were affected by his bold remarks, especially when he was sitting right there before you, in a black tee that stretched just right over his chest, and shorts that showed off his gorgeous thighs-

You closed your eyes and breathed deep and thinking about his words. How the hell was he going to “fix” this?

You nearly yelped out loud when you felt something soft make contact with your lips, eyes popping open to comprehend that Atsumu, your annoying, volleyball-playing, smirking, rowdy, smoking hot coworker was kissing you, placing a hand behind your head so you wouldn’t pull away, moving his lips over yours so deliciously it made your breath stutter and your eyelids flutter shut, until you were giving in and kissing him back. Your heart was beating a mile a minute, feeling yourself melt when Atsumu thumbed at the corner of your jaw, tilting your head so his mouth fit against you better. Your hands remained frozen in your lap, unable to move in case it broke the spell over you two. You let him guide the kiss, reveling in how soft his lips felt and how good he smelled so up close.

It felt like it was over too soon when you separated with a last, loud smooching sound that made your cheeks flush. Your breaths mingled, Atsumu not pulling away more than a few inches. You looked into his wide brown eyes, saw how his pupils dilated, the red that was creeping up from his neck to his ears.

“Ya believe me now?” He muttered, staring directly at your lips with a look so heated that it made your insides squirm. You hummed.

“I think,” you sighed. “I think I’m going to need a lot more convincing.”

He smirked at that, a teasing glint entering his eyes as his lips met yours again, harder this time, more sure, pushing forward until you were falling back into the plush cushion beneath you and his massive frame was hovering over you, the sounds of the TV completely ignored in the background.

…………………………….

"so you hate me," he grouses, flopping onto his back. the grass is itchy under his bare skin, probably leaving green streaking across it, his own memento of the day. his legs are freckled with red, too, love bites from all the bugs who think his type o-negative blood is irresistable. osamu and your other friends are back at the campsite already, arguing over how to turn on kita's ancient propane grill and trying to ward suna away from eating the hot dogs cold.

"yuh-huh," you say. "you dunked me, so now i don't want your orange slices. actions have—" you shriek and dodge as he blindly reaches out to squeeze your side, a tickling sensation that gets under your skin and has since you were children. "have consequences!"

"it was only three times," he gives up and throws an arm over his face, trying to remember. "nine times."

"i'm gonna smother you in your sleep," you say, flopping back and rolling over so his body is half-covered by yours. your skin is warm against him, unusually so. he'll enjoy lording your sunburn over you, always arguing that you can't burn, running away when he tries to spray you down with sunscreen. "gimme that."

you pop a slice of orange into your mouth anyway, the juice bursting more than you'd expected and leaving your lips sticky. you'll need another dunk in the water to get clean again, and another hundred days of summer to bake yourself dry in the sun and repeat.

atsumu watches while you help yourself, your cheeks bulging out, your eyes happy, lazy half-crescents. you're still all over him, your denim shorts chafing against him uncomfortably, one leg slotted between both of his. orange juice drips down your hand onto his chest; you dip your head down and kitten lick it straight off of him.

he sighs, a despondent, horny sigh, emptied out from the day at the lake and years of practice. you're his best friend—he had a big, big, giant, massive crush on you in high school. everyone used to tease him for it, the way he'd turn bright red and walk into walls whenever you were around, two horrible years after he'd hit puberty and realized that there were more things to want then volleyball. he made you hate him, loud, vain miya atsumu, who threw balls at your head and stole pieces of your lunch and couldn't live without trying to make you look at him but didn't know anything about how to. his good fortune or bad luck, then, that you wanted to be suna's friend more than you hated him and started sitting at lunch with them and never noticed all the sneaky glances and muttered jokes at atsumu's expense until he got over it.

that was a million years ago and he loves you now: he loves you like a pinky promise, friendly and innocent and childish, and sometimes he can forget that he loves you like a man does.

"it's cold," you say with surprise, "how did you do that? bokuto was so upset when the cooler didn't work and all his ice cream bars melted."

"stuck the bag between some rocks in the creek," he grunts, mostly immune to the wonder in your eyes and the way you grope for the rest of the fruit he peeled immediately. "stop that, stop that, lemme just get it."

you do, and he crams three orange slices in your mouth at a time until you can barely close your teeth.

you try to cuss at him, but your words are trapped behind a citric wall and he laughs at you openly, jostling both of your bodies with it until you are no longer shaking with rage or him with guffaws until you're actually wrestling. you chew furiously while you push at his shoulders and he almost chokes on his mirth while he tries to hold you off from his throat.

you roll over the grass together, both of you covered in blades of grass and chlorophyll blotches, shouting obscenities.

"get off me, witch," he grasps at one of your wrists while you fist a hand in his hair, snapping his teeth at you. "geroff. i fuckin' hate you. i'm gonna tell—i'm gonna—AUGH!"

he finally rolls you over, pinning all your limbs under you. you still have a hand in his hair, a fistful of blond strands that are softer than they look, forcing his neck to bend at an awkward angle.

"i win," you say smugly.

"you're literally about to pass out," he huffs. "you're so annoyin'. just give up."

"never," you say, the word hissing from between your teeth. you're pulling his hair again, forcing him to hiss and let go of one of your wrists, and your face is coming closer. he panics—he's going to land right on top of you, mouth-to-mouth if he doesn't do something.

the air is molasses, a little bitter from the evaporated pondwater lingering in his nostrils. your lips are soft and it's not until you start moving them, opening your mouth to him to taste the remnants of orange juice on your tongue, that he realizes that you're kissing him on purpose.

you kiss like you wrestled. you wrestled because you wanted to kiss him and didn't know how to do it. you kiss for a long time, there in the grass, the crickets' song rising as the sun sets.

"i always liked you," he says, lips against your pulse point. he has so many years of kissing to get done right away.